Was it really not Sholokhov who wrote “They Fought for the Motherland”? TO when in the article “They wrote for Sholokhov”(“Novaya Gazeta”, No. 44, June 23, 2003) I reproduced the version of literary critic Zeev Bar-Sella that the real author of the novel “They Fought for the Motherland” was Andrei Platonov, then, in addition to abstract indignation, I was constantly asked two question.
First: how could Platonov be a black man? Second: how can you hide Platonov’s unique style?
Why couldn’t Platonov be a black man? From 1929 to 1942 it was completely banned. But you have to live, eat, pay for the room, support your family. What could he do? Just write. And there were plenty of people who wanted to become “writers,” but who were not able to put two words together, but who had money and connections.
For our specific case, it is enough to quote from the memoirs of Fedot Suchkov, dating back to approximately 1940:
“In the same company (me and my classmates Uliev and Frolov) sat at Platonov’s, peacefully talking at a table bare as the steppe. And suddenly the bell rang in the hallway. I opened the leatherette door. About thirty to thirty-five years old, a man in an air force uniform stood at the threshold. I took him to the room...
We were surprised that the courteous owner of the apartment did not invite the officer standing at the door to the table. And he, hesitating, asked how, they say, Andrey Platonovich, this is the case. Platonov replied that he was very busy, but in a few days we could talk.
When the visitor left, Andrei Platonovich swore in proletarian language. He said that we had difficulty getting the half-liter bottle that had already been emptied, and that the dandy who had just retired had a buffet full of Georgian cognac, and that for shoveling a novel that belonged in the trash can, he would pay him, Platonov, a thousand karbovanets... So I came across the use of a writer as a black man. And then I realized how simple everything on earth is, couldn’t be simpler.”
It remains to prove not that Platonov was a black man, but that he was one specifically in the case of Sholokhov. And at the same time show how the problem of style was solved. Evidence has been publicly available since May 1943. There was only one thing necessary: when reading Sholokhov, remember Platonov; and when reading Platonov, remember Sholokhov.
And also remember that both writers had a long and close relationship. Both, each in their own way, appreciated each other, both loved to drink (and Sholokhov, unlike Platonov and his friend Suchkov, had no problem getting a bottle). It is still difficult to paint an exact picture of their relationship. In one chapter of his book, Bar-Sella summarizes all available references to them. And we must admit that they are very contradictory. Some recall the reverence with which Platonov treated Sholokhov and valued his “peasant mind,” while others cite statements of the exact opposite nature. Some write about Sholokhov’s role in the release of Platonov’s repressed son, others quote Platonov’s statements that Sholokhov only promises, but does nothing.
But be that as it may, the fact of a fairly close (and possibly trusting) relationship is beyond doubt. That is, such a relationship in which you can ask for help after the imperative wish of the Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the forces of art to support the spirit of his order No. 227 “Not a step back!” Moreover, at the height of the war, it was not about a one-time “thousand karbovanets”, but about a direct return to literature, about getting a job. After all, it was in the second half of 1942 that Platonov received the rank of captain, the position of war correspondent (and this was a stable and good salary), and he was published again. The name of Platonov, his prose, his texts again appear in thick central magazines.
So let’s compare them with the “chapters from the novel” that appeared six months later. To begin with, two extremely compressed fragments:
“...Captain Sumskov crawled out of a trench broken by a shell... Leaning on his left hand, the captain crawled down from a height, following his soldiers; his right hand, torn off by shrapnel near the forearm, dragged heavily and terribly behind him, supported by a piece of his tunic wet with blood; sometimes the captain lay down on his left shoulder, and then crawled again. There was not a speck of blood in his lime-white face, but he still moved forward and, throwing back his head, shouted in a childishly thin, broken voice:
- Oreliki! My dear ones, go ahead!.. Give them life!”
This is a novel. And here's the second one:
“... the commissioner saw his left arm, cut off by a mine fragment almost up to the shoulder. This free hand now lay separately near his body. Dark blood was coming from his forearm, oozing through a piece of his jacket sleeve. The cut of the severed hand was also still bleeding a little. We had to hurry, because there was not much life left.
Commissar Polikarpov took his left hand by the wrist and stood up, amid the roar and whistle of the fire. He raised his broken hand, dripping with the last blood of life, above his head like a banner, and exclaimed in a furious outburst of his heart, dying for the people who gave birth to him:
- Forward! For the Motherland, for you!”
This is Andrei Platonov, “Spiritualized People (A Story about a Small Battle of Sevastopol).” Znamya magazine, November 1942, six months before the “chapters from the novel.”
One fact is not a fact. And here's the second one.
Publication of the next “chapter from the novel” on November 17, 1943. Soldier Lopakhin talks to cook Lisichenko:
“I would hit you with something heavy so that all the millet would fall out of you, but I don’t want to waste my strength on such a dirty trick. Tell me first - and without any of your tricks - what are we going to eat today?
- Cabbage soup.
- How?
- Cabbage soup with fresh lamb and young cabbage.
- Lisichenko, I’m very nervous now before the fight, and I’m tired of your jokes, speak plainly: do you want to leave the people without anything hot?
Lisichenko said slowly:
“You see what it’s like: near the bridge, a bomb killed some sheep, well, of course, I killed one of the sheep, and didn’t let him die a bad death from a shrapnel.”
And like a continuation, but with changed names:
“The ship’s cook, Rubtsov, was running along the embankment. He carried with effort in his right hand a large vessel, painted in the dull color of war; it was an English field thermos.
- And I delivered food! - the cook said meekly and tactfully. - Where would you like to set the table for a hot, fiery barbecue? The meat is yours!
- When did you have time to cook shish kebab? - Filchenko was surprised.
“And I acted with a skillful hand, comrade political instructor,” the cook managed to explain. “You keep up with the sheep harvesting here” (“Spiritualized People”).
Here we should recall the previous “chapter from the novel” (dated November 4, 1943):
“On the road to the crossing, the last parts of the cover were walking, refugee carts loaded with household goods stretched along the sides of the country road, tanks clanging with caterpillars, raising ash dust, and flocks of collective farm sheep, hastily driven to the Don, seeing the tanks, rushed into the steppe in horror, disappeared into the night. And for a long time in the darkness the rhythmic clatter of small sheep’s hooves could be heard, and, dying down, the crying voices of women and teenage racers were heard for a long time, trying to stop and calm the sheep, stunned with fear.”
There is, however, one more text:
“From somewhere far away came an even, barely audible rustling sound, as if thousands of children were walking on the sand with small feet.<…>On the slopes of the enemy heights, approximately half the distance to the top, dust rose to the right and left. Something was moving here from the back of the hill, from behind the shoulders of the height.<…>
Parshin laughed:
- These are sheep! - he said. - This flock of sheep is coming to us from encirclement...<…>
The sheep flowed around the height in two streams and began to descend from it, uniting in the wormwood field into one stream. Frightened sheep voices could already be heard; something was bothering them, and they were in a hurry, mincing with their thin legs.” (Again, “Spiritualized People”).
Few? Then again:
“Zvyagintsev picked an ear of corn that had survived the fire at the edge of the field and brought it to his eyes. It was an ear of melanopus wheat, faceted and dense, bursting from the inside with heavy grain. His black mustache was burnt, his grain shirt burst under the hot breath of the flame, and his entire body - disfigured and pitiful - was thoroughly saturated with the pungent smell of smoke.
Zvyagintsev sniffed the ear of corn and whispered indistinctly:
“My dear, how smoked have you become!.. you stink of smoke, like a gypsy... That’s what the damned German, his ossified soul, did to you!”
This is signed by Sholokhov, and this:
“They saw a small field with unharvested bread. The branches of the previously dense millet were now empty, emaciated, some moved lightly and silently in the wind, and their grain fell back into the ground, and there it would dry out fruitlessly or cool to death, having been born into the world in vain. Bespalov stopped by this dead bread, carefully touched one empty ear, leaned towards it and whispered something to it, as if it were little man or comrade,” Platonov’s story “The Peasant Yagafar” (“October”, 1942, No. 10).
And a few more short quotes:
“the rim of an irrigation wheel, broken into splinters, with the help of which trees were once irrigated, lived, grew and bore fruit”;
“Only one water wheel was now working non-stop in vain,” the tank that broke the watering wheel into splinters, before that “ran straight into the wattle fence coated with clay of the collective farm forge”;
“a barn made of wicker, coated with clay, and covered with a dilapidated thatched roof”;
“The tanks lifted the fence with their caterpillars, and the Ferdinand covered the well in the estate.”
And if you remove the links, as I did, then it is no longer possible to determine with certainty which fence is in the Crimea and which is on the Don; which wheel is in Karelia, which is again on the Don; where there is one adobe forge, where another; which text is Platonov’s, which is Sholokhov’s.
And finally, something, I’m not afraid to say, stunning:
1. “I,<…>I like to read a good book, one that talks about technology and engines. I had various interesting books: tractor care, and a book about the engine internal combustion, and installing a diesel engine on a stationary basis, not to mention the literature on combine harvesters. How many times did I ask: “Take it,<…>read about the tractor. A very attractive book, with pictures, with drawings...”
2. "In the beginning"<…>I studied poorly. Her heart was not attracted to Pupin coils, relay harnesses or calculating the resistance of iron wire. But her husband's lips once uttered these words, and moreover, with the sincerity of imagination, embodied even in dark, uninteresting machines, he presented to her the animated work of mysterious objects, dead to her, and the secret quality of their sensitive calculation, thanks to which the machines live.<…>Since then, coils, Whitson bridges, contactors, aperture units have become<…>sacred things<…>».
What is whose? Did you guess it?..
1 are “chapters from the novel”, and 2 are, naturally, Platonov’s story “Fro”, written in 1936.
Therefore, Bar-Sella’s conclusion is completely natural: “From what has been said, it follows that the author ... was given unprecedented freedom of orientation in art world Platonov. Only one person had such absolute freedom - Andrei Platonov. And therefore the passage we examined is not the fruit of the efforts of a plagiarist, but Platonov’s original text.”
What happened next is quite strange, but it fits into Sholokhov’s lifestyle: quickly make the beginning, then spend decades and very secretly finishing the rest. But in the case of the war novel, no continuation followed.
In 1944, cooperation with Platonov clearly ceased; there was even a not very pleasant scene at the writer’s funeral in 1951. And since then, for 40 years, nothing has appeared! There is a strange story though. Moreover, it is confirmed not only by outside witnesses, but also by Sholokhov’s letters to Brezhnev, in which he demands a speedy consideration of the sent fragment and either complains or threatens that rumors may spread that Sholokhov is no longer being published and that they will put him on the same level as Solzhenitsyn .
And the strange thing is that this fragment “walked” through the offices of the CPSU Central Committee and Pravda, but then, without leaving a trace or a copy, it returned to Veshenskaya and was sent to the oven by the author.
Former employee Central Committee A. Belyaev later recalled (and this is the only retelling of the fragment) its content. And it doesn’t fit in with everything we know about Sholokhov, but it explains why Sholokhov was afraid of being in the same company with Solzhenitsyn, whom he had just accused of being “fixated on ’37.”
Belyaev in his own words retells the episode about how General Streltsov was arrested in 1937 and kept in a prison whose windows faced the street. And so, on May Day, a demonstration walking by sang “The Internationale,” and the “faithful Leninists” sitting in their cells rushed to the bars and also began to sing the proletarian anthem. The prison guards opened fire on the windows...
A strong episode, to say the least. But where did it suddenly come from, how does it relate to everything that Sholokhov said and wrote in those 70s? Why is there no trace or copy left? What and why did Sholokhov burn in his fireplace?
There will most likely never be an answer to this.
But the fact of Platonov’s “participation” in the creation of real-life “chapters from the novel” can be considered practically proven and even partly recognized. What, in addition to Bar-Sella’s book, is also discussed in N. Kornienko’s monograph “It’s Said” Russian language...”, dedicated to the collaboration of these two writers.
Nikolay ZHURAVLEV
The work tells us about three fellow soldiers who, together at the beginning of the war, helped defend the crossing of our army across the Don.
There was a fierce battle for a small Ukrainian farm. Of our soldiers, 117 people survived. The exhausted soldiers retreated, but one thing justified them. They saved the regiment's banner. And finally, they reached a small village where a military kitchen was located. One of our main characters, Ivan Zvyagintsev, while relaxing at a rest stop, talked with his friend Streltsov about his family.
Nikolai had never said so much, but here he poured out his whole soul to his friend. It turns out that his wife cheated on him; she left him with two small children. Zvyagintsev also began to complain about his wife. Even though she worked on a collective farm, she still changed a lot when she started reading women's novels. The woman began to ask her husband to treat her politely and call her affectionately, which Ivan did not like. After all, he was a simple collective farmer, and was not taught such tenderness. He was annoyed that his wife read literature at night, but during the day, without sleep, she could not do anything around the house. The children were dirty.
And she wrote letters to the front that he was afraid to read to his soldiers, in case they would laugh at him. She used such bookish expressions that Zvyagintsev felt unwell.
Ivan talked for a long time about his life, and meanwhile Nikolai fell asleep. When I woke up, I heard Pyotr Lopakhin arguing with the cook because of the burnt porridge. Peter was a miner by profession, he never lost heart, loved to joke and believed in his beauty.
Streltsov was upset about the retreat of our army on all fronts. To ordinary people it was hard to explain why this was happening. Old people, women, and children who remained behind enemy lines considered our soldiers to be traitors. And if he did not believe that they would defeat fascism, then Lopakhin said that the time had not yet come; when our soldiers got really angry, they would defeat the German invaders. Having talked enough, the friends swam in the river, wanted to catch crayfish and eat them, but they faced a fierce battle.
It was hard for them in this battle. Everyone fought until their last breath. Bombs were exploding all around, and nothing was visible, it was felt that the sky was level with the ground. A shell exploded near Nikolai and he was shell-shocked. He saw how the fighters rushed into the next attack, tried to get up, but could not. He was soon found by orderlies and sent to the infirmary.
And our fighters retreated again. Zvyagintsev, when walking along the road, saw the grain fields burning, and he was very worried that such wealth was perishing. And Lopakhin walked and joked about the Germans.
And so the regiment again prepared for a new battle. While strengthening the trenches, Lopakhin noticed a dairy farm, where he quickly brought milk, but then the German air force began to attack. During this battle, Lopakhin managed to shoot down a fascist plane, for which he received a reward from the lieutenant for a glass of alcohol for courage. The commander warned that the order had been given to fight to the death.
Before the lieutenant had time to say all this, a powerful German offensive began. Zvyagintsev kept counting how many attacks they had repulsed. Without Streltsov, he was bored, because Lopakhin could only joke. Having withstood several more powerful attacks, Zvyagintsev was wounded. Lieutenant Goloshchekin died from a serious wound, and now Sergeant Major Poprishchenko commanded the soldiers.
Of the three friends, only Lopakhin remained, who was walking along the road and was afraid that their regiment would be disbanded and sent to the rear. Unexpectedly, he sees Streltsov, but he does not hear his friend, since he lost his hearing after a concussion. And he simply ran away from the hospital.
After talking, Streltsov was also upset that they wanted to disband them. After all, he wants to fight. But the still very young soldier Nekrasov is not at all averse to going to the rear and lying down on the stove with some woman. Lopakhin was angry with him, but Nekrasov admitted that he suffered from sleepwalking. But Lopakhin reminded him of his relatives, of the fallen soldiers who gave their lives for their Motherland. And Nekrasov also decided to stay.
The regiment, by order of the command, moves on and stops in a small village. And then, considering himself an attractive man, Lopakhin decided to seduce the hostess so that she would feed the soldiers. However, the woman turned out to be a faithful wife, and Lopakhin fought back. And in the morning he saw that the collective farmers had prepared breakfast for them. At first they thought that the soldiers were fleeing the battlefield. But this regiment retreated, recapturing every inch of land and preserving its banner.
A regiment of 27 people arrived at division headquarters. Colonel Marchenko accepted the regimental banner, which had gone through more than one war, and began to cry.
The novel teaches us to remember the heroism of our soldiers who gave their lives for their Motherland, to live in peace and harmony and to prevent new wars.
Picture or drawing They fought for their homeland
Other retellings for the reader's diary
- Summary of Seton-Thompson's Winnipeg Wolf
- Summary of Cossacks Leo Tolstoy
The work begins from the moment when main character Dmitry Olenin heads to his place of duty early in the morning with the rank of cadet. Dmitry Andreevich, a carefree young man, an orphan, currently has not studied anywhere or served
- Summary of Sleeping Beauty by Charles Perrault
The king and queen did not have children for a long time. And then one day, when hope was completely lost, the queen gave birth to a daughter.
- Summary of Kuprin The Wheel of Time
The main character of the story “The Wheel of Time” is Mikhail, a former military man who, after his service, ended up in France, where he works at a factory with other emigrants from Russia. Very often Mikhail comes with friends
“Earth,” Alexey carefully typed into the search engine window. I pressed the Enter key and Google returned one hundred and eight million options. No, that's wrong. So he won’t find a suitable option until the end of time. He didn't know how to work on the Internet. Colleagues advised me to type in Google or Yandex what you need and... As they say, let the seeker find. Lesha didn’t know where it was said, but these words perfectly characterized his actions. He had a million (rubles, of course), and he knew what to do with it. There wasn't enough for an apartment. He doesn’t need a room in a two-story building with a toilet on the street in some Mukhosransk. He wanted his own home, which, quite naturally, he also didn’t have enough for. Therefore, he decided to buy land, mortgage it to the bank and build a house with the money. Simple as two and two.
He only looked at three options. Already on the third site he found what he was looking for.
The site was located in a residential village. Shops, kindergarten and school. What else do you need? True, a little further than he expected. The site was located in the Tula region, forty kilometers from Tula, in close proximity to Donskoy and Novomoskovsk. That is, there was no need to worry about work. But he wasn't worried. Bye.
Twelve color photographs showed the site in all its glory. Alexei’s wife, when he showed her these pictures, was horrified. There was something eerie in this area, something that made you freeze and then your heart beat faster. That is why Lesha liked him. What did he like there, he was in love with him.
For some reason the pictures were taken in winter, which made them even more creepy. A round well, like a set for the movie “The Ring,” is hidden under the clawed paw of a faceless bush. A gray building—either a garage or an outbuilding—stretched along a fallen fence. And finally, what attracted Alexey’s attention most of all: the ruins of a burnt house were located in the thirteenth (?) photo. He remembered well that when he entered the page of this advertisement, there were twelve photographs. Six on top and six on bottom. One under the other. Alyosha left the ad and returned again. Twelve. I started scrolling through the photographs in enlarged form. First, second... The photographs were in order - not a single one was missed. Twelfth, thirteenth. Some kind of damn thing.
“Why am I attached to these photographs?! Maybe it’s designed this way to attract buyers.”
Alexey looked through the pictures again and stopped at the ruins of a burnt house. He could not explain even to himself what attracted him to this skeleton of a house that once breathed life. He was simply in love with these ruins, and the decision immediately came. No matter what it costs him, Alexey will buy this plot.
* * *
Alexey agreed to meet with the manager at ten in the morning. Lesha arrived at the place at nine. He walked up to the rusty gate and pulled the handle. The door creaked and opened. He decided to look at the site without the manager's colorful praise. Walk around, and then listen to the outpourings of a person interested in selling.
The asphalt path was riddled with cracks, and last year's leaves mixed with mud lay underfoot. Everything was here, just like in the photos from the site. Everything is just as dead, as if he never went anywhere, but stayed in his apartment and looked at the photos. If you like, in 3D. But Lesha was not repelled by this; on the contrary, he was so attracted that he was ready to agree to any price. He will buy this plot for any money, just to breathe life into this piece of land.
About five meters from the gate there was a rickety box of either a garage or the remnant of an old house. As far as Strakhov could judge, while still there, in a warm Moscow apartment, he realized that there had once been two houses on the site. Not necessarily at the same time, but they were definitely there. He walked up to a three by five building. Alyosha examined the walls - the plaster was crumbling in some places, and the lathing nailed to the logs was clearly visible through the bald spots. At the right corner he noticed an uneven cut from a chainsaw. Yes, the verdict is final: this building definitely had a continuation. And it was demolished in order to build a new building.
Strakhov quickly got his bearings and went to where, as he remembered from pictures from the site, the foundation was located former home. Lesha approached the bushes with yellowed foliage, parted the branches - the leaves flew to his feet. The nine by nine square (or so the website said) was right in front of him. Lesha climbed onto it and examined all (he already thought it was his) possessions. And only now, from a meter high, Strakhov noticed the well.
He walked along the foundation of the future (his future) house, jumped onto the frozen gravel and slowly walked to a round well made of stone. He liked that kind of thing. Cuckoo clocks, carved shutters, wells. Hell yes! If it were up to him, he would have hung the yoke in his Moscow apartment. Approaching the edge of the well, Lesha stopped. For the first time since he found himself at the station, Strakhov felt uneasy. Before that, he had easily looked into a small coal shed, then into a larger shed, and through the cloudy glass of the windows of the rest of the building he tried to see something, but here he seemed to feel some kind of threat.
Lesha took hold (I must admit, he forced himself to take hold of it) by the handle of the lid and began to slowly lift it.
– I see you have already looked around here?
Strakhov jerked and with a noisy exhalation lowered the lid back.
* * *
In front of him stood a tall guy in a coat and a scarf around his neck a la Ostap Bender. He kept shifting a small purse from his hands to his arm and vice versa.
“Egor Spitsyn,” the guy extended his hand, clad in a black glove, to Alexey. – Sales Manager. We called you on the phone.
“Yes, yes,” Lesha shook the manager’s hand and barely restrained himself from shouting: “I’m buying it!” I’m buying!”
“Well, then let’s go to the front...” The manager laughed. - What's left of the house.
Spitsyn opened the padlock and they entered a dark room. Lesha looked into the room, then looked at the window from the street. That's why he couldn't see anything through the glass. There was no window in the room. Someone planted it from the inside.
- What? – The manager raised his eyebrows in surprise.
- What's wrong with him?
- He's not inside.
Egor did the same thing as Lesha a minute ago. Then he looked at Strakhov and shrugged his shoulders.
- You never know. Maybe the old owner decided that there was too much light for him.
“Or he was hiding from someone,” thought Lesha and followed the seller.
Egor pressed two buttons of the electric plugs located above the meter just outside the door. Lesha, I must admit, did not immediately understand that these things were from the category of switching equipment. Now such devices can only be seen in disarray.
Spitsyn, in his own way, as if he had been here several times a day, turned on the light, sat down at the table and took out a laptop from his bag. And only when he opened it, he invited Lesha to sit down.
- So, Alexey Petrovich. You have already seen wealth that costs everything... - Yegor clicked on the keyboard, looked into the monitor and said: - Only three hundred thousand rubles.
Strakhov almost fell out of his chair with delight. He could have expected anything, any figure instead of the one indicated on the website, which was doubled, tripled. He was ready for any high price. But like this? Yes, these real estate sellers may surprise you. Reducing the price three times, that’s... What if?..
- Sorry? Did you say three hundred?
Egor once again ran his fingers over the keys, turned the laptop towards Strakhov and, smiling, said:
- Do you see that? There is no mistake.
Indeed, now under the photographs of the site there was a figure equal to that just announced by the manager. Three hundred thousand rubles.
“Where was I looking? Well, so much the better..."
– Before today the price was indeed somewhat higher,” Spitsyn said, as if reading Alexei’s thoughts. – But yesterday, literally after your call to me, it was decided to reduce it.
Even better. Strakhov was not a seller and somehow did not gravitate toward commerce, but even he understood that if a product sits for a long time and no one takes it, the price needs to be reduced. So? Exactly. But not in this case. They get a call from a person who is ready to look at the plot, and perhaps (in this case, even very possible) and buy it. You just need to listen to what a potential buyer expects from them, and then reduce the price. Only then, and nothing else. Something's wrong here.
– Why such a gap?
“I don’t understand you,” said Yegor and began to assemble the laptop.
Alexey was afraid that now this sales manager would be offended and raise the price. Damn the price! Alexey knew that no price would scare him. Within reason, of course. He can simply collect his junk from the table, close the kitchen shed and leave for his managerial business.
“Well, why are you wandering around? Take it while they give it."
- No no. Nothing. Where do I need to sign?
* * *
“Well, the Moor has done his job, the Moor can leave,” Yegor whispered and pressed the gas pedal.
Where did he get this phrase from? The devil knows. No matter where it came from, it perfectly characterized the completion of the transaction. This fucking deal. A year ago, when he foolishly bought this plot for fifty thousand rubles, Yegor was happy. Of course! He could earn at least a million from it. Could. And so he thought for three months, until... He remembered with horror the nightmares that had tormented him for more than six months.
Egor turned on the radio to distract himself. He was pleased with the station he caught. Retro FM was his favorite. And only here, on this eighty-kilometer stretch of the M4 from the turn to Tula and to the Korni nursery, could he enjoy the songs of yesteryear. Songs that were created long before he was born.
Yegor himself was a villager. That's why he couldn't tolerate his own kind. He hated the dirt, the smell of manure and the noise made by livestock. Yegor fled from this. He didn’t even give a damn about the fact that his father was a senile drunkard and his mother was a disabled person of the first group. No, he helped them, but only financially. But how can you help a drunk? And to hell with them. Let them drink, they will die faster. Yegor wasn’t even sure that he would go to bury them. Spitsyn knew one thing: that he would sell his parents’ house for at least half a million rubles.
He was embarrassed by his origins, and not only because of his parents’ addiction to alcohol. Egor came up with a story. Born in Moscow, at the age of ten he moved to Kaluga. There he studied at the College of Economics and Management and came to work for small homeland. Vo bent. Go check it out. In general, the nonsense about being born in the capital was of little use, moreover, there was no benefit from it, but Spitsyn felt better, more confident. If he had told everyone the truth that before entering Kaluga college he mixed manure in a village of thirty households, and on weekends he went to discos in Duminichi - a village slightly larger than his Palik - nothing would have changed for an outsider. Well, a person works as a sales manager, what difference does it make where he was born? But Spitsyn didn’t think so. If it happens that he spills the beans, his self-confidence will immediately leave him - and that’s it, screw it. He will not be able to sell huts at inflated prices, he will not be able to sell them at all at any prices anymore.
He has already seen Moscow skyscrapers. To be honest, Yegor still didn’t know whether it was Moscow or Vidnoye, but he was pleased to think that he had already arrived. No more than five kilometers to the Moscow Ring Road, turn right, sixteen along the Ring Road to the east - and he’s home. Home, damn it! At home! Where there are no these annoying parents, always complaining about their health. Where all this country crap isn't there.
Egor was distracted for a second to look in the rearview mirror. He was overtaken by a Chinese crane with its boom raised.
“What an idiot,” Spitsyn smiled.
His smile fell from his lips as soon as the crane's boom crashed into the elevated pedestrian crossing. The plates parted, and, swaying, one of them went down. Egor realized too late that he would be buried along with the careless driver of this Chinese garbage. Before he died, the sales manager saw in the rearview mirror the person he had been dreaming about every night for the last six months.
“The Moor has done his job, the Moor can leave,” the dead man whispered and allowed Yegor to enjoy the last second of his life.
* * *
Alexey did not want to leave the site for a long time. He was drawn to the well. Like a little child breaking a toy to see what's inside. The insides of the well frightened and attracted Strakhov at the same time. Then, nevertheless, mentally punching himself on the wrist, Lesha went out the gate and once again looked at HIS site. He was happy. There are some formalities left that Alexey will forget about in a month. He was HIS now.
Strakhov got into the car. He started the engine and the car slowly rolled towards the city. His thoughts were entirely about the foundation, the well and the bricked-up window of the kitchen-garage, when he noticed a man on the side of the road waving his hand. Lesha slowed down and moved to the side. He looked in the mirror - there was no one on the side of the road. It might seem so. He thought too much about the few buildings on his own property (or rather, he unreasonably elevated them to the level of mystery), which might not have been what he imagined.
- Well, hello.
Lesha jerked and pressed the signal button.
“I thought you weren’t the timid type,” said the stranger, leaning towards the passenger window.
- Why is this? – Alexey asked, barely catching his breath.
Instead of answering, the man straightened up, opened the door and plopped down in a chair. Strakhov, it must be admitted, was slightly offended by the customs of the aborigines, but he (by the way, this was not the first time he caught himself thinking about this) found its advantages in everything, especially here. In general, he liked everything here and even a little more.
“You’re buying a plot of land without water or gas,” the man said as if that explained everything. - By the way, lad, don’t you have a cigarette? Otherwise I left mine in my jacket.
Alexey pointed to the pack lying near the gear lever. And realizing that his “guest” probably left the lighter in his jacket, he pressed in the cigarette lighter.
- Is there such a problem with water? – Lesha asked and handed the heated cigarette lighter to his new acquaintance.
- Not really. – The man took a drag. “Over there,” he pointed somewhere across the road, “there’s a pipe.” Central water supply.
- Here you go. And you say...
- Oh, kid, you don’t know that everything is not so simple. No one will let you break your road. “The man squinted and tilted his head, as if he was waiting for something.
Alexei was tired of this understatement, he could not stand it and asked:
- Well, what should I do?
- Ah-ah-ah. “I have a drill that will go under the entire road,” the man said with a smile.
Sly. There will be no job left.
– How much will this miracle of technology cost me?
“Well, I’ll take it from mine,” the man smiled slyly, “three hundred and fifty.” Well, as for the visitors...
The pause dragged on. Lesha was already thinking about saying goodbye to this native when he spoke:
– I charge a thousand from visitors. By the way, my name is Roma. – The man offered his hand.
“Alexey,” Strakhov said and returned the handshake. - So, then I’m not one of them? – he still ventured to ask.
- No, lad, you’re a newcomer.
Roma said this as if Lesha was never destined to become one of his own.
- Listen, Leshka, can I take a couple more from you? “He timidly pointed to the pack.
Strakhov took the pack in his hands, wanted to get a few cigarettes, but changed his mind and gave them all away.
- I'll quit.
“Oh, boy, this is such an infection,” he took out a cigarette, twirled it in his fingers and put it on his lips. - Well, lad, when will you come to us again?
Lesha shrugged.
– I think in the spring, when it gets warmer.
- Well, come on. We'll carry out the water. “Roman got out of the car, closed the door and, leaning towards the window, said: “You, kid, are definitely not one of the timid ones.”
* * *
Alexey could not work normally. The site and the upcoming construction gave me no rest. Damn planograms and their ilk didn’t even bother me. Strakhov closed the documents for accepting the new outlet and pressed the Explorer button. He was interested in companies involved in building houses. He found the three most popular. “Zodchiy,” as stated on their website, was a leading company in Russia, but for some reason Alexey was sure that already beyond the Moscow Ring Road he would see puzzled faces at the mention of such a sonorous name. The company offered many projects from garden houses to luxury mansions. But Alexey didn’t like them. Some were repelled by excessive simplicity, some, on the contrary, by luxury. In some, the ceilings were lower than Strakhov was used to seeing. No, he will turn to Zodchy only as a last resort.
The next company, Terem-PRO, was on the house-building market for only two years, but, judging by the reviews found and written, most likely, by “their man,” it managed to make a contribution to the development of humanity. At home by appearance differed little from the houses in “Zodchy”, but the ceilings pleased with their height, and “Terem-PRO” clearly did not inflate the prices for its goods.
The site of the third company was unlikely to attract the developer. Gray tones, penciled title pages of subsections. Alexey decided to look through everything, because something interesting could be hidden under the gray veil. He opened the subsection “Two-story houses 9x9”. Simple and tasteful. People didn't bother with big names like "Canadian", "Florida" or "Chancellor". The very first house fascinated Lesha so much that he did not notice Sokolov entering the office. The boss hesitated at the door, and then came up and stood behind Strakhov.
“Alexey Petrovich,” Sokolov said quietly.
Lesha jumped, the computer mouse bounced behind the monitor.
- Well, well, Alexey Petrovich, don’t be alarmed. It’s worse to live in such a house.
“None of your damn business!” - Strakhov wanted to yell, and he would certainly have yelled if it weren’t for Lyudochka Shirokova from the accounting department.
- Albert Sergeevich, can I see you for a minute?
“Lyudochka, for you at least for the rest of your life,” Sokolov said and broke into a smile. He leaned over to Strakhov and whispered:
- Well, don’t relax. I'll be back.
As soon as Sokolov left and closed the door behind him, Alexei jumped up and began pacing back and forth in the office. He hated Sokolov almost as much as he hated his job. This man looked at other people as if he had fifty percent and one share to own everything in this world. And when he, arrogantly, so that everyone could hear, easily suggested that Alexei go bowling next weekend, and then, as if by chance, he added that, no, they wouldn’t go anywhere together, since Strakhov was already good at bowling balls in their own pockets. It was then that Alexey especially felt his insignificance. There's nothing to be done, Sokolov had money, and Alexei just had excellent brains. But nevertheless, Strakhov knew that soon all this would come to an end. A little more - that's all.
* * *
Zhanna thought a lot about her husband's desire to have something of his own. No, she had nothing against buying real estate. On the contrary, she was all in favor. But Zhanna dreamed of something a little different. Namely, about an apartment in Moscow. Even if it’s a one-room apartment on Vykhino, it’s your own apartment. They were afraid to get involved with a mortgage, and at best they were able to save up for a plot of land in some Mukhosransk.
“Well, so be it,” thought Zhanna. - It will be like a dacha. Bye".
This is what she was afraid of. The word still frightened her. She was afraid that someday the time limit included in this would run out and she would have to feel like a beggar again, counting every penny. But they will have their own home. If ten years ago, when she had just arrived to work in the capital, she had been told to go home, she would have happily packed her suitcase and left for her native Lyudinovo on the first Moscow-Kaluga train. But now the gap between life “before arrival” and life “after” is too great and returning to almost the same life as “before” can only be compared to falling into the abyss.
No! Zhanna wanted an apartment, period. And that’s the only reason she made concessions to Lesha. Let her amuse herself with building a house, and when the time comes, she will collect dividends. In any case, the plot with the house can be sold at a higher price, and persuading Lesha to do this, as Zhanna thought, would not be difficult.
Strakhova entered the hall. During the ten years of her life in Moscow, she changed a dozen jobs. She started as a waitress in a cafe on the Cherkizovsky market. There they met Alexei. Zhanna arrived with the confidence that she was expected here, figuratively speaking. That is, she will already find work and housing on the platform of the Kievsky railway station. This is practically what happened. As soon as she stepped onto the platform with her grandmother’s small suitcase, a representative-looking woman approached her and offered her services as a realtor. This damn word made such an impression on her then that Zhanna, not fully understanding what exactly the representative lady was doing, trusted her completely. And the lady, having taken Zhanina’s savings in the amount of fifteen thousand, assured her of moving into a one-room apartment (that same evening, of course). Zhanna spent the night at the station. A fairly simple combination for painlessly taking money from a stupid provincial woman.
The incident was unpleasant, but ultimately led to a meeting with Alexei. The next day, Zhanna, her eyes swollen from a sleepless night and tears, went to look for work. This is not how she imagined the beginning of life in the capital, not this way. In one of the cafes near the Kievsky railway station, a waitress was needed, and Zhanna needed a job. So they agreed on ten thousand. And, importantly, the owner allowed her to live in his office. For free? The hell with it, it's free! This hairy gorilla climbed on her within a week. Zhanna refused as best she could, until the owner of the cafe (surely he was sure that the whole world did) went on an open offensive. He began to threaten that he would kick her out of work and from his office, of course, that he would sell her to his fellow tribesmen, and she would be entertainment at some shed. Probably, usually, after these words, girls (Zhanna was sure that she was not the first on the list of “Whom Shamil is courting”) do everything that the “master of the world” says, but Zhanna was not one of them. In addition, a week ago she met Alexei Strakhov and already managed to go on a date with him twice. Zhanna called him, and within an hour they were on their way to Mitino. He rented a small room in a two-room apartment.
Since then they have been together, their son Stasik and daughter Alena are growing up, and everything would be fine, but they don’t have their own corner. With what zeal Lesha took on this, but not where Zhanna wanted.
“Jeanne,” the waitress called.
- Yes, Luda.
- You are asked to come to the third table.
- What's there?
– Nothing... I hope it’s nothing. I gave them a menu, and they asked to invite the administrator.
- Fine. I'll figure it out.
The people at the table were sitting with their backs turned, so it was impossible to understand whether they were acquaintances or just regular show-offs. But as she approached the table, she became anxious. And when the person who called her turned to face her, everything inside shrank and twisted.
* * *
Lesha decided to go with Matorin-DS. Their houses were fascinating and... At first he was sure that they were repulsed, but then, looking closer, he could no longer take his eyes off the gloomy buildings, as if copied from Gothic paintings. Lesha wasn’t sure whether Zhanna would like his choice, but he increasingly caught himself thinking that he didn’t care about her opinion. It was as if he was driving along a well-worn track. You can’t turn around - you can get stuck, so just forward. And those who are against may remain on the dirty sidelines.
- Are you chasing balls, Strakhov?
Sokolov stood behind him again.
- Fuck you, bitch! – Alexey said very quietly.
- What did you say?
Lesha slowly stood up, put the laptop in his bag and turned to face his boss.
- What did you say?! – Albert asked louder.
– I said: fuck you! – Strakhov said loudly.
In fact, Alexey did not think that Sokolov was capable of violence (so, to mock, gossip, nothing more), so Albert Sergeevich’s next attack surprised him. Sokolov grabbed Strakhov by the chest and began screaming, spitting saliva.
- Why, you asshole, have you played too many shooting games?! Yes I love you!
Alexey didn’t make a move, he simply jabbed his fist into the man’s stomach. Albert blushed, the words stuck in his throat, and he slid down Strakhov to the floor.
“Just shut up,” said Lesha and, stepping over his former boss, he went out into the corridor.
He walked along the aisle between the glass partitions, raising his head proudly. People, like fish, silently looked at him from their aquarium-offices. Some were jealous, others hated them because of servility to their superiors. But Strakhov didn’t care at all. He did what each of those servile amoebas behind glass partitions dreamed of.
- You're fired! – Alexey heard behind him. - So that I don’t see you here again.
The first desire was to turn around and get rid of this mess, but “it’s a well-trodden track, only forward, and the rest are in the mud on the side of the road.”
* * *
Zhanna was dumbfounded. Really again? But ten years have passed, and he definitely doesn’t recognize her. She pulled herself together and went to the table where Shamil was sitting. The same hairy gorilla that did not give her life ten years ago.
- Eh, dear, where are you going?
-What happened to you? – Zhanna asked, barely suppressing the trembling in her voice.
- This happened to you. “We have come,” Shamil said, and his friends laughed.
-What do you want? – Strakhova asked patiently.
– Sit with us, otherwise we’re bored.
Laughter again. During her time working even in this decent restaurant, Zhanna saw a lot of things - people were rude and attacked with fists. A drunk person has no control over himself. This is not an excuse, it is a diagnosis. But now absolutely sober people sat in front of her, and it looked like they didn’t even intend to control themselves. One of the friends former employer grabbed Zhanna's hand and pulled her towards him.
- Sit down, don’t break down.
Strakhova jerked, jumped to the side and looked around the hall. Damn them, no one! When necessary, this restaurant only has rednecks...
– Zhanna Ivanovna, are there any problems?
Earring! Seryozhka, dear! Zhanna approached the guard.
- Seryozha, call the police.
- Hey, friend, where did you go? – Shamil shouted.
“I would ask you to vacate the restaurant premises,” the guard said slowly but confidently.
- Listen, bull. “Three people stood up from the table. - Why are the horns bothering you?
“I would ask...” Sergei took out a traumatic pistol. - I would ask you to get out of here.
The next moment, three guns were aimed at the guard's chest. Somewhere a siren wailed. Zhanna looked towards the bar. Luda smiled nervously. Well done, girl! They had never used the panic button until today. Events with nervousness and fights mainly took place in the evening, when there were five security guards in the hall. All were former boxers and sambo wrestlers, so the police could also learn from them how to apprehend criminals.
Two police officers in bulletproof vests entered the hall, machine guns casually hanging on their shoulders.
“Maybe the weight of the bulletproof vests does not allow them to move faster,” Zhanna thought and followed the waddling policemen.
They approached the counter, asked the waitress something, and only when she pointed to the main action did they grab their weapons.
Crap! Crap! Yes, they could have been killed with a mop during this time! What if someone was killed here? So that's exactly what's happening here. She looked at the "guests". All four were sitting at the table and pleasantly talking about something in a language unknown to Zhanna.
“Come on, brother,” Bagirov said with a smile, “inshala,” and hung up.
“Your documents,” said one of the policemen.
- Oh, brother, what kind of documents are these? Sit down with us, we'll order something now. Hey you! – Zhanna knew that he was addressing her. - Bring me and the police gentlemen...
- Your documents! – the policeman now demanded.
“What, you fighter,” Bagirov stood up and took a step towards the man with the machine gun, “do you want to run around in “garbage” all your life?
The policeman pulled the bolt, and the barrel of the machine gun rested on Shamil’s chest.
- ABOUT! – Bagirov raised his eyebrows in amazement. – Our fighter is immortal.
A third person ran into the restaurant (Zhanna was not well versed in ranks, but she realized that he was their eldest). He pulled away the “immortal” and turned to Bagirov.
- Guys, go to another cafe, huh?
And that's all?! Zhanna spent the rest of the day in shock. “Go to another cafe.” It's good they're gone. And if they refused, would that chief on his knees beg them to leave? God knows what! For the first time in ten years, Zhanna felt so vulnerable that she suddenly wanted to go back to Duminichi, into the abyss.
* * *
Alexey was sitting at the computer. Zhanna walked over and sat down in a chair opposite the computer desk.
– Lesha, Shamil showed up at the restaurant today.
Silence. Alexey was stubbornly looking at something on the monitor.
– Did you hear me?
– Did you put Stasik and Alenka to bed? – Alexey turned around in his chair.
“I quit my job today,” Strakhov said and began to examine his right hand.
- Damn it! – Zhanna jumped up from her seat. – Can you hear me?! This geek found me!
- Quiet, you'll wake the children. - Alexey stood up. – I’m going to the company tomorrow to order a house.
- What house?! What's the matter with you? – Zhanna thought. - How did you quit?
- Like this. Tomorrow I’ll arrange for the builders to arrive, let’s say…” he looked at the calendar above the monitor, “on Friday.” And the day after tomorrow I will go to the village.
Zhanna just saw the sports bag standing by the door.
– Don’t you understand? – she almost whispered. - He'll kill me. – Zhanna sat down in the chair again.
“Soon we will have our own home,” Strakhov stood his ground.
- To hell with your house! – Zhanna jumped up from her seat. - Soon I will be gone!
Lesha started up, as if the woman had woken him up with her scream. But then he shrugged his shoulders somewhat distantly, walked up and hugged Zhanna.
- I came up with everything. I came up with everything. We will all go to the village. Nobody will find us there.
Zhanna lay awake for a long time. She recalled the events of ten years ago. Shamil did not lag behind them then. That evening, when Zhanna called Lesha, he allowed them to leave. But I found them within a week. Zhanna was returning home from the Platypus when a black car stopped in front of her. She didn’t understand stamps well, and even then she had no time for it. Four young men jumped out of the car leather jackets and, without ceremony, began to stuff it into the interior that reeked of cigarette smoke. Shamil’s smiling face is still before my eyes. And if it weren’t for Alexei, her Alyoshenka, her protector, then things would have been worse for her. It is unknown where this black car would have taken her.
Strakhov followed Zhanna and saw a strange picture. Some people who look a lot like bandits (although maybe cops, who can tell them now?) stuff the girl into a BMW. When he and his neighbor Kolka, who would not part with a bottle of beer, began to sweep away the bandit cops, Leshka noticed that they wanted to kidnap his girlfriend.
Zhanna didn’t know where that protector Lesha had gone now. Will he come back? But she needs him so much now. Even if Shamil Bagirov (she suddenly remembered his last name) did not recognize her, she must stay away from this bastard. If he tried to steal her once, what's to stop him from doing it again? Just for one sidelong glance at the sheepskin, for the wrong word about knives, for her beautiful appearance... No, she doesn’t want that. Zhanna could not stand communicating with this bastard, but she was sure that he would return to the restaurant. A creature that imagines itself as the master of the whole world and feels impunity will definitely return to where it was denied in order to take it by force.
* * *
Alexey first went to the site where the house he had already dreamed of was presented. On Novoryazanskoye Highway in front of the Real shopping center there was a site with ready-made projects several companies. For some reason, the most popular “Terem” and “Zodchego” were not there. But Strakhov didn’t need them. He was even sure that he would not look at the other houses when he went to his own. Lesha had already made his choice and considered this two-story mansion his own.
Strakhov recognized him as soon as he entered the site. He was even more majestic and gloomy. Alexey, if he could, would move in there right now. He stopped his Solaris five meters from the exhibition copy. I turned off the engine and looked at the house through windshield. The bedroom window (he had already decided that this would be his and Jeanne's bedroom) looked straight at him. It seemed to Strakhov that there was someone in the room. Surely there is someone. Some sales manager who will sell a house at a fabulous price, putting “additional options” on it. Or maybe not, because there have already been precedents. With a plot, for example.
Lesha turned away. He wanted to get inside as quickly as possible, walk through the rooms, mentally figuring out where he would stand, to enjoy such a quick possession of his own home.
Strakhov entered the spacious hall. The ceilings were pleasing with their height. At least three meters, Alexey thought. On the left is the door to the utility room. Lesha looked in there. There was no light in the room, so he could not enjoy the splendor of the future pantry or bathroom. Strakhov went out into the hall again. The manager or caretaker of this wonderful house never showed up. Alexey did not wait and decided to inspect the second floor first. The stairs were just right. At least bring in the piano. Wide, with a step exactly under Strakhov’s foot. Comfortable railings and carved balusters were not as gloomy as in the photos presented on the site. They didn't make me sad.
He literally flew up to the second floor. The doors to the bedrooms were open. He looked into one. Andrey will come from the army and settle in it. To the second. Stasik and Alena. Third. The third one was locked. Although Alexei could have sworn that when he entered the second room, the door to the third bedroom was open. This means that the caretaker-seller is amusing himself. Strakhov, delighted by the explanation he had found for the devilry that was happening in HIS house, went downstairs with a smile on his face. After all, if the seller is nowhere on the second floor (he’s not locked in the bedroom), then it means he’s somewhere on the first floor.
Sales manager Kolchin Yuri, as he proudly introduced himself to Lesha, was sitting at a large table in the bay window of a huge and bright room on the first floor. Samples of insulation and roofing material were placed around it. The walls are covered with photographs of finished objects. Alexey didn’t even look at the pictures. He was only interested in one finished object. This one is on his property too.
– What interests you? – Yuri asked and moved the laptop away.
“It’s a little messy there,” Kolchin smiled. The young impudent man was not at all bothered by the tone the question asked. “I did a little tumble there.” Well, you understand me.
This fellow reminded Lesha of Sokolov, who fired him. The same impudent smile of an insolent spitting on everyone. Alexey suddenly wanted to push the table into the bay window and crush this nit. Press until this bitch's guts come out of her ass. Yuri, as if seeing a threat in the client’s eyes, stood up and stopped grinning impudently.
- If you want, I can open it for you.
“For you,” the manager said as if viewing the entire house was a bonus program introduced specifically for the nth buyer.
- No, thank you. Better tell me how much this house will cost me. – Again I could barely restrain myself from saying “my house.”
* * *
For the first time since Shamil stopped her from entering, Zhanna did not want (afraid) to go to work. Sunny days at the end of October are so rare, and therefore very necessary. The low sun will not warm you, but it will slightly lift your spirits. For Strakhovaya, it didn’t exactly rise, but the thorny thoughts lodged in her brain about the possible revenge of her former employer did not bring such pain. Now Zhanna was weighing her options. If Bagirov didn’t recognize her (ten years and all that), then he has no reason to come here. Oh, how I wanted to believe it. Wow, in a city with a population of millions, two people accidentally collide... Is it a coincidence? Well, then the version that Bagirov did not recognize her crumbles like a house of cards.
Then everything was resolved somehow... How, Zhanna, to be honest, did not understand and did not go into details. She and Lesha moved to Kuzminki into a two-room apartment. She was pleased with the new housing, despite the fact that it was rented and they had to pay a tidy sum for it every month. Strakhov scored points on her list of suitors. Zhanna did not ask then what happened next with Bagirov after the police arrived. She never spoke about this gorilla again. And all these ten years she believed that she had hidden from him. It turned out not. No, damn it! Here it is, on the surface.
“There it is...” Luda awkwardly lowered her eyes. - There's this one again...
Zhanna’s heart fell into the abyss, and then, as if hitting a trampoline, it flew up.
- Yesterday's boor. He asks to come over.
- Whom? – Strakhova asked quietly and licked her suddenly dry lips.
- You, Zhanna Ivanovna.
"I don't want! I won't go! – Zhanna wanted to shout, but restrained herself. She went up to the food dispensing window and looked out into the hall.
“You can’t see them from here,” said Luda and went to the bar counter.
Strakhova grabbed the carving knife and looked at the polished surface of the blade. She saw her reflection. A face distorted with anger. Is she capable of killing? Probably not. She looked again at the other one, on the other side of the blade mirror. She most likely could, but not you. Jeanne threw the knife away, as if her reflection was speaking to her.
“Strakhova, if you don’t come out to the customers, Zurab will fire you,” the bartender’s sarcastic voice pulled her out of her thoughts.
Zhanna nodded silently, turned around and slowly walked out into the hall. And already at the table at which Bagirov and his friends were sitting, the absurdity of the situation dawned on her. Why the hell did she even approach this bastard?! Zurab will fire me. Yes, so what? She was about to quit herself! Crap! Crap!
- Sit down! – Bagirov ordered and pulled Strakhova’s hand.
Zhanna obediently sat down. She looked at her hands; looking into the hall for protection was useless. Whoever was sitting at the tables around them just came in for a business lunch, they wanted to have a snack and run on about their business. Saving a girl, even a beautiful one, from bandits was not part of their plans. They didn’t care that the administrator of their favorite establishment, where they could eat first and second courses for just one hundred and ninety-nine rubles, wash it all down with compote, would now be shoved into the back seat of a black car and taken to some rented apartment.
“And I recognized you,” Shamil smiled.
Crap! Who would doubt it. She still looked around, although she knew very well that yesterday’s protector Seryozha’s wife had given birth. So until the evening, the only man with them is the bartender Rusik, and he’s gay.
“I don’t understand you,” Zhanna barely parted her dry lips.
- Okay, okay. I don't hold a grudge. What happened, happened, eh? – Bagirov smiled even wider and extended his open palm to her for a handshake.
* * *
After signing the contract and receiving three receipts for stage-by-stage payments for the construction of the house, Lesha decided to go through all the rooms again, but only this time with the talkative manager. He praised the house and the company that Strakhov was lucky enough to contact. When they reached the second floor, Alexey interrupted his laudatory ode with a casual gesture and pointed to the locked bedroom door.
“Maybe I won’t see anything bad there after all?”
- What? – Yuri did not understand, and the radiant smile began to disappear from his face.
- I say: open the door, be so kind.
- A? Now, of course. – Kolchin turned around and ran towards the stairs. From there he shouted: “I’m getting the key.”
“Dumb,” thought Lesha and leaned on the door. To his surprise, it opened. He stepped inside. Walked through carpeting to the double bed and looked with a smile at the girl lying in it.
“There’s not much of a mess there,” Lesha heard Kolchin’s voice from the corridor. “There’s no furniture there either.”
Lesha smiled even wider when the girl stood up and closed the door. She walked around Strakhov on the other side and slid into bed. Her young, smooth body aroused animal instincts. As if she had read his thoughts, she patted the silky sheet next to her. Lesha approached her.
Yura ran to the second floor, still telling how he managed to pick up a girl and drag her to work. He stopped mid-sentence and looked at the empty end of the corridor. Kolchin looked into two open bedrooms and went to the locked door. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it clockwise twice. He did it so carefully, with such trepidation, as if he was disarming the clock mechanism of a bomb. He also carefully pushed the door and looked into the empty room. There was a piece of foam rubber on the floor. Yura came up, rolled it up, looked around the room again, shrugged his shoulders and left.
Alexey sat down next to the naked girl. I wanted to say something, and then I thought:
“To hell with talking! After all, she wants me!”
He lay down and turned to the girl to hug her. The bed was empty. Lesha jumped up, pulled down his jacket and backed away towards the wall. The bed had also disappeared; an old piece of foam lay on the floor. Alexey slowly moved along the wall towards the door. An eerie, sticky feeling from what was happening enveloped his entire body and did not allow him to move quickly. He scurried around like a fly caught in Velcro - he could still move, but he already knew that his strength would soon leave him.
“Maybe I won’t see anything bad there after all?” – Lesha clearly heard his voice from the corridor.
“Hey,” Strakhov called, peeled himself away from the wall and began banging on the door. - Hey! Someone!
- Do you really feel bad with me?
Lesha stopped pounding, but had no intention of turning around. He knew the girl and the bed were back.
“There’s not much of a mess there.” “He didn’t think that Kolchin’s voice would please him so much.” “There’s no furniture there either.”
Strakhov closed his eyes and whispered:
- There is no furniture.
When he opened his eyes, there was a smiling manager with a key in his hand. The two clicks of the lock being opened had a sobering effect on Strakhov. Kolchin pushed the door. Alexey closed his eyes again. He didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t want to see himself or the girl on the bed on the other side of the door. There was no one there. Lesha examined every corner, looked at Kolchin with a roll of foam rubber under his arm.
“You can also order furniture,” Yuri suggested.
- No, thank you. I'll limit myself to the house for now.
Strakhov left the room. The feeling of horror did not go away, he felt as if he could tear himself away from the Velcro, but at the same time he left part of himself on the adhesive tape.
* * *
The fact that Bagirov allegedly did not harbor a grudge against her did not reassure Zhanna, but, on the contrary, frightened her. There was so much falsehood in his words and movements that Strakhova barely restrained herself from tearing her hand out of his palm and running away.
- Well, have you forgotten?
Zhanna nodded timidly.
-Will you have something to drink with us?
- I'm at work. “The words came with difficulty, but Strakhova held on and did not show her fear.
-You're still the same. You work at work, not at work...
Bagirov's three friends bared their teeth. It even seemed to Zhanna that, looking at her, they were salivating, like Pavlov’s dogs.
– What time do you finish? – Shamil asked affectionately. - Don’t think about it, we’ll sit and have a drink... This and that, eh?
- I don't know.
A simple answer that means more “no” than “yes”. But on Bagirov’s face his true features of a beast, not accustomed to being refused, appeared. And if someone dared to take such a rash step, he took what he needed by force. Zhanna was once again convinced that this was all a masquerade, organized only to entertain her friends.
“I’ll think about it,” Strakhova said and pulled her hand away.
Again the animal mask peeked out from behind the man’s mask.
- So what time do you finish?
“At six,” she said and went to the kitchen.
"For what?! Why the hell did you tell him the truth?! Was it really impossible to lie that you were finishing at eight, and quietly leave at six? Stupid!"
The bestial grin of Shamil and his friends could not leave her mind. He was pretending! He really wants revenge! A stupid thought occurred to her. Stupid? The thought was scary. She suddenly, sitting in her office and sorting through a pile of papers, decided to poison Bagirov. But she immediately brushed it aside. It was already fifteen minutes to six.
“That is, not completely poison,” she nevertheless grasped at this terrible thought.
She stood up and looked at the first aid kit behind the glass of the sideboard.
“Make it so that he can’t even get his dick out of his pants without shitting himself.”
Zhanna took out a gray box with a red cross on the lid and opened it. She took out a package of bisacodyl. I looked into the box and took Regulax. Bisacodyl or Regulax? Oh, either will do. And, just to be sure, I took a tablet of phenazepam. She went into the kitchen, took out a wooden mortar and a masher, poured all the tablets into the mortar and began to grind them. When the homogeneous powder was ready, Zhanna poured it into a bag prepared in advance. I went out to the bar.
“Lude,” she called the waitress.
- Yes, Zhanna.
– Didn’t these people order anything else?
There was no need to clarify who “these” were; Lyuda already knew very well. Such clients are like a pain in the ass - not fatal, but damn unpleasant.
- They asked for vodka. – The girl pointed to the decanter.
- Lyudonka, let me take it.
It was clear from the waitress's face that there was still an awl in her ass, but at least they had stopped moving it. Such a slight relief. It's better this way than nothing at all.
- Please.
Zhanna grabbed the delivery and, to Lyudmila’s surprise, first entered the kitchen, and only then went to the ill-fated table. Strakhova confidently walked towards the bandits, her hands even stopped shaking. It seemed to her that Bagirov was no longer interested in who was in front of him. The mask on his face was removed and thrown into the far corner.
“Shmara,” Shamil hissed and slapped his palm on Zhanna’s buttocks. - Well, are you ready?
If a couple of steps ago she wanted to turn around and pour out this swill, now she had the desire to pour the entire decanter into this scum without a trace.
- Boys, you drink for now, and I’ll go get dressed.
“We like you better undressed,” said Bagirov’s bearded friend, touched her knee, and then, holding out his index and ring fingers, “walked” under her skirt.
“I’ll be there now,” Strakhova said and pulled away. She was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain her composure. - I'll be there soon. “She turned around and almost ran into the kitchen.
Zhanna was shaking all over. But she was not afraid, she was choked by anger. Fear was restrained by the possibility of her own instant death in the event of an attack on these bastards. And that's the best case scenario. How she wanted to pounce on them and claw out their insolent eyes!
She walked up to the bar and looked out at the “guests.” Half the decanter was drunk. Zhanna smiled. She suddenly became interested in what they would do first: shit themselves and fall asleep, or fall asleep and shit themselves at the same time. When Shamil jumped up from his seat, Zhanna decided not to wait for a happy ending to the evening. It was clear from Bagirov’s appearance that he was not going to the toilet.
– Where is this bitch?! - he roared.
Zhanna ran into the kitchen, grabbed a coat from the rack in the hallway and slipped through the emergency exit door. That's it, she won't come back here anymore.
* * *
Lesha couldn’t understand what it was. The visions were so realistic. A girl smelling of floral scents, silk sheets, a double bed, even her own fucking voice from behind closed door. What is this?! Damn it, what is this if not madness?! Maybe someone was killed in this house and the ghost wants to talk about it?
“Don't talk nonsense! – Strakhov pulled himself back. – Murder at an exhibition site, where several dozen people visit every day? And who would kill her? That manager who could barely stand on his feet with a roll of foam under his arm? The devil knows. In any case, a new house will be built and no ghosts should appear there. Unless, of course, I start killing.”
Despite the gloom of his thoughts, they amused Alexei, and he smiled. Strakhov stopped the car near the school. I dialed Stasik's number.
- Son, did you do your homework? – Alexey asked when the other end answered.
- Yes, dad. Dad, can I play tennis for another half hour?
“Come on,” Lesha smiled. - Only half an hour, otherwise we still have to pack our things.
- Dad, am I going with you?
- Be quiet. – Alexey removed the phone from his ear.
- Dad, will Mom and Alenka come with us?
- I think not. Mom has work, and Alenka has a kindergarten.
- Nothing. They will come to us soon.
- Okay, I ran.
Lesha held the silent phone to his ear for some time. He never had any problems with Stas, and with Alenka too. But with Andrey... At the same age as Stasik, Andryusha was a problem until his grandmother, Lesha’s mother, took him. The son from his first marriage turned out to be of no use to anyone. Alexei’s first wife became interested in, as she said, “the man of her dreams” and fled to either Poland or Germany. Beginnings new life, so to speak. And in this very new life there was no place for little Andryusha. Alexey tried to stay afloat for some time. With a salary of three thousand, it was almost impossible to feed yourself and a child. Thanks to my mother and stepfather and their large garden. Strakhov just didn’t want to live like that and left for Moscow in search of a better life. And I found it. Everything would be fine, but we didn’t have our own home. Where you could come after a hard day at work. And don’t be afraid to receive news from the owners of the apartment that their eldest daughter is getting married and therefore needs to leave the apartment within a month.
Andryushka never wanted to live with his father. Lesha brought him to summer holidays, but Andrei lasted for a month. He loved his grandmother very much, who replaced his mother, and even more (so it sometimes seemed to Lesha) he loved the open spaces of the countryside. He felt cramped in the city, even in one like Moscow. Now his Andryushka is in the army. Should arrive in a month. And imagine Alexei’s surprise when his eldest son agreed to live with them in their village house. Strakhov was already sure then that he would move (and Zhanna and the children would go with him) to his own house.
* * *
Despite the small victory, Zhanna was shaking. She knew that even moving to a new place would not calm her down and she would twitch at the sight of any person speaking with an accent. Only time can calm her down. Only time.
Zhanna entered the hall with colored walls and looked at scenes from cartoons and fairy tales that she had seen more than once. Only today she noticed how poorly they were drawn. As if this was the homework of Efim Andreevich, a watchman and an electrician rolled into one. And he took up the paint brush only when the first bottle of vodka was gone. Fairy tale characters they made such terrible grimaces that Strakhova wanted to take a roller and black paint and cover up these works of art.
She suddenly felt uneasy. Creepy creatures, who were once the good heroes of fairy tales, wanted to come down from the walls, grab Jeanne and drag her into their other world. Strakhova, trying not to touch the pictures that had suddenly become bulging, ran up the stairs and approached Alena’s group. Strange, but here, where the rooms were filled with living children's voices, the nightmarish creations of the watchman did not seem so terrible. Zhanna pulled herself together, took a deep breath and entered the locker room of the ninth group.
Most of the lockers were open, which meant only one thing: the children to whom they belonged had been taken. Strakhova went to her daughter's locker. There were two ducks on the door. Zhanna was glad that these were stickers. If the cabinets had been entrusted to an incompetent person, the ducks would have looked more like pterodactyls.
- Mom, mommy!
Alena ran out of the group and hugged her mother.
“Come on, Baby, get dressed,” Zhanna smiled.
– Hello, Zhanna Ivanovna.
Strakhova turned around. Nadezhda Filippovna, Alena’s teacher, stood at the door. In her hands were album sheets.
“Again, crafts and drawings,” Zhanna thought, but seeing the expression on the woman’s face, she suddenly became anxious.
- Hello. – Zhanna gave the jacket to Alena. - Baby, get dressed.
– Look what Alena drew. – Nadezhda Filippovna handed Strakhova the album sheets.
Zhanna looked into the teacher’s eyes for a long time, trying to read in them what awaited her in her daughter’s work. Zhanna was afraid. She, still looking at the woman, sat down on a low bench and looked at the first drawing. He shocked her. The entire sheet was covered with black pencil, but the main picture was clearly visible under the thick lines. There were people there. They were sitting at a table, and a woman stood next to them. Zhanna understood this from the drawn triangle - the skirt. There was something... She peered at the drawing through a black pencil. There was an arrow above the woman and it said “MOM”, and above the people at the table it said “BANDITS”.
Zhanna looked at Alena. The girl was tying a scarf and humming something under her breath. Strakhova took the second drawing. All the other drawings were colorful, and none of them were covered in black pencil. On one she drew a car with smiling faces in it. At the top the inscription read: “Our family.” Further: forest, river, sun, clearing. And everywhere: “Our family.” The last drawing made Zhanna look at her daughter again. The girl was fiddling with her shoelaces. Strakhova turned her gaze to Nadezhda Filippovna. She shrugged. Like, what am I talking about?
There was a house in the picture. Big gray house. Gloomy, like something out of a horror movie. The entire drawing was drawn in black pencil. Jeanne thought that the shadows around the house meant night. Yes, that’s probably what it was, if only... She took a closer look. One of the shadows near the porch closely resembled the black silhouette of a man. A man with an axe!
– Whose drawings are these? – Strakhova asked, barely able to pronounce the words.
– I said: Alena.
- No. These are understandable. But the last one doesn’t seem to be hers,” Zhanna suggested and pointed to the drawing of the house.
“Every single one of them was drawn by your daughter.” And that's what worries me.
Strakhova could not understand whether the teacher was mocking her or not. In all the drawings, people were primitive, that is, a stick, a stick, a cucumber - so a little man came out, and in the last one, a silhouette with an ax was drawn, if not by an artist, then by a person who skillfully wielded a pencil.
“Alyonushka,” she turned to her daughter, “tell me, daughter, who drew this drawing?”
Alena tied her shoelace and stood up.
“I am,” the girl answered.
“Baby, don’t deceive your mother,” said Zhanna. Probably too rude, because tears appeared in my daughter’s eyes and she lowered her head.
“Alyonushka,” the teacher approached the girl and hugged her, “don’t be afraid.” Nobody will hurt you. “She looked reproachfully at Strakhova. – Tell us where this drawing comes from?
“Little one,” Zhanna tried to smooth the situation over, “did you draw this?” Tell us the truth, no one will scold you.
- Mommy, I drew it. “The girl turned away from Nadezhda Filippovna’s embrace and ran up to her mother. She looked into her eyes and said:
“Honestly, most honestly, Mommy.” Don't you see, this is our home.
* * *
- Shmara! - Bagirov yelled.
- Calm down, brother! – Rustam approached him. - Calm down! – he reprimanded his friend.
- Threw it, bitch!
- Fuck her. Are there not enough whores? Now let's shoot some...
– Rus, don’t you understand? This bitch!.. – Shamil was stifled by anger and powerlessness.
“This creature has outsmarted me again! Bitch! I'll tear it apart! She and her husband are rotten! Inshala!
- Inshala! – Bagirov hissed, gritting his teeth.
- Brother, brother! Hey! – Rustam hugged his friend.
- I'll tear them apart!
- Yes, I’ll tear them apart myself! - Rustam didn’t quite understand who to tear, but for a friend... - I’ll tear whoever you want for you! – Rustam pulled out a pistol and pointed it at a lone passerby sneaking along a dark street. -What are you looking at? Immortal, or what?
The man even jumped and then ran.
- Rus! Shama! – Albot shouted to them.
- Thank you, brother. – Shamil burst into a smile and hugged his friend. “I knew I could rely on you.”
- Hey, are you coming?! – Jamal got out of the car. “Otherwise we’ll get all the chicks.”
- Went? – asked Rustam.
- Went. And then I’ll get this bastard,” Bagirov nodded.
“We’ll get it,” Rus corrected his friend.
- Inshala, brother, inshala.
Bagirov got behind the wheel without even looking at the back seat. He didn't care who the boys took off. He didn't care who he took it out on today. The only thing he wanted now was to bleed someone. He didn’t even see the girls, but he already hated their smoky voices, tits and everything else that came with these bitches.
- Shama, where are we going? – Jamal asked.
“Slaughter pigs,” said Bagirov.
Only the girls laughed. The guys grinned predatorily. The five-liter engine roared, and the black beast “BMW” rushed off.
* * *
Zhanna stopped near Alexey, who was stuffing a jar of Jardin into his bag, and looked into his eyes.
– Don’t you understand? I can't stay. They will kill me.
- Well, why will they kill you right away?
- And what? Will they just rape and sell it to someone? Will this be better?! – Zhanna started screaming. She was struck by the callousness and indifference of the man she idolized.
- Why are you shouting? You take the kids into the room and always start yelling. Wouldn't it be easier to leave them here and talk to them?
“Well, please,” the phrase came out by itself. - Darling, please. – Zhanna knelt in front of her husband.
– What’s wrong with you?! – Lesha jumped up and walked away from his wife, as if she had just confessed to him that she was suffering from a contagious disease. - Damn it! What's happening?!
“Lesha,” Zhanna crawled up to him on her knees, “I poured sleeping pills into their vodka.”
-What did you do?!
* * *
Alena looked at Stasik. He pretended to read and not notice the screams behind the wall. IN lately The parents often argued, but it was mostly my mother who screamed.
- Stasik, do you want me to draw you a car? – asked Alena.
The brother hooted, never looking up from “Treasure Island.”
- Black? – the girl clarified.
Alena loved to draw. But not only houses and flowers, like her friends in kindergarten. She drew everything that came to her mind. A little man whispered ideas to her. He asked to be called Baby. Now Baby was whispering to her: draw a car. She knew that if she didn’t want to draw herself, Baby would take her hand and draw the features he needed. It was then that the drawings turned out to be the most successful, as if it was not she who drew them. Although in reality this was the case. Baby drew them, and she just held the pencil.
Alena looked at the resulting car. She nodded with satisfaction. Baby was silent. Probably went to bed. She was already putting the pencils in the box when Baby said what he wanted.
* * *
- For what?! – Lesha roared. – Why are you messing with this bastard?! You could have just run away. You were going to quit anyway!
- I don't know. – Zhanna got up from her knees and sat down on a chair.
- OK. I hope you didn't kill them.
Zhanna was struck by the newly formed ice crust around her husband’s words.
- So are we going or not?
- Of course, you're going. We’re family,” Lesha sighed and sat down next to him.
We're family. Our family. Here! That's what Zhanna wanted to talk about.
– Do you know that our daughter draws? – Zhanna suddenly asked.
- So what?
Strakhova went out into the corridor and returned with sheets of paper.
- Look here.
Lesha took the drawings and began to look through them. The smile never left my face. He stopped at the last drawing.
- Is this hers too?
Zhanna was glad that she was not the only one who thought this was strange. She nodded.
- Well done! – Alexey praised. - It looks so similar.
- For what? What does it look like?!
- Well done! – he repeated again.
Zhanna looked at the booklet. There was that same house. She tossed the paper aside as if it were a writhing snake.
-What does it look like?! Have you seen this?!
She grabbed her daughter's drawing and was about to point at the silhouette with an axe, but it wasn't there. Zhanna examined every centimeter of the drawing, but did not find anything even remotely reminiscent of an “uninvited guest.”
“He’s probably already in the house,” a strange thought came to her. “Or hid in the shadows.”
* * *
Alena took a black pencil and first crossed out the drawing. Then again and again. Baby was silent. Alena grabbed the pencil more conveniently and began shading the car and those who were sitting in it. She pressed so that the strokes were thick and wide. The lead broke, but the girl continued to move the pencil along the paper. The furrows on the leaf turned the drawing into a lacerated wound. Baby was silent.
Very briefly 1941-42. Three fellow soldiers who spent the first years of the war together defend the crossing of Soviet troops across the Don. Their regiment fulfills the task with honor, while managing to maintain the regimental banner.
In the battle for the village of Old Ilmen, only 117 soldiers and commanders survived from the entire regiment. Now these people, exhausted by three tank attacks and an endless retreat, wandered across the sultry, waterless steppe. The regiment was lucky in only one thing: the regimental banner survived. Finally, we reached a farmstead, “lost in the boundless Don steppe,” and were happy to see the surviving regimental kitchen.
After drinking brackish water from a well, Ivan Zvyagintsev started a conversation with his friend Nikolai Streltsov about home and family. Suddenly opening up, Nikolai, a tall, prominent man who worked as an agronomist before the war, admitted that his wife had left him and left two small children. The former combine operator and tractor driver Zvyagintsev also had family problems. His wife, who worked as a tractor trailer operator, “deteriorated through fiction" Having read women's novels, the woman began to demand “high feelings” from her husband, which made him extremely irritated. She read books at night, so she walked around sleepy during the day, the household fell into disrepair, and the children ran around like street children. And she wrote such letters to her husband that even her friends were ashamed to read them. She called the brave tractor driver either a chick or a cat, and wrote about love in “book words” that made Zvyagintsev feel “foggy in his head” and “dizzy in his eyes.”
While Zvyagintsev was complaining to Nikolai about his unfortunate family life, he fell fast asleep. Waking up, he smelled burnt porridge and heard armor-piercing officer Pyotr Lopakhin quarreling with the cook - with him Pyotr was in constant confrontation over the bland porridge, which was already pretty boring. Nikolai met Lopakhin in the battle for the collective farm “Shining Path”. Peter, a hereditary miner, was a cheerful person, loved to make fun of his friends and sincerely believed in his masculine irresistibility.
Nicholas was depressed by the endless retreat of Soviet troops. Chaos reigned at the front, and soviet army could not organize a worthy rebuff to the fascists. It was especially difficult to look into the eyes of the people remaining in the German rear. The local population treated the retreating soldiers as traitors. Nikolai did not believe that they would be able to win this war. Lopakhin believed that Russian soldiers had not yet learned to beat the Germans, had not accumulated anger that would be enough to win. If they learn, they will drive the enemy home. In the meantime, Lopakhin did not lose heart, joked and looked after the pretty nurses.
After swimming in the Don, the friends caught crayfish, but did not have a chance to try them - “from the west came the familiar, groaning roar of artillery fire.” Soon the regiment was alerted and ordered to “take up defense at a height located behind the farm, at the intersection of roads,” and hold out to the last.
It was a tough fight. The remnants of the regiment had to hold off enemy tanks that were trying to break through to the Don, where the main troops were crossing. After two tank attacks, the heights began to be bombed from the air. Nikolai was severely concussed by a shell that exploded nearby. Waking up and getting out from under the earth that had covered him, Streltsov saw that the regiment had risen to attack. He tried to climb out of a deep, human-sized trench, but could not. He was overcome by a “saving and long-term unconsciousness.”
The regiment again retreated along the road, surrounded by burning grain. Zvyagintsev’s soul ached at the sight of the people’s wealth perishing in the fire. To avoid falling asleep while walking, he began to vilify the Germans in a low voice. last words. Lopakhin heard the muttering and immediately began to make fun of him. Now there are only two friends left - Nikolai Streltsov was found wounded on the battlefield and sent to the hospital.
Soon the regiment again took up defensive positions on the approaches to the crossing. The defense line passed near the village. Having dug out a shelter for himself, Lopakhin saw a long tiled roof not far away and heard women's voices. It turned out to be a dairy farm, the inhabitants of which were being prepared for evacuation. Here Lopakhin got his hands on milk. He didn’t have time to go get butter - the air raid began. This time the regiment was not left without support; the soldier was covered by an anti-aircraft complex. Lopakhin shot down one German plane with his armor-piercing rifle, for which he received a glass of vodka from Lieutenant Goloshchekov. The lieutenant warned that the battle was going to be difficult and that they would have to fight to the death.
Returning from the lieutenant, Lopakhin barely managed to reach his trench - another air raid began. Taking advantage of air cover, German tanks crawled into the trenches, which were immediately covered by fire from regimental artillery and an anti-tank defense battery. Before noon, the fighters had repelled “six fierce attacks.” The short calm seemed unexpected and strange to Zvyagintsev. He missed his friend Nikolai Streltsov, believing that it was impossible to have a serious conversation with such an inveterate scoffer as Lopakhin.
After some time, the Germans began artillery preparation, and a fierce barrage of fire fell on the front line. Zvyagintsev had not been under such heavy fire for a long time. The shelling continued for about half an hour, and then German infantry, covered by tanks, moved into the trenches. Ivan almost rejoiced at this visible, tangible danger. Ashamed of his recent fright, he entered the battle. Soon the regiment went on the attack. Zvyagintsev managed to run only a few meters away from the trench. There was a deafening thunder behind him, and he fell, maddened by terrible pain.
“Exhausted by unsuccessful attempts to seize the crossing,” the Germans stopped their attacks in the evening. The remnants of the regiment received orders to retreat to the other side of the Don. Lieutenant Goloshchekin was seriously wounded, and Sergeant Major Poprishchenko took command. On the way to the dilapidated dam, they came under German artillery fire two more times. Now Lopakhin was left without friends. Walking next to him was only Alexander Kopytovsky, the second number of his crew.
Lieutenant Goloshchekin died without ever crossing the Don. He was buried on the river bank. Lopakhin’s soul was heavy. He was afraid that the regiment would be sent to the rear for reorganization, and he would have to forget about the front for a long time. It seemed unfair to him, especially now that every fighter was counted. After some thought, Lopakhin went to the foreman’s dugout to ask to be left in the active army. On the way, he saw Nikolai Streltsov. Rejoicing, Peter called out to his friend, but he did not look back. It soon became clear that Nikolai was deaf from concussion. After lying in the hospital for a while, he fled to the front.
Ivan Zvyagintsev woke up and saw that there was a battle going on around him. He felt severe pain and realized that his entire back was cut by fragments of a bomb that had exploded behind him. He was dragged along the ground on a raincoat. Then he felt himself falling somewhere, hit his shoulder and lost consciousness again. Waking up for the second time, he saw the face of a nurse above him - it was she who was trying to drag Ivan to the medical battalion. It was hard for the small, fragile girl to drag the massive Zvyagintsev, but she did not leave him. In the hospital, Ivan had an argument with an orderly, who tore open the tops of his brand new boots, and continued to swear while the tired surgeon removed fragments from his back and legs.
Like Lopakhin, Streltsov also decided to stay at the front - he did not escape from the hospital to sit out in the rear. Soon Kopytovsky and Nekrasov, an elderly, phlegmatic soldier, approached their friends. Nekrasov was not at all opposed to being reorganized. He planned to find an accommodating widow and take some time off from the war. His plans infuriated Lopakhin, but Nekrasov did not swear, but calmly explained that he had “trench sickness,” something like sleepwalking. Waking up in the morning, he repeatedly climbed into the most unexpected places. Once he even managed to climb into the oven, decided that he had been overwhelmed by an explosion in the trench, and began to call for help. It was this illness that Nekrasov wanted to recover from in the arms of a rich rear widow. His sad story did not touch the angry Lopakhin. He reminded Nekrasov about his family remaining in Kursk, which the Nazis would reach if all the defenders of the Motherland began to think about rest. After some thought, Nekrasov also decided to stay. Sashka Kopytovsky did not lag behind his friends.
The four of them came to the dugout of Sergeant Major Poprishchenko. The regiment's soldiers had already angered the foreman with requests to leave them at the front. He explained to Lopakhin that their division was personnel, “seen all kinds and is steadfast”, having preserved “the military shrine - the banner.” Such soldiers will not remain idle. The sergeant major had already received an order from the major to “go to the Talovsky farm,” where the division headquarters was located. There the regiment will be replenished with fresh forces and sent to the most important area front.
The regiment went to Talovsky, spending the night in a small farm along the way. The foreman did not want to bring hungry and ragged soldiers to the headquarters. He tried to get provisions from the chairman of the local collective farm, but the storerooms were empty. Then Lopakhin decided to take advantage of his masculine attractiveness. He asked the chairman to place them with some wealthy soldier, who looked like a woman and was no older than seventy. The hostess turned out to be a portly woman of about thirty, incredibly tall. Her appearance delighted the short Lopakhin, and at night he went on an attack. Peter returned to his comrades with a black eye and a bump on his forehead - the soldier turned out to be a faithful wife. Waking up in the morning, Lopakhin discovered that the hostess was preparing breakfast for the entire regiment. It turned out that the women remaining in the farm decided not to feed the retreating soldiers, considering them traitors. Having learned from the foreman that the regiment was retreating in battle, the women immediately collected provisions and fed the hungry soldiers.
The regiment arriving at the division headquarters was met by the division commander, Colonel Marchenko. Sergeant Major Poprishchenko brought 27 soldiers - five of them lightly wounded. Having made a solemn speech, the colonel accepted the regimental banner, which had already passed through the First World War. When the colonel knelt before the crimson cloth with gold fringe, Lopakhin saw tears flowing down the foreman’s cheeks.