Novel
Alma Ata “Zhazushi” 1977
Kaz2
M91
Authorized translation from Kazakh by
Stepan ZLOBIN
Prolusion by
Z. KRAKHMALNIKOVA
Musrepov Gabit.
M91 The soldier from Kazakhstan. Novel. Authorized translation from Kazakh by S. Zlobin. Alma-Ata, “Zhazushy”, 1977
208 pages Kaz2
M 70303-26
9T-77
402(07)77
© Translated from Kazakh , “Zhazushy”, 1977,
GABIT MUSREPOV AND HIS NOVEL
“The Kazakhs do not have novels, and there are no novel readers”, - the son of the Kazakh nation Sultanmakhmut Togaigyrov had been saying bitterly half a century ago. Sabit Mukhanov, who cited these words of Toraigyrov in one of his articles several years ago, notes: “That was the raw truth”.
Then a days, only Abai’s poetry could be put at the same level with that of the other countries – prose literally did not exist in Kazakh literature then, primarily because there were no readers out there in fact. In a gigantic country, which could fit several Frances and Belgiums, literate people could be counted on fingers.
But a lot of things have changed since then – both in the Kazakh steppes and in the lives of the Kazakh nation. Mukhtar Auezov’s “Abai” appears in the French press. Lois Aragon, the author of the introductory note to the novel, wrote: “I consider it a big honor for me to be a popularizer of his novel in my country: The epic novel “Abai”, in my view, is one of the most eminent works of the XX century...” The novel is a massive success; it has been translated into Romanian, Polish, Bulgarian, Slovak, Czech, Hungarian, German, English and Chinese. G. Mustafin’s “Karaganda” and T. Akhtanov’s “Groznye Gody” (“Thundering years”) are being translated as well. Articles on Kazakh literature appear not only in Kazakh; critics in Moscow, Paris, Leipzig and Brussels write about the contemporary Kazakh prose. The bitter words of Sultanmakhmut Toraigyrov became just a cultural asset.
Gabit Musrepov’s “The Soldier from Kazakhstan” published in 1948 in Kazakhstan was available in Russian translation just a year after, and in 1958 its publishing was brought into play in France and Belgium.
In March 1951, “Literaturnaya Gazeta” published a short article on the readers' conference in Dosor oilfield on how readers met with the hero of the Soviet Union Konstantin Ismagulov, who became the prototype of the hero of G.Musrepov’s novel “The Soldier from Kazakhstan” Kayrush – Kostya Sartaleev. Konstantin Ismagulov told the readers about his life, about the war, and "The Soldier from Kazakhstan" novel, which is known and loved by the readers, was opened up to them from a completely new side.
However, the hero of G.Musrepov’s story did not obtain the traits of a real person by a coincidence or all of a sudden during that reader's conference. G. Musrepov’s work traces its roots back to the native land. This relationship can be mapped back in the first short stories and novels of Musrepov, appearing in the late 20s: “V puchine” (In the profundity), “Kos-Shalkar”, “Sosedi iz zelenogo doma” (The neighbors from the green house), “Tuporylaya” (The asinine); in “Skazanie o materi” (The legend of the mother) sequel novel; in his pieces: “Amangeldy”, “Kozy-Korpesh and Bayan-Sulu”, “Tragediya poeta” (The tragedy of the poet); and, finally, in his famous novel “Probuzhdennyi krai” (The awakened land) – the milestone work of the Kazakh literature.
Even at that time critics would point out that despite the historically documented groundwork of the novel, it is in essence a moral novel, yet an everyday-life novel, and considered this a writing distinctness feature of G.Musrepov . Indeed, no matter what would G. Musrepov, the subtle master of social typification and social motivations, write about, he saw his native land in front of him; the real life of the people was his very first concern. This passionate interest and the need to take part in a new life of Kazakhstan by his work define all the pathos of G.Musrepov’s work, his orientation, artistic passions, and even style.
Both local and international critics wrote a lot and differently about two stylistic verses of “The Soldier from Kazakhstan” novel: lyrically romantic in the first part - a kind of exposure of the narrative (the hero’s childhood, adolescence), and sternly realistic in the second part, which for some people seemed to be rather meager and less succeeding for the writer.
Artistic necessity and causality of such kind of stylistic differences were also denied. Meanwhile, the novel tells about the change of the whole life of the country, upon which the terrible war descended, about how maturity was gradually overtaking the soul of a youngster, who wasn’t just a witness, but an active participant in all of the war’s tragic and heroic events, - about the path, throughout which the young soldier from Kazakhstan traveled together with our entire country. Could such kind of convulsion not affect all aspects of our lives in the novel that seeks to realistically and accurately convey the process of maturation of the hero, who went through trials that befell the Soviet man during the Great Patriotic War? And, therefore, since it’s coming close to dealing with the artistically organic work, in this regard, could the whole style of narration not be changed in the second half of the book, dealing not only with the other life and human material, but also reflecting a mental attitude of the author?
However, the first part, which "only" exposes the main content of the novel, which tells the story of the children's feelings, young love and friendship, and grabs the attention by delicate lyricism, this part of Musrepov’s novel is not idyllic at all. The reader will see that the path of the hero from the very beginning was not embraved with flowers; that exactly there, in the beginning, at the origin, his character is determined, manifesting later in accordance with the logic of its development.
"I hardly remember the details of my childhood, - the hero says, - it went by like a thrown ball, hit the wall, bounced against it, bounced on the ground and froze. And here I am a ten-year-old boy. I'm standing in front of cows, sprawling on the banks of the river, like caterpillars on a tree. On the sand, there is my own morning shadow, long, wonderfully distinct, and, like myself, surprisingly staring at my first encounter with life. There is the same lop-eared fur cap on it, the same father’s chapan as I am wearing, and, in my hands, there is the shepherd's stick I got from my older brother, who left to the construction site in Guryev..."
Meanwhile, the encounter of the young hero with life, at which his shadow was “surprisingly staring”, is quite serious: the ten-year-old kolkhoz “activist”, who had been granted the access to krasny ugolok (Place of Honor) meeting, where he successfully spent his time sleeping behind the furnace, not having a clue of what actually was happening during those meetings, nevertheless, came into conflict with omnipotent Kara-Murt, who proclaimed himself the chair of kolkhoz, and who thought that from then forward “the whole village – both people and all the possessions – would be at his full disposal”. Could it be called a “conflict” though: the boy was astonished by the mystic power of the fearsome chair, who promised an ominous punishment – “forty nights in a shed” – for any wrong-doing; the panic-stricken boy runs from his own village in unknown direction just to get away from that person, from his scant and bristly mustache and the frozen stare of his colorless eyes. In a herd, which was entrusted to the boy, a young heifer was lost! There was no point in trying to find out whether the loss had been caused by a wolf, or the heifer itself had wandered in somewhere – the boy broke into a run, hesitating even to think what Kara-Murt would do to him. However, maybe fear was not the only push for the boy: “Maybe, I was running away from the dire threat of Kara-Murt, but, maybe, the stagnant for ages village life was running to the urban novelty on my feet, the uniform life, just like a sleeping steppe, where the blue mirage waves generated seas, which never could be reached. Who knows? Maybe”.
In Kayrakty village, his mother was left, who would be visiting her son repeatedly; no matter where he appeared, a seven-year-old “chubby” Akbota – “baby camel” would always be with him, the boy would carry his love to her throughout the whole life; his very own village and the steppe, with herds of cows and horses browsing on it, were left behind. .. No, of course, the fear of omnipotent Kara-Murt was not the only push to run far away to Ural river, and even further – to the old Caspian; it seemed like the “stagnant for ages village life, the uniform life, just like a sleeping steppe…” was running next to him.
One way or other, the little kolkhoz “activist” did not return to his own village: Kayrusha Sartaleev’s “universities” started at city bazaars in Guryev, then in friendship with an elder teenager Shegen and little Borash, then in an orphanage house; with people, who helped him discover in himself new qualities and features, which the “unimaginably dirty ragamuffin with a swollen physiognomy” had not even thought about; the boy, who once ran away, seeking redemption in a city he had never seen before.
But Kayrush, who had found himself at an orphanage, and who had bidden his farewell to his village, did not cross it out from his heart. He throws himself into the arms of his mother, breathing with delight the native smell of the steppe, despite the panic and fears that his mother, who found him at the orphanage, will take him back, and he will again get to the Kara-Murt. He feels the pain of irreparable loss of the mother and the village, when the orphanage is being transferred to Uralsk, the car rushes past his native places farther and farther away from the village: "If the truck had slowed down, I might have jumped off and ran home. But the car sped on the road. No one understood me, everybody happily sang, and I, leaning to the side of the truck body and hiding all the tears, quietly and silently cried myself to sleep, lulled by the monotonous flashing of the autumn hills".
This feeling of his inception has always been present in Kayrush, and makes him so rich internally, makes him a person who deeply feels and thinks about what is happening around. That is where his constant dissatisfaction comes from (“What kind of good and useful things have you done in your life?" - he asks himself, summarizing his youth), the desire to do something great for the native people, with an avid interest he hears the news of the changes that have taken place in his native village; that is why he always waits so eagerly for letters from the older friend from the army Shegen - they give him hope, inspire confidence in himself, romantic attitude toward his friend helps Kayrush shake off the shyness and uncertainty, these letters are an important pillar in his youthful doubts and help find strength to survive the personal drama, to hold his love to Akbota, who was bestowed in marriage…
Kayrush gets more and more mature right in front of our eyes; the author writes about him with love and affection, does not hide his weaknesses, and does not withhold the difficulties the boy had to face. That is why the reader is imbued with confidence to the author, the pattern of life, which he recreates in his novel, remains in memory, and the hero already stirs up sympathy as a familiar and emotionally close person.
“You will hold back nothing, and I will add nothing. – Deal! I will hold back nothing, and you better add nothing. – We agree on it”. These words were designed as the epigraph to the first part of “The Soldier from Kazakhstan” by G. Musrepov. They even could have become the epigraph to the whole book. But they express the inner pathos of the story about the childhood and youth of the hero particularly accurate: the author had held back nothing about his hero.
One of the heroes of G.Musrepov’s "Amangeldy" play recalls abusive decree of Nicholas II, "We were told that we, the Kazakhs, do not have our homeland, that having lived for centuries on our native and our own land – we are strangers and outlanders on it! We do not deserve to be called people by the tsar: Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, Turkmen ... We are not people for the tsar, but cattle, he has decided to dispose us just like cattle: to drive in a herd to the darkest of work. Not to the front, not to fight – he was scared to give us weapons. Sure! Since we are outlanders! ... "
This attitude to the Russian people got to an end in October, 1917. Kayrush Sartaleev met a tragic 1941 with weapon in his arms, being a border unit fighter, even having the time to accumulate combat experience: He had two detained offenders on his account. And if the hero of “Amangeldy” play said with anger and bitterness that the Kazakhs have no homeland and, therefore, have no right to defend it, Kayrusha’s rights were won for him by the revolution, and now, during the difficult years, he defends these rights himself.
And Kayrush Sartaleev from Kairakty Kazakh village that is not far from Guriev becomes a soldier from Kazakhstan – one of the millions of Soviet people, who survived in the bloody battle against fascism, who fulfilled their duty to defend the gains of the revolution.
The war in the book of G.Musrepov "comes" in a simple and prosily manner: Kayrush gets into the department of fighters, who maintain order at the ferry. The roar of engines, car horns, arguments and abuse – that was not something that the romantically inclined youngster was prepared and waiting for in the first days of mortal combat with the enemy: "We are fighting for the most basic and undeniable thing – for the ferry priority and avoiding traffic jams when crossing and passing the bridge. This everyday work assimilates us with policeman-traffic-controllers. Where is the heroism or the case for the feat here!?" But thousands of people and hundreds of cars go through the "unknown" crossing, the Germans bomb the crossing, the lieutenant gets severely wounded, Sergent Kayrush remains the only commander, and in the first report to the headquarters he signs himself as "the head of the ferry" and finds himself "being boyishly proud by this signature ". Meanwhile, there is a traffic jam one after another at the crossing; new challenges must be solved instantly, given the situation and the circumstances of each of the units. And the constant bombing of the superior in the air fascist aviation, which in the end burn and destroy the crossing.
That is how Kayrush Sartaleev’s baptism of fire took place. Ahead, there are still endless fights, bitterness of retreat, battle of Rostov, when the words “Moscow is in danger!" hail on the fighters; and there, on the bridge near Rostov, the soldier from Kazakhstan will defend Moscow, feeling like "a part of the huge country". Then follow new fights, a serious injury, hospital, the front again, and, finally, the battle for the Crimea, where Kayrush Sartaleev accomplish a feat with his mates.
By this time, under the belt of G.Musrepov’s hero, there is childhood, adolescence, from which he will never get away, and could not get away – this is his wealth and power: the dugout in his native village – crowded, cramped, noisy, just like a marketplace crowd, the city, in which he found himself long time ago, mother, Shegen, Akbota... He got an understanding of what Moscow was in the life of the small village Kairakty, a sense of continuity and relationships. He experiences the serious paths of war, death of friends, crimes of fascism, which Kayrush faces neither from stories, nor from books - it was his own experience. So when the military fate throws our hero on the Taman Peninsula, riddled with tank tracks, covered with mounds of mass graves, piles of broken machines; when he and his mates are prepared to jump through Krechensky Strait, we see a man who is complete, strong, and ready for the things he will face.
Therein lies one of the reasons for the success of G.Musrepov’s story – the author does not word paint, he does not illustrate a plain biography of his hero, but introduces the reader to the process of his spiritual evolution and maturity, the reader becomes a so called confidant of the hero, feels with his every step.
The airdrop is already behind, the fascist dot is overtaken in a short night battle on the shore front, the captain is killed and Kayrush with handful of fighters becomes a representative of his country in the captured by Germans Crimea. Troopers are not going to leave, no matter how uphill and fantastic the battle might seem: “Let’s prove the Germans that we are the owners of our land, they are the ones who should retreat!" And they will prove it: they will stream the red flag on a high point, negating one fierce attack after another.
"There is no place on Earth that is better than the one you were born and grew up on," - these words of Nasreddin Hodja are recalled by the character at the end of the novel. They express its idea very precisely - Kayrush felt the rectitude of those words at the beginning of the novel, when he made the first steps in life; he deeply understands them in the final, and he will remain faithful to them throughout the whole life.
The success of Gabit Musrepov’s novel "The Soldier from Kazakhstan" is precisely due to the fact that this idea is not declared by the author, it is a completely organic conclusion from the whole narration; it expresses its pathos, and it is confirmed by the fate of the characters.
However, it does not exhaust the author's intention. "There is no place on Earth that is better than the one you were born and grew up on," - recalls Kayrush Sartaleev, thinking about his bride, who finally found his on the military roads. - I want to make it even better for those, whom you will nurse..."
The war is over for the hero of G.Musrepov’s novel, but life goes on. And it must be even better, because it cost a lot to retain it.
Z. Krakhmalnikova
-You will hold back nothing,
and I will add nothing.
-Deal! I will hold back nothing,
and you better add nothing.
We agree on it.
I
I keep running and running. The steppe feather grass first gently whips my bare feet with fluffy ends, and then stabs me with needles.
It is hot… It is so hot that even your own shadow tries to hide under you from the sun. Everything around is so quiet and motionless, just like as it can be in a baking-hot noonday kingdom of grasshoppers and locusts.
I keep running, fearfully looking back. I keep running, because I decided to whip off to the city. And I look back, because I am afraid of being chased and punished. A big herd, which was entrusted to me and which was left by me on the river bank, started to disperse about the golden field of uncut loaves.
I am ten years old. I am already a conscious citizen and even an activist: I have been granted the access to propaganda room meeting three times already, most probably because people thought that I would contribute to solving a difficult issue – what the kolkhoz is and how it should be properly organized. I don’t remember what I actually understood there. The only thing I remember was that for some reason after each meeting I would always wake up behind the huge furnace, where my black and pink-nosed dog Altay would wake me up in the morning, as if blaming me friendly for sleeping in a public place.
Well, that was the very same activist, who was whipping off to Guryev, fearfully looking back. The ears could distinctly hear the authoritative words of Kara-Murt, who solemnly warned the "activist", trusting him the herd:
For the loss of a calf – forty days in the shed! Do you understand?
His mustache looked very menacing. Exactly for that mustache he was called Kara-Murt , and this spring, when he started to be called the "chairman", the mustache began to look even more menacing. To me he seemed the only master of our large steppes, on the edges of which the sky rested.
In fact, Kara-Murt was not the chairman of the kolkhoz, for the simple reason that the kolkhoz itself did not exist yet. And probably no one in our village would choose him as the chairman - Kara-Murt had always been just like that person from the Kazakh song:
Our sad land is filled with tears so high,
Because any steppe village has its own Adrakbai...
It was in those early years, when collectivization in the Kazakh steppes had just taken its beginning, and when each and every adrakbai, saving his flocks and herds, was trying to turn every initiative of the young Soviet government in his favor. And one night, when people climbed on the roofs of short muddy houses to catch their breath after all the hard work and spring sultriness, our "Adrakbai" arrived from somewhere on his fed horse, reined it in at the houses, splashing mud, and, waving his whip, shouted over the whole village:
- I went there!.. Thank God, I made arrangements! Kairakty village does not exist in the world anymore, there is only Kairakty kolkhoz, and I am your Chairman!
According to further explanations of Kara-Murt, it appeared that the whole village – both people and all the possessions – would be at his full disposal. And though the days went to the endless debate about what the kolkhoz is and how to organize it, the women of our village, including my mother, started calling Kara-Murt the "chairman", and the village - "kolkhoz". The children would usually repeat the words of mothers, and those who did not have fathers – all the more. So for me, Kara-Murt became the mysterious "chairman", who could do whatever he wanted, and in my eyes he became more opulent and taller, and all the others had come to naught before his terrible majesty.
Then, it seemed to me that his penetrating gaze had already noticed my shameful escape, and that he was chasing me on his dapple "Orlov Trotter." I distinctly visualized his face inflamed with anger. When that happened, his rare stubby mustache would usually spread, reminding a wild brown tarantula; his colorless eyes were digging into you by the icy stare, as if swallowing you alive. Unflattering words, relating to your “low-rank” birth, would fly out of the set of brown, mixed with gold, teeth. Memories about that did not mean anything good for me.
Even earlier, in moments of idle speculation, I often tried to imagine what that "forty days in the shed" threat was, and the thought would always take me in Kara-Murt’s brick shed, full of flour, lamb and all goods like that. In the moments of weakness, I almost wanted to get into that abundant shed. At times, it even seemed to me that it would be even more comfortable and relaxed in a shed of the "chairman" than at home, especially if I was put in the shed not alone, but with a girlfriend.
But I must admit without modesty that during those days I loved chubby seven-year-old Akbota . She fully reciprocated my feelings: she would pinch my cheeks, hit me in the chest with both fists, stick out her tongue and immediately hide in a yurt. She would angrily smile, smile with anger, and I seriously thought that she had something of a goatling. I loved her with all my heart, and I couldn’t wait to reach the age of twenty to ask her in marriage. I even chose the matchmakers for that case. For example, the head of the krasnyi ugolok, a man who was very experienced in these matters and supported all the lyrics of the village, or the store manager of the regional consumers’ association. This man could give most ardent wedding speeches: if the old man married a young wife – he would find in it the age-old human craving for young spring; if a young man married an aged woman – he would will turn it all the way around and begin to talk about the pursuit of youth to learn the wisdom of maturity. The wedding of two young people would awaken in his imagination the tales of Shakherezada and the chain of stories about his own youth, as if he had been young for many centuries and was in love at least seventy times. Everyone knew his stories, got used to them, and forgave them, just like people forgive each other’s little weaknesses.
In short, I had firmly scheduled the two men and held involuntary respect not only to them, but also to their cows, which I had to herd. The most important thing then was to quickly reach the desired age. Many times I dreamt that someday I would wake up as a twenty-year-old guy. But sometimes dizzying plot twists would take place in my fantasy: what if Akbota reaches the age of twenty before me, and marries someone from the "activists"! It is always easier for a girl. However, I'm three years older than her, and even as an elder beat her twice in my life. After that we would cry together. But she, as my future wife, always seemed more cunning than me.
During those days we did not know the laws that stated that the age of eighteen years was the legal age, and that the youth was included in the lists of young voters – meaning they turned into adults. The Kazakh unwritten law said, "You're an adult, when you turn twenty years old from the moment you raised your first cry on the earth ..." And so, to reach this milestone earlier than Akbota, I started my journey around the vast of life.
No, of course, I am kidding. The reason behind that was totally different. I hardly remember the details of my childhood. It went by like a thrown ball, hit the wall, bounced against it, bounced on the ground and froze. And here I am a ten-year-old boy. I'm standing in front of cows, sprawling on the banks of the river like caterpillars on a tree. On the sand, there is my own morning shadow, long, wonderfully distinct, and, like myself, surprisingly staring at my first encounter with life. There is the same lop-eared fur cap on it, the same father’s chapan as I am wearing, and, in my hands, there is the shepherd's stick I got from my older brother, who left to the construction site in Guryev. Having looked at my shadow, I seemed to myself quite respectable man in my father’s Chapan, and proudly walked to the river, leaning on a long stick. But Kara Murt came up to me and clearly expressed his thought: "forty days in the shed." It suddenly shattered all my pride and I started crying, while my shadow, as if mimicking me, began to rub its eyes.
Everything went well until that day. I was a decent substitute for my older brother. All my cows were where they should be in the evening. I had never lost count. But today, counting this and that way, I came up one young heifer short. The worst of all was the fact that the lost heifer belonged to Kara-Murt (as, basically, a good half of our “kolkhoz” herd). Whether a thief or a wolf caused the loss – in any case, a heifer was missing. I am a great expert in counting and could not miscount the cows. Maybe it happened when I flew away to faraway lands on an ardent courser of dreams. The damned heifer vanished away as if it had never existed; the danger of immediate imprisoning in the shed hung over, and I ran away. Maybe, I was running away from the dire threat of Kara-Murt, but, maybe, the stagnant for ages village life was running to the urban novelty on my feet, the uniform life, just like a sleeping steppe, where the blue mirage waves generated seas, which never could be reached. Who knows? Maybe”.
Anyway, I began to run along the Ural River, but standing on top of the hill I looked back. The abandoned by me herd was floating in the high bread crops, just like in the sea. I had to go back and drive them out, and only then, with a clear conscience, set feet on the path. That is what I did.
While I was cleaning my conscience, driving the cows out of bread crops, the sun had passed the zenith and obliquely looked at my small figure. I threw off the chapan that was stuck to my body, turned up the ends of my father’s cavalry breeches and hit the road. My heart was beating against my ribs, and I felt so much delight for my determination that had pushed me to such a bold daring as an escape from the village to the city. However, this also mingled with a sense of fear of the unknown future.
The sun was scorching me, and a big cloud of mosquitoes was flying like a swaying pile around my head.
There he is, there he is! He is there! The runaway is there! – the mosquitoes screamed, delivering the news about me to the “chairman”.
Ahead of me, the steady hum of the powerful breathing of the blue Caspian was already looming to me. Rushing into its arms, the Ural River straightened its way, but hitting the undulated hills, went down back to the valley.
In the evening, when the glowing sun lazily went down over the sea, burning its silvery ripples, all my skin seemed stiff from mosquito bites and cramped my movement. Above the sea, there appeared a frightening leaden twilight, looking just like a huge monster. Under its excessive weight, the sea was sinking lower and lower. There and here, the lonely stars peeped through the darkness, resembling the wolf's eyes, glowing in the dark. I actually had never seen wolves yet, but I could vividly imagine them. Once this insidious thought about wolves and their sharp eyes bumped into my head, I immediately began to fearfully envision them behind every bush.
A frightened owl darted off. The blue-pink glow of its wings for some reason reminded me of the devil. According to the authoritative testimony of the old village women, our steppe is overrun with devils, which spawned around mainly from the moment Ogap mullah passed away. Now they dance around his grave every night, exulting in their victory over him. I didn’t know where exactly that grave was: I only knew that it was somewhere there, near the city, and, therefore, every moment I risked to stumble upon it. Meanwhile, the night was deepening. Backing away from some kind of monster, maybe from a bush, I fall flop into the river from a high bank. A powerful stream started spinning me like driftwood. My fur cap was washed off my head and taken by the stream ahead of me. I could barely reach and grab it. The stream was taking me right to Guryev. Mosquitoes were behind, wolves and devils were not able to reach me either, but the water was swamping me. Somehow, I got closer to the bank, pushed myself up and kept walking, being all wet and plashing through water.
The deep melancholic sighs of old Caspian Sea were felt closer and closer. In the stillness of the night, the beat and booming of waves could be heard ever more clearly. The big black monster, which was rising over the sea before the evening, was no longer visible, and I thought with relief that it had been finally drowned.
When at last I went out to the bank at an infinitely long bridge, the city was peacefully sleeping. The trembling beeps of fishing boats from afar stoke upon me. I sat down on the warm ground near a wooden kiosk and immediately fell asleep.
II
Obviously, in the dream, I still kept running. My twin was running ahead of me, teasing me and shouting: "The runaway, the runaway!" I chased that insolent boy, finally overtook him, threw him down on the ground, fell on him myself, and suddenly woke up.
A noisy swarm of blue flies flew off my face.
Go away from here! Where the hell did such a ragamuffin come from?.. – the shopkeeper fiercely hissed at me, opening the kiosk, at which I settled to rest.
The city smelled like smoked fish. The sun, squinting shyly, was staring at the shiny surface of the calm morning sea. It had just risen over the haze quivering steppe, and its long golden lashes were emerging from behind the gray wooden houses.
Ural was breathing the light coolness over the city.
The kiosk stood at the edge of the fish smelling market, and the sharp smell of fish started a crafty and seducing conversation with my stomach. My feet, which experienced such a hard work yesterday, turned into sticks and seemed to crunch with each movement. I stood up and said the only word that I firmly knew in Russian:
Zidrasti …
Go away!.. - replied eloquently in Kazakh the shopkeeper.
Then, despite his affability, I switched to the native Kazakh.
Why would you say “Go away”? – I started. – First, give me some water and a slice of bread, and then show me where the charity school is.
Our eyes met. The shopkeeper was neither Kazakh, nor Russian, but of some unknown to me nationality. Judging by his expression, however, I realized that the piteous meaning of my words had reached him.
Water is there! – he pointed with his hairy hand at the river.
I got embarrassed. Indeed, being near the river, and asking for water is ridiculous! Apparently I smiled from shyness or irresistible desire to impetrate something from him. I do not know how attractive my swollen and dirty face from smiling was, but the shopkeeper wrinkled his nose, and spat loudly and contemptuously.
How in the world could the great god create such a physiognomy! – he said in Kazakh, twisting the words.
He shook his head sadly and grievingly smacked his lips.
His face, in fact, could hardly be called attractive either. A long and bluish nose covered with spots, a wide mouth with lips turned up, a blue-black double chin - all of those were asking for all sorts of unflattering comparisons that a child could easily come up with. I was ready to adequately respond to him, but he, making his opinion about my face, turned to the counter and pulled out a large glass jar of red caviar. He had not yet started trading, and was therefore felt a little bit cranky.
Come on, get out! – he repeated in a fit of anger.
Talk to a person with warmth, and you will please Allah more than the gelidly preaching mullah, – I replied with a Kazakh proverb.
He clearly enjoyed the proverb.
It seems like you don’t know the customs, newcomer, - he said quite gently for his sour looks. – Who will help you out without starting trading? Do you have pockets? – he asked suddenly.
Yes, I have one.
Well, then put your hand inside ... not your left hand, the right one!
I obediently put my hand in the pocket of my breeches, not having a clue of what he wanted.
Money, give me money, come on, hurry up! – he commanded.
I don’t have any, - I said in sad confusion, putting my empty hand out to him.
What a simpleton! Just pretend you are paying!.. Hand me hundred rubles!
He squeezed my fingers into a fist, unclenched them, and taking the imaginary "hundred rubles," deftly recounted the "change" to me by the habitual movement of his hairy fingers.
You want make it this way! – he concluded friendly, handing me a piece of bread, smoked dried fish and a little bit of caviar on the edge of a wide knife.
The motley market crowd already started to walk around the narrow bumpy streets. The traders, reconquering every inch from each other, with a cackle occupied their places at the long market stalls, setting out the goods. My shopkeeper went out of his kiosk, and proudly, in a cockish manner, looked around.
I took a walk around the market, and, being taught by the shopkeeper, repeatedly with hope put my hand into the pocket, those hundred rubles still were not there. Walking out from the market to the river, I heard a gentle call:
Hey, son! My poor orphan! Hey!
Looking back, I saw an old woman, standing in the last row with a wooden bucket. When I came closer, she took a bag off the bucket and poured some ayran into a wooden cup.
Here, drink it, my dear, - she said, holding the cup with a bony hand out to me.
She sat with her right foot tucked under herself and with the left knee put upright, just like my mother sits; she was as compassionate as she is.
Are you vagabonding together with Borash? – the old woman asked.
Yes, together, gramma, - I said, sobbing, and started crying, not being able to suppress my self-pity.
My poor troubled little things! –the old woman exclaimed with warm compassion. – A step-mother will always be a step-mother. The woman is always warm to her man in the house, but will always be a stranger for the children. Would little Borash leave the house, if he had his birthmother!?
The old women felt sad about it together with me and wiped her red eyes with her hand.
How is his leg, by the way? Is it getting any better? – she asked.
It has already got better, - I glibly replied, having no idea of who Borash is and how his legs are doing. I just wanted to tell the old woman something pleasant, and I told her the whole version of my story about the boy’s recovery.
Visit me together one day. Tell the boy I am not angry at him anymore, - the old woman concluded, patting me on my head.
Alright, gramma, - I weepingly forced myself to speak, and, gently putting aside her patting hand, which filled my heart with warmth, run away from that kind creature.
The mirror, attached to the door of the long blue kiosk, struck me by a terrible look of a little and incredibly dirty ragamuffin with a swollen face. Until that day, I had often admired my reflection in the water. And now, an unknown guy calmly stood in front of me, some of whose facial features barely resembled my face. How could I change so much just in one night?
Something suddenly clicked behind, just like a long shepherd's whip, and cut black and red hair fell on my head. Turning around, I saw a fat hairdresser with his hair flattened down on a side part and saggy belly, who was laughing at the fact that he dumped out a sheet, with which customers are usually covered. In the Uighur manner I poked him in a tight stomach with my head, and, bouncing off him, run away.
I rushed to the river. The whole body was burning and was unbearably itchy because of mosquito bites, demanding the severe scratching by all of the ten nails. Gently putting my clothes under a steep bank and distrustfully looking around, I took the water.
Was that you who were lying under the kiosk like a decedent? – I heard somebody’s voice.
I looked back. Two guys were waddling down to the river. One was a tall and slim teenager, naked to the waist, and the other was as young as me and lame.
I am not a decedent yet, - I replied and expectantly looked at them, preparing, as it was getting there, to fight. Loneliness makes people more careful and determined. I wasn’t really scared of them. Grabbing out of the water some solid object, which appeared to be a camel bone, I was expecting the attack.
Wow! Atta boy! He is definitely our guy! – peacefully said the elder guy, and deftly dancing, began to take off his some kind of short pants, and after that, with touching tenderness, began to undress his younger companion. Then, with a skillful kick he threw his clothes off a steep, amazing me with his magnificent carelessness, with which he treated his possession.
III
Picking up the lame guy, the elder went down to the river. I thought they were brothers, and I immediately remembered my elder brother, he was somewhere here in Guryev as well. How to find him here?..
The teenager, carefully putting the younger boy into the water, asked me.
Were you attached by wolves?
Mosquitoes are more evil than wolves! – I replied.
My entire body was in scratches. Looking with envy at the smooth dark brown skin of my conversation partner, I told him my story.
Is it itchy? – the little boy asked, compassionately touching my shoulder with his thin pale fingers.
Really bad! – I confirmed.
Borash, let’s harrow him all around!.. – And the elder started to scratch me all over with all his ten nails.
What is your name? – he asked.
Kairgalii, – I replied glibly. – What about you?
I am Shegen, and this is Borash, Borya. It is hard to change my name to make it sound affectionate. Just call me Shegen-aga: just because I am older than both of you.
Shegen started to play around with my name, trying to find an affectionate form. Kairgalii, Kairush, Kair…
No! – he said confidently. – Nothing will come out of it. The mullah has spoiled your name, and such a guy like you needs a good name.
He put his hands against his ears, just like mullahs do when naming children, and solemnly said:
From now on, your name is Kostya. Just like Kostya you will take the life path, like Kostya you will be accountable in front of Allah and his prophet!
But what will my Mom say? Because Kostya is a Russian name…
And where is your Mom?
In the village, in Kairakty.
So are you going back home, to your Mommy? – Shegen asked, suddenly stopping his operations on my back.
No-o! – I objected a little bit unconfidently.
Shegen got back to his works with new efforts.
Since that moment, I have become Kostya.
Borash was very pale and tender like a girl. His kind, blue-black eyes, just like those of a newborn calf, surprisingly looked at everything new. It was easy to please him, and it took not too much effort to get him offended. Looking at him, it could be seen how bad the stepmother treated him. He was not capable of doing any kind of hard work. The expression on his face reflected a shade of angry grief, which did not disappear even with a smile.
I told him what the old woman, the ayran trader, said. Borash smiled, but the spark of joy, beaming in his deep eyes for a moment, immediately faded away.
What a spoiled one you are! Enough!.. Enough for you, go! - exclaimed Shegen, slapping me on the back.
Shegen picked Borya up and began to climb up the river bank. I also grabbed him from behind. He just pulled both of us, carefully put Borash on the sand, and with a laugh threw me so hard that I flew a few feet away.
Ural was scowling in the morning, but now it gently exposed its chest to the sun. Near the bridge, the construction camp’s countless kids and their four-legged friends, dogs, were splashing in the water. The children’s hubbub over the river mingled with the cries of the seagulls.
Shegen was thin, and his bronze body was elastic and flexible. Laughing loudly, he opened up a row of white teeth. His high forehead did not reflect any sign of unhappiness. Apparently, a sense of independence and a sense of freedom were the main joy of his life. Looking at him with envy, I definitely decided to be exactly as him.
Shegen started carefully examining my wounded legs. While doing that, he was talking just like a philosopher:
First and foremost, we need a head – he pronounced solemnly. – Without it life is as dark as the grave of Ogap mullah, or page of the Koran. Second, we need feet. We need feet to chase someone or to run away from someone, depending on what is more helpful. Third, all your scratched skin needs to be peeled off and covered with a new one.
Then Shegen announced that he was leaving to find the right medicine for me. Borash looked with admiration at leaving Shegen.
He will cure you just in two days! – he exclaimed with unstinting conviction.
What happened to your leg? – I asked him, touching his injured knee.
My stepmother pushed me off the roof, and I fell on a plow. Shegen would certainly cure me, but it is really cold in our “yard”, so it started aching again.
And why did Shegen ran away from home? – I asked.
Not from home, from the mullah. For three weeks he was not able to properly pronounce the Arab Alef-ki-ku-sin-an... Well, he had been whipped for three weeks until he ran away... He has been living here for a year, and I have been with him almost a month...
Together with Shegen they put iodine on me and, on top of that, spread some colored ointments; I liked that kind of care, I was blissfully happy, being surrounded by their friendly attention.
We went to the market.
I am the circus, and Borya is a real opera. You should have heard how he sings “Zauresh” or “Ainamkoz”!
I can sing “Zauresh” as well, – I said.
No way! No one can sing as awesome as our Borash, - interrupted my boasting Shegen.
Shegen himself was over fifteen years old. He was schooled in adversity and flexible. He could go through the whole market doing the cartwheel, and he could easily turn into a blind or deaf person. His smile charmed everyone, whose heart had not staled. He knew a lot of stories that caused tears and laughter.
Don’t hold your hand out! – he warned me, when we arrived at the market.
The market people themselves generously paid them for art– for Borya’s singing and Shegen’s deft jokes. Pasties, bread rolls and fish would always fall into their lots.
You are my opera! – exclaimed Shegen, hugging Borya with one hand and me with the other. I didn’t understand what “opera” was.
After the market, they took me to their "palace". It was a large cave in the steep bank of the Ural River, formed from the excavation of clay for construction. The floor of the "palace" was covered with fresh reed. It was quite spacious, and the even light were penetrating the cave from the entrance. In a special nest dug in the wall, fifteen books were standing in a row – I counted them at the first glance. Counting is a shepherd's habit, without which he can experience really big losses.
Can you read? – asked Shegen, catching my eye.
No. I can count.
That is bad.
Offence started burning in me. I wanted to ask, whether he thinks that the illiterate is not a friend to the literate, but then I restrained myself.
The first urban days went by in continuous clashes with someone else’s habits and concepts. It was impossible to step, and not to stumble across anything “urban”. My jealous desire to keep up with my friends would repeatedly put me in a ridiculous situation. I was angry at myself and envied my comrades. Shegen immediately noticed that and firmly said:
You have three days to learn to be happy and angry together with us, not separately by yourself!
I promised him to learn. Shegen was a sage, who experienced lots of life hardships.
Borya put a black smoky kettle on fire and began to sing. His fixed on the river sad eyes reflected sadness. He sang about his mother. He did not remember her, but the orphan’s heart suggests that he had a mother once. That song was not healing the little orphan heart, but it was only deeper scratching it to lodge in it his mother’s name forever. We listened with acute fascination with Shegen,.
I remembered my mother, and my lips were already sprawling to produce the first sound of melancholy cry, but Shegen caught the treacherous grimace and shook his finger at me. I restrained myself. Borya continued his song. The kettle inclined and started pouring hot water on fire.
That is how my new troubled days began. I was glad that I immediately found good friends. But I have not yet grasped what the true meaning of that encounter was. I did not realize that I had taken the path of trials, on which tiny joy was able to redeem a thousand troubles and afflictions in a child's heart.
IV
My free life ended on the third day, when I had not had enough time to fully experience its charms. The Kazakh steppe passion to songs played the very devil with us: people in the steppe like singing, and the theater that Shegen called Saratov opera arrived in Guryev. The opera performed at the outdoor stage, fenced with sharp forked teeth. We listened to music and singing for two evenings from faraway, from the school at a distance of not less than hundred meters. Thin and chilly Borash sat in the middle between me and Shegen. As soon as the act drop opened, he completely forgot about us, turning into a small ball, and was all ears to the singing and music.
I was amazed by a totally different thing on the scene: the richness of colors and pallet. For the first time in my life I saw how the real white color looked like – transparent and clear. Until now, it seemed to me that I knew the sky well, it was either blue or light-blue, but I also had never seen in the sky that kind of blue, which I saw on the stage, which sparked by all the possible shades, while maintaining lightness and tenderness. Gold and silver, velvet and silk, losing their most unpleasant characteristics – price, turned into a combination of colors...
On the third day, none of us was able to stay away from the opera. As soon as the act drop opened, we popped up on the sharp teeth of the fence. The cold wind was blowing from the sea, the sky became heavy, and the stars went down. The silver peak of the new moon was silently gliding over the river. It drowned in the clouds first, and then reappeared, flashing. A lightsome, just like her dress, blue-eyed beauty sang, holding us spellbound together with those who sat at the fence, at the bottom below us. When she finished singing, the audience just exploded: they started clapping, not sparing their hands, and shouting, all steamed up. Suddenly, through all the noise, we heard a stealthy whistle: three policemen went around us and were ready to grab our legs.
Jump! – commanded to us Shegen and deftly hopped aside over the attackers.
Borash jumped as well, but he fell right in front of a policeman and piteously groaned:
Ow, my leg! Ouch!..
I appeared to be the clumsiest: turning back to jump off, my pants were caught by a sharp tooth of the fence, and I hung above the ground, ridiculously dangling my legs. It was not pain, not fear, but it was the shame for the fact that I was hanging in the air in such a funny and silly way that made me scream; I kicked the fence with my heels, as if in great pain. Behind the fence, where the action of the opera still went on, we heard angry remarks of the audience. Borash, came up to me through the pain, and started pulling my leg.
Don’t scream, they are signing! – he demanded strictly, just like the elder.
The policeman got my silly trick.
Lier, you are not in pain, - he said, and calmly scanned me, making sure that I was securely caught.
That is how me and Borash were caught. But somewhere in the darkness, the shadow of our old friend, nimble and deft Shegen, was looming. Two policemen chased him. He ran around the square, showing that he would not leave us in the lurch. The unexpected turns of the fast and nimble teenager exhausted his overweight chaser. Being calm at first, they become irritable; their whistles were heard out of the darkness, which gave us firm understanding that Shegen had not been caught yet.
A long whistle from the darkness called our guard, and he quickly rushed to help his mates. At the same moment, Shegen suddenly appeared out of the darkness, just like an eagle, grabbed Borya and immediately disappeared, throwing on the run:
Don’t be afraid, Kostya, I will help you out!
The policemen, blaming each other for the mutual failure, slowly approached me and politely took me off the fence.
I was brought to an orphanage in a truck and left to a plus-sized and plump woman.
Name? – she asked.
Kostya.
All of you are Kostyas, – she said tiredly and took a quill to write my name down.
Just leave him to me, you can go! – she let the policeman go.
Judging by the stern expression of the policeman, warning the woman about something else in Russian, I realized that their discussion was about me. The policeman then turned to me, with a grin poked the tip of my nose with his finger, and left.
I spent the night in a separate room. The painted green bed and clean white sheets greatly puzzled me. I saw them for the first time. Would you kindly explain to me how to handle such kind of unusual whiteness? The women, who were unceremoniously washing me before, laughing at my shyness, were assuring me that I was going to be clean, nice and smart from that moment. Their soft skillful hands neatly smoothed my ruffled feathers, and now this "clean, smart boy," was sitting on the edge of the bed in a tense thinking about what to do with the white sheets.
The room, which I spent the night in, became permeated with the typical orphanage smell of every kind of disinfection. An electric bulb was unusually shining on the ceiling. Until now, I saw the city lights only from a distance. So that's what shines so brightly at night, winking to our village! With my eyes open, I wondered whether that light was going to last until the morning. But the more it was going into the night, the brighter the light was getting. I got up and looked at it, investigating it from all sides. It turned out to be very simple. Pull twisted ribbons from the door to the middle of the yurt and tie a glass vial to them – that’s how you get the entire city light. I thought to myself that, when I return to the village, I would definitely make that inexhaustible and inextinguishable light. My mother would twist the ribbons, and the glass vials were scattered everywhere in abundance in the city.
The only thing that was noticeable on the bare white-washed walls of the room was the shiny metal block with a button. I touched it – nothing interesting happened. But the idea of having that thing in possession seemed quite good to me. I would pull it out, show it to the guys – Look! – and then hide it. I picked up that interesting object with a certain acquisitive purpose. Suddenly - bang! The thingy snapped, and the light faded instantly. I did not understand how it had happened – whether I’d heard the clicking first, and then the light disappeared, or vice versa – but I screamed in fright.
Why did you turn it off? – a screaming voice from the hall was heard.
Then somebody entered the room and turned the light on without saying anything. It was the guard.
Sir, where did the light go? – I asked.
But he said nothing, just looked at me gloomily and walked out.
Outside, the sea was evenly sighing, echoing heavily. It seemed like the thundering waves were striking right in the walls of the house and going back with a roar. The night, which was usually calm and silent in the steppe, was vociferous and many-eyed here, near the sea. The numerous fishing boats horned, making horrifying sounds. The lights of the distant searchlights sometimes stayed motionless on my window, illuminating the silvery wave crests, rolling by huge rolls on the shore.
The first grievance about the fact that I had been so easily caught and locked up in this room has already gone away, and my thoughts went back to the beginning of this ending night. Opera... The airy, just like a cloud, singer... I asked myself – whether the woman had a husband or a son?.. Of course not! No way! It seemed like I was jealous of her affection for all the males, and my imagination carefully protected her equally from a husband and children: because it couldn’t be real that such an aerial miracle with charming voice would milk cows and wash clothes or have arguments with shepherds! But then my thoughts again and again returned to the village...
In the morning, when I was learning to walk on my hands just like Shegen, leaning against the wall and putting my legs up, I suddenly heard somebody’s exclamation:
Wow, good job!
Someone grabbed my legs, turned me around and threw on the bed. It was Shegen.
Here we are! – he said.
You came to rescue me? – I asked, delighted by his sudden appearance.
No, we just decided to come to the orphanage ourselves. You got caught, Borash hurt his knee…
But where is he?
He is at the doctor’s next door. He needs care, because winter is coming soon…
But what about you?
I will be with you as well.
Being all brightened up, I bit his knee.
At noon, we had lunch in the open air in the yard. Maria Victorovna, a plus-sized woman who admitted me yesterday, was moving between us is surprisingly easy. Her plumpness seemed to be even comfortable. The kids in the orphanage called her a mistress, but it seemed like she was the mother of all these eighty Russian, Tatar and Kazakh children. Her nurslings were looking at us as at the guests – straightforwardly critically at me and Borash, and respectfully, but with sly shyness – at Shegen.
While having dinner, I heard a noise, and my heart started alarmingly beating even before I finally recognized my mother's voice. I dropped the spoon, shower spraying the soup over my neighbors. With a plaintive wail, my mother burst into the yard like a whirlwind, wearing a white fluttering zhaulyk on her head and a colorful dress. She immediately rushed to the tables, avidly looking for me in the bunch of identically dressed boys with the same haircuts.
Mom! – I squeaked querulously, seeing her confusedly looking around.
How she reached her hands out to me…! How quickly she leaned toward me, shaking the table and spilling plates, and picked me up…! Overcoming embarrassment in front of the guys, I clung to her breasts, and I was immediately engulfed by the familiar smell of the steppe...
The guys, who were noisy and playfully sitting at the table, suddenly got silent and froze.
How happy would many of them be, if they just could cuddle up to their mothers! Not everybody of them ran away from home like me: most of them did not even remember it – some got orphaned because of the civil war, others – because of hunger, the eternal companion of the old village. They had never experienced maternal affection since an early age, and when they saw a mother hugging her son, all the bitterness of the childhood loss raised from the bottom of their hearts and made them avidly watch the unfamiliar expression of maternal tenderness.
But for my mother at that moment they were not the same orphans, but enemies, who had seduced her dear son to escape from his native village to the city. She hurled reproached on those “enemies”, reproaching all and each of them.
Borash friendly winked at me in silence. Shegen turned his back.
Having ticked off her indignation, my mother began to subside. Only then Mariya Victorovna dared to start the conversation with her. She started speaking kindly, invited her to the table and placed a bowl of tea in front of her. But my mother put the tea aside by a decisive gesture and seethed with anger again.
Don’t worry, Mammy. If you firmly decided to take you son home, I won’t hold him any longer. Look how many sons I have here, - affectionately urged the mistress, quietly pushing back to my mother the tea and sweets. – Please, take a seat, and we will have a sweet conversation...
But mother kept putting the bowl of tea aside, passionately screaming that will not leave her own child even for an hour in that house.
Then both of them fell silent at once, understanding that there was actually no dispute between them and that they were talking about the same thing. The tea went back to my mother and completed her total defeat.
I am not going back to the village! Kara-Murt will lock me up in his shed! – I suddenly exclaimed.
Everybody around, except Mariya Victorovna, started laughing.
Then ask your mother to leave you here to study… – she said.
The unexpectedness of this proposal made my mother stay silent for a moment, blinking in bewilderment; she could not find an answer immediately, but her hands, which squeezed me so tightly to her warm breast, suddenly weakened. If she had not released me from her embrace, I would have come back with her to the village, because I heard the beating of a mother's heart, trembling for the fate of her son. Her loud wails touched me less than the vibrant beat in her breast.
The mistress took my mother by the arm and led her to her room. The next day, my mother returned to the village in the orphanage droshky .
Oh, son, you're scared for no reason. I would beg Kara Murtha not to do that. But study well here, – she said, giving me a farewell kiss.
She was reasonable and seemed quite calm for my destiny. Honestly, it even hurt me in my deepest heart.
V
The sky, losing its clarity and blueness day-by-day, sank to the ground lower and lower. The rainy gray clouds denser hung over the sea, being somewhat similar to the orphanage clothes that hung around the yard after the big wash. The Ural rolled waves even heavier. Reluctantly saying goodbye to the summer, people discontentedly greeted the imminent autumn, and their faces got overtaken by the autumn darkness. Autumn started entering the life more persistently and convincingly. The places that were full of green fields not so long ago, now were full of whispering yellow stalks. On the bare browned hills, just like sleeping camel humps, the lonely eagles blackened, frowning darkly.
The glass of the small window in the large orphanage hall was broken. The sound of the dull autumn song came from there. In the village, this song tells about wolves, stalking sheep. In the orphanage, it sings about the furnace yearning without firewood. Gathering in knots on the beds, huddling up to each other, we would have a funny silly debate about who are smarter – bald or bearded people. We would chat together, and everyone, without listening to others, would laugh at his own fiction. From the long-bearded and totally bald, the conversation, as it always happens to the guys, quietly switches to those whom we know – the actions of out nearest and dearest are always somehow more convincingly and thoroughly discussed. Now a new question arises: who is smarter and more important – the orphanage head or the chief accountant.
The head was a person for whom it was equally difficult to feel both sympathy and hatred. Usually, he quietly entered the room, wondering who budged a table or a bed. Of course, nobody had ever been able to name the causer. Due to the head’s deadpan monotony, everything took calm monotonous order again. Not blaming us for disorderly behavior, not praising for restoring it, he always left as quietly as he appeared. Day by day, he was always monotonous in everything. His last name was Koibagarov, first name – Kudaiberdy. These names themselves angle for the translation, especially among children. The Russian translation literally meant: "God granted sheep tenders." It seems like it was the only frolic that was allowed among the guys against him.
We saw the accountant very rarely, he appeared only two or three times a week, spoke hastily, being always in a hurry, and disappeared again. We all had seen his great skill in smoking tobacco: he inhaled so deeply, as if completely swallowing the smoke, which disappeared as fast as the smoky fluffy tail of a gopher, diving in a hole. Then, after a pause, the accountant began to speak, firing a puff at the nose of the companion. He got it especially craftily when he argued in the yard with the head about the need for money for building materials. To learn this great art, we once got some cigarettes, and a few guys practiced it all night. Shegen caught us smoking, and we caught hell from him. So we were all angry at the accountant and eagerly waited for the moment to play some fun trick with him. But judging by the way our head had been listening in silence to his sometimes quite harsh statements, we were inclined to think that the accountant must be smarter than his boss.
This autumn day Maria Victorovna was kind of confused. She excitedly told one of the mistresses that the head was at the harvest works, accountant – God knows where, and people in the Local Education Authority led her by the nose. I did not understand then the figurative meaning of the phrase. So, curiously looking at her reddened in the cold nose, I asked:
Right by the nose?
I felt sorry for this kind woman. We friendly surrounded her.
Maybe we can chop you some wood?
Maybe we can bring some hay? – sympathetically offered the guys.
No, children, it's all a trifle...
What is not a trifle then?
Maria Victorovna disappointedly told us the sad result of her talks with the heads that we, the older guys, are "being moved" to the city of Uralsk. None of us understood why that was sad. We even got all excited: maybe there will be a head with a different last name.
The eldest ones returned from the work at the barnyard, headed by Shegen. Maria Viktorovna started explaining from the very beginning with a great detail, making it sound even sadder.
We worked with you tirelessly. In fact, we worked really well and here what we get! We are being moved! – she exclaimed, looking for sympathy.
Shegen listened carefully, as if expressing grief, and suddenly and joyfully concluded:
Of course, it is bad when people don’t work well, but I think it's even worse when people are sure that they work well. Sometimes it’s even like this: they know that everything is not worth a row of pins and shout at the top of lungs that everything is fine...
We understood that Shegen said the sad truth, but we were surprised by his courage and cheerfulness.
So, we have to say goodbye to our native places? – asked Shegen.
I guess so. Our transport will be here tomorrow morning, – said Maria Viktorovna.
Shegen called me to say goodbye to the city. Boris began to get ready to leave, and we walked to the places we knew. A thin rain mixed with snow started pouring. Out "Palace" was flooded. A puddle of muddy green water started flowing in there from the rough Ural. Shegen splashed through the puddle to the far corner of the cave, burrowed into the reeds and pulled out a beautiful black box, which had a large golden-brown beetle in it.
This is a camel beetle, - Shegen convincingly told me - I actually invented the name, but I think that it is suitable for it. See, it looks just like a camel. Maybe later, scientists will give it a different name, but let it be a “camel” for now.
Shegen gave me the beetle.
I kept it for three years, – he said, – and you need to take care of it. I got it preserved in alcohol at a pharmacy.
That was how Shegen parted with the last attachment of his unsteady childhood, stepping on a new firm ground of the deliberate adolescence.
We calmly walked past the market – we were not tempted to go back there anymore. Not far from the market, a brightly dressed woman with a child in her arms, followed by her husband, a policeman, in a long black overcoat, went out of a rickety gate.
It’s him! – silently exclaimed Shegen, pushing me in the side.
Who is “he”?
The one who had been trying to catch me the whole year.
Shegen’s face changed instantly, sly sparks flashed in his brown eyes, and he turned into the old, almost forgotten by me ruffian. I was afraid of the fact that my friend could pull a joke on him. But his eyes quickly brightened, and he said to me in a serious tone:
Let's come up to him... I have to thank him.
Not quite sure of his intentions, I silently followed him.
Hello… – Shegen said, stepping up to the policeman.
The policeman got surprised:
Who are you?
Shegen smiled softly and gently, as he could. Then, with the same gentleness grabbing the policeman’s elbow, he said:
Do you remember how you were chasing me? I had been looking then for an orphanage, and you started hunting after me, as I was a prey. If so, in your despite I decided, “No way, they will never catch me!...” An orphanage then kept reminding me of the mullah ... until I grew up and became wiser ... - concluded Shegen, throwing up his hands. – Now, I have been in an orphanage for a long time, I was not forced to go there – it was my own decision...
Shegen extended his hand to the man in a black overcoat in a peer-to-peer manner. The policeman readily shook his hand.
So you study, right? – he asked Shegen with excitement and warmth.
Shegen is a high achiever in everything! – I eagerly exclaimed to please this kind man.
He hugged both of us by the shoulders and attracted to himself.
Well, keep studying then, guys - he said with almost paternal warmth. - After all, before the Kazakhs could not learn anything properly. Now catch up!
We left then.
In the morning, big closed trucks arrived – we headed to Uralsk.
Who of the guys do not like to change places, to get into a new house in a new city! Together with the others and not less than them, I got all noisy, trying to increase as much as I could the pre-departure mess that took place in the orphanage in the morning. We all screamed, pretending that without it the loading of our stuff would go wrong and that vehicles would not be able to leave.
When we finally stumbled into the trucks and sat down, noisy pushing each other, it started to rain. It was pelting down on the tarpaulin. Escaping from the cold, we have pulled down the back curtain and started singing. From the truck pounding, our voices got ridiculously shaky, and we were enjoying ourselves by that, when I suddenly remembered that the road to Uralsk passes by my native village, by my own home, where my mother was left, who could not, as she had promised, come visit me anymore – and I ran to the back part of the truck. The guys kept stopping me and shouting that I stepped on someone's foot, they got down on me, pushed me, but not explaining anything to anyone, I was rushing to at least take the last look at the house that I suddenly became less eager to part with.
When at last I was able to look out of the truck, I saw nothing but an empty and bare autumn steppe. Seeing the familiar lonely tree, I realized that our village had already been left far behind. Only then I felt the pain of everlasting irreparable loss of my mother and home. If the truck had slowed down, I might have jumped off and ran home. But the car sped on the road. No one understood me, everybody happily sang, and I, leaning to the side of the truck body and hiding all the tears, quietly and silently cried myself to sleep, lulled by the monotonous flashing of the autumn hills.
VI
Only on the day of Shegen’s departure to the military, I remembered that I turned fifteen years old, and I still lived under the wing of the orphanage and in the bosom of “uncle head.” I graduated from the sixth grade and was considered an excellent athlete. It was about three months before the beginning of the school year. Would I really swing on the bar and kick the ball about the yard the whole summer again? Enough of childishness for me!
I immediately felt older, and life, which was in the full swing outside the walls of the orphanage, with a force started pulling me up to itself. The most ordinary and simple, but not experienced by me, things suddenly acquired some special charm.
The windows of our orphanage faced the urban gardens. I look at the colorful dresses of girls walking by, and listened with delight to their ringing laughter. They lured me. Run up to them! But something stopped me. I turned away from the window, and then was caught by a mirror.
To tell the truth, I spent a lot of time primping and preening. Dark brown skin, shiny, like a sea lion’s skin. Firm strong muscles... So handsome! ... However, this wide face could fit larger eyes, it would be great, of course, not to have so high cheek-bones, and my nose could be more boastful and less flattened… But that’s no big deal. In compensation, my dark hair is very beautifully laid in a wave! ... Stop. I caught myself at forbidden dreams. I turn away from the mirror, and next to me is a window with a chirping, loudly laughing, colorful, and calling garden. You can’t hide from the spring and adolescence.
I stare in the mirror again. I'm so serious! As if I was Shegen himself. Just look at that thoughtful facial expression! Is that you, Shegen? Hello, my friend! I start a serious conversation with my companion in the mirror. First, I do it very well, but then I start to dissemble: my questions become more daringly offensive, and his answers start to fade and become less convincing. I'm ready to launch a sledge final blow.
Frosty years live for long enough in the east. Why put off the time when youth will take its deserved place? - I ask the question and proudly look at "Shegen", being pleased with myself and with the way he was puzzled. It's no joke - "frosty years live for long enough in the east!" Just look at the way I handle space and centuries!
But my friend in the mirror was not ordinary either:
Prematurely giving the deserved place to youth, you will accelerate your frosty years.
Obviously, at that age I was quite impressionable, and the response of imaginary Shegen set my mind at rest for the whole evening.
The excess of teenage energy was felt at every step. I needed to engage myself in something useful. I went to the Regional Board of Education.
In a cool and freshly cleaned up office the head met me – a man with a flabby and chubby face, and with a propensity for excessively frequent yawns. Clean-shaven face and a white tussore-silk suit stressed the gray in his black hair.
Hello, – I said, entering the room.
The head did not react even with a simple movement of the lips. It wasn’t probably pedagogically correct. He was sitting silently, and I stood silently in front of him. The head yawned one more time.
“How about going swimming?” – I thought to myself.
Aga , – I finally decided to turn to him in Kazakh. – I'm from the orphanage number one.
Yeah... – he said, without changing the position or looking at me.
I want to work somewhere during the holidays.
Hmm... – The ends of his lips lowered.
Silence took over the room again.
Our orphanage, – I said, – has been awarded for exemplary educational work for the last two years. Many of the city residents even send their children to study there.
Well, and what about you, you are one of those… of ex-…
Of street children? – I suggested. – I had been a street child for only three days...
What about your grades?
I am a straight A student.
What kind of job do you want?
Whatever you have for me would be great. But it shouldn’t be distracting me from school.
Hmm, Hmm... Alright... How old are you?
Seventeen, – I lied for more solidity.
The head pulled a ruled sheet from a drawer and began to list items to himself: courses for secretaries for rural areas, typesetters and librarians, constructors, hairdressers... policemen... assemblers... plumbers… The sharpened red pencil, going over all the cells with its tip, paused.
You'll learn three hours a day and receive a salary of thirteen rubles a month. Sounds good?
Wow! – slipped out of my mouth. – Of course! – I replied solidly, restraining my enthusiasm, not even inquiring about his chosen profession for me. To tell the truth, I relied in that choice more on the Board of Education, while thirteen rubles a month were smiling warmly at me.
The future is there, far away ahead, while you should not strain at any work; our Kazakh proverb says: "The job of washing the donkey’s ass seems funny, but it still brings lots of money," – ever heard about that?
I have, – I grumbled, getting a little embarrassed. I did not really like the proverb.
Good barbers are always in demand, – he said.
I just got stunned by surprise. I had no idea why he decided that I should be a barber; I understood it neither then, nor later.
Go, you will get a voucher.
I silently left. I was burning with anger. After all, I thought I was a Jack of all trades. I could manage anything, could command an army... and suddenly I was made a barber!
Spring faded for me, the light in my eyes was darkened. A notice paper had been being sent to me for a few days. Finally, the fifth one finally brought me to the barbershop of the Red Cross.
I went there, despising myself.
Meanwhile, Shegen was already on his way. Many of his peers had also left the walls of the orphanage and started studying or working in different places. Among those who had left our orphanage and started wring letters to the guys that stayed here, there were sailors, sailing in the inaccessible northern waters, explorers wandering with hammers in the spurs of the Tian Shan, and technicians, paving roads in deserts. There was even an inventor who had been awarded with the Order of Lenin for some kind of thing, which should remain a mystery to those who had no direct relation to it. Among them, there was also the polar station radioman, identifications of which were being received from the Far North by our high-frequency-wave amateurs. The boys proudly showed their letters to each other, the letters of the sons of the Kazakh people, who were the noblemen of the vast Soviet Homeland.
Little quiet Borash has found his future as well. He attends music school and has already become the idol of the public even outside of school concerts. It is hard to understand what kind of voice he has – male or female. But when he sings, everybody listens to him with some kind of lingering delight. At the same time he gives himself up to the song.
The Kazakh folk song – broad, passionate, touching and expressive – conveys the richness of human feelings: sadness and elation, love and hatred, despair and hope. Each tune has not lost legends about its origin. “This song was created by an orphan, who had been kicked out of the house by the stepmother, – people say, this one – by a girl who was married to a rich man she did not love, and this one – by a mother whose son was lost in the mountains ... This one was created by a shepherd, when he was saving his herd from the storm in the wilderness, and this song is sang by an old man, sighing for bygone power and daring.”
When Borash sings, he does not just convey the motive, he sees those people in front of him, gives himself up to the song, grieving and rejoicing with those, about whom he sings. How happy he must be when his songs make people cry or clap with joy, painfully hurting their hands.
He is already dreaming about going to Moscow to study at the Conservatory and becoming a true artist. What about me? I became an apprentice barber so far.
I got a free haircut and was given a white robe.
Shake the sheet please, and then sweep the floor, – was the first order, given to me by a senior barber in a too polite, but, at the same time, slightly insulting tone.
VII
It still usually happened those days: the barbershop appeared to be almost a private institution at the beginning of the month and almost a state one at the end. Both of these “almost” were happily combined in the pockets of the senior barber. He, like everyone else, had two pockets, shining on the white robe, but one of them was the state one, and the other was strictly personal. On what basis and what portion of our earnings fell into one or another of his pockets – he was the only one who knew that. But how much each of us, apprentices, lost in the form of "deduction" for our inexperience – each one of us knew that.
Katyusha – the cashier, who was in charge of receiving the revenues from the “public sector” – would come in the first half of the month an hour before the end of the workday to get the left pocket from the senior barber and write off the checks retroactively. Spoiled by freedom, Katyusha sometimes had no time to diversify stamps, and would write checks for only one haircut according to the amount of received rubles.
You have become a real barber, Kostya! – Once said the senior barber. – How many people did you shave today?
I didn’t shave anybody today, – I growled defiantly.
How come? I saw you doing that today.
You can check it in the checks.
Ah... – He smiled ironically and understandingly, and ingratiatingly friendly patted me on the shoulder.
You are a quick-witted little one! Well, what to say, it is ok. Who checks them out there... today you cut people’s hair, tomorrow you will shave them all.
So, tomorrow I won’t have to bring scissors?
You, teaser! Why wouldn’t you bring scissors? You will get a recommendation and your salary... Let’s go, I will buy you a beer!
I disdainfully rejected the offer and said a few offensive, but just words to the senior barber.
My hands have already experienced the first thousand cheeks, heads, chins, necks... Sometimes, some of them were accidentally spoiled.
What is that tuft there? – petulantly and sternly asks a talking head.
Just a minute! – I exclaim in embarrassment.
Click-click-click... – clicked the scissors, and instead of a tuft, there is a noticeable bright space. Now, the head gets even angrier.
I was cutting your hair, and you kept moving your head around, – I start shifting the blame.
I envied our second barber. However, truth to be told, I was always envious of other people's abilities at any job. I found the justification of this feeling, which is hidden by people, in people, not related to me by craft, – in Pushkin, who said that envy is the sister of the competition, consequently, it will be a good family.
The second barber was a pretentious and swanky man. He dressed absurdly “fashionable”, wearing a gold bracelet on the left hand, combed his soft dark hair in a new fashion every day, and was going to marry our Katyusha, which for some reason called him “the prince of blood,” adding “lackey” to the word “blood”. But I envied, in fact, not because of the variety of his qualities, but because of the fact that he could incessantly talk while working. So, he is a true barber!..
Katyusha , did you go to Nastya’s? – He asked, soaping his customer's face.
I did yesterday.
And what? Who was there?
Sasha Mukhin, my beloved prince.
What about him?
He is going to marry.
Marry whom?
Nastya.
Nastya? – the shaving brush bumps into the customer’s nose and makes a stop.
Customer petulantly shakes his head.
I'm kidding, just kidding, not her.
Well, whom then?..
His whole day passed by with such idle talks.
He spoke only to show customers and us, teenagers, that he was a great barber, and could work without even looking.
You know who I could have become? – sometimes he told us, when the senior barber was not there.
Who? Who?
Yep, that’s right ... – he would answer mysteriously.
But I also began to feel proud for my work gradually. After all, you are dealing not with something nonessential, but with a human head, with an object respected by all. I tried to guess what that item contained, identifying to myself the inclinations, abilities, and temper of the customers. This activity amused me, causing my interest in the human race to increase.
But, gradually, the “almost private” in our enterprise began to fade away. Katyusha became more accurate and professional; she even began to record the work of each of us and all kinds of work separately. The second barber has become less talkative, because his work began to be recorded separately as well. Strange “deductions” stopped existing, and thirteen rubles have firmly entered my monthly life. I would even send money to my mother from time to time, who, missing their sons, had moved to Guryev and lived with my older brother, working on the construction sites.
My “internship” at the barbershop began at two o’clock every day. Until that time, almost every day I worked in the fields of the orphanage commune. The commune was organized by the city committee of the Komsomol, and it did not take them long to make us, people who had just joined the Komsomol, understand how important this work was. We worked there enthusiastically, although results have not yet been as high as they could have been. The word “commune” for me was a sacred one, and it always filled me with pride. This perfectly matches the saying that a yesterday’s steppe shepherd, who took off on a plane, is much more proud of his art to fly than the one who have been familiar with and close to technology since his childhood. The pride of an agricultural laborers’ son, building the commune and understanding high ideological meaning of this word, knows no bounds. I am the son of the people who started to build that new community, to which the whole reasonable humanity strives for, even earlier that the Germans, the French, the Americans and the British.
The work at the barbershop did not bring me any joy; it was an unpleasant, habitual, and forced labor. On the fields of our commune, I turned into a creator of the new life, and my work – into a poem of human pride.
On the first of May, the ultimate disappointment in my profession came upon me. Ironically, this happened just in the solemn moment of being awarded for my excellent work.
The great barber Constantine Sartaleev, – said our senior barber, – for fulfilling a six-month plan in four months, is awarded fifty rubles in cash, a white summer suit and a pair boots...
Like others, I gradually came to the senior barber, took my award, and, deciding that I needed to say something to the applauding congregation, I made a long and awkward speech. The only thing I remember is the end of my speech:
Hail to all the awarded hairdressers, who fulfilled and over-fulfilled the plan! – I blurted out.
"It was so stupid!.. I should have said something different!" – I thought at that moment. I blushed, got scarlet with shame, and left quickly, blaming myself.
I would always get annoyed when a curve lane on a muddy outskirt was named after Pushkin, or when a newborn child is given a name consisting of the initial letters of the names of the mankind’s great geniuses. It is important to be able to protect the sacred and great from everyday nonsense things. And suddenly I myself addressed the solemn and resounding “Hail” to a bunch of barbers, whom I knew for their vulgarity and squabbles.
It is easy to imagine that I went back to the orphanage with a trashy mood.
Borash was preparing to leave for Moscow. He bought a bright red suitcase for the departure, and was carefully putting his stuff in it. He had a hot iron and a pile of ironed socks and handkerchiefs on the table.
So, Borash, you will be an artist, right? Is it your final decision? – I said, looking at his red suitcase.
It is my calling, Kostya! – Borash said proudly.
We will certainly meet again in the autumn in Moscow! – I cheered up myself subconsciously, but not him.
I got a little better, hoping that I stay up all night with Borash, go with him to the station at dawn, and, in the meantime, maybe I would be able to forget about my ridiculous speech at a congregation of barbers.
But years of adolescence are always impressionable. I could not get rid of the shame for my speech even after the departure of Borya. Everything in the barbershop became disgusting for me. I lost interest in high foreheads and beautiful hair. Spending exactly 5 minutes on shaving a client, I shouted dryly:
Next!
With a heavy feeling I was counting the days spent in the barbershop.
“What kind of good and useful things have you done in your life?" – I asked myself. – graduated from the seven-year school? What now? What have you seen, what have you done in these seventeen years?.. After all, you haven’t even fallen in love!..”
I came to the conclusion that life should not be counted by days. If all the days are so similar to one another, why should they be counted? And throughout the whole year you always somehow come across something remarkable. Because people always think this way: just the “years of study”, or the year I went to Moscow, the year of joining the Komsomol, the year of marriage. But even this method of distinguishing one year from another appeared to be unsuitable for my life. I was tormented by the realization of the sterility of spent days and years. I seemed uninteresting to myself and to others.
Maybe that was why Shegen often wrote letters from the military school not to me, but to Borash?
I loved my older friend, who was full of extremes; he was a hedonistic hellion and mocker, being at the same time a book lover, a loyal and sensitive friend with firm determination. The fact that he did not want to write letters to me only proved my inability to answer the questions that always occupied his restless mind.
I was worried and jealous.
Now that Borya left, Shegen will completely forget me! I have to write him myself, tell about my doubts, and listen to the person who, not knowing that, was the closest person in the world for me and the most worthy role model to follow.
I firmly decided to quit the barber shop, but what to do after that, – I didn’t really know. The autumn was still several days away for selecting a path, so it did not bother me yet.
The graduation from the seven-year school and the coming spring awakened childhood memories and lazy dreams in me.
The memories brought me my cute little Akbota from the distant past, the one whom I loved so shamefully in the village. All day long I have been seeing her in front of me, and she looked just like when she was seven. Only in the evening I guessed that I needed to add as many years to her age, as have passed since our separation day – and then she suddenly grew up in my mind, long braids spread over the shoulder, earrings glittered in her ears. Her far image was becoming dearer and more attractive every minute. My white baby camel! I remembered her funny habit of communicating via her little fists. It would be great if she still had that habit: it would serve to my advantage - Akbota will push me away with her fist, and will I grab her by the arm and attract to myself. What a sweet dream!
No, actually, that dream is not something that worries me. Shegen has already become a pilot, while Borash went to Moscow and will surely become an artist. And I am a barber! What the hell!
I remembered the lines of Abai:
In building of this giant world
You are a stable stone,
Just find a place to stay – be bold,
And you will live quite long…
Enough of staring at the world from the window! It's time for me to find my place!
In the morning, I ran to the Regional Board of Education and pointed out two strong arguments to prove my right to find my place in the world: the certificate of a qualified barber and the document of successful completion of the seven-year school. I asked to send me for studying in Moscow.
The same head, who once linked my fate with a razor and scissors, and, therefore, my old foe, with the Olympic calmness moved his eyes off my papers, then pulled them to himself and conclusively put a resolution: “Enroll for preparatory courses at the pedagogical institution.” Being horrified, I reached out to my application, but my documents instantly disappeared in the drawer.
Why did you quit the barbershop?
Enough for me already to be a barber!
You do not want to work?
No, why...
You know yourself why! All of you think that only Moscow is waiting for you... I understand you want to learn. But for what? Just to improve yourself alone. After all, you had been raised by the whole nation. People sustained the orphanage, people shod, clothed and fed you; people paid your teachers. You're seventeen years old; it's time for you now to think about the people! – with unexpected energy gave me a set-down the fat and, as it seemed at first, so indifferent head.
His accusations seemed unfair to me. Why did he accuse me in an effort to become educated just for myself? Shegen had become a pilot for the people. Borash, when he becomes an artist, too, will serve the people. He will give them his songs and the joy of heart, and I... But there was one small flaw: I still did not know who I wanted to be, and I vaguely pictured my future greatness. I did not think as much about the benefits of my activities, as about the universal respect for me, about being an idol for people for these activities.
But the point is that I want to get education to become a scientist, so that the people can be proud of me, – I confidently exclaimed at last.
The head ironically smiled.
The people will be proud of you when you are useful to them. Look. – He spread on the table a huge bordered paper sheet, which vividly reminded me of a table, which led me to the hateful occupation of a barber. – Look, here's our plan for the development of the school network. You wanted to be literate, you strived for it, but all our people, grounded down in the past years by the darkness, want to be literate as well. An illiterate person cannot enter communism. We need dozen of thousands of ordinary teachers. Where are we going to get them from, if all of you, whom we brought up, become famous professors? Teachers gave you knowledge on public financial means. You have to repay the debt to the people and make a decent teacher for them, who would lead our children to enlightenment... Are you a Komsomol?
I nodded.
Well, then you have to understand me even more. Last cohort was thoughtlessly squandered. This year, ninety percent of the Kazakhs, graduated from the school, will be sent to the local teacher training university. It's time to learn to see a big picture, but not from the point of view of our interests. Do you understand?
What could I object? I said nothing, but didn’t nod in agreement.
Well, that's great! I would advise you to go back to the barbershop for the summer. No need to lose the habit of working hard. And one month prior to your classes you can take a vacation and go on a trip to your native places to drink koumiss.
I gloomily went back to the orphanage. But a sudden joy was waiting for me there – a big letter from Shegen.
Tears immediately started running down my cheeks, when I saw a bluish envelope with a familiar firm handwriting of Shegen. A pilot in the helmet with big glasses on his forehead was sternly looking at me from the postage stamp.
My eyes eagerly slid along the lines, snatching some phrases and fragments of thoughts. I had no patience to read the whole letter right away. Through my tears I read the big, catchy and, therefore, the most correct words in the world for me from my older friend.
Only on the banks of the Ural, in complete solitude, I managed to completely read the whole letter that became the crucial start in life for me.
“Hello, boxer!” – started out the letter of Shegen. Further, all my titles and nicknames were listed, such as invitational title the “runner”, hearty title the “fool”, and mocking title the “philosopher”... Shegen started calling me the “Boxer” from the day, when three years ago I returned from a friendly boxing match with the team of the factory apprenticeship school, being all bruised and badly battered.
Everything Shegen had written sounded like the excerpts from the "Song of the Falcon," which he loved and knew by heart. As a pilot, he had probably likened himself in the heart with a falcon, accustomed to seeing the world from the height of the flight.
“The world is beautiful when the horizon is wide, – he wrote, – and the horizon is always wide at a height. Don’t go away with the idea that I, as a pilot, think that only my profession gives a wide view of the world. No, I mean not only the physical horizon and not just flying high. I myself am flying in a literal sense, but I do recognize that those, who have never been and will never be in a cabin, can take off. It is always bad to have to crawl all the time. Our era is the era of speeds and altitudes that enrich the mind and the heart. Today, I returned from a long flight, which lasted for ten days, and during those ten days I saw different nations in such places, which our fathers had never been able to reach throughout their whole life.
You know how much I am older than you, but now I have become much older. It seems to me that I have lived for a long time. We understand the world in a totally different speed. Everything our fathers have seen and learned throughout their entire life could be fit in a modest seven-year school, which can be easily learned by every Soviet boy. And for an adult Soviet citizen it is already a starvation ration.
Do not take it as a beautiful empty phrase, but, I must confess, I prefer to live a full life, rather than enjoying little daily moments. I was taught this by the very same falcon, whom I love since childhood, but whom I understand only now, being on my steel wings.
You are not the one from the grass-snake breed. I know you will start flying, but where can you find the wings? I thought about this after your last letter, but how can I give you an advice, if you write so little about your own passions and dreams? Which direction do you want to take the most? Open spaces during flights are boundless, but we must not make a mistake while choosing. You can fight for our future everywhere. Battles are faced not only in aviation. It is not only us who show the “madness of the brave ...”
That romantic letter ended unexpectedly seriously and meaningfully: Shegen wrote that the party has opened the way before him, which he will take to the end of his life. So, he had joined the party, and I am only a Komsomol! Shegen had been always ahead of me, and now he was again showing the way for me.
I spent all night thinking about this letter, which sounded just like a song. It intoxicated me. By the morning, I made the decision, about which I wrote to my friend after its implementation.
In the morning, I immediately went to the military commissariat. Shegen had helped me find objections to a lengthy, but not so romantic and warm speech of the head of Board of Education. The young heart fervently responded to Shegen’s poetic ardency, and I started martially humming to myself, putting my primitive possessions in the suitcase.
I stepped on the pier with the first long horn of the steamship.
Wrapped into a thick blue silk of the dawn, the city started slowly waking up. Dim lights of the lonely windows blinked here and there. Huge, the size of a fist, Venus sparkled like a diamond, winking to belated love sighs and whispers in the garden. Responding to the solemn chorus of frogs over the river, hundreds of uptown mongrels were restlessly barking.
Throwing a long reflection of the searchlight on a quiet surface of the river, trembling from the beating of its own heart, the motor ship “Kazakhstan” was patiently waiting for the trip. With the suitcase in my hand, I climbed to the upper deck.
VIII
The blue motor ship glides in a quiet pride, leaving a silvery triangle of boiling water. The waves joyfully run to the shores, and, shaking off the sparkling from the sun foam outfit, run back. The sparkling May afternoon stands full of bliss. The brown shaggy smoke of the steamship, similar to a long caravan of camels, hangs over the river for quite long, slowly melting and turning into a string of fantastic monsters and animals.
This rapid and steady movement of our ship to the sea, carrying on board the name of its native republic “Kazakhstan”, seems to be symbolic for me.
Kazakhstan! – I repeat aloud, enjoying the melodious sounds of the word.
From the upper deck of the ship it spreads before my eyes just like the endless steppe ocean.
Kazakhstan!
Its villages, its herds... Here are the constructions works of a new rail-road... Here, in the empty steppe, the excavators growlingly bite into the earth, and the cranes, braced from steel lace, stretched their long neck. Here, in the wild steppes, the tall buildings, hidden by scaffolds, rise up. Indeed, Kazakhstan is a great building site. We are building for ourselves, for our fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers, may peace be upon them!
Close to the river, on the right bank, the rectangle gardens of Russian settlements show green. On the left, the Kazakh steppes of kolkhoz villages pass by with countless herds of horses with surprisingly appearing camels here and there.
The ship carries the grain to the lower reaches, as well as intricate and obscure cars parts, two dark gray Akhal-Tekes, and two single-humped giants – camels.
Just look at those horses! The whole world could be traveled around on them! – admires a young Kazakh.
The whole world? But have you been farther Uralsk? – teased his friend.
No, just look at this, man! Just look! – exclaims the third Kazakh, looking admiringly at the majestic “ships of the desert”. – Forty days on the hot sand without a sip of water, without a single blade of grass!
They are ours, the Turkmen camels, – interfered a fellow traveler in a huge white lamb fur cap.
What do you mean yours? – went up a man in a black velvet undertunic.
Of course, ours.
What do you mean yours? They are our kolkhoz camels! I'm the chairman of “Kayrakty” kolkhoz!
He called our kolkhoz, and I immediately got tense.
That is so weird! Well, where are they originally from then? – objects the first man.
Oh, originally! Well, originally, even you can be from Kazakh land, somewhere in Boz-Ata, but in reality – only Turkmen!
Well, so what? You might be born in the Turkmen valley of Forty wells as well, but in reality you seem to be Kazakh.
How do you know where I am from?
And how do you know?
They started laughing, realizing that they were both born on the same land that has long been settled by the two nations, and for centuries have been the subject of dissension between them, and now everything turned into a place of close friendly merger of the two cultures.
Now they sit on the floor, and each of them unleashes their carpet hurdzhun .
Eat, eat, my dear Turkmen!
Drink, drink, please, my dear Kazakh!
I imagine them going down on their horses from two sides to the steppe well twenty years ago. The centuries of wild enmity, the rivers of blood, spilled for other people's grievances and for someone else's empty and unnecessary fame, would arise between them. Deserts and steppes would not be broad enough so that those two could pass each other peacefully. The rich fresh well water would not be enough for them and their horses. At first, they would exchange mockery and insults, and then would grab their cudgels.
Now they are sitting side by side, joking peacefully and laughing over the things, which would start a mortal combat between them in the past.
I am watching and waiting for them to come back to the topic of “only Kazakh”, “only Turkmen”. If they show no evidence of this wild old enmity, what do their words mean then?
I realized that only by listening to further conversation: being “only Kazakh” or “only Turkmen” meant being able to do only what the fathers and grandfathers could do – that is, being the lord of the steppe herds and the loyal steppe resident. But this could not satisfy both of them any longer.
Just look what is pile up there, - says the Kazakh. – Machines! And what kind of machines they are, what to do with them, – neither of us knows...
That's right! - sighed the Turkmen. – The eye sees it, but the mind does not get it. Or here – I got on the ship, paid twelve rubles, but do not know how and why it moves!
Grievingly smacking tongues, they shake their heads with regret. I admire the fact that they both do not want to remain what their grandparents were. I am attracted to them like a magnet, and I am coming closer.
Well, they should know everything, – pointed at me the Kazakh, who described himself as the chairman of our kolkhoz “Kairakty.” There was something familiar but forgotten in his face, even though I saw the overhanging silvery gray hair and a mustache for the first time. And suddenly, imagining him without the mustache, I recognized a policeman, who once took me to the orphanage, and whom we met again with Shegen on the day of our departure, when we were bidding farewell to the city.
I gratefully grabbed his arm.
Oh!.. Oh..! .. Oh!.. – it was his only word that interrupted my detailed story on the aspirations and noble deeds of my friend, and when I finished, he exclaimed: - Ah! That's what you've become! My efforts were not worthless!
He hugged me and forced his wet beard against my face.
You enter the kolkhoz on this Akhal-Teke horse! – he said, apparently wanting to be proud of me as of the output of his hard work.
No, I am visiting my mother in Guryev, – I upset him.
“Kazakhstan” made a wide circle on the water and landed on the shore. A former policeman, and now the chairman of the kolkhoz, started getting his pedigreed horses and camels out.
In the crowd, waiting at the dock, a figure of a young woman with a baby flashed; a puny man in a blue cap, pulled down tight on his head, was standing next to her. I shuddered and stopped at the entrance. Two counter flows of people were moving from and to the ship, pushing and cursing me for standing in the wrong place. The vociferous crowd of passengers, pushing the exiting people and, as if in a whirlpool, spinning a young mother with a child, burst onto the lower deck. The woman was raising the child almost over her head to protect him from the pressure of the crowd, while he was squeaking helplessly. The husband, pushed away from his woman by the crowd, shouted something from a distance. A huge pack on the back of a strong entering passenger pressed the young mother against the wall. I pushed the pack aside, freed the woman, and took her child out of her hands.
Oh my god, Kayrush, is that you? – She immediately recognized me.
Flushed, bursting with all the freshness of youth, she was amazingly beautiful. As a child, Akbota was plump, broad-faced, with a soft nose and firm little fists. Now her face was not round, but oval, the nose became nobly straight, while she lost weight and became slim.
Her black eyes looked right at me. Looking down, I was silent.
Kayrush, is that you? – she uncertainly asked again.
Well, you know it yourself, Akbota…
But people said that you had turned into Kostya...
But can’t you be called fondly – Bota?
But people said that you would never come back to the village, that you had left your mother, – she said, looking reproachfully at the approaching husband.
I realized that this low-browed and unpleasant person had spread those rumors. I was ready to destroy him right at the same moment. It was evident that he understood me as well, his eyes started thievishly looking away, he quickly put his suitcase and bag on the deck, took the child from me and gave him to the mother. Then, picking up his stuff, he shook his double chin forward and shouted:
Hey, Katyn , let’s go!
You were such a baby doll, Bota! – I said quietly.
Yep, you missed the moment to play with this doll! – her husband suddenly shouted in my ear and quickly disappeared around the corner. – Hey, Katyn! – I heard him shout again.
Akbota glared composedly, shook my hand without saying anything, and dutifully followed him.
She had reached twenty years faster than me!..
I was traveling alone in a four-seat cabin. Going to my cabin, I saw Akbota with her husband coming in. I decided to spend the rest of the way on the deck and never met her again. Occasionally, I could hear the child crying, and I would move to the other side. If I noticed a narrow lean back of Akbota’s puny lord, I started looking for a new place.
IX
At a young age, you see so much that you cannot understand everything at once. Impressions take over you like waves impinging on each other. You will come across new things constantly, and every time it happens exactly at the moment when your thoughts are still busy with previous stuff. And your head is never free from thoughts, because whatever you look at, it will serve as a mental food. The young mind always wants to cover everything, wants to know and learn every single thing in the world, and grabs everything eagerly and quickly, so as not to be late to grab the next thing that comes on his way.
Being on my way to my mother, I tried to think about her, about our encounter, but new places and encounters took over me and dragged into the ocean of the rich and broad world, just like waves that carry an inexperienced swimmer away from the shores. When I got off the pier in Guryev and was approaching the familiar bridge over the Ural, I started thinking about my mother again. But even there I found out unexpected news: the wooden bridge that had always been trembling under the wheels of loaded carts was gone – the iron one took its place. A wide view opened up from that bridge.
Being squat and colorless many years ago, Guryev has risen up now, constructions towered on both sides of the Ural, new huge buildings gleamed with glass, and the familiar river gone kind of quiet and settled. The roar of cars rolling across the bridge mixed with subtle melodious sound of electric circular saws and discordant clatter on construction sites.
Far away, on the broad silver sheets of the sea, steam ships stood puffing, and numerous fishing boats put up their white sails.
“Kazakhstan!..” – my heart sang again.
I found my mother at a construction site of a multistory building: she was feeding bricks to the flowing conveyor belt.
Mom!..
When she saw me, or rather, heard my voice, she dropped the brick, and it broke right at her feet. She clung to me, and only in her arms I suddenly felt that I had been thinking a lot about her, – and did absolutely nothing for her...
I did not know yet what was the source of mothers’ happiness, what was the sacred duty of sons, but suddenly I wanted to give her everything she lacked in her life, – prosperity, warmth and tranquility. I kissed her hands. Her fingers were so callous and hardened by contrast to mine, which had never experienced such work! Her face became so wrinkly, covered with fine film of brown brick dust, emphasizing every skin crease! I wanted to give her something she hadn’t even dreamt about in her life.
My mother was hugging me and, looking at my broad shoulders, was happy that I was healthy, that I still had my young strength, and I repeated to myself, as an oath, that I would do “everything in the world” for her, but I could not yet imagine what that “everything” was. I was just confident that it would be endless and fabulous...
My little one! – my mother murmured, forcing her head against my chest, and that “little one” bent down to her, so that she could reach out to the hair on my head and stroke it.
Everything in the mother’s house was old, but at the same time there were signs of new things. The village was still felt in her life, but the city, already taking over her, put its mark on everything in her everyday life. This was evident in her clothes, footwear, and environment.
The neighbors, the same workers as my mom, started coming over to look at me and at my mothers’ happiness, but the conversation was not about milking cows and the hearth anymore. They talked about “our” plant, about “our” construction works, about “our” factory committee and the club.
My older brother, who was on the top floor of the same building, was piling up a wall of bricks fed by my mother to the conveyor. He became more serious, more businesslike. He was the foreman of the builders and talked about the socialist competition, about the plan and the performance of tasks.
In the evening, the whole family gathered in honor of my arrival. I was the center of attention, but was embarrassed to talk about myself. What could I tell them about? About my profession of a barber, about the fact that I was also able to outstrip the targets of shaving beards and cutting hair, about the fact that I had even been awarded a prize for it?
I just said that I had graduated from school and had been called up for military service. At that time, there were a lot of unsettling rumors about the upcoming large-scale war, and I didn’t want to tell my mother that I was going to volunteer. She grew suspicious, but my brother comforted her, saying that, since I had graduated from school, I was going to be sent to the commander's course, where I will learn even more, maybe a few years before I would get into the war.
The conversation turned to the village, to the relatives, and I told them about my meeting with the current chairman of our kolkhoz, but kept silent about one fact that had hurt my heart the most – my encounter with Akbota. But my mother suddenly turned to me herself:
Kayrush, do you remember Akbota? She got married the other day.
What do you mean “the other day”? She already has a baby! – slipped out from my mouth.
That is the child of her deceased sister. She was the first wife of her husband.
My mother told me a long complicated story about how Akbota’s husband, the accountant of the city trade administration, had taken over his wife’s family after her death, and then how he had taken over Akbota as well. For me, the only thing was clear – Akbota had reached the age of twenty before me! Why should I care that her husband had faked the documents and added up a few years to her age to marry her? I had only one thing to do – to cut back on the length of my vacation and to quickly run away.
On the day of my departure, my mother gathered relatives and friends and organized a family farewell. Passed from hand to hand, the traditional sheep’s head was already heading for the elderly, spreading burned ears and closing eyes, as if anticipating the inevitability of the impending dispatch.
From behind of the door open crack, a hand with a bowl of koumiss was put out. Everybody looked back.
It is for you, my Kayrush, – suggested my mother.
I stood up, walked over and took a small bowl out of a little plump female hand. It was already dark behind the door, and I could not see the woman's face. Taking the bowl with my right hand, I clenched the left hand, which had given me the bowl, and felt a gentle and intense beating of her young blood. I drank. The warm hand just responded with a short handshake and slipped away, leaving a small, folded into a triangle, piece of paper in my hand.
With this talisman and a drunken bowl of friendship, and maybe even of love and loyalty, I said goodbye to my native land again and left.
My dear mother blessed me in holy ancestors’ and all the ancient warriors’ names for the upcoming trip. It warmed my heart. But what was burning even more was the talisman kept on the chest near my heart, – the small note contained only five words: “Don’t forget, and I won’t.” What was the thing both of us should not forget – it was clear just to two of our hearts.
I
We arrived at the border with Kolya Shurup unit on the same day. Soon, it is going to be two years since we have been sleeping bed-to-bed and have been inseparable friends. Comradely succor in a combat situation is an immutable law of the Red Army fighter, but if the two fighters are bound together by fraternal friendship, it strengthens their resilience and courage. It was well understood by our head of the outpost, who usually sent us with Kolya to the military patrol together.
We revealed our secret dreams and aspirations to each other. During those two years, I learned everything that was possible to learn about Kolya’s life, he did about mine. Our friendship was strengthened by one more thing: we were both boxers with the same experience, in the same weight category, and were training together; that was why we got the nickname “Ajaxes” at the outpost.
So we exchanged friendly farewell boxing punches before parting. “Mykola”, that’s how our comrades pronounced Kolya’s name in Ukrainian accent, healing the graze I got over my left brow, enthusiastically praised the punches of my right hand, although I was the one who got grazes, not him. "Oh, that Kolya!" – that was how the girls he knew liked to talk about him.
Tomorrow, after another shift, we will have to leave. Kolya is going to the headquarters of the division. For how long and why – he doesn’t know himself. His attempts to find out something from the head or the Komsomol organizer did not turn out to be successful. However, the Komsomol organizer hinted that learning is always good. So we decided that probably we were saying goodbye not for days or for weeks, and maybe not even for months.
On exactly the same day, I got my month-long vacation. Shortly before that, I was able to catch two spies one after the other. First one was caught without any noise, and its owners from across the border were quite sure that this section of the border had safe passage. And two days later, in the same way, they sent the second, a more valuable one: the first was only a “trial balloon.” I had to spend the vacation I was granted for those two scoundrels at one of the resorts on the Black Sea. But an idea, which suddenly dawned on me, forced to seek permission from the head to go home to my native Guryev instead of the resort.
So, we started thinking with Kolya over the open suitcases, as if being confused about how to pack our poor belongings.
Each fighter, leaving his home for military service, takes something private and important with him. Devoting himself entirely to serve the fatherland, he keeps the treasure in the depths of his heart. I carried in myself throughout these two years a disturbing and a challenging riddle: Where did my Akbota go?
This riddle was proposed to me by that low-browed puny man in a familiar ugly blue cap. This was back in Uralsk, on the fifteenth day of my stay in the military. Our troop was returning from trainings. Each of them had a strip of sweat on the back, a bulky overcoat roll of sausage on the shoulder, dusty boots on the feet, and a cheerful song on the lips.
At the city gates, a “civilian” flashed in front of us, but I, like many others, did not pay attention to him. And suddenly, right at the moment of putting our riffles in a pyramid, I was called by the crossing guard...
Your relative is waiting for you at the gate, – he said, – he has been waiting the whole day, that poor fellow!
Coming up and politely greeting the guest in a military fashion, I recognized the husband of little Akbota in him. His eyes stared at me with anger, and his facial expression was as if he was going to get his gold teeth into me.
Where is she... where is my wife? – he wheezed out.
What wife? – I said, confusingly guessing that his words might mean some misfortune that had happened to Akbota.
What wife?!.. The one you kidnapped! – he shouted in rage.
I started explaining that the soldiers of the Red Army do not snitch women, and that, in addition to the military regulations, it is prevented by the lack of females in the barrack. I realized that Akbota had run away from him, and being joyfully conscious of that fact, perhaps, made my arguments sound with polite tone of mockery. It made him completely mad, and he run at me with his fists.
Being a good boxer, reflecting the punches of his long but sparse hands was simple for me. However, it was not that easy to take him away from the military station. He did knee bends, screamed, and fell on the ground, resting against me. I had to simply grab him and pull him a hundred paces away from the station, on a waste ground, where all the trash was taken out. Effortlessly holding him by his tie, here, away from people, I send him off with a flea in the ear and let him go.
The same evening, I found on my bed the first letter from my mother, wrote by my brother. Four pages torn from a notebook contained barely more than fifty words. Every word, just like a fossil lizard, squirmed along the whole line, with, for some reason, the obligatory transfer of the last letter of each word to a new line. For the first time I saw how hostile a pencil is to the calloused hands of my older brother. But I had never received a more precious letter than that.
Among other news, my mother reported that Akbota disappeared from home on the very same day I left to Guryev. I wish I knew that then!..
With a pinching in my heart, I remembered how I jumped off the steamship bed, seeing a female figure in a silk blue scarf on her shoulders flash in front of the cabin window. It was late at night, and the light from the cabin lit only a narrow square in the total darkness of the deck. Most of the passengers had gone to bed. “Akbota!” – I said to myself, and rushed to the deck, but met no one there, and just smirked at my own stupidity and arrogance... But it would be nice to be aware that Akbota, leaving her husband for obviously known whom, would sail with me on one ship.
The mother’s letter confirmed that I was right then.
A few days after the visit of the unexpected guest and this letter, I lived in proud thoughts that Akbota loved me and left her husband solely for me. I noticed that my pace became more certain and firmer during those days. Every day I persistently and demandingly looked at the crossing guard, waiting when he finally let me know that a “relative” was waiting for me at the gates, and I admired the extraordinary determination and courage of Akbota. But then I thought: where will I accommodate her here? She is not a rifle or a duffel bag.
But I did have to look for a place to my wife. The crossing guard did not tell me about a any visitor. Sad uncertainty hid my Akbota.
Now, being far from my native land, in new places, I do my daily service for the protection of the border. Occasionally, I get letters from my mother, but they don’t have even a single word about Akbota. The mother responds to my questions in the same way: “I don’t know anything about her anymore, my dear.” And the girl, who sometimes, instead of my busy brother, writes my mother’s letters with a beautiful and light handwriting, signing the letter with an “S”, probably never knew my Akbota either.
That's a mystery about which I continue to think. Maybe there is not so much true love and loyalty, perhaps, the main role here is played by youthful vanity, but I am still not able to solve the puzzle: "Where did she eventually go?" It would seem that the time would cure me from this obsession, but it was completely the opposite – the more time goes by, the more I think about her, and the gentle image of gone Akbota becomes even dearer to me.
The day before yesterday, when I went from the guard post to the barracks, it seemed to me that a bright beam of desired answer suddenly flashed between the pinkish morning clouds. A completely new and, therefore, the most convincing option came to my mind.
This option was that the unknown to me “S”, who writes my mother’s letters and who comforts me from the uncertainty that took over Akbota, and assures that I will find ta lot of beautiful girls in the village and in the city, – could be nobody but Akbota herself!
I put all the letters, received from my mother and signed with the letter “S”, together. Certain lines breathed sweet and chaste cunning, innocent and jealous female cunning. I realized that every such phrase and line wanted to know about my feelings, whether it was serious or not. For some reason, I remembered that my age of twenty years has come.
That was when I went to the head to ask permission to spend my holidays at my mother’s. I am going to visit my mother, – I said both to my Mykola and my comrades... And here I am standing in front of an opened suitcase, checking with my eyes whether the letter are safely hidden, while my heart was crying: “To Akbota! To my Akbota!”
Kolya looked at his watch and called me:
Let’s go…
II
No, now that I was going to “her”, I did not want any exciting border adventures.
Only with a desire for peace and prosperity, I approached the silent guard of our borders, the border post, so convincingly and firmly standing in its place. Many times I've thought that the eyes of millions of people of the neighboring countries look at it, at this guard. Some people look at it with hatred and malice, with envy, with disappointment of powerlessness, others – with hope and faith.
During these two years, I got used to the fact that, when on the post, I must first focus and sharpen my attention. This habit forced all the extraneous thoughts to vanish as soon as I entered the sacred post area. Of course, I did not give up my memories and dreams, but I just put them away until a more appropriate moment.
Laying down beside me, my faithful friend, cautious Rex, was also looking somewhere ahead, behind the post, pricking his sensitive ears. His clever eyes, looking straightly forward, were flashed with a spark of some kind of special dog “thought.”
For the hundredth time, I thought that all of our dear dreams and hopes, and confident feeling of being a man and a citizen – all of this is possible only on this side of the border sign. This post does not mean only a land border of two neighboring states: it is a border of two different attitudes. Imagine that you're behind this post, on the other side, – and you will immediately lose the ground under all of your thoughts, you will lose even the right to the usual childhood dreams, which were raised by your motherland, you will appear in the realm of the distant past, in a sad realm of grandparents and great-grandfathers. The caravans of centuries will slowly pass in a long row in front of you, carrying an old heavy load that we have already jettisoned. And my country was once like that as well.
Slow Asian centuries tediously passed by. The steppes were spread in the deadly stillness. The idea, born in the era of arrows and spears, ketmen and omach, strived to live in the era of electricity, to live as the eternal truth, preserving the sovereignty of the past over the present. The centuries massively piled on the backs of the people and forced them to feed with their blood and sweat the rotten roots of antiquity, which took up the energy from the youth, not letting it experience the happiness of shining. A singer’s dombra sadly strummed, shedding tears over the people's grief. Its lonely calls for fighting were powerless.
Those times, which were gone centuries ago, were reminded by the country that was behind the striped border post. Everything that is old is considered a sacred thing there. This explains their hatred to us, they are afraid that their people, seeing that we got rid of the severity of centuries, will straighten their backs as well.
A grey, spiky as a hedgehog, bush that grows on our side of the post, serves as a reliable protection from the observing eyes of the enemy: it is ours, it is native. And exactly the same bush behind the post is bristling like an alarmed tarantula, being fraught with wicked surprises.
Rex is closely watching the bushes, as if recounting them constantly.
Deeply crashing into a stone foot of the rocky mountains, the bubbling foamy mountain stream rushes, jumping from rock to rock. In fact, this river was that border between the countries. On both its banks, the lonely shaggy trees with silver-gray dense foliage run down the stone folds of steep slopes. I have already counted and recounted the trees. I also know every fold and every ledge near the border sign, both on the home and the foreign side.
The border guards of our peace-loving neighbor, having received some kind of new instructions from their superiors, obviously threw aside all restrains recently. They suddenly became extremely belligerent. This has been felt especially in the last two or three months. Every Friday morning, prancing on the beautiful Arabian horses, their officers pass along the border, showing off the braids on their clothes and silver harness. A smart look of these dashing riders apparently gives soldiers the warlike and frivolous spirit, which definitely does not correspond to the sad monotony of the surrounding nature. Pulling out of the sheath their curved grandfather's sword, they cut the air, mockingly threatening us with the complete defeat and destruction.
Perhaps the destruction of a huge and powerful nation seems to them an easy entertainment. Their gestures are eloquent enough and clear, and their shouts drown out the noise of the roaring river below. I also just wanted to shout something evil and sharp back to them, but I usually remain restrained by the military regulations and by the great saying of Abai: “A screaming in anger person is ridiculous; a silent in anger person is terrible.”
I know the land of our neighbors quite well. In addition to the knowledge from school, I read a lot myself, remembering the words of the outpost head that one must know his neighbor well. What kind of new things have been added up to the life of this country for the last decade? People stopped wearing the old flashy and brazenly sticking headdress, but they are trying to keep unchanged in their minds. The inglorious history of the recent past was supplemented by the textile industry of an average value, which also had not been created by the neighbors themselves. But recently they have received new “von” as a present from Hitler with a reputation of a hard-boiled imperialist intriguer. Probably since that moment their soldiers started showing us their impudence, obviously considering it the courage.
What new things had been brought by that new “von” to this old country – with each passing day it became clearer to every ordinary soldier of our outpost. We all understood that frequent attempts of the spies and saboteurs to get across the border were not an accident. A few days ago, on behalf of the party organizer, during the political studies class I made a presentation on new foreign influences on our border neighbor, so I imagined clearly the full significance of our service.
But my change was over. Peace had not been violated, and I was returning to my outpost, so that I could leave it for a month in a few hours. All of my happy dreams, which were restricted during the hours of service, now took over me again. Rex slightly barked. I calmed him down, calling him to my leg.
The clear bluish mountain air and the pink beam of clouds, thrown carelessly onto the clear sky, besotted me by caressing silence. Rare grassland of the rocky hill, which had spent all night shivering, started to get warm and opened up bright yellow and blue stars towards the caress of the morning sun. The roar of the mountain river was heard by only the calmative and even breathing. I surrendered to a smooth and broad flow of love dreams again.
Suddenly, an unexpected shot interrupted the silence. Together with Rex we rushed over the rocks and rough surfaces back to the river. A few more shots sounded from the border post side.
Running back from half-way, just like me, Kolya Shurup was standing in the shade of a tree and was silently cursing muffled, peering through the foliage. I looked in that direction. Gliding on stones, almost being knocked down by the foamy stream, a young woman with a baby in her arms was crossing the river and shouting:
Allah! Allah!
The shots roared behind her, but none of the bullets reached her so far.
A group of riders on the other bank surrounded its border guards, shouting something and pointing guns toward our side. Two of them, pulling their horses up on their haunches, let them into the river after the fugitive. But the shot of our border guard stopped them.
The woman finally climbed to the bank and rushed straight to us. Reaching us, she sank helplessly to the ground, embracing her child.
She was young and pretty. Her wide silk trousers were torn on the rocks, her legs were grazed. Wailing and being out of breath, she was trying to explain something to us, trying to help herself with gestures and certain Russian words. But we still could understand something out of her nervous babble: her father, a Communist, was escaping to the Soviet Azerbaijan, and she begged us to help find him. She called the name of Allah upon us, looking back with horror at her chasers, who were still shouting and raving on the other side, and she held out the child to us.
I gave Rex’s leash to Kolya.
Here, I'll take her to the outpost...
The lieutenant approached us.
What's wrong? – he asked.
Suddenly, with a dull and hardly audible growl, Rex rushed down the river so persistently that Kolya immediately set off after him. Leaving the fugitive in the care of the lieutenant, I also ran into the thicket. I ran in their wake, listening to the snap of twigs. Suddenly, quite close to me, a shot rang out of bushes, I heard a wild scream, and then the roar of Rex and Kolya’s voice:
Catch him, Rex, catch him!
A stranger was lying face down in a thick bush. Rex put his right paw on his head, and grabbed his hand by his terrible chaps. Kolya was standing next to him, holding the gun in his left hand. Blood was heavily dripping from his right hand on the ground.
Are you injured? – I exclaimed.
Our fellow guards were running up from the both sides to help us. Taking advantage of the turmoil raised by the beauty with the child, our lovely neighbors tried to sneak the right person on the adjacent plot of the border.
That is how my destiny twisted. My friend Mykola Shurup was sent to the hospital. I was leaving instead of him at the disposal of the executive officer of the division. In my heart I felt that this sharp twist would take me away from the joyful meeting with my white baby camel for a long time.
III
Having just passed hundreds of kilometers of the railway and arriving at my destination, I learned that I had been enrolled in the course, which was quite to my liking for me as an athlete. We stayed at a distant from the cities camp, which we jokingly called the "resort". Sports, exercises, a variety of interesting and diverse science, which gave expertise – that was our studies. Shortly, our program had a little of algebra, but equations with a lot of unknowns were in abundance.
One of the fun activities at the courses was jumping from a parachute tower, which no longer made us nervous, and which became a daily entertainment, similar to a child sledging downhill. But then the real parachutes were brought, and by the evening our football field has been turned into an airfield, where a cloth letter “T” was laid out. A green air carrier roared out of the near forest, circled over our “resort”, and landed on the football field. We rushed to the plane, but at the very same moment a fun song of a trumpeter was heard:
Grab a spoon and grab a bun,
Don’t have one? Don’t worry, son!
This signal, calling for eating, has created a conditioned reflex in us: the short dancing sounds caused a queer feeling in the pit of the stomach. Not reaching the plane, we lined up for dinner, during which all the talk focused on tomorrow's jump from the plane. It somewhat made me nervous as well. The other comrades also anxiously awaited it.
I'm afraid of only one thing, – openly expressed his fears the youngest of us, Volodya Tolstov. – It seems to me that I will pull the ring before its due time in fright...
That’s nonsense, - said Petr Ushakov, already proudly wearing a parachute badge on the chest. – You just think so, but will pull it when it is needed to...
I was afraid of totally different thing – what if I lose courage on the wing of the aircraft at the time of the command to jump. The instructor commands: "Jump!" – but I'm still standing, not making up my mind... That would be a scandal!
However, in reality it was fine. But Volodya did just the opposite of what had feared: he was so afraid to hang on the tail of the plane, we all thought whether his parachute was working or not – his umbrella had not been opening for a long time.
Despite the nervousness, I could not get rid of my manners to watch people. Trying to guess their feelings, I directed my eyes from one comrade to another, and a few times my eyes stopped at the wide and quiet back of the pilot who drove the plane around over the area of the camp. Something in this tranquil and courageous back drew me back, and I was returning to it with my eyes again and again. I wanted to see the face of the pilot. And at the very same moment when the instructor told me to get ready, the captain looked back.
Shegen! – I shouted.
Of course, the roar of the motor blocked my voice, but our eyes met, and he slightly moved his eyebrows in a greeting manner.
That meeting made me forget the nervousness with which I thought of jumping. The only thing that occupied me was pleasure, desire to hug the old friend, and disappointment that I couldn’t tell him at least one of the thousands of warm words, which swarmed in my head.
By my bold jump from the aircraft, I decided to report to my friend about the path I had traveled without him. It is said that presence of a woman gives birth to a man’s courage and determination. No, no woman in the world could cause the greater desire to prove my courage. I easily jumped off the aircraft.
Just like the falcon from the cliff! – I shouted loudly without undue modesty, thank god there was not one around to hear me.
Above me was the sky, far below – the ground.
Like the falcon! – I shouted again and again with delight, going down on the meadow near our tents.
Volodya Tolstov was already running to me.
That was awesome! – he approved it joyfully and happily.
I was eager to see Shegen and immediately rushed to the football field, where the plane was supposed to land. Here it is, heavy and strong, passed over my head, here hit the ground with the wheels, bounced and rolled on the flat meadow to the edge.
But I did not have time to reach Shegen: the instructor was rushing to meet us. We lined up at the edge of the platform for the analysis our jumps. The lieutenant, the troop commander, who had been watching each of us from the ground, came up to us, expressing all kind of approval.
I knew that I had parachuted down beautifully and accurately, and I waited for praise, but wanted Shegen to hear the Commander call my name and how I would shout, “Serving the Soviet Union!" Expecting Shegen to show up in a hatch, I was looking at the plane all the time, but it suddenly shuddered, ran across the field past us with ever increasing speed, separated from the ground, swung and floated to the sky.
“Shegen!” – my heart shouted after him, in the sky. – Shegen! Where are you going? .. Stop! Come back!.. "
But the plane circled over us, shook its wing and disappeared behind the trees.
In the evening, Shegen found me in the club tent. He was a captain already. He stood at the entrance to the tent, calm, strong, handsome.
Friendly reaching his hand out to me, by a firm handshake, he prevented the possibility of a childish trick from my side. While I was looking for the right words in confusion, he managed to meet with the others and joyfully congratulated all of us with the first jump from the plane.
Now we are already sitting next to each other on the bench at a table covered with a red cloth. He is embarrassedly looking through an issue of “Crocodile”, and I am smiling in confusion. I understand that my smile may seem silly. We are watched by my comrades, it, to whom a meeting of two old friends seems quite interesting. Even the knowledge that I am the spotlight in the room does not help me to overcome embarrassment. I had so many poems and stories I stored in my heart for the meeting with Shegenom, which thoughts I need to share with him!? But my heart confusedly froze, and I cannot start. All that comes to mind relates to the very old times and it seems so naive and childish, that I am even ashamed to share it with Shegen. It turned out all my stored thoughts consisted of only childish dreams and childhood memories that were unworthy of the attention of an adult, who again turned out to be Shegen. That was what caused my ridiculous smile, because my story about the two-year military service came out to be so dry; moreover, Shegen already knew everything about that from my letters.
Saying goodbye to Shegen, I felt his hand grabbing my shoulder. It seemed like a hug, but it wasn’t quite the one that warmed the two of us back then.
Don’t be embarrassed, Kostya. Your silence just means that we both have grown up. There is nothing new to share yet, but all the old memories have too much signs of the childhood. Isn’t it so? But for me, all that you have experienced during these two years is the most interesting thing, – Shegen said to me at parting. – Tomorrow is a day off – let's meet and have a more detailed talk. We will go to the city and the theater. After the first jump, I'll make you a day of cultural activities.
I earned an honorable mention for the first jump, – I blew my own trumpet.
I was watching your jump, - seriously replied Shegen. – Such a trooper would be shot in the air five times by the opponent. You show off in the air, Kostya, but it is not ballet – you need to parachute down quickly.
Shegen left, and something ached in my soul all night long. It was disappointing for me that the meeting with the friend had turned out to be very different from what it used to be. Why I did not dare to throw my arms around him? Can it be true that nothing of the richness of our childhood should be kept anymore?
After all, I could talk to my Mykola all night, and we could easily disembosom ourselves to each other, although we hadn’t spent our childhood together. Maybe we became close to each other because we had experienced the adult life and the dangers of border service together. I told him about my Akbota, and he confessed about his love for the girl named Maya. But once the thought came to love, I got frightened because Akbota came from even more distant childhood than Shegen. Am I so jealously protecting only her childhood image and the memory of my childhood feeling?..
No, it's completely different, permanent, and immutable.
This thought calmed me down, and I drowned myself in sleep, thinking that I would reveal to Shegen the secret of my love, about which I had never written to him.
IV
The cloudless happy day began with a cheerful song. It was Sunday, and those who did not take a leave warrant to the city, were preparing to spend a day at the sea, which took about an hour to travel there by train from our place. The sun threatened to be sultry today. The honey smell of flowers evaporated with dew and filled this summer morning with lingering bliss.
We just went back to the tents and began to have a wash and shave. I tried very hard because I had to go around the city with the captain!
Suddenly, the alarm sounded over the camp.
What the hell, it is not the right time for that!.. – shouted someone from the students.
We lost our day off! – sighed the second, throwing a shoe brush into the bedside table and hastily tightening his belt.
Alarms have become a daily occurrence lately. It was, as they said, the usual ending of the study course. We were accustomed to morning, day and night time alarms; it was especially annoying when the alarm rang half an hour after the evening sound-off.
But we had not had the alarm ringing this weekend yet.
With an involuntary haste, we are rushing for the forming-up in the line, checking each other’s dressing and pull up the belts. Everyone wants this game to be over as soon as possible.
First, second, first, second... – rolled from the right to the left the discordant flow of counting off.
Right! – clearly and manly commanded the platoon leader.
We are gathered all together on the playground, the whole battalion. Lining up, we hear the trumpet alarm at the nearby artillery camp, in the mountains, two kilometers away from us. The roaring airplanes from the closest airport fly by overhead. There is our yesterday’s one... I think I see Shegen, but the same powerful aircrafts fly by following him – four, six, nine. With howling, the fighter aircrafts fly by.
Ready! Front!
Our course commander Major Demkin and Commissioner Somov, all tense, pass through the formation, climb on the sports referees tower.
And through the roar of another careening squadron of bombers over the camp, with a bomb explosion the Commissioner said that that night the fascists brutally bombed the west and south of our country and that on the western border a fierce fighting was already taking place at those moments.
The whole line froze. Besides beating of his own heart, everyone heard the heartbeat of his beside partner.
The war!
And now, with a different look we stared at the rushing to the west squadron.
Farewell, my Shegen! Happy luck and quick victory, my friend Shegen!
Just the day before, in our tent, we all peacefully proved the nonexistent opponent that we could not help experiencing a battle soon. And today, when the word “war” was said, we could not believe that it had already started.
In the early hours, we hardly felt the reality of what was happening. Everyone was ready for the fight, but each of us still wanted to see how ready our friends were, that was why everyone's eyes were strictly looking at each other.
I believe that my thoughts at that hour did not differ from the other soldiers: I thought about what position would be assigned personally to me in the great Red Army formation by the unexpectedly appearing events.
We gave the majestically sounding loyalty oath with getting the meaning of every single word.
An hour later, I, along with other comrades, ripped in the truck on the winding asphalt mountain road for the disposal by the large unit, for which we were prepared.
V
At the crossing, I got so accustomed to incessant roaring engines, loud car horns, turmoil arguments and screeches, that by making hundred steps from the road, immediately felt the silence. Freed from the usual chaos of sounds, my ears could hear the grumbling of the river, the breath of the riparian forest, and a plaintive meow of an abandoned cat. Here, on the other side of the river, warning about the imminent dawn, a rooster lingeringly crowed just like it used to in peacetime, and immediately, somewhere nearby, the answering crow came back from a vociferous rooster in a cart.
Sinking in the dark pits and trenches, stumbling over the torn up by the roots trees, I'm looking for two wounded comrades in the woods, who hid in the deep crater from and air bomb.
No, during the first days of the war, we appeared not where we wanted, and we are fighting not as we thought.
During our courses, along with other comrades, I believed that we were being prepared for the first active chest-to-chest fights with the enemy, who would dare to cross the borders of our homeland. We expected that we would have to rush to the battle on the very first day, in the very first hour, at the very first moment of the mortal battle. Every one of our soldiers thought that way. But the enemy was advancing, he was impudently trampling our land, while we all were drawing a rear service.
So now, on the second day, instead of bloody battles and acts of bravery, we directed all the power to maintain the order on the unknown bridge lost in the river plains of the Azov Sea.
We are fighting for the most basic and undeniable thing – for the ferry priority and avoiding traffic jams when crossing and passing the bridge. This everyday work assimilates us with policeman-traffic-controllers. Where is the heroism or the case for the feat here!?
Colonel Ozimin was actually right, comforting us all by saying that these days on whole front there would not be a more difficult area than this unknown bridge.
We are just one branch of fighters here, and thousands of people flow through the bridge. Many thousands passed to the other side that night, and the same number have gathered here in the evening again!
Now I'm the chief of the crossing. First it was Lieutenant Gorkin, the commander of our reconnaissance unit. Yesterday, at the evening dawn, when we were not expecting a new attack of fascists, three facist bombers dropped bombs on the cluster of cars and people at the bridge. One of the bombs exploded not far from the bridge, near the bank. The lieutenant was thrown by the blast to one of the cars. He got up quickly and energetically shouted to a driver:
Go back!
Comrade Lieutenant, are you wounded? – I asked, as each of us would usually ask when at a moment of acute danger.
Lieutenant just waved aside and continued to command the crossing. His hoarse but still loud voice was heard until almost midnight, but suddenly he broke off abruptly, and our commander, helplessly leaning on the wing of the truck, began to fall down. I caught him. My arm felt under his cape a sticky mass of blood that had already soaked both his underwear and shirt.
He groaned.
Assume command, Sartaleev, – the only thing he could say before passing out.
We hid him in the funnel. I wanted to evacuate him from crossing immediately, but he refused, even though his back was full of small shatters, and his shoulder was heavily dissected. We had been sending dozens of the wounded that night, but he kept refusing to leave the crossing. Sometimes he fell into oblivion, but regaining consciousness, carefully asked how I deal with the case, how is the crossing, and helped with instructions.
Today, in the evening he haggard so much that he looked like a dead man lying motionless. I tried to persuade him to be crossed. The sanitary service doctor came up to him twice, offering to pre-transfer him to the truck. He refused, saying that he would die there in the heat, and in the woods, in the funnel, it was much cooler and better. Few moments after, a car appeared in front of the bridge that could deliver him in two to three hours to the sanitary train. Noticing it a cart at the crossing, I rushed to my commander.
I myself carried Lieutenant Gorkin there, while my comrades – one more soldier, wounded by a splinter of a bomb in his knee. Now I, a sergeant, was the only commander. I sent a messenger to report about the wounded lieutenant to the headquarters. I signed the report as the chief of the crossing, and I found myself being childishly proud by this signature. Being the chief of the crossing is no joke: just turn your back, and the drivers will break through our crossing and rush ahead, threatening to destroy the bridge. “To destroy” may sound too strong, but “to create a solid jam” – probably. Even the senior commanders often do not think about the order, trying to get their unit out first.
Do you know, sergeant, what the proper organization of the retreat means? – yelled at me a gloomy unshaven Artillery Major in a draped over the shoulder ground sheet – it is the key of attacking! Saving equipment should be the first priority! I order you to let my unit pass first! – he pointed to the vehicles that were running into the side of the column.
I see his unit, stretched along the road. Its guns, tractors and trucks with ammunition, disguised by trees and, therefore, very similar to a long chain of planted forests that end somewhere behind the hills. And here, in front of the bridge, platform-soles, guns, cars, and tractors crowded as well, the horse carts flocked up the bridge, and all of those threatened to create an unimaginable mess. Our goal is not to let everything get messy and to prevent jams.
I can’t, Comrade Major. Get off the road.
I open the way to the sanitary truck taking our lieutenant and several two-horse carts with wounded soldiers. The irritated Major, apparently convinced of my rightness, moves away and, looking askance at the bridge, curses and rolls a cigarette.
I understand the importance of the Major’s order. I myself think it is necessary first of all to let his military equipment pass. But if you give them a way from the flank, everything will get mixed up. I would be happy to let all the vehicles pass at once, and even that old lady sitting near the edge of the woods on the bullock-cart teamed by bluish oxen. I have been seeing her waving in my direction since the evening, but I know that these days she has not made a single step closer to the bridge, and she even had to go back because of the pushing mass.
If we were not overwhelmed by the vociferous roar of the war, if people complied with the order, which was always followed by them in everyday life, if all vehicles were as calm as a dozen of the sanitation vehicles, which are passing at this moment, then I would primarily give the road, of course, to the major – a representative of “the god of war.” I would find enough heart involvement and open the way to this humble, uncomplaining old woman ...
The jam dissolved only for a moment. The mess barely started to disappear, but the overjoyed at the bridge traffic vehicle drivers, horse carts riders and pedestrians again violently rushed close to the site of the bridgehead that was under protection with such a persistence by the fighter of our subdivision.
The threat hanged over the several thousand strong crowds again.
The fighters of my subdivision were forced to retreat towards the bridge under the pressure of roaring vehicles. Our “screening” bridgehead area was forced to shorten by two meters.
Comrade Tolstov, don’t move an inch! – I ordered, noting that Volodya retreated to the river deeper than others.
Stop! – shouted Volodya to the driver.
The vehicle stopped, still grumbling by the running motor. Following it, the other vehicles stopped as well.
We had to quickly and correctly solve the problem of how to start letting the first ones in the line pass, so that the rest would enter without getting messy.
I knew that the retreating units were heading to organize defense at Taganrog. First of all, it was necessary to give the road to those people who were heading to Taganrog, but we had at times to favor the bulls and carts with household goods over the main guns and platform-soles in order to quickly open the way for the same main guns and platform-soles.
When I “screened” the closest to the bridge mess, suddenly, somewhere close, so strange for this situation sounds were heard that at first I could not believe my ears. Maybe even not understanding by hearing, but rather by people's faces and their suddenly warmed eyes, I guessed that it was not a dream, that I actually heard a simple and a familiar tune:
A song helps us build, it helps us live,
It calls and directs, it helps us believe...
This melody sounded, covering the roar of engines and horns of cars. It was not clear how such a small sound could overcome the thousand roars of the engines, but, nevertheless, everything subsided and got silent before it. Looking back, I saw a truck pinned to the bank and a Ukrainian group of female students who put their record player on a pile of baskets and suitcases.
Finding a solution, I silently pointed the path to one of the cars standing near the bridge. Its driver opened up the engine, and traffic on the bridge suddenly acquired tranquility and order. However, from somewhere in the end of the column, I again heard the approaching threatening rumble of hundreds of engines.
Comrade Major, help me control the flow! – I shouted to the artillery major.
Major gave me an understanding and explicitly approving look, and stood beside me on the site.
Comrade Sergeant, let’s put another chain of fighters fifty meters ahead. I will send my submachine gunners, – he said comradely, as if I was his peer.
He rolled a new cigarette and was about to smoke, but then changed his mind and stuck it in my mouth.
Have a smoke, – he said, holding up his lighter. – Tired?
The measure taken by the Major immediately affected the traffic: the vehicles went smoothly through the middle of the bridge, the units of tired infantry and refugees with fardels passed by as the endless string along the edges.
Lightened east warned that fascist scouts were going to fly in and that the military units should be given the road faster, since the evacuation of the population would have to be taken care of for the whole day.
The river started to take a metallic luster. The early morning blew cool breeze, and the dark air started to lose its thick night density. The golden clouds lit in the east.
The Mayor, now standing next to me, noticed that morning will come soon and that the military vehicles should leave for the cam-up in the gorge. I exchanged glances with him, guessing his simple trick: the Major expected to push its unit through the crossing at the very last moment before the inevitable attacks by enemy aircrafts.
For two days in a row, they had been haunting the bridge from dawn to dusk. However, set in a ravine antiaircraft battery and antiaircraft guns located in the bush did not allow the enemy to put down for the bombing, and such a target as the bridge was not easily reachable from high altitude. Air raid was far more dangerous for people and vehicles on the road near the bridge. The crossing was managed quite differently during the daytime, placing the controllers in the ravines at the villages and starting to give the road between the enemy raids only to small groups of vehicles and people.
The Major barely had time to make his alert, as he heard the first roar of fascist aircrafts.
In the air! In the air! – shouts were heard.
A row of light fascist bombers, descending steeply to the left from us, like a sledge going down the mountain, appeared in the air, trying to find the crossing.
The antiaircraft guns started unitedly crackling from the hills, and the battery of antiaircraft guns in the ravine behind the river stroke with the vibrating howl.
The vehicles, without any orders, suddenly rolled off the road in different directions to disguise. The infantrymen scattered in different sides, the women ran away in groups. The road got almost empty and only the artillery regiment vehicles, camouflaged with trees and commanded by the Major, calmly pulled up close to the bridge, finally freeing from all the cars and carts pushing their convoy.
The sun had not yet appeared, and the light aircrafts could not see the crossing in the pale dawn, but, probably, guided by the bends of the river, they decided to dump their load randomly. The first explosions took place, and two high water plumes shot up above the river. A falling bomb whunked and exploded on the other side of the crossing far from the road. We were in a tank-cut next to the bridge with the Major. One of the bombs landed in a deserted by residents village on the other side of the river. A pillar of fire rose right away; straw probably broke out. Finally, two more crumps fell near a hill where the antiaircraft gun settled. I anxiously sat up out of the tank-cut, wanting to see what was going on. But the antiaircraft gunners immediately alerted us by bang of the machine guns about their full wellness. The sparks of the explosions flashed around the aircrafts, giving rise to a light haze and not letting the enemy fall. Making two circles above the crossing, the vultures turned to the west and quickly disappeared in the sky.
The Artillery Regiment rushed to the bridge and moved with the entire convoy of vehicles and guns in a quiet marching order. Everyone understood that it was necessary to hurry, that the scouts were about to be followed by the heavy squadron of fascist bombers. Then we would have to stop all the movement.
My soldiers jumped out of the crevices of the shelter, took up defensive positions far away from the bridge, providing a more spacious area for sorting.
The front vehicles of the artillery regiment had crossed the nearby hill on the other side of the river, when after the last truck a passenger car smoothly arrived. The Junior lieutenant with boyishly protruding ears opened the door, inviting the commander to get in.
The Major looked at me straight in the eyes and said with a sly smile:
Goodbye, Sergeant ... As soon as I see you again, I will take the change out of you...
The Major’s car smoothly rolled ahead of the regiment, and the first rays of the sun gushed toward it, illuminating the steppe and flashing the windows of the cars that were hurrying to the crossing from the groves and other shelters. We quickly let them pass.
In the air! – the cries were heard again.
I began to look for the cause of the alarm in the sky and immediately recognized our yesterday’s “hawk”, circling over us during the bombing breaks. Someone suggested yesterday that it guards the airfield located not so far.
The flow of vehicles and weapons uniformly rolled across the bridge.
The familiar old woman was sitting on her shapeless araba in the same position as yesterday. Her oxen were lying peacefully and chewing their cud. I thought that if the bombing was not long, I would try to give the road to the old woman and the truck with black browed girls with gramophone.
Volodya came up to me.
Here, have a bite, – he said and put in my mouth the end of a bitten sausage he was holding tightly in his black from dirt hand.
The river is nearby. You should have washed your hands! – I said, biting off a piece and only then feeling that I have been hungry for quite long.
The Major left us the whole cart. Live, do not grieve! – Volodya said, handing a piece of bread in the other hand.
So we started eating, alternately exchanging our unexpected wealth: he gives me his bread, and I – my sausage, I give him my bread, he – his sausage ... Realizing that, we laughed.
I looked around. The other guys chewed as well. The smooth movement of vehicles served as a vacation for us. But our breakfast did last long: our "hawk" suddenly let out its roar, dipped down and, leveling off almost with a contour chasing over the crossing, rushed to the east. According to yesterday's experience, it could be said with certainty that it was the fascists’ raid. Even without seeing any aircraft, but being convinced that they would come out soon, I cried out:
In the air!
My cry was picked up everywhere on the road and on the sides in the bushes. Our guys signaled to the vehicles that got on the road, and they crawled back in the bushes and trees. A howling roar of engines was heard, and the heavy German cars drove out on the road. Heights of water and dirt, the wreckage of cars, and clouds of smoke flew across the plain, but the most intense place was here, at the bridge: flying over the crossing, each aircraft seemed to peck it and dropped whistling bombs. Everything around the crossing started moaning, shrieking and howling. In the black blizzard of smoke and dust, in the roar of explosions, the sun, looking like a dim little red plate, appeared over the edge of the hill. It seemed like the roar and howl squashed and forced against the ground every single living thing, penetrating the man at the first stroke. It seemed like you hear it by the ears, mouth, and even the soles of your boots.
My head appeared to be tightly held to the corner of the trench, and the body was both trembling and buzzing together with the whole ground. This was the moment when, being taken over by the physical numbness that you had never experienced before, you do not feel fear by the heart as much, as you are surprised to investigate it as a kind of alien body, digging into your being.
With an incredible effort I got my head off the corner of the trench and saw Volodya. He was sitting with his back forced against the wall and watching what was happening overhead. We understandingly looked at each other and smiled.
Isn’t your back tingling? – he asked me.
It is screaming, that Satan!
And I, brothers, just feel sick, – responded a two-meter giant Sema Zonin, the worker from Stalingrad.
Worst of all, they could circle above us so impudently, so boldly! Motors continuously roared and howled, the heights of dirt and wreckage started rising here and there, and we were just silently waiting.
Rushing to the pit at the first bomb explosions, I saw my old woman heading in the same direction. She was walking slowly and indifferently, as if she was forced to do so.
Now, in the moment of stagnancy between the explosions, I heard her groan and rushed to her.
Are you wounded, grandma?
No, my dear, I am alright...
I thought you were groaning.
My heart is groaning, my dear! – she said.
I wanted to comfort her and say that today I would certainly let her pass on the other side, but said nothing instead.
Her senile eyes were fixed on the East as if in prayer. It seemed like she did not hear that roar and quietly whispered. I realized that she wasn’t possessed by the fear for her life. Suddenly, her glassy stare brightened up, seeing in the sky something new and remarkable. I looked in the same direction. As if in response to her prayer, a silver "hawk" was swirling on us right from the East, and here is the second one, here is the third one.
The one in the front quickly rushed in the crowd of fascists. Explosions suddenly died down; there was a short intermittent crackle of machine-gun fire in the sky. Stopping our breath, we were watching the aircrafts. As a huge cockroach, heavy, helpless, dangling with his belly on his own intestine, the fascist bomber fell down, dragging the stream of smoke behind him.
I looked at the old woman. Tears wouldn’t stop rolling down her yellow cheeks. She already understood everything, but to be firmly sure, she needed to hear confirmation.
Was it the German one that crashed? – she asked me.
The German one, grandma! – Volodya exclaimed.
The old woman marked herself with a sign of the cross.
Our brave "hawks" hovered as silver lightning, first soaring upward, then flickering in a sharp fall, then flying back up. But there were still few of them, and they were drowning in the clouds of fascist swarms.
At that times, the Germans hands were still longer for the air strikes than ours.
VI
Our crossing was gone that morning. An hour after the first bombing three squadrons of German bombers flew in, burned and destroyed the bridge.
The road became almost empty. Everyone headed north: to look for a crossing in the upper reaches. From time to time cars, more of civil ones, and horse carts arrived at the crossing and whopped along the river, looking for a place to cross.
A German spy – a "croaker" – was impudently circling above the burned bridge, apparently photographing the destroyed crossing.
In the deep crater, where Lieutenant Gorkin was laying yesterday, three of my surviving fighters slept. I sent two of them on the scout to find out how far the German units were, and the other one was sent as a liaison to the staff to report on the destruction of the crossing and ask for demining or pontoon unit for the bridge recovery.
I'm waiting for my soldiers to return.
The clock ticks very slowly in this unusual silence.
"So that is what the real war looks like! - the idea bumps into my head. - How much of still unexplored by me mysteries it stores, how much of everyday hard work for a soldier it has!.. "
"The severity of thought drives down your head, Comrade Sergeant!" - I seem to hear the usual joke of Volodya Tolstov, who loved to parody my heavy Russian speech.
It is so quiet around that I want to shout to break the oppressive silence. The hollow roar of explosions from somewhere far away started coming, but everything here is in a breathless silence: trampled and fading flowers, uprooted trees with barely rustling leaves, the lonely cry of a bird who has lost its nest, hollow groan of a wounded girl lying under a bush about a hundred paces from us, - all of those puts pressure upon us, but means a stand-down.
The wind brings the smell of fire.
I look back at the road, on the edges of which the broken machines lie, I look at the ruined land and clearly hear the groans of the dying girl.
I could not help recalling the cheerful song that I heard yesterday from her truck:
And the one who lives his life with a song...
No, not this song, – my soul wants a different one, a more severe one. My comrades are tired, their faces are covered with bristle, they are unusually dirty, smelling like sour sweat, burnt and gunpowder; they fell asleep immediately, as soon as they paid the last respects to their fallen comrades. Exhausted and touching just like tired kids, they fell asleep in the most uncomfortable positions. One of them is snoring very loud, and I even like it: it makes me think about his serenity and strength. These guys were so fearless at the crossing, and now they seem to be helpless. Their sleep is restless and difficult, but I am afraid of being dragged into the temptation with which I have been fighting for several days in a row.
In order to stay awake, I look for something to do. My hand reaches out to the last letter from my mother, which is safely hidden in my blouse’s pocket together with a Komsomol ticket.
I know this letter almost by heart, but still keep re-reading it again. My mother misses me. My older brother has also been called up for military service and is now fighting somewhere with fascists. Being unable to bear the loneliness, my mother returned from Guryev to Kairakty and did not recognize her native village: there was a strong and rich kolkhoz instead. But her longing for me still torments her. My mother sends me letters, saying that she would rush to me just as easy as she had once come to the orphanage, when she started missing me. But she does not know what kind of a city it is with a long number and a single letter at the end, where I usually send it from. How far is it? Is it in the mountains or in the feather-grass steppe? Is it better to get on a train to reach me, or to ask the chairman for a couple of trotters to find her son?
I see her at my bed-head in a light Ural orphanage room, I feel her breath and the dearest mother smell. Her hardened working fingers gently strike my head, she kisses me in the forehead first, and then goes on all over me: it doesn’t matter for her – my forehead, nose, eyes, hands or feet. Waking up, I did not open my eyes then. I considered myself as an adult, I was uncomfortable to caress my mother as a child with my eyes open, and I clung with the indescribable bliss to her breasts and, freezing for a moment, started listening to the joyfull beating of her heart.
You have become grownup so quickly, my Kayrush! – that is what she would say to me even now.
The highest joy of any mother is to admire the grownup nestling, and mine goes back and forth, circling around me, doting on me just like a mother hen. For her, I'm still the same kid, the same Kayrush, who once ran away to the city. And that boy started growing up, she visited him from time to time, kissed him, wondering by his quick growth, but when separated, she always remembered me as the boy, who once left to the city.
A Light crackling of twigs behind me pulled the maternal embrace out of me. I woke up in the woods above the crater, in which three of my comrades were sleeping still.
Our old woman came up to me.
Well, the bridge is gone, - she said, either asking me, or expressing her compassion. – You see, everything became so quiet... And it is still hammering over there! – she pointed off to the west, where the sounds of the bombing came from.
I was glad that she survived and motherly came to us to say a few words.
Where are your bulls? – I asked her, finding nothing better to talk about.
They are safe, son! – she replied. – The wretched fascists cannot destroy every single living thing anyway... and my chickens are safe as well. – she held out three warm eggs to me. – Three of them laid the eggs, the fourth one could not make it, shame on her!..
I woke the fighters up. We had a lot of food, so we fed the old woman as well.
Our scouts returned, and Vladimir Tolstov, stretching out in front of me as the Constitution required and coming to hand salute, reported that the task had been completed.
He informed me in pride that he had not only found out the location of the Germans, but had also seen them himself, by his own eyes. It was the first military task of Volodya. He had seen the face of the enemy. His gray eyes were shining with a bluish blaze.
Hiding his uniform, he joined the crowd of refugees and pretended to be lame and blind. Staying invisible, he looked at the flow of the Germans, rolling on the shoulders of the civilian population.
So, what are they like? – I asked, looking with envy in his bold eyes that had seen something my eyes have not seen yet.
Bullies and bandits, – Volodya said. – Have you seen the fascist sergeants?
No. Have you?
Well, I’ve seen a lot, I already know... They have a ton of tanks, their cars roll on the roads. Their foot troops don’t walk, they ride, and they treat people even worse than dogs.
Mockers and thieves? – the old woman asked.
Even worse! – Volodya replied, and suddenly his dashing tone disappeared, his voice started shaking. – Dogs, swine, pigs! – he exclaimed. – They drive women and children just like cattle, they beat them with boots... and you, scout, be patient! You were taught to watch everything and act like you don’t see it, you are not allowed to be surprised, you have to control yourself ... Try to really control yourself, when they commit atrocities in front of you ... Just try it yourself...
And what? – I asked, putting my hand on his shoulder. I understood what had happened without his explanation.
Well... – he said, pulling a yellow wallet out of his pocket, which I had never seen him having it.
Everybody curiously bent over the papers when I began to open them. First of all, we saw a brave mustached fellow in a cap, looking at us smugly and impudently from the photo. Then, examining the text, `I read: “Captain Alberto Nicolo Carini Pietro.”
He is probably an Italian, – I said.
He was just a bastard without any nation, just a fascist executioner… and a rapist ... ...
How did you get him?
Just like that – using my fist and squeezing his throat ... – Volodya got silent in excitement.
We looked at our dearest and youngest comrade with undisguised admiration and respect.
So, you paid him back for the women's tears? – the old woman asked, suddenly interrupting. She patted Volodya on the shoulder with a maternal gesture.
Volodya, you have to take this wallet to the headquarters. Maybe it is important to know that there are Italians in our area, – I said, fingering the photos of women, letters, and some kind of documents.
Well, then I am out, – said Volodya.
The second scout, Seryozha, was looking at his friend with envy: he had not gone as far as Volodya, and his investigation was limited by the survey of refugees.
Have something to eat first and then go! – I said to Volodya.
No, I am good, – he said, getting up from the grass.
Comrade Tolstov, I order you to have a snack, – I demanded officially in a commander way.
Yes, Comrade Sergeant, – Volodya replied.
As we talked, the deep twilight took over, and immediately, one after the other, the cars began to gather on the road to the former bridge.
Hey, comrades, where is the crossing? – shouted one of the drivers, heading toward us.
We said bye-bye to the crossing! – Joked Sergey. – You will have to take your pants off and swim across the river.
Well, brother, you're lying. Your jokes are poor, guys... But have you looked for a ford? – the driver asked.
All the areas are deep here. Who knows where it may be forded! – I replied.
I knew that a lot of people, horses and cars stayed on this side of the river. The ford would save their lives and honor. The ford would save people from violence for the part of the civilian population, which could not escape from the fascists.
Who knows how Zakharovsky ford this summer is like, - suddenly the old woman said. – It seems like you will have to go there from now on!
Which ford, grandma? – we all brightened up.
It’s Zakharovsky ford. Zakharovs were clothiers, ever heard of them? Their factory was fifteen miles from here. During the Civil War, Zakharov burned it down, so that people could not take it away from him, and he ran away to the Englishmen. His manager was an Englishman, he was married on the eldest daughter, Katya; after that she became Kitey, not Katya...
Well, so what?
The factory was somewhere here, and wool was being washed on that side: my deceased husband worked there at his young age. The ford was therefore arranged there. Zakharov himself stayed at the construction site. The whole summer he had been carrying stones to the bottom of the river, then he was sucked down by the sand…
The driver wanted to take the old woman with him in the car, but she refused to part with the oxen. The commanders of the lined-up units and divisions gathered around the old women and started asking her about the ways to find that ford.
Then why have you been sitting here for three days, grandma? – I asked her. – Why didn’t you go through the ford?
Why would I go alone? What about people! – she said innocently.
Tractors and platform soles started roaring along the coast, clearing off the way to the ford through bushes, meadows and fields.
Gun shooting were heard closer and closer. After the sunset, we saw some kind of a gleam of lightning, tearing apart the sky in the west.
We helped the old woman to get her bulls in the truck and to hit the road all together.
In the darkness, a call was heard from the destroyed crossing on the other side of the river. It was our communication agent, who returned from the headquarters. He spent a long time on the river bank tossing something heavy, and finally we saw how he pushed off from the bank, and a dark silhouette started coming closer to us. He stood at his full height, pushing off with a stick. It turned out that he was floating on the bottom of a broken body of the truck.
He brought us an order to return to the unit, but before that we were ordered to investigate the ford, about which we have just been informed by the old woman. It turned out that people at the headquarters found out about it ahead of us. In ten minutes, on one of the trucks, we caught up with our old woman, who was driving her oxen. She kissed each one of the guys before hitting the road, just like her own grandsons, especially gently hugging Volodya.
You're nice! You have a warm heart, – she said. – Well, good bye, darlings, good luck on your way, thank you ... God bless you all...
We got in the car and hit the road.
When we arrived at the ford, lines of cars already started rolling through it, the kolkhoz cattle and a long train of peasant carts, packed with children and possessions, passed by.
The ground around us was trembling loudly. The lurid reflection started rising from the west.
VII
I entered the dugout of the new commander of the scouting platoon, Lieutenant Miroshnik. While he was finishing a report, I habitually tried to see it and figure out what kind of person it was. A float of the oil lamp on the table in front of him was floating like a buoy on the smooth surface of an oily lake. The light was tossing in all directions, as if eager to fly, and made it hard to see the face of the lieutenant. It was amusing to see how the huge shadows of people were running on the wall at the whim of the faint light. The commander’s shadow, broad-shouldered and big-headed, first rose to the ceiling, then hid behind its owner. A golden field butterfly was importunately fluttering above the oil lamp..
The commander sat at the table built from some boxes that were carefully hidden by a ground sheet for the trench comfort. Looking fresh, dark, clean-shaven, neat, with a thick dark eyebrows almost converging on the bridge, he caused all kind of respect from the fighters. I do not like piercing or heart-searching gaze. The stare of the big black eyes of lieutenant Miroshnik did not ask, did not test, but simply and unequivocally expressed confidence.
Well, tell me, Comrade Sergeant.
I reported to the commander everything that had happened during those days at the entrusted to us crossing, and also told him about the explored ford. The lieutenant listened attentively, and, as it seemed to me, a barely perceptible spark of a smile at times flashed in his eyes, probably caused by the wrong sentences construction of my Russian speech. And when I want to speak beautifully and correctly, I always lose my thoughts and my sentences become incoherent.
Have a seat, – he told me in conclusion, when, having overcome all the obstacles of the complicated syntax of my Russian, I reached the end of my report.
But there was actually nothing to sit on, so I, standing still, asked him to give a hearing to Tolstov, the fighter of my division.
And what kind of a special report does he have?
He went on the scout.
Volodya was nervous and spoke even confusingly, worse than I did. He reported all that he had seen, he listed the whole situation in detail. I was afraid that he would completely forget or would not want to speak out of modesty about the fascist captain. It turned out to be that way: Volodya could not tell about it. His face suddenly changed, his lips twisted and twitched, he stopped in mid-sentence, pulled out the yellow wallet of the killed officer and put it on the table in silence.
The lieutenant carefully looked through the papers in silence as well, looked at both of us, stood up, shook both of our hands and said:
Go get some rest and shave.
I felt and remembered that firm lean and trusting brotherly hand.
Why did you cross me up! – sensitively told me Volodya when we went out from the lieutenant’s office.
What do you mean?
You know that I don’t really know how to report. Now what happened? I confused things repeatedly, and in the end couldn’t say anything that made sense...
What do you mean you couldn’t? You reported everything you told me, it was even more.
I didn’t forget to tell about the tanks, did I?
Calm down, please, you did not forget anything, – I comforted my friend.
At the sunrise, all of us woke up at the same time. Volodya asked me the same question I was going to ask him myself.
What’s wrong?
Huge Zonin looked at Sergey with the same question, and Sergey looked at him back: each of us thought that a neighbor woke him up by an awkward sharp push.
The ground trembled again, and, as if in fright, the oil lamp light blinked.
From the dugout slots the brown dust started slowly drizzling at us, – just like the sand flowing in hospital hourglass. But the sleep of the young tired guys was so deep that we probably had not heard the first and a very close explosion, but only felt the push. I got out of the dugout and saw that in several places the piled ground started falling on the forest by dark and heavy humps.
The roar and rumble, mixed with the shells groan, approached us. Germans transferred the fire guns, feeling the target.
Here, not far away from us, a ragged black cloud of smoke and ground was raised up by a shell explosion, and only a minute later we saw an outline of an oak that got pulled out by the explosion, as if the sudden autumn blew its foliage away.
This time the Germans didn’t use their aviation against us, but instead pushed with the long-range guns. A hurricane howling rose above the forest. From time to time, the swarms of bomb fragmentations flew with a sharp rustle, just like the noise of the bird wings.
I went back to the dugout. We all hid.
Hello comrades! – We heard the voice of Lieutenant Miroshnik and saw his polished boots at the stairs.
The commander did not come alone, but he was with political commissar Revyakin. We got up. Zonin was standing awkwardly hunched, propped with his strong back the ceiling of the dugout.
Did you get enough rest? – asked the lieutenant.
Yes, Comrade Lieutenant, – I answered for everyone.
The political commissar Revyakin, who is known to all of us from the very first days of the war, told us about the battle near Smolensk, where the Germans had not only slowed down the advance, but had frozen in their positions and couldn’t move a single step further.
Spending a few days at the crossing, we were cut off from the information and now eagerly soaked up the latest news. We asked about the German advance in all the fronts. The fascist army seemed to me like a four-teethed fork, glaring into the body of our country. Now each of those teeth started stubbing into something solid and irresistible, they even started to bend a little.
During our conversation, the fascist artillery attack stopped. Lieutenant Miroschnik and our political commissar had the entire platoon lined up and took us deep into the forest. We waited for the commander of the division there. Thick and chunky, with graying temples and blue sad eyes that looked kind of feminine, he was surrounded by the stranger commanders, among whom I immediately recognized the artillery major from the crossing. He reported something shortly to the colonel, while we were waiting after the command “attention”, then he gave his military fashioned greetings and left.
The colonel looked at us and ordered to sit on the grass.
Many of you who have not seen the German army, - he said slowly, with deliberation, - can have misconceptions about the enemy. But in order to fight him, we must know him well. No doubt, the enemy has an advantage in machinery. This is the fascist machinery, the machinery of an aggressor. It is adapted for attacking...
I looked at Volodya. His eyes were burning with the flame of pride, which seemed to scream that he had seen the enemy and have joined the fight being first of all divisions and have already won.
Well, then, – the colonel carried on. – Now the groups for the destruction of this machinery are being created. We will operate not only at the front, but also behind enemy lines. These special groups are assigned the task of operational scout.
With each phrase of the colonel the range of activities of these groups in our view started becoming wider and taking more diverse forms. The colonel spoke about all of these as of something usual, familiar to all of us, and therefore we all thought it was not so difficult.
A senior sergeant, well-tried and experienced comrade Borin will be assigned as the commander of the first group.
The entire platoon started looking for this experienced commander. A young fighter with a tanned face and bright gray eyes stood out of our line. He got up quickly and easily, but his eyes clearly shone with the question: “Am I that experienced commander?"
The commander of the second group will be a great scout and a border guard, Sergeant Sartaleev.
I was surprised, wondering: did he just call me? There could be namesake in the platoon – a Tatar, or an Uzbek. Besides, I'm only a sergeant, not a senior sergeant, as the Colonel said. But actually, I immediately thought that the commander of the division cannot remember who is the sergeant, and who is a senior sergeant. And in order not to be in a quite awkward position, I made a motion forward, as though I was going to get up.
You don’t have to get up, Comrade Senior Sergeant, – said the colonel, looking straight into my eyes.
I was now convinced that he was talking about me, and jumped up.
Then our political commissar called the names of Komsomol and party organizers. Volodya Tolstov was assigned the position of a Komsomol organizer of our group, which I, of course, was delighted of. Some feeling told me that Volodya and I did not accidentally hit in the same group – one of us as a commander, another one as a Komsomol organizer, but I couldn’t explain the cause of that feeling. I understood it only when, after the end of the conversation, the colonel's own hand pinned the “For Courage” medals to my and Volodya’s blouse.
And suddenly the explosions of German shells, routing the nearby forest, seemed so insignificant! What is bombardment when all of us together are preparing the upcoming death to the enemy, when we figured out his next move and know that his only strength is in machinery, while we are going to win by the belief and the power of a great idea and will to defeat him?
In the evening, my group of nine fighters stayed in the front armor defense squadron that moved forward to beat the enemy by the direct fire, as soon as he sticks his armored forehead out of the hill.
We made a stop to move further into the twilight, since our front edge could be full of our enemy’s units, which could have noticed our unusual for those days movement to the west. We waited for the good friend of the scouts – the darkness.
In the armor defense squadron that was camouflaged between the bushes, we met the old Mayor we knew – the commander of the artillery regiment, who passed by today at our meeting with the commander of the division.
Mayor Peter Grigorievich Rusakov congratulated me and Volodya with the award and looked at the new triangle that had appeared earlier on my lapels.
So, Comrade Senior Sergeant, I can congratulate you with the new rank? – he said, as if surprised, but judging by the friendly cunning of his look, I realized that he had something to do with our medals and my triangles on the lapels. - I did not know, did not know! I would tell the colonel about the time when you would not let my regiment cross! – he joked.
But a serious concern still broke out through his humorous and jovial tone. It was clear that there was something bothering him.
You, guys, look carefully, – how many of our people are left there, how the flow of evacuees is going on. All the areas of bombardment, according to the scout findings, are occupied by the civilian population. The Germans drive their convoys in their midst. Those scoundrels!.. If the civilian population wasn’t there, we would destroy them by the long-range artillery, but now we have to wait until they face our armor artillery themselves!
Indeed, despite the violent artillery attack of the fascists, our “god of war” remained silent. We had enough of ammunition. The gunners could destroy the invaders at crossings, scouting their flocks with the help of aircrafts, but the fascist tanks moved in the crowd of thousands running from them women with children, the elderly and the sick.
Destruction of crossings was also not in our interest: many of our units failed to retreat. They were overtaken by the high-speed armored tank convoys of the enemy. There have been several cases when our troops crossed the bridges and connected to the front already after the first part of the fascists passed the same bridge. Even now many of our separate units move on the roads of vast expanses, moving along with the Germans, without facing or colliding with them.
While we were talking, twilight took over the long day.
All the best, comrades, come back alive, – said the major Rusakov from the bottom of his heart and jocularity, which became usual while talking to me, added: - You did not let me pass to the east, and now I am opening the way to the west for you. Go! I wish you this time to get not just a medal, but an order.
Limping to the bushes, to the cold dewy grass, we headed toward the Hitler bandits.
VIII
The mass of people was still moving on the highway. The population nearby the Azov Sea left its familiar places and went to the east with all the belongings. The lanes of peasant carts and army convoys flowed from all sides to the highway. We, the ones who had to hurry, had to turn away from the road and make out way along groves, fields and gardens; we straightened the way by the shrubs and copses.
The scout movement cannot flow at the same pace. At times, when he is forced to force himself against the ground and crawl or freeze, he loses hours of precious time, and at the war, as we know, the loss of the one side is the gain for the other. Time lost by us is the enemy’s gain. Therefore, if a scout can pass on the territory occupied by the enemy, he rushes by like a chamois.
We could have gone next to the side of the road, not hiding from the civilian population, which was going to the opposite direction, but we were taught to never consider the enemy more stupid than ourselves. How can a group of Soviet soldiers, moving against the flow, not grab the attention of the enemy? It should be assumed that in these flowing to the east crowds of people could be a German scout. Therefore, we preferred to go around this whole flow through the meadows, forests and fields.
The unharvested bread stretches by the endless sea, ruthlessly trampled and poisoned by horses, battered by the wheels and tracks of tanks and tractors, plaintively rustling, scratching and shattering. The kolkhoz gardens, abandoned with their wealth, remained lonely. When you pass, overripe apples start falling with a thud from the branches here and there. The guard dogs are not barking anymore – they were taken away by their owners or they ran away themselves. The continuous rattling and crashing of carts, machine-gun carriers, wagons, trucks and tractors, neighing of horses, and short discordant horns of car signals come from the road. The leaves begin to fall off the trees.
On our left is the sea, we cannot see or even hear it, but we can feel it in by the air humidity, by the barely visible whitish haze that softens the light gray wool of the dark night.
In the west, in front of us, the sky lights up in different parts of the sinister gleam of distant fires. Was it the enemy who set our homes on fire, or was it the people, who, moving away from the enemy, did not want to leave their wealth to the hated invaders?
The short flashes of the soaring German rockets lit up the sky – green, red, white. We stopped and marked on the map the place where he first saw the signals of German connections, flowing across the steppe directly at us.
Judging by the creak of carts, tapping of the wooden wheels and rumble of the shanks – the refugees are already passing by. Somewhere here, in this our old dusk, on this dusty road, , maybe Grandma's blue oxen wander around, and chicken-lemming lay in the basket during the movement of a wide cart.
The sound of iron, rolling over highway rocks and lumbering over the steppe, almost stopped now, but the black steel mass of the human flow became even heavier. Exhausted by the long way, not knowing where it ends, people keep walking sternly in silence, and the hum of their movement heavily goes over the suffering steppe.
The night darkness began to thin out as we came to our target – the bridge over the river, which was the last significant obstacle for the Germans before the hastily formed line of defense in Taganrog.
To the left, across the bridge, there was a large village. We had already seen its outline, its high roofs, which were just like haystacks, through the dawn mist. But the village was numb and blind. The carts lined up across the bridge, pedestrians walked by a sparse string with knots, shoulder bags, and some kind of boxes.
We got closer to the road and came to a bridge bank.
Our task was to disconnect the flow of refugees from the fascist front tanks and prevent them from crossing.
It was not that difficult to mine and blow up the bridge. We had done this several times on the way of the fascist attack, winning the time, ruining their schedule of attacks and giving our units extra time to strengthen their positions.
In the dim light, we were silently doing our thing together, when we suddenly heard some kind of iron breath of hell. We felt the heavy tread of tanks in the shaking of the bridge, to which triton was tied.
The only thing we had to do now was just to run off and lie down in the bushes on the side of the bridge, where I had already chosen the pit overgrown with bushes. We ran back and lay down, watching the road.
A tank convoy started moving on the road with rumble, roar and clang. In still non-scattered muddy haze of dawn we could not see whether they were fascist or ours. The convoy stopped a few hundred meters away. The clang stopped, only engines were still muttering. Then they got silent.
Shall I swim across and try to get closer? – unconfidently suggested Volodya.
While you try swim across, they will already be on the bridge, – I objected.
The sky slowly brightened and the squat steel turtles could be seen more and more clearly on the background.
You know, they are not ours. Why would our guys fear the bridge? It's the Germans! - whispered Ushakov.
I also think it’s the Germans, – said Zonin.
Keeping Tolstov, Zonin and Ushakov with me, I ordered Zvezdin to take the observation position on a high tree, where the river was clearly visible. In order to cover our withdrawal from the bridge after the explosion, I arranged the line-up ofthe machine gun in one of the previously dug trenches.
A migratory bird chirped in the dawn silence.
I was still tormented by the doubt caused by Volodya: isn’t it our convoy? But why would they go behind the last infantry, behind the rolling kitchens and the grandma's blue oxen?.. We needed to make a very responsible decision.
“What if, – I thought, without any logic and contrary to any logic, – it's still our convoy and we accidentally cut their way!.."
My heart pounded as hard, as it had never pounded neither under any aerial bombing at the crossing, nor under a long-range artillery shells.
Roaring and muffling deeply, a herd of monsters of this century stood in front of us. But maybe these monsters were our friends?..
Why aren’t they crossing? - Volodya whispered impatiently.
They are consulting, they are probably scared.
But our tanks could also be scared of the landmines. If they were away from the planned route and went to an unknown crossing – how would they know whether the bridge is safe!
The front tank suddenly roared, shook and crawled forward alone, right on the bridge. It moved cautiously, as if feeling every inch of the road in front of it, just like a person who got recently blinded.
If he is an enemy, no one will praise me for being slow and hesitant in carrying out of a military mission.
The tank came to the bridge deck, it was close to us, but there was not enough daylight to see it clearly.
Shegen always laughed at me for the fact that I sometimes expressed an ingenious thought belatedly. He called such thoughts “subtility on the stairs,” when a person, leaving someone’s house, comes up with an apt word that did not come into his head during a conversation with friends... So, will my decision today come late? I have to make a decision immediately.
I ordered Zonin to sneak up to the scout tank and examine its emblems. Then I suddenly got all in doubts: Zonin is cumbersome, slow. I called him back. He reluctantly stopped.
It would be better if you go, Volodya. You've seen them before, – I said to Tolstov.
Volodya without a word slipped into the grass like a lizard. After he made ten steps away, even we lost him from our view.
The tank got on the bridge... It almost passed the half of it ... And at that moment there was an explosion. I realized that Volodya threw a bunch of grenades under the tank.
Go! – I shouted.
At the same moment a deafening explosion hit from under the bridge, throwing up together with the flame logs, beams, planks, iron fasteners, smoke and dust cloud with terrible force. The tank reared in the crimson darkness with the flashing flame clouds, falling through the bridge with his back, and fell into the water.
The Iron ties, logs and board collapsed, falling into the river and onto the bank.
Cool, huh? – Volodya said, suddenly emerging from the grass.
We jumped up and ran, crouching to the ground. Machine guns crackled on the other bank, but the bullets did not whiz near us. Probably, the cloud of explosion covered us, and the Germans were firing at random at a clay bank cliff, thinking that we were still there. Running up to the nearest bushes, we threw ourselves down on the ground.
The foggy whiteness of the dawn was painted with green and red glow of rockets. In the light of them, we saw through the suddenly descended haze of mist and drizzling rain the steel convoy of German tanks backing away.
Some tanks began to go off the road, heading to the gardens, located outside the village and towards the wooded hill.
More than a hundred, – estimated Zonin.
Or maybe even two hundred? – mocked him Ushakov.
It was clear that now they would be looking for a bridge or ford and stay here for the whole day, camouflaging as trees. It was necessary to further confirm this, and we watched them, lying on our stomachs, covered with tents.
I sent Ushakov to Zvezdin to accurately determine where the tanks stopped, and then to come down from the tree to us.
The rain stopped drizzling, the sky got covered by pink clouds, morning sun kindly came out. Just by the trembling of the leaves we noticed how Sergey Zvezdin slid from the tree. He slipped on the trunk like a cat and disappeared in the rye. Now, when visibility became better, the Germans, realizing that no one is under the cliff, began to fire towards the bread-corn field from the machine guns. A minute later we saw Ushakov, who made his way to us with Seryozha on his back. Seryozha was injured.
Seryozha, where? – I asked.
My back… - said Seryozha with a groan.
Did you get everything spotted?
He handed me a sheet of paper with pencil sketches. Everything was spread before the eyes. Zvezdin was a surveyor by profession, topography was his specialty, and even there, on the tree, he made a drawing, which I could not do even on the table.
Crawl into the bushes, if you can. Can you? – I asked.
I can...
But Seryozha could not crawl, we had to carry him on the tent.
The tank convoy hid in the gardens and wooded hillside. Making a copy for myself, I gave the plan sketched by Seryozha to Petya, and sent him to the headquarters.
Less than three hours after the departure of Ushakov we heard the powerful whiz of shells that flew over our heads, and after that the rumble of artillery firing hit somewhere behind us and got immediately rumbling reflected by an echo across the river and in the gardens. The black clouds of explosions flew up.
The heavy artillery is on now! – Zonin said.
The shells swept over us again with a mighty whiz, and we heard the first muffled, distant shots, then rattling explosions on the other bank.
What does the commander think about the future of these tanks? – Volodya asked me.
That they will be destroyed! – I replied.
They won’t go away?
They won’t dare to do that in broad daylight.
Whistling and rustling of the air above our heads equally repeated over and over again. Major Rusakov’s long-range artillery started to smash the fascist tanks. We had to go back to our units.
IX
Our division had joined the fight a month ago. Difficult days of the retreat were replaced by weeks of hard battles with the enemy.
The fascists were full of rage: the relatively short distances, which they used to cover within two or three days in Europe, took several weeks to cover over here.
Step forward, step back… It has been a month since we started changing trenches and dugouts with them.
And today, on the anniversary day of the October Revolution, I'm sitting with my group in the comfortable dugout. Only yesterday the Hitler regimental or division commander, some “von”, was sitting here. Today, a citizen from “Kairakty” kolkhoz of Guryev, the Kazakh, Sergeant Kayrush Sartaleev is sitting here and shaving in front of a mirror in a silver frame, which was left to him in a hurry by this fascist of importance. The accessories for shaving, left by the “von” on the table, caused a cheerful willingness to shave for the holiday. Gently brushing the cheeks with badger shaving brush, I have a good feeling of what kind of enjoyment the house owner was deprived of.
He obviously loves comfort. He left a lot of stuff that was not necessarily in the war.
I just took off from the wall a portrait of the Fuehrer himself, staring at me with a lowering rage. Hitler was obviously convinced that there was something demandingly hypnotizing in that look. I heard that one of the kings was also confident in his ability to stop the blood in the veins just by looking at people. But this confidence was created in him by the courtiers, who pretended to be terribly scared... In the trenches of the fascists, we repeatedly faced a portrait of Hitler, and I won’t be mistaken, when I finally reach himself! But who of the Soviet soldiers have not dreamt about this meeting! And this dream will certainly come true.
The dugout was obviously ours at the beginning. This is indicated by its former entrance, which the fascists bombarded, making themselves a new one on the other side. But something that was convenient to the enemy cannot be good for us. We have again closed the fascist entrance and opened our old one.
Having shaved myself, I remembered my profession and started shaving Zonin, whose hands were created for more tangible things than a safe shaving.
His Honor had a very high esteem for women, – suddenly said Zonin. – Look how many of them are hung here!
There were really a lot of unsuited “Fraus” above the “von’s” bed. All of them, judging by the photos, did not have enough material for dresses.
Ushakov looked through the belongings in the dugout left by the noble German. There was a suitcase full of furs; a casket with watch, brooches, rings, - it’s probably the sign of “von’s” visit to a jewelry store; a whole box of fine ladies' stockings and several Ukrainian embroidered towels. Each of insufficiently dressed ladies, hanging on the walls of the dugout, was apparently waiting for a gift for themselves.
The fact that all these things were in our hands was caused by the slow striker, of course. When this night, our Komsomol “hooray” thundered very close to the dugout, when in the German back areas Volodya showered “the October firework” from the machine gun and each of us, in honor of the anniversary, threw two-three grenades at the closest dugouts and trenches – our “von”, of course, hastened to retire, but the soldier did not have time. He raised both hands up to us.
Petya pulled the warmed down officer winter boots from somewhere.
What did he put on, when he ran out? I am seriously concerned about his health!
Today we are all cheerful. It was our group who made their way to the enemy's headquarters and then, raising uproar here, distracted the Germans and achieved success in regimental attacks – the strike named after the 24th anniversary of the Great October Revolution. Nice!
The Germans do not like bayonets, especially when they are pulled out of their trenches by one. They do not extinguish the lights and fire rockets all night long. Passing through the illuminated field is not easy, but if we crawl close enough for a bayonet attack, there is no doubt that the Germans will surrender their trenches.
I am pleased to shave Semen. I like this huge and strong man, I always admire his broad shoulders, his bulging muscles. These shoulders would easily lift the load under which a horse will bend. These hands made tractors in Stalingrad. Now, picking up enemies on a bayonet, they throw them in a heap. When Semen strikes the enemy bodies fly up in the air just like a feather.
Now he sits still, all huddled, trying not to hurt me accidentally by his elbow: he is always afraid that he will push and hurt someone.
Well, that’s enough, Comrade Sergeant, already enough!.. Anyway, you won’t be able to make something decent out of this horse face, – he protested plaintively, without knowing how cute his "horse face" is.
It is the most suitable one, Sema. The one from the Germans, who sees it in action, will remember it forever.
Or maybe I should let my mustache grow, would it be more fearsome?
Mustache?
Yes. Then even the devil will be scared!
No, Sema, you don’t need it. Then you will look a lot older, and we have to return from the war as the same Komsomols, who ones left home. Our mothers and girls will be waiting for us, expecting to see us looking the same.
Well, alright, then shave it off, – agrees Semen.
And you, Sema, did you love a girl back home?
Me? – he would never answer without repeating the last part of the question.- Of course I did... And I still do ...
Tell us, Sema, huh?
Tell?
Tell, – I asked him, finishing shaving and not grudging the officer cologne for the friend.
Well, well... It didn’t actually turn out to be that good, – Semen began shyly. – I, of course, fell in love with the little girl, a very tiny one...
Why “of course”? – Interrupted Ushakov.
Why? Why would I need a big one! I myself, thank God, have an excess body reserve... Moreover – it usually happens so natural, unless you think ahead!.. She managed the book flow at our plant... One day I took a book about tractors in the library from her. Well, everything started since then: like it or not, want it or not, you go every day for a book. And she, the villain, would suddenly suggest “Peter the Great” or “Stepan Razin”. Of course you won’t be able to finish it in one day. So I had to read all night to take it back for the exchange. Then she realized what I needed. Zemfiras, Maries, Tamaras Taniyas started to enter my reading life... I read and saw that the librarian is herself like them, every day she got more like them, every morning she started looking better and better, what is there to do? Coming from the work, where I could roll mountains upright, I ran to the library and return Tamara and take Zemfira... And she, the black-eyed, stares at me and laughs...
And what is her name then? – said Ushakov.
Her name? Nina... So, she looks at me, laughing: “You, Sema, must have fallen in love, you are taking the same kind of books every time.” Of course, she sees it already, but still asks... Well, what can I tell her? ...
Nothing, – joked Petya.
Exactly! I didn’t even know. I said: "I liked one part in the book. I want to read it once again”. – “Can I ask which one exactly?” I was lost and blurted out: forty-second page... She immediately opened this page, looked and laughed; she understood that the guy lied... But she gave me the book... And once I couldn’t find her at her usual workplace. Well, you can imagine how empty it was in the library...
As in the trenches.
What are you talking about! Here we are all together, and there... Uh, I started running around the city!.. Like a locomotive. I searched in the park, counted all the people, who walked out of a movie theater, swept along the Volga... Nowhere!.. And yet found her later… later, but still found her – she was dancing in a club...
With whom? – interrupted Ushakov.
With whom? Well, with her friend... If she was dancing with someone from the guys, I would beat the dancer out of him forever! Well, I stood there, did not breathe and watched her dancing. She wasn’t just a girl – she was heaven! You know it yourself, I cannot dance. But that moment I really wanted to join in and go crazy...
Remembering that moment, Semen sighed. Fascinated by Semen’s story, Petya leaned on him completely.
When a friend tells a touching story about himself, you want it to come to a happy ending faster. That’s not a book, not a fiction, but the destiny of your combat friend, whom you wish good luck in everything, wish with all your heart, just like to yourself. Yielding to this feeling, I suddenly blew up from impatience.
Well, where is your Nina now? – I asked him.
Maybe I should have guessed by the sad eyes of Semen that I it wasn’t really necessary to ask, but I still did... After all, our fate has become common. You need to share with a companion not only success and joy, but also sorrow.
Each of us has left something at home that was the whole life for us and with what we wanted to live. We left our plans, professions and dreams, we left our mothers and beloved ones... Something that used to warm up our hearts before the war now just burns it. Weeks and months full of tension and danger allow surrendering memories only for a moment, and every time at this moment you suddenly become unbearably sad... It happened with Semen as well, and we have caused it by our questions.
She left to her sister in Odessa on vacation... Now, who knows what is going to happen…
He gave up on it grimly.
We understood the situation...
Perhaps, this little black-eyed Nina was helplessly and lonely moving among the thousands of refugees, hoping to get to Stalingrad, at which the fascists had already started pointing one of the iron teeth of their fork. If to look into the thick of the many thousands of that flow and find this sand grain! Just to see, so that Simon gets comforted that she did not remain in the enemy’s hands... Yes, we met a lot of them, black-eyed and blue-eyed, beautiful and not beautiful, but infinitely cute sisters... They left in worn out and broken shoes, some of them had to leave even without footwear, with bloody feet.
We will look for her and find her! – I said with confidence to Semen.
I took out my notebook and wrote down the first and last name of the little librarian from Stalingrad. We have stopped our sad conversation.
Volodya came in. He was called to the headquarters, and I knew that he had a secret, because of which he will be embarrassed until the evening, until the political commissar exposes him to everybody... Volodya particularly kindly gave us all letters and lowered his eyes. But Revyakin had already told me that the issue of Volodya’s Italian hit the post of Informbiuro was printed in all the newspapers. I know that together with the mail Revyakin gave him the newspaper as well, but Volodya did not show it to us.
With this post I received a letter from my elder brother from the cold, filled with water and frozen trenches near Leningrad. My brother, as an elder one, always tries to carefully keep my fighting spirit. Therefore, he always writes pompously and a little bit funny. He apparently does not know that here in the South the golden autumn is gone as well, and that the trenches here are not a life dream. Last time he wrote that autumn mushrooms started growing in his trench. This means that they have long been staying still without retreating a single step back. Now he wrote about how he was accustomed to difficult trench life and laid for weeks on the cold ground, being showered by the drizzle. He describes the battle with the broken-through tanks as a pretty easy thing
“Your first enemy is fear”, – he wrote to me. This shows to me that my brother makes things much easier to support me, while being overtaken by fear himself. However, I cannot get rid of this bad feeling either. If you have to, you climb on the devil horns, but you freeze at the same time. There is only one thing that saves you – it’s when you are angry. But you can turn nasty in a fight, but you cannot get angry even a little bit while being on a scout! You have to think for yourself and your comrades, and even not to show fear in from of the rest of the fighters, because you are the commander!..
My brother apparently fights well: I see two medals and an order on a small photograph, neatly glued to his letter. He did not write anything about them, as if saying, “You can look at them yourself! His mustache is sticking out courageously and boldly...
From the letter of my brother I think back to Volodya, and from him to my brother again. One of them looks at me a little boastfully, another – with embarrassment. And his embarrassment comes from the fact that he was the first one to get on the newspaper page. He believes that the reporter should have described our entire operation at the bridge. He thinks that his friends will be jealous... I understand that he needs to be free from self-consciousness.
Petya turned out to be more straight-forward than me. While I was thinking about how to talk with Volodya better and more delicate on this subject, he came up and simply said:
Stop fooling around, Mr. Komsomol organizer! Let's see the newspaper!
We surrounded Volodya with a fun murmur and began to congratulate him. I wanted to say that the glory of Volodya is an honor for all of us, when suddenly there was a moaning roar of long-range guns, and mortars immediately started barking nearby... It was a signal that the moments of the soldiers’ lyrics ended...
We were summoned to the political commissar. The whole platoon was gathered.
Revyakin’s words fell heavy on us just like a blow of a huge shell:
Moscow is in danger!
We are fighters. We are always on fire during the war. But a fighter is not a log, he does not just burn in the fire, but he creates it. There is a map of his area before him, but he did not forget the map of the country either. The fighters knew that the whole country is in threatening danger. But we just were not expecting the danger, which was communicated by Revyakin. We found it hard to believe...
Above us, there is a fierce artillery duel, from which the sky cracks. No matter where you look out of the trench, the black fountains of ejected ground rise up everywhere. But we do not hear or see anything at this point. For us, it is only a repetition of the terrible combination of three simple clear words: “Moscow is in danger.”
Moscow is in danger! – rattles the sky above us.
Moscow is in danger! – the land echoes with the thunder of explosions.
These words are so simple that no matter how bad you want to escape from the clear meaning – you cannot hide. They strike right in the heart.
Revyakin talks to us calmly. His brows are shifted a little, his reddened by sleepless nights and the wind eyes got serious. But he was full of confident hope, and we listen to him with all ears.
Revyakin talked about the defense of Moscow. He was as if drawing the defense scheme of the defense lines that were everywhere – near Moscow and in the territory occupied by the enemy now, in the steppes of Ukraine and the swampy forests of Belarus; they crossed here in the south, and in the far north. Cities, factories and mines were going up, Uzbekistan was shooting with cotton, Siberia – with grain.
The defense line ran along the Balkhash and Lennnogorsk, Dzhezkazgan and Shymkent; it ran through Karaganda, which supplied coal instead of occupied by the enemy Donbass, in poems of the poets and songs of our steppe akyns. It ran along the hearts of millions of Soviet people, because it protected the heart of the Soviet country.
For Moscow!
For Moscow!
For Moscow! – the gun blows rattle.
The festive mood, which took over us after out night victory, immediately disappeared, the playfulness was gone, the memories of home and personal matters stopped bothering us.
The political commissar brought us rough recording of Comrade Stalin’s speech delivered during the parade this morning. The operator at the headquarters of the division had managed to record it. Tomorrow it will get into the newspapers, but our Revyakin always manages to contact with radio operators and learn all the news before they are printed in our “divizionka”, that’s how we call our small newspaper.
Annoyed that there is still no full text of the speech, we try to preserve something that the political commissar had given us, but every one of us remembered all the quiet words of hope and confidence: “Victory will be ours.”
The political commissar looked at his watch and decisively stood up.
The aerial scout noticed a big movement of tank convoys, – he said. – Your task is to get today in the fascist back areas, the points will be listed in the Air Force. Accumulations of tanks must be recorded on the map. Clear? Let's go right now to the commander.
We went out, but the fascist artillery fire got intensified: the mines stroke at the leading edge of our defense, the shells began to fall on our trenches here and there.
Not for nothing! – growled Zenin.
What are you talking about? – I asked him.
Such an artillery attack is not for nothing. I do not think we will be able to make it...
Why not?
They will go for the attack themselves now...
One of the shells fell a hundred paces from us.
Get down! – commanded the political commissar.
And immediately three other shells whizzed over our heads and fell a little bit behind. If we could not fall into the trench on time, we would be torn to shreds. Clods of dirt fell on us. We could hear the rattle of machine guns from the front edge. It was growing each minute. It seemed like a crackling grasshopper in a sleeping steppe, after which the other one follows up, third one responds, fourth one, and now the whole steppe is filled to the brim with dry bang.
Bullets flew over our heads. Wherever you look, the black clouds of explosions raised on all sides. Everybody clung to the ground before this whirlwind... We could not get up. The ground shook from the roar of explosions, and suddenly from somewhere, as if from the ground, there was a growing rumble of a fascist tank convoy.
No, it wasn’t just me who thought then that we were all frivolous boys. All our talk, all my thoughts while shaving, all the childish thoughts suddenly seemed to be an empty mockery in such a difficult moment.
I could not even realize then that our fleeting joy and our warm soldier sadness for the comrade served as the sign of youth and vitality of the human heart. I did not realize then that these feelings washed the soot of our previous fights, that smile, a grin and a joke, a friendly sigh of sympathy gave us strength for the new struggle. And the struggle promised to be really tough.
We listened to the rising hum.
Semen was right: we were late to go on the scout. In broad daylight, the fascist tanks went on the breakthrough battle, they started the attack...
Tanks! – shouted Volodya.
Get the grenades and bottles ready! – commanded the political commissar.
He was the first one to jump out and run back to take the defense position, securing the division headquarters...
X
Rostov angrily and heavily sighs with the strikes of explosion. Everything the fascists were able to save in the south, they have been returning it with the artillery fire for two weeks in a row. It has been the second week already since the city joined in the fight against the Germans, bristling with all of its weapons. It gets every shell fired by the Germans, while it has nothing to do but scatter its own shells in all directions of its wide spaces: on the roads, in ravines, gullies, spacious surroundings of the gardens that fed the city throughout the whole life and that were drawn to it by the tangle of roads and lived its life. A thick and stuffy cloud enveloped the sky with a heavy smoke.
The crash of explosions and roar of engines over the city merge into a continuous and muffled hum. Hordes of enemy artillery are pressing down on him. The target is big enough for each shell to hit her, no matter when – during the day or night.
The shelling puts pressure on ears, vision, blood vessels. People talk by short shouts, helping the words with mimics, hand movements and eye expression.
We have been watching the war everyday for a long time already, but now it stood before us at full length. It brings down the walls of large buildings with a roar; it crumbles city quarters into dust, dancing by flames.
But it is not only the awareness of this danger hanging over Rostov that is in our hearts today. We feel the heavy clouds that move to Moscow. The brunt of severe Leningrad sky, smelling of gunpowder smoke, falls heavy on our shoulders.
The restless Moscow alarm can be heard across the country, it echoes in the trenches and in the beating of soldiers' hearts... It's hard to read the names of the cities in the reports: Volokolamsk, Klin, Maloyaroslavets, Tula, Kalinin...
Bridges were often entrusted to our platoon: we were always sent to the most critical areas. And a bridge is always the narrowest area in the broad fields of the war. Throughout the day, our unnoticeable bridge sometimes gets so much metal, that not even every plant can produce that amount in a month.
But this time we are not alone at the bridge. A lot of units took their places on a small bridgehead area. We are also supported by the artillery settled on the other side of the bridge. Dozens of machine guns crossed their tracks on the approaches to the crossing: every pothole and every ravine has a mortar... The land around is dug out just like a potato field: it was picked and is still being picked by the shells, the entrenching tool, a soldier’s combat blade, was and is still digging it. Funnels, trenches and ditches are everywhere. The buildings along the bridge are destroyed. The sheltered dugouts took their places near the coast, under the bank side. Now we are taking the end of the trench to the concrete culvert, which will serve as a communication between the both sides of the highway.
This time the bridge turned out to be useful both for us and the Germans. The fascists expect to let their tanks and all of their army along with the technique go through the city to the Caucasus after the occupation of the city. But our commanders also know why we should still keep the bridge. Apparently, our counterattack is soon going to take place. Therefore, contrary to the custom, neither side strikes the bridge.
This narrow section is relatively silent.
Putting a shovel down and wiping sweat off my forehead, I roll a cigarette. A little newspaper clipping falls out together with a piece of paper, from which I tear off a piece for the roll. This article tells about the labor efforts of Guryev oil workers. It tells about the native places where people work in the back areas, helping us to gain the victory. It tells about a young Kazakh woman who became an oil-producer instead of her front-line husband. I cut out that article the day before yesterday and take it out without thinking when I want a cigarette every time. Every time I could not help reading through a few lines. These lines about homeland fill my heart with warmness. That is the way every one of our soldiers lovingly catches a piece of news of their homes.
Our last units cross the bridge in a rule-bound to take new position lines and to create a new barrier at the gate of Caucasus. Marshal Semen Budyonny passes us by on the road in an enclosed car. I immediately recognized him. The threatening mustache and aquiline gaze suddenly force you to recall all you know about the exploits of the First Cavalry. He stopped the car and silently peered into our work. Quickly putting the unfinished cigarette into my pocket, I went out at the front and felt that I started blushing. What should I do? Ran up to him and report? In such circumstances, how can a senior sergeant suddenly come up with a report to Marshal?.. Nonsense. How can you do that!..
Apparently convinced that our work is not aimed at the destruction of the bridge, he ordered to go further by a nod. The car went through the bridge.
I recall the famous episode in the eighteenth, when he, with a naked sword in his hand in front of his Horse division, broke out in broad daylight from Bataysk to Rostov, occupied by the Germans then as well, and took the city back from the invaders, the city he is forced to leave now. Now he turned his car to Bataysk. Didn’t he just recall the same episode, when now he, as it seemed to me, sadly passed through the bridge? I wish him the same victorious return, as in the eighteenth.
I pulled a crumpled cigarette out of my pocket, threw it away and started rolling a new one. Zonin approached me. He loves all of us, and we all treat him particularly warmly after his story about the little girl from Stalingrad. We all remember her name – Nina. I already know in advance why he came up to me, and willingly reach out to him a pouch with a folded in a soldier manner old newspaper issue. From the middle of the newspaper my cherished cutting falls out again. Semen, picking it up, gently smiled.
You are still keeping it, comrade Sergeant...
I did not think that any of my friends would notice this cutting, moreover – Semen, the one who is so incurious and usually silent. But it turned out that this guy did not just notice, but also understood my attitude towards this humble newspaper article.
I also often think how is everything going now in Stalingrad? - he said sadly. – I still hope our guys send us good tanks that are not worse than the German ones.
They will, – I said confidently. – Maybe they are already on their way, but the first thing now is Moscow... Maybe they are sending them for the defense of Moscow.
Yes, of course, I understand... And it should not really matter for us where the tanks are from! And still I want to see our own ones. – He grinned and added: - As if our native ones...
I understood him well. He would see his city and his home in that Stalingrad tank.
Two days ago he told me that he had seen a Kazakh nurse in the ambulance on the road, being sure that it was my Akbota. But honestly, his description did not convince me that it was really her, and I would not wish her the fate of our soldiers, but I still thought, “Well, what if! What if, in fact, a car takes these war roads, and a voice will be heard from it: “Kayrush! Kostya!...” The car, of course, will not stop at the bridge, it will rush by, but I am even fine with only one sound of this beloved voice...”
Soldier's imagination can do anything. I already got both of them in one car – Akbota and Nina from Stalingrad. They have already told each other about us as we talked about them, and suddenly they see both of us on the road...
But nobody shouted anything from the passing ambulances.
By the evening, the second branch of our platoon took its bridge guard posts. We gathered in the dugout. Revyakin came in, as always, with a headline of Informbiuro for us. There were again the names from the Moscow region. We began to ask him. He did not hide anything. He told us plainly and simply:
Yes, Moscow is still in danger. Moreover, judging by the names of the posts in the reports, the Germans are getting even closer to Moscow than were before. On our front, a huge battle is going on right now, a giant battle, and this battle is for Moscow.
We asked him for more details – how many kilometers Volokolamsk is from Moscow, where Maloyaroslavets was, where Klin was.
“Moscow is in danger again. The Germans went on the offensive under Moscow”.
These words suppress with their simplicity and oppressive clarity of the terrible meaning. But we know that on our front, on the west of Rostov, the defeat of the fascist army of General Kleist have been taking place for three days already, the reports from other fronts as well bring the news on huge losses of machinery by Germans – tanks and aircrafts. Of course, they won’t be able to get thousands of new tanks to replace the lost one out of nothing! We just need to stand still until they exhaust the strength of the offensive break-through. That is what Revjakin tells us.
Today, Moscow lies behind the Don, behind our backs. We will not give up Moscow!
We won’t, Comrade Political Commissar! We will die, but won’t surrender! – we shout excitedly together to him.
You don’t have to die. We will live for the victory! – he concludes and goes out.
Ten minutes later, a communication agent calls me up to the platoon commander. Other unit commanders also immediately arrived here.
The defense of the bridge is entrusted to us. Maybe in a month, maybe even tomorrow it will serve for the victory of our Workers’ and Peasants’ Army. No matter how much time we will have to be here, we have to stand still to the last man, – the Lieutenant tells us.
The trust in us and the belief that we will not retreat lights up in his eyes. He shows us the location of the adjacent units. We are in the second tier. The third platoon is in the first one, it lies in front of us under a snowstorm near the barrier. Today we serve as a guard platoon. It is directly responsible for guarding the bridge...
By the evening, our troops had already completely left Rostov. The shelling of the city by the Germans also stopped. Silence takes over the city. It smells like smoke. The lights are not visible. Somewhere on the left, in the ruins of the city outskirts, a dog howls, probably, over the corpse of its owner...
It's hard to feel the proximity of the big city, which had just fallen and lies under the enemy’s boot. It is lying powerlessly and is grimly silent. This silence is stronger than the rallying cry and it wakes up the thirst for revenge in us.
In this oppressive silence, violated only by the hollow strikes of distant rumbling of unseen battles, we hear the calling alarm of Moscow.
XI
The Germans rushed forward during the night. They wanted to show that they had enough power for a new strike, and, although Rostov cost them a lot, we thought that the rage of this furious for losses animal would be enough to break-through even more powerful... But we will not let him pass. Behind us Moscow lies. Moscow lies behind this bridge across the Don. We are here to fight to the death...
We did not sleep that night. Snow-drifting ran around, raising prickly snow up. We took turns to warm up in the dugout. When I, being all frozen, entered the dugout, where hot water was boiling on the stove, the guys were talking about Moscow. Volodya Tolstov had been in Moscow at the Congress of the Young Communist League. Delegates had been examining for a few days the capital with its ancient monuments, with its amazing buildings.
Have you been in the Kremlin? Have you? Tell us!..
Volodya told us.
The political commissar came in again, as if to check out what mood were we in, and just to support. Perhaps, he regretted that he had been speaking of Moscow too dismally.
And why are you, Sema, so silent? – he asked thoughtful Zonin.
He is trying to recall poems! – Jokingly said Petya.
Semen was actually sitting with a confused look, but some kind of distraction was reflected in his confusion. He suddenly brightened:
Poems? How did you know?
Why? Did I guess it right?
We all looked at him reproachfully: you cannot make jokes out of something you’re your comrade shared with you as a friend in the moment of sadness.
You did, – agreed Zonin. And, looking at the stove coal, he started quietly reciting:
Hey, tell, old man, had we a cause
When Moscow, razed by fire, once was
Given up to Frenchman's blow?
Semen moved away from the stove, stood up, and his voice became imperceptibly stronger. He could not straighten up at full height under the low coasting of our dugout. The poem took over everyone. We were not able to hear neither annoying sounds of the taken away by the wind roars of guns, not the rare strokes of mortar shells. We looked at him as at a new man who brought us some kind of a new word...
…And eyes aflame, he spoke his mind:
"Hey lads! Is Moscow not behind?
By Moscow then we die…
We all jumped at those words. A lump in my throat rolled up...
Is Moscow not behind! – shouted Voloya, unable to restrain himself.
…By Moscow then we die,
As have our brethren died before! -
Zonin continued reciting. He paused, and no one breathed.
And that we'll die we all then swore,
And th’ oath of loyalty ne'er tore
Neath Borodinian sky.
Looking at Zonin, we believed that they were exactly the same heroes as Zonin...
Our political commissar was taken over by the same excitement as we were. He called me up.
That was unbelievable! I did not expect that, – he said. – Let him go with me and recite it to the young recruits... Such a fine fellow! Come with me, Zonin, I'll give you a combat mission, – he called him.
Only me? – Semen got surprised.
We got accustomed to the fact that not less than two of us were sent for a secret mission.
I'm going with you, - said Revyakin.
They left.
“To the young recruits...” – said the political commissar. But we felt that not only those young recruits of companions were with us. Belinsky, Chernyshevsky, Tolstoy, Glinka, Tchaikovsky, Gorky, Suvorov, Don, and Kutuzov – the whole General Staff of the Russian thought of past centuries and of our century was with us. They all looked at us with hope... And Lenin is with us today, - the one, who always inspires feats, whose name is inseparably linked to our love for Moscow!
A special fight lit up these days. It is now going at all fronts at once, at all the vast expanses. The mind, skill, courage, and honor of the Soviet people entered the fight. The fight in the air, the fight on the ground, on the water, in the broadcast...
The first lines of Pushkin came to my mind in my native language in Abay’s translation. Pushkin and Abay are with us, and behind them – in a wide open robe, with dombra in hand, calling the wind of victory to the trenches, the wise centenarian akyn Dzhambul... The great people of all our nations are with us these days. And today, Semen has called Lermontov and Borodino heroes to help us. We carry their names in our hearts, as a banner of struggle against the conceited barbarians who do not recognize cultures, other than an iron fist, who do not know other poetry than the vile and stinking fascist delirium of “Mein Kampf” book.
Semen came back with Revyakin. The political commissar said loudly:
Comrades, there is a threat of a breakthrough at the site of the third platoon. The Germans are pressing hard there and the guys are a little damaged. Komsomols, follow me!
We went out into the night and the blizzard. There is an intensive exchange of fire to the right of the bridge. The German machine guns are striking, delineating the boundaries of the intended breakthrough by a continuous stream of tracer bullets, pointing their mortars and infantry the night target. Mines fall and explode at the same site.
It looks even more ominous at night than during the daylight. Fire breaks of mortar shells and the fire flight of the glowing bullets make the soaring death over the field more notable than during the day. Fire bees fly through by swarms, seemingly right at your face...
But the confusion wasn’t felt that long. It goes away as soon as we begin to crawl, overcoming the obstacles of the broken carts, trucks, trenches from mines and shells. They also serve as a shelter and often provide an opportunity to approach the leading edge not on all fours, but by short dashes.. We get to the empty trenches. There can be a good defense line, but we still have to go forward...
Yet tracer bullets flying over the trench have an unpleasant impact. You try to convince yourself that during the day they fly as much as they do at night, but the only thing is that you not see them, that these shooting lights is just a mean of mental influence to press us to the ground. But it is still unpleasant...
We have already weaned the fascists from the practice of such an influence on our mind: they stopped getting into our trenches at their full height. We taught them to fear, we saw them running away. This is our education: they could not be taught in Europe to run away. But we still have to give them a lot of other lessons...
We jumped out of the trenches at the very rain of flying sparks, made dashes, and crawled again... The second red fan of deadly lights rises over the field. Now he is coming straight at us – the Germans move their aim. We stop for a moment, we are drawn to the trench that we left not so long ago. But you cannot hesitate today...
Ahead! – the silent voice of our lieutenant calls us out of the darkness.
Just on our way a mine explodes, and here is the other…
Ahead! – encourages us the political commissar.
Of course, we have to. The next mortar shells will fall somewhere else.
A groan is heard. Some of our guys got inadvertently burned on one of the flying lights. Maybe it caused death? Who is that? I start thinking, who was close to me in the trenches... I do not know – maybe Zonin, he had difficulties crawling, he did not know how to do it at all.
Here is the pandemonium itself: the German machine gunners entrenched almost next to the third platoon. They unexpectedly meet us with a wild bang of fifty barrels. Those Devils!..
Our fight with the gunners started behind a fifty-meter zone that separates us from the line of trenches, which are now occupied by them. They know the strength of our bayonets and are trying to keep our jab away from them...
The day is breaking already.
We got to some old snow covered trench with a broken right wing. Zonin happily hopped down next to me. He turned out to be useful: no one could compete with his powerful throw of grenades. After receiving an order, Semen, as always, slowly leaned his rifle against the wall of the trench, took off his overcoat, leaned on the parapet, and before I could stop him, he jumped out of the trench and standing under a rain of bullets, one after the other hurled two grenades and fell down right away. One of the grenades exploded in the trenches of the Germans, the other got a little closer.
I grabbed Zonin by his legs and pulled him back, believing that he had been killed or wounded.
Let go, let go, who is playing around there! – I heard a calm voice, and Semen slid into the trench by a “back run”. He appeared to be safe.
The German machine gunners got confused. Their bullets disorderly fly upward. One more grenade would be great! But two red rockets flutter from the trench in our direction at this time... we are in trouble! We hear the rumble of tanks... We should probably change the trench until they get us.
Over the top, comrades! – I hear the voice of Revyakin.
We rushed out of the trench. In such a moment, the bold one is always the strongest one.
Someone shouted back:
Guys! Isn’t Moscow behind us?
Nobody cares about whether a lurking gunner is aiming at him. Everyone is looking for the enemy to fight, spots the enemy and throws himself at him. To win... To die, if it is necessary for our victory... Here he shouts out those holy words, which are not thrown to the wind:
For the motherland!
For Moscow!
All of this happens in a few seconds. The roar of the machines immediately stopped. Out of the darkness illuminated by the glow of long-range rockets, teeth bared, fierce eyes flashed from under the helmet... A bayonet... A rifle butt. A steel helmet rang. A crunch was heard. Screams, groans... Zonin stands out on the background of the sky covered with blaze: he is angry and merciless... Going tooth and claw, both sides got into severe battle without weapons, squeezing throats with the hands... fall down at each other’s feet... A bayonet coldly pierces in one of the bodies...
A rocket flashed above the heads. We are not yet done with the fight, but a tank already started leaning with a crash towards our trench. In the heat of the fight, we could not meet this beast with grenades.
Get down!
Zonin quickly takes down a huge, not yet completely beaten up fascist, and starts choking him. The tank irons our trench above us with a ferocious snoring, showering its edge. We all hunkered down, all covered with ground...
The caterpillar tread of the tank crumples our trench. The fascist under Zonin calmed down and stretched his legs in forged boots in my direction. Zonin is on him.
I fell to the bottom of the trench at the moment when the toothy caterpillar tread had already started approaching, and was lying next to the gunner shot by me. I want to crawl away from him, but I fear that Zonin, not seeing me, will hit me in the face with the heel.
The caterpillar tread of the tank crumples our trench. However, such a large target cannot go around in circles too long. Fearing grenades, it still does not dare to hang over our trench – and it finally rushes away from us. But fire splashed all over its back: the neighboring group sent fighter aircrafts against it. We are not far behind. A bottle also soared from our trench... The tank, being on fire, rushed back, but a bunch of Semen’s grenades flew right under the caterpillar tread. Explosion took place. The blazing monster stopped...
A shot rang out behind me. The guys rushed to pick Zonin up, who started falling down the trench wall. He groaned. It appeared that the fascist stretched his legs and pretended to be quiet only to cause Semen stop squeezing his throat. Then, when Zonin threw his bundle of grenades, the fascist, who caught his breath, quietly pulled out a gun and shot from below.
Zonin was wounded in the chest...
Sema! Sema! – I ran up to him...
Petya fired point-blank to the head of the German, on whom Zonin was recently lying.
The defense line got straightened. We leave the killed Germans in the trenches and retreat, carrying our wounded guys out. Snow net and blue morning darkness cover us up. I help to carry Semen. We went down to the shore. Here we are not noticeable here. We are moving to our dugout. Almost everyone has a trophy – the German machine guns.
Semen, here is the rifle for you, – Tolstov comes up to him. He does not seem to believe that Zonin got seriously injured.
Hell with it! The damn thing!.. How is it useful?... I don’t need it… I am good in an unarmed combat... – Semen does not believe that he is already out of action. – Hand me a drink! – he asks.
We stretched several flasks out to him. He took one, set lips to it, dropped it and groaned, rolling his eyes up.
Sema! Sema!.. Guys, get him into the car, let’s rush on the other side! – I shouted. Revjakin approached us, looked at Semen and removed his gray fur hat.
Semen! – shouted Volodya in fright, still not believing this eloquent gesture.
Our fighters surrounded Zonin. The huge man was lying motionless. We have already learned to recognize the face of death.
We had three killed and five wounded people besides Zonin.
The Germans have been trying to figure out our weak spot for a breakthrough. They did not dare to push, when they felt strong resistance, and began to look for a new place to strike. Their fighter aircrafts were flying low over our positions, showering the rain of machine guns. But they did not bomb the crossing. They saw that there was not many people left there.. They were confident that they would need the bridge for themselves, but they were hoping to easily destroy us, if not today, then tomorrow...
The Germans gradually subsided by the evening. We came up to the prepared grave at the river shore, where our dead and still unburied comrades were lying. The whole platoon gathered there.
Lieutenant Miroschnik and our political commissar came up.
We all bared our heads for a moment. I could not take my eyes off Semen’s face, but the tears prevented me from seeing him.
Then the lieutenant quietly ordered us to line up. We all sprang to attention.
Political commissar Revyakin went up to the heads of the dead. Instead of funeral oration, he simply said:
They died in defense of Moscow...
We let them down in the ground under a triple salute...
X
During those memorable days, our first victory in the south started taking its place in the battle for Rostov. Under pressure from the south, north and east, the first major German withdrawal, the first flight of the fascists started.
We already knew from Informbiuro reports that a huge battle was taking place on our fronts. We have been seeing the glow and vibrant flashes of explosions on the horizon for several nights. We heard a new rumble on our front, like thunder of giant kettle-drums, - the explosion sounds of “Katyusha”, about which before we were told by the fighters arriving from other fronts.
Now the decisive darkness and rainy night finally came. Its impenetrable storm was the most faithful coverage for us it, it bore the death for enemies.
A hurricane of anger and rage raced from east to west. In the darkness, on thin ice, sinking and surfacing, our infantry shipped from the other bank, being sometimes in the burning ice at the chest level in the November water.
In the middle of the night, the Russian “Hurrah!” suddenly thundered in the very center of the city, and the streets flooded with uncontrollable continuous stream of our attacks.
The river of naked sabers of our cavalry rushed on the roads to the city. Its steel blades flashed like lightning under the light of signal rockets.
We have been waiting for these joyful hours together with the whole country for five long months. So many of our comrades and friends have fallen in the defense lines, all moving in one direction – deeper and deeper to the east... They wanted to live to the victory...
And how easily your feet carry you in the night! The soldier’s eye is so good, the hand is so strong and faithful! The spasm of tears of joy from the thousand cries of “Hurrah!” pushes you so hard!
They fly through the city – the naked cavalry sabers sparkle in the light of the rockets. Implacable bayonets menacingly move in the hands of the rapidly advancing infantry.
The Nazis leave the southern suburbs of the city and rush to the northern outskirts under the sudden and powerful strike... But they get another strike from the north as well. They are driven and beaten, and they are rushing madly back to the south, where the certain death on bayonets awaits them.
That is how, during a mountain thunderstorm at an autumn night, herds of horses rush in fear and confusion, rushing into each other on a narrow path, stumble upon a rock, giving a wide berth in fright, slide off the cliff and fall into the abyss...
The same happened with the Germans in Rostov that night. They thought they settled there for the winter, – and suddenly a hurricane flew in... Abandoning their cars in the yards of their headquarters, they ran away. Trucks and cars with broken engines, running against each other, inverted and hooked by wheels, stood together with destroyed guns and carts on the streets and squares...
And the incessant “hurray” was spreading wider and wider, like the sea, in the din of gunfire, in the fire of shell explosions and in the roar of the engines.
This victory took place with the help of our platoon as well. Of course, we are not always going to guard bridges. At that post, we were replaced by the ordinary rifle platoon of young men who came from somewhere in the rear, who had not yet been in the battle.
Lieutenant Miroschnik called me and instructed to enter the city and explore the streets of the southern suburbs.
We went out in the evening, crawled on the outskirts, climbed over fences, dived into some kind of gaps, examined yards, peeped into the streets –it was dark and deserted everywhere. An overturned tram car was standing at one place, and right there, beside it, spreading his hands on the pavement, a shot tram-driver was lying. We met sullen German patrols a couple of times. Volodya listened to them and said that they were talking about the cold. Is it cold? They should have seen the real cold somewhere in Kustanai!
We entered the occupied by Nazis city no less than a kilometer ahead. Little Church Square across the street was blocked by a barricade, which towered between the houses by a black mountain. We crept close to it, listening for a long time. A passenger car rode up to on the barricades on the other side. Someone popped up to meet it and started reporting. Volodya pushed me, and we crawled to the nearest gate at the sound of the leaving car.
There are three machine guns and ten soldiers at the barricades, – said Volodya, telling me the meaning of that soldier’s report.
I left him to watch the situation and hurried back, placing my scouts on the way.
Lieutenant Miroschnik was waiting for my return. The commanders of other departments have already gathered here. They investigated the neighboring with me streets of the city and reported the situation to the platoon commander. As soon as I reported my findings, the lieutenant and the regimental commander entered the dugout, and after them the colonel himself came in.
Well, Sartaleev, what news do you have? – he asked me.
Good news, comrade colonel. I located my fighters a kilometer along the street.
Good news! – approved the colonel.
We were let go. The command remained in the dugout of the platoon commander.
Judging by many people, pawing through the ice, I realized everything: we will be in Rostov again tonight... I wanted to shout “hurray”. But people were moving quietly, there was silence, and no one dared to break it. Only the firing machine gun and occasionally bursting bombs stubbornly continued their battle on the right wing.
The crossing battalion, maybe even a regiment, was located right under the bank ... The restrained muffled voices and certain shouts like “Knock it off!” could be heard. In the darkness, I heard the native Kazakh language and rushed to search for my fellow-countrymen, but the voice of Lieutenant Miroshnik loudly called out to me exactly at the same time.
We crept and traveled on the same investigated path again. It was the same silence, but we already knew that a battalion was moving behind us, followed by, perhaps, a regiment or a division...
Ushakov, who was left for observing, met me at the appointed place, squeezed my hand, informing that everything was fine and we could move on.
We left the head platoon in ambush fifty paces from the barricade. Our lieutenant waded with me shoulder to shoulder. Volodya separated from the wall towards us and said in a whisper that the whole department of soldiers had just arrived to support us at the barricade.
We crawled, resting our hands on the icy cobblestones, and laid on some iron barrels and overturned cars with the whole division.
Throw! – commanded Miroshnik.
Each one of us threw two grenades on the other side of the barricades. Then we jumped over the barrels. The barbed wire dug into my hand and leg and tore my trouser leg, but we had already piled on the fascist machine gunners. Hundreds of fighters rushed to the barricade from the darkness of the street. They climbed without delay over the barricade and spread over the area and occupied houses. Grenades were bursting along the streets, machine guns were clicking continuously. The sounds of battle hit the night...
I think I did not even hear how the battle escalated. It was in full swing across the southern part of the city. It bubbled and overflowed in a mighty cry of victory. The landmines fell on the streets, shells exploded... The Nazis closed the city center from us, pouring us with machine guns. Suddenly, the thunder of tanks came from behind along the streets.
Grenades! – I cried. The tanks are coming from the rear!
Hush, Sartaleev, – the lieutenant stopped me. – They are ours.
“Maybe, it’s the Stalingrad ones”, - I thought and recalled Zonin.
Ignoring the exploding mines, frequent explosions of shells and the machine gun fire, the tanks boldly plunged into the dark streets of the city, punching the way for the infantry, breaking debris and tearing down the barbed wire.
Dawn breaks. The advanced units are fighting out there, behind the houses, gardens, boulevards, below the city streets.
Someone shouted in my ear that our units also hit from the north and that the Germans ran away, throwing their weapons.
“The Germans are retreating” – how fun it is to hear these words...
We see a high building, the roof of which a large German banner with a black evil tarantula, spreading its legs on it, is offensively and gloomily swaying around... It is his vile thing – the gallows on the square and mutilated corpses of Soviet people on the streets...
The heads poke out of the broken windows of the houses at the mighty rumbling sounds of our “hurray”. The residents run out into the streets, rush to us, but our fighters do not have time to stop. The wind of victory carries us further ahead – to beat the enemy, kill, crush and wash him off the ground.
Here the horse cavalry rushes on the roads… Here the aircrafts crawl hardly to the west over the rooftops. The morning already allows us to see the suspended under the fuselage payloads. They are going to throw it into the thick of the fascist machines and fighters, retreating on the roads.
Someone have already climbed before us onto the roof of a tall building, and the fascist banner with the black tarantula flies edge down from there to our feet, and the fluttering red Soviet flag. It seems like everything started to brighten up from it. The east wind pulls the veil of cloud down for a moment, and a ray of sunlight illuminates the proud Soviet flag. It turned to the west, showing us the way of persecution.
A convoy of rumbling tanks passed from the east, shaking the streets and houses by the heavy steel tread. It will chase and crush the enemy, who is seeking salvation... Here are our native cars, the combat ones, carrying the death to the invaders!..
A boy in large, clearly not his own boots, ran across us from an alley. The way he waves his hat at us makes us understand that he is all full of happiness. He needs to tell us something very important and urgent. His whole appearance, expressing demands and bravery, tells us about it.
To the factory! Go to our factory, comrades. They are there... There are a lot of them! – he says, choking with excitement, as if he found a lot of mushrooms and berries somewhere in the woods... Of course, the most important thing for him is exactly something that he had seen with his own eyes. – My dad sent me to tell this. He is watching them there...
Well, if your daddy is watching them, then they will not run away! – Volodya said with a grin.
The boy looked at him with resentment and did not answer...
These are our quarters. Cleaning them from the remnants of the Nazis is our vital cause. We made a turn into the alley, following the boy: he is walking bravely. He did not even pause, when a mine exploded next to him.
Here is our factory, – he pointed to us.
High factory bulk, devoid of windows and blind, are silent. How long has everything been full of movement and hum of workers here!
You can just jump over here, – offers the little guide, going ahead and showing how to do it.
A huge gaping hole is noticeable above the main hall of the plant. The yard is littered with overturned trolleys, some bales, pieces of metal, thick wire, and broken bricks.
Snow has piled up in the deserted shops at the corners and the walls through the open doors and shattered windows. Machines motionlessly rise, like black ghosts. The plucked from pulleys transmission belts helplessly fall around our feet by dead gray boas.
The boy gives us a sign to be quiet. We see a man with a characteristic shape of an old worker at the concrete column. Gray mustached with eyebrows knitted together, in short black warm jacket with a grenade in his hand, he nodded, pointing through the window at the nearby shop.
A few workers with rifles and German guns approached us one after another from the depths of the shop.
We are watching them. There are two dozens of them from the SS headquarters... The whole neighborhood was cut off; they failed to escape from the factory club and had to run here.
How did you know about that?
My post was in the attic under the roof, from the factory guerrilla units… We had to blow the SS headquarters up, the party commissar instructed us to do so, – explained the father of the boy.
There are seven of us, the scouts, five of the guerrillas, and twenty of the SS-men. I gave my fighters a sign with my eyes and took a grenade. Grenades appeared in our hands all at once. The boy pleadingly looked at me. I silently gave him a rifle and pointed his place with my eyes. He immediately, froze like a sentry, clutching the rifle. His father looked at me with grateful eyes.
Carefully, as if stepping over puddles, we ran across the yard behind the mentioned shop on tiptoes by large steps. The heavy iron gates of the shop are locked from the inside. We have been standing in confusion for a moment. Suddenly, one of the workers shows the way up and whispers something to his comrades. They revived. Leaving the guards with grenades at the doors, we quietly go up to the third floor using the fire escape, then, using the dark and narrow stairs, go down to the second one. We can hear voices from here.
The Germans feel besieged and start preparing for defense. They placed machine guns at the windows. The iron door, at which we left the guard, was secured from the inside with some machine. They occasionally throw one or two words and then become silent again, listening to the city. They do not suspect our presence, and yet we not only hear them, but even see through the holes for transmissions made in the floor. None of them occurs to raise his eyes to the ceiling, which would cause our eyes meet.
I try on the diameter of the grenades to make sure it fits in the hole. Volodya takes his position at the staircase entrance to the first floor. He is standing at the door in the corner, holding the rifle ready.
There are four holes in the cement floor. They are not that big, but you can actually throw two grenades into each of them at the same time. We throw down four of them at the same time, then four again... Screams and moans are heard down there. Someone started screaming wildly:
Kaput!
Volodya goes down the stairs, holding a machine gun at the ready. We followed him. The lower room has a dozen Nazis who are already lying motionlessly, the rest are wounded. Their hands rise up with cries. Pathetic and pleading, they ask for mercy.
Hitler kaput! – shouts one especially excitedly.
Of course, he understands that Hitler is still far away from “kaput”, but his whole being renounces his Fuhrer in order to stay alive...
We showed the captives signs to push the machine that was holding the door, and they complied with the demand with full readiness.
Lead them out! – I ordered.
They gathered in pairs themselves. Three of them could not rise up.
Call the medical aid-men later, – I said to the workers, – and now pick up all the weapons! Search the room!
I myself started investigating, and suddenly someone pushed me in the chest, which felt much like a billiard cue stroke. The whole shop went around in front of my eyes, and I fell down. But, falling down, I saw a small spectacle snake head, which hid behind a huge steel machine. Then I heard machine gun fire... I realized that it was either Volodya or Peter who killed the bastard.
I was picked up. I sat up, leaning unto an old worker with the shoulder. He supports my back with his hand. Forcing his hands against the knees, our guide – the boy – stood in front of me. He looks at me in the eyes from the bottom with a look of compassion. He wants to ask me: “Does it hurt, Sir?”
Volodya, obviously for my consolation, pulled out of the corner a killed SS officer in glasses, who was shabby, yellow-haired and thin-necked, and threw him near a heap of iron filings.
I curiously look at my enemy – who is he? The SS Captain?
A tent was set up next to me. The guys take me up and gently put down... I am silent. . . I am silent all the time, though I see everything. But the vision blurs more every second, and my ears gradually stop working, as if there was some kind of wool inside. I seem to hear the words, but they somehow float, and I do not comprehend their meaning...
Volodya looks me in the face and starts moving his lips, but I no longer hear his voice, though I try to look and maintain consciousness. I want to say something to Volodya as well. I want to say something useful and very friendly, and, collecting all the thoughts, all the forces, I say:
Take command...
When I was picked up for carrying, I suddenly wanted to look one more time at the one who shot me one. Now he is lying with his back facing me, his face is buried in a pile of snow, his short tunic was lifted up, his shirt bared his small skinny back and the wind brings up the cold snow on it...
I am being carried... I hear the clank of caterpillar treads. It is the “Stalingrad-men” still passing by. I would like to tell the tankers about the death of Semen... Probably, many people knew him there – he was so big and nice.
I am still being carried. Airplanes started flying above us along the street. These one is similar to the transport airplane, from which we were jumping with a parachute. Maybe it is Shegen. How could he know that I see his plane?..
Yes, dear Shegen, I have saved a lot during these months to tell you. We can talk about many things, Comrade Captain. No, I would no longer be embarrassed or silent... I think I'm a decent friend to you as well...
The chest pain is becoming more acute. I want to tell everything we talked about so little with my comrades... We did not think about it for some reason, but this is the most important thing... what is that most important thing?.. I was thinking about something important just now! And I lost it... forgot...
As in a dream, I heard a woman's voice:
A critical one… get him in the car, to the base hospital... Urgently....
Who is hurt? Maybe Volodya? Careless fellow, hot!.. And how could I not notice that? Where is he now being sent? After all, I need to take the address...
You, Kostya, make sure you will be sent back to us, - says Revyakin.
Akbota in a white dress softly takes my hand, holding it above my wrist. I close my eyes. I want to re-open them, I want to ask something, but the interweaving of voices drowns my babbling – someone is injured, someone needs to be sent out. My thoughts also became short, they started moving abruptly... I even see them as they jump, “Address... Volodya... Semen... Akbota...”
Hitler will not be in Moscow. We ruined his plans – that is for sure.
I know Revyakin said this. He always speaks shortly and and hardly.
“Never! He will never be there!” – I want to cry, but I feel that there is no voice.
I can hear the howling blizzard over Rostov. I hear and see how the blizzard howls and flies over Moscow... Here, face buried in the snow, the Hitler's SS-man is lying. Strong wind ruffles his straw hair and, blowing his short shirt up, covers his skinny back with fine cold snow...
I
Karaganda! – heralded the trainman, dwelling on all four “A’s” enclosed in this melodious word. – Now you are home! Your relatives will probably meet you, won’t they? – he turned to me directly.
Home!.. The word “home” became so vast in my understanding, that between the area from Karaganda to Guryev two Frances or dozen of Switzerlands and Belgiums could be freely placed, and such a thing as the “state” of Luxembourg would easily fit two-three summer pastures of the steppe farms. It is much closer from Paris or London to Berlin than from Guryev to Karaganda.
The vastness of our Kazakh spaces apparently misled those in the evacuation hospital who wanted to send me for rehabilitation closer to home, to the family and friends. Their good intentions dispatched me to Karaganda instead of Guriev.
In our echelon, there were Kazakhs, Siberians, and those who could not be sent to their regions that were occupied by the fascists. I noticed that people who had never been in Kazakhstan have very vague ideas about it. This subject had been being discussed throughout the whole time, after we passed Orenburg.
Student geologist Grishin, wounded in the leg, is convinced that a draft blows through our eternal steppes and, as if not to catch a cold, he tightens the overcoat, draped over gray flannelette blanket, to his chin all the time. And right in the window of the railroad car, as if on purpose, a shaggy storm flows in, confirming Grishin’s idea of Kazakhstan, and he chilly shivers and begs the trainman to heat the car better...
It is still difficult for me to argue. The loud and stormy conversation gives me a painful cough, and I cannot tell him that the same storm penetrated Rostov as well on the day when I was wounded.
Another soldier with a bandaged head dreams of Kazakhstan as of a country of the sun. He seems to think that we do not have one sun, but several at once – he wants to get warm in front of all these suns at the same time, to get tanned enough to chase away the cold of the frozen trenches that is still not leaving the bones.
And we already started seeding our field under Chimkent, – timidly objected to Grishin the fourth neighbor, a farmer from southern Kazakhstan.
Seeding? In February?
Yes… for two weeks already, probably...
An orchestra is playing outside the car windows. A delegation of “Kazakh boiler room” enters our train, meeting our echelon. A young, short and stocky Kazakh, is obviously a head of the representatives of various organizations of Karaganda – the word “regional committee” repeatedly sounded in his welcoming speech. A young Kazakh woman in a black coat with the astrakhan collar is standing behind him. Her tanned soft-oval face flushed from frost. Her lively brown eyes often change the expression: they flash with a smile as quickly, as they cover up with clouds of sadness or glitter with anxiety. She peered intently at each of us: a few of us have a bandage on our heads and most of the guys’ features cannot be recognized right away. Her brown eyes get moistened more and more after turning to each one of us with the same question: “Why is it you but not him?..”
Of course, she is meeting not only us. She does not lose hope to find among us the one who is extremely important to her...
Yes, dear, we will not see or meet some people! Let people cheer you up and let such things, as his honorable deeds, the pride of his heroism, the sacred memory of the one who was the father of your children and a faithful son of our great motherland, help you live on. Judging by your eyes, I can see that you don’t want to make up mind to this loss, you are waiting, you are looking for him in each echelon. I wish you with all my heart to meet him anyway.
Your boss, – the representative of the regional committee introduced us to her. – She is the head of culture in our region, Comrade Kuliai Daniyalova.
Once on the platform, when we were carried into the car, a breath of the half-million city blew on us. The mine waste rose above the hills, closely spaced from each other with mines, as the ridge of high and closely shifted hills. Now, at night, they burned with thousands of bluish lights, winking around with the city lights. Because of this, it seemed like the city was located on the set of hills and in the gorges between them...
What is it? Is Karaganda actually in the mountains? – surprised Grishin asked me.
No. These mountains were built for protection against drafts, - I said.
Daniyalova, who was accompanying us, willingly started explaining to him that those were the dumps of ejected rocks, in which a spontaneous combustion of coal fines took place.
How didn’t I understand it myself, what a bumpkin! – he chided himself aloud Grishin.
And what is your specialty? – The woman asked gently.
Mine?.. – Grishin got embarrassed. After he got trapped with the mine waste, it was embarrassing for him to call himself a geologist, and he vaguely replied: - Well… I'm still a student, so...
The cars stopped at a large building in new Karaganda. We were pleased by the fact that the city was brightly lit, as during peacetime. None of us expected to see here a huge city in the desert, – even me. One of our pupils of our orphanage, a son of the deceased miner, told me about Karaganda. But he knew it exactly the same as it was ten years ago, and according to our Soviet arithmetic, a decade is two five-year plans, each of which equals to one hundred years of tsarist times. For two and a half centuries, of course, new cities grow on the areas of the village houses... Easily walking through the centuries, steppe people, such as my mother, had been building this city for a long time for themselves and for their Soviet country.
Not worse than the central quarters of Moscow, – admitted Grishin.
Isn’t draft taking over you? – I asked.
We spread on the floors and wide corridors of the hospital, located in the new building, one of us – on a stretcher, some – on crutches, others – leaning on caring and strong hands of nurses.
Our group got the sixth ward, and everybody began to remember something from Chekhov's “Ward number 6”. But it wasn’t just time that was there between these wards, but also its content, different in spirit and meaning.
The ward was cozy. A table covered with a tablecloth, decorated with flowers in pots, comfortably and warmly stood in the middle. The lamps were under the soft matte shades, the voices of nurses were affectionate, their movements were easy and young, and of all that was causing warmth and calmness.
In the morning, after the doctor’s round, the “boss” Kuliai came to us, whom we turned into “Gulya” very quickly. She asked what we needed, and then began to ask everyone who came from which front. Judging by the way she was interested in Ukraine and especially Kharkov, I realized that the one she had lost had been fighting with the Germans somewhere on Ukrainian land.
After all, can there be mistakes in the notices? – she asked, unable to stay calm.
Well, of course, plenty of them! – we unanimously said with Grishin, and it sounded so convincingly, as if he had just experienced this mistake on ourselves.
However, I knew that, unfortunately, there won’t be a mistake in the notice of Zonin, for example...
We wanted to make this quiet and young woman believe us and live with hope. And all of us, each to the extent of his ability, start telling her how easily a person can get into trouble, and how sometimes he comes out of it, not even stung by a bullet (we understand that it is safer to talk about bullets than of shells and aerial bombs).
Severe breathing of the war was felt here as well, in the rear. A woman at one stroke of the thick, though not long, eyelashes brushed sadness from her eyes and became serious and businesslike.
Comrades, who needs to write home or to a friend at the front? – She asked.
It was clear that we were not the first ones to pass through her small hands.
The bullet of the SS-man obliquely passed through the chest and stopped in the shoulder blade. I must still lie quietly and cannot write independently. Willy-nilly, I trust my letters to other people.
The first letter was addressed to my Volodya Tolstov. I told him where I was and asked him to turn to Revyakin to help me get back to my unit upon my recovery.
The second letter was being written for a quite long time, but we still could not finish it. It was addressed to my mother, but sometimes it explicitly turned to some other address: it was necessary to finally find out what happened to Akbota, but I didn’t have the heart to call her name in front of another woman, who seemed to carefully watch every tricky movement of my thoughts. There are some things that women understand much faster and deeper than men. Gulya’s look innocently encouraged and insisted: “Well, let’s say her name. There is nothing bad in it... Come on, say it, and I will choose the most affectionate and cordial words for her...”
The case ended with the fact that we wrote a telegram to my mother: “I am recovering in Karaganda hospital come visit me Kostya.” When Gulya wrote “come visit”, she looked at me with barely noticeable cunning, but I still suppressed myself...
The rest of the comrades write themselves and, of course, smile, looking at my difficulties.
The kolkhoz man from southern Kazakhstan, a middle-aged Aben, who was a shepherd before the war and who is now a squad member, is a kind of simple-minded and poorly able to hide embarrassment.
Can you call your wife “dear” when writing a letter? – he turns to me.
Why not? Who are you going to call so then? – Gulya said quickly.
Aben, of course, loved his wife, but he, like all the Kazakhs, was not used to calling his wife “dear”. “Karagym katyn” (in English it sounds like “Pretty Woman”) sounds funny and awkward!.. Sitting there for a long time and thinking hard, he finally found a way out and shares it with us:
Finished! Here, listen: dear Batiya!
For him it was a great discovery: he wrote the word that struck a century bark of habitual relations that belonged to the long gone bai and slave system. It was a really great discovery!...
But our common concern, enclosed in the word “war”, still cannot leave us for a long time.
Gulya read our reports from the front and from the rear. Things are going quite well. German attack on Moscow is now named “The defeat of the fascists at Moscow.” The war shook under our mighty blow, but it has not rolled back to the west yet.
Newspaper in the hospital is a constant and favorite guest, and we fervently discuss everything that happened at the front lately, and, particularly, what happened in Moscow.
This is the beginning of the collapse of the Fascist Empire! – Solemnly concluded Vasya Grishin and, getting embarrassed, corrected himself: - Hitler started dying, it is the fact!
A dog never dies in front of people... It will run to his place to die. He will do so as soon as he sticks his tongue out, and I will chase him! – excitedly exclaimed Aben, inclined to look around a practical purpose.
Why are you needed there? – surprised Grishin.
To catch him! We cannot let him go! He is tenacious, like a snake, we need to finish him!..
With curiosity, mixed with some anxiety, I was expecting Gulya to talk about these events. What will this young Kazakh woman say? Can she assess the meaning of the fascist defeat at Moscow in all its historical depth? Or she will limit herself with congratulations on the victory and replace her serious thoughts by a charming smile?
No, Gulya’s thoughts always worked well, and a hot heart of the daughter of our homeland trembled in her breasts. She felt the events that shook the world her way.
The contempt of the free and invincible people sounded in her words, when she spoke about those who open with a betrayal the gates of European capitals for Hitler.
Shame did not choke them, when, falling to their knees, they licked his boots!.. We see that we have different understandings of the words “pride” and “honor”...
She moved to another role gently and quietly. A mighty rock steadfastly stands among the roaring waves. The waves, crashing, reel from this stronghold, whose name is Moscow. The banner of communism flutter over it, and, therefore, it is impossible to conquer.
And suddenly, turning to Grishin, she asked:
Why did you change your first words? I think you said it correctly, “The beginning of the collapse of the Fascist Empire!”
Maybe, – hesitated Grishin, - but it seemed a bit redundant to me...
Redundant, but right... They no longer will get away from the collapse. There is a crack already, the fascist camp is breaking into half.
We all knew that hard days and months of difficult and formidable war were still ahead of us. We realized what kind of strong enemy the history has pushed us to, but we also knew that the defeat at Moscow have caused the collapse of these multi-lingual hordes of death.
Both Gulya and Vasya Grishin repeated something what our country has long been assured of. And, of course, we all unanimously adopted the formula of “the defeat at Moscow – is the beginning of the collapse of fascism.”
People in the rear carefully follow all the events. Everybody here is already aware of the fact that Hitler wanted the offence of our country and our capital to be immortalized by a monument. He carried with him a seventeen-meter column of pink marble with silver-green veins to plant it in Moscow in honor of the victory of the fascism animal kingdom over the country of the great hope of all mankind.
He had also prepared a gift to us, the Kazakhs. In the tail of his convoy, a brazen bandit saved a place for the former Kokand Khan Chokaev to put him on the shoulders of the Kazakh people, when Kazakhstan became a colony of “Aryan” bankers. He hoped that “khan” would be able to forget about the humble servility of “Asians”, who had already weaned from the yoke.
Rear reports also pleased us: the Soviet rear gave to the front not only what it possessed before the war, but also something would have been born in our country only a few years later, according to the plans of peacetime. People did things that seemed impossible.
Production capacity of each hour in Karaganda has tripled, - Gulya informs us.
And we understand that, when we were fighting at the front, people here also did not spare themselves for the victory.
We hear strict orders homeland in the roll call of the sirens of factories and mines in Karaganda. Simple words of Gulya reveal the wealth area to us, the days and nights of relentless human labor, as large pages of the book. This small Kazakh woman can talk about Karaganda in such a way that the intense and complex life of the Union boiler room is visible to us in detail.
Gulya does not weaken the work entrusted to her by the party at this difficult time; cultural issues are not relegated to the background of war. People need to learn to understand many things, and the path of this knowledge is paved by this simple pretty and young woman. Yet she manages visit us sometimes almost every day.
I live very close to here, - she says, when someone, seeing her tired, said that she would be better off sleeping, rather than spending her time on us, – and I stop by on the way home ...
Grishin is especially attached to her. He asks her as if she was some business executive of a large scale or a professor of geology.
And all of this wealth has already been explored?
Well, not yet! – she responds condescendingly. – After all, our steppe at first glance seems monotonous, but in fact there is such a variety of minerals! Geologists will still have to work here on it...
And are they working? – demandingly and impatiently asks Grishin.
Of course. You won’t be able to investigate everything at once.
What is Grishin’s concern here? Whether it is the fact that there, in front of his eyes, was the rich expanse for work and geological mysteries, the disclosure of which is so tempting for every geologist, or that a little Kazakh woman is so competent in the innermost secrets of her native land?
Gulya suddenly adds:
You, as a geologist, must have heard about the letter of the English capitalist Leslie Urquhart to the Soviet government. He requested permission “to scratch” exactly these steppes. According to him, if we did it ourselves, we would get to these resources not earlier than fifty or even a hundred years...
Grishin turns to me with an expression as if I have been hiding this from him the whole time. I could not resist. Pride for my native Kazakhstan rises in me.
So what? – I ask triumphantly, not thinking what that “so what?” actually meant.
But Grishin understood me.
Amazing!
That’s right! Maybe you will want to come here later, after the war...
Why not! I’m only here to work! So many people will be need here...
For some reason, immediately after that, he began to call me Kostya, and started calling him Vasya.
II
Recently, things went very differently than I expected and hoped. Frustration rained down on me one after another. Troubles, for some reason, do not like to walk alone. The two are always joined by the third one. I look forward to the third one.
Akbota, who used to write three times a day that she would visit me, has not come. I take back with me from the hospital only thirty letters and seven telegrams from her, which used to bring me various degrees of joy and happiness, and the final, the eighth one, which felled at the root of all my hopes and expectations. All of this can be modestly considered as a failure.
The second trouble befell me in my attempts to leave the hospital as soon as possible. For several days, I have been negotiating it with the doctor. I negotiate in a businesslike manner and very delicately. Before that, I had also been smart and disciplined, a model of a healthy appetite, and a good hospital singer. I was allowed to do gymnastics, guided tours in the city - everything went smoothly. But now the doctor changed his mind: he suspects that I have been “tricking” him just to get an early discharge... Gymnastics got canceled, a strict temperature measurement was introduced, my discipline started being criticized and causing mistrust, and the fact that I eat like an elephant absolutely did not interest him. He says “it happens”. Even such an objective witness testimony as X-rays are questioned by him, and he wants to “check it himself”.
This is my second failure. However, I still got the appointment with the commission. But who knows what they will decide? In the meantime, my persistence caused disapproval of the hospital authorities.
Besides, Vasya, who came with me, Vasya Grishin, who had serious complications and whose wound could not close, is recognized as healthy and is getting discharged tomorrow…
You often lose friends in the war besides that. I do not want to part with Vasya. Maybe, if are discharged together, we will be sent to the same unit. And if we are lucky enough, we will be sent back to my unit, to old friends, with whom Vasya had already had the opportunity to meet.
Everything went so well in the beginning!
“Mom had already departed, I will certainly visit you after the completion of my classes, – telegraphed me Akbota. – I will send the details in a letter.”
Then Mom came. She was full of joy, her changeover carpet bags were full of different stuff.
That’s for you, my little foal ... And this is also for you, my lamb... Here you go, my birdy...
I was also turned into the baby goat and into many different other small tenderfoot creatures... Order and regime of hospital is nothing for a mother! She flew here like an eagle, hearing through the mountains and steppes that her birdy cried out in pain.
The mother ran to me at the front door on the second floor of the hospital, where I smuggled to meet her. That was two weeks after the bullet was taken out of me and I thought I was able to go down the stairs. Committing this violation, I was afraid of doctors and nurses, but the mother was more dangerous than all of them: she was angry that the staff here doesn’t look good enough after me and let me get out of bed. She almost carried me in her arms up the stairs and the corridor to my ward.
I told my mother that I was already healthy, did not feel pain, and I was still there just to relax.
But her faded eyes start peering inquisitively at me for a long time. They trust only themselves. However, I pass this difficult test: strength really came back to me with incredible speed, and the rib, broken by a bullet, already allowed not only to breathe, but also to move, and I looked perfectly healthy from the outside.
My mom looked long enough, and making sure everything was fine, wiped her eyes with a smile.
I knew it, – she whispered.
Mothers always think only good things about their sons. They cannot let troubles overtake their babies, and if does happen, they always firmly believe that all the bad things go away...
My mother brought me the surest thing for my final healing: her mother's love and several letters from Akbota. Apparently, as soon as she began to pack for her trip, Akbota wrote to me every day and gave the letters to my mother, a trusted postman. Akbota lacked some gentle words in each letter, and she sat down for the new one to express it.
And here I start reading the letters, while my mother is sitting next to me and inquisitively reading all that is reflected in my face. And, perhaps, judging by my excitement, she understands more than I do myself.
Me and Akbota first knitted you a camel jersey, but then she said: “Take this one to him as well.” Well, of course, she knows it better...
Mother always says “me and Akbota”, but not “I”. And now it turns out that Akbota, not my own mother, “knows better” what I need.
It was spring already, and my mother was the forewoman for the gardens at the kolkhoz. Forty-four hectares were entrusted to her care. Stressful days of spring planting awaited my mother. Therefore, she could not stay here long.
It is the time called the war, my Kayrush! – She said so easy and habitually that I was not even surprised.
The whole country gave its strength for the victory. Of course, the widow of the handicapped by the civil war and the mother of a young soldier must work hard as well for our common victory. I was glad to be visited by her. I felt the warmth of her maternal affection, and I never got tired of asking her about my Akbota, who she already considered as her daughter. Well, mother herself did not give me opportunities for questions. She kept me agitated in favor of the “white baby camel”, obviously being still not quite sure of my complete agreement with her on this difficult and sensitive issue.
I did not want her to leave, but did not dare to hold her.
Well, moreover, Akbota was left there alone, – she added. – She has just returned from some kind of classes in the city, we did not live together for long, and here I left... I must take care of her and tell her about you – you know how much she is waiting for you! She said she would finish all of her plans and come see you...
Mother gently pursed her lips and looked at me quizzically, as if asking my final and direct response.
Let Akbota take good care of you, Mom. I'm writing to her about it. She will read it aloud to you, – I said to completely comfort her.
Reassured and all brightened up, she went home.
I would love to present both of them with invaluable gifts, but, apart from the occasional greyish photo cards, a soldier has nothing. However, I gave her something that her mother’s heart wanted the most: I confirmed my love for Akbota.
But Akbota never visited me. She could not come. She was the head of the regional meteorological station. And my mother understood that the absence of information about the weather stops the whole kolkhoz life. She seems to have imagined that with the help of wisdom acquired at her classes, her dear Akbota could manage rains, winds and the sun.
Two weeks later after mother’s departure I started to wait for the new guest. She did not appear. I waited for the third week, a month ... but instead got a final, the eighth telegram, in which a cruel and incomprehensible “I can’t” popped out. What happened?
Does Akbota understand that she knocked over everything she had so passionately been writing before by her “I can’t”? Now, before each word in all her thirty-five letters was that same “can’t”. Everything that whispered to me the soft and alluring “yes” until this moment has now turned into a screaming “no.”
I think that is what made me particularly rush to get discharged, but made the wrong impression on doctors... Of course, I got sad from vexation, eating or joking was not what I needed. I really got a little haggard. And the doctors suddenly suspected that the injury to the lung was not for nothing. They again started checking the temperature, analyzing the sputum, X-raying...
The frequent letters from the political commissar and Volodya were the only consolation for me these days. Revyakin did not care about all that spiritual turmoil that his senior sergeant experienced away from the mother unit. He seems to leave my place in every new trench unoccupied and urges me to recover and to come... But it is not as easy as it seems from a distance!
Volodya wrote to me that Sergei came back from the hospital. He himself, together with Sergei and Petya, joined the party, and Petya received the Order of the Patriotic War. He did not mention a single word on his award, but gives me a hint that there is something joyful that was awaiting me in Rostov.
Well, dance, here you go, - smiling friendly, tells me the chief doctor, leaving the office, where we went through the commission. He handed me a sealed ninth telegram. – And you can go with your true friend Grishin. You are being discharged. Congratulations...
I, of course, did a tap dance with slippers, not just for the telegram, which I couldn’t get to read yet, but to prove a full recovery and a willingness to go...
Doctors are amazing people. They are caring and jealous for you only when you’re sick. Then you are interesting to them, they even think about the content of your letters and telegrams, they ask how things at home are, what a girlfriend writes. All of this happed as long as you are their patient. But once recovered, you become uninteresting to them immediately and another wounded take your place, while the wave of their care and participation falls on him now.
The medical director brought good new for me, but at the very same moment I ceased to exist for him, and he left...
“From joy to joy!” – I conjure according to the orphanage customs and carefully open the telegram, being confident that it is from Akbota.
And suddenly, as if here, in Karaganda, in front of the hospital, a German shell exploded, that is how much the letter’s content stuck me:
“I departed to the front. Will send the address home to mom”- wired Akbota.
“Home” – this is certainly good, even very warm... But still, why “the chairman of the rains, the chief of the winds and the commander of the heat and cold,” as I called it in the fifty response letters, why the scientist organizer of climate suddenly jumped to the front? For striking the Germans with heavenly thunder?
Where and how am I now going to reach my Akbota on the countless confusing and difficult roads of war?
In the morning, we along with Grishin departed to the “conveyance” post, as it was called by fighters.
First of all, I cried to the party conscience of the unit Commissioner, senior political commissar Tarasenko, assuring him that for me it was absolutely necessary to get back to my unit, where people know me and where I should have joined the party, if not that damned and stupid injury.
I am trying to stay before him smartly, restoring the military bearing of a Guards Division soldier, lost during these months in the hospital.
He carefully leafed through the pages of my documents with the only survived hand.
You will be sent for commander courses to study, Senior Sergeant! – he concluded.
Comrade Senior Political Commissar! – I cried and begged him, feeling something funny and childish in my tone. – What should I do now?..
I was ready to promise him to complete a military academy at least, but I would do that only after the war, after the capture of Berlin...
But it was impossible to surprise that Commissioner. Each soldier of the Red Army, even when retreating, when helplessly being pressed by the fire to the poachy bottom of the trench, washed out by the rain, always thinks that he needs to be in Berlin, and that it would be impossible to capture Berlin without him... Political Commissar Tarasenko, of course, thought the same way, until he lost his right arm and got on this far and boring transit point.
It is necessary to prepare commanders from the Kazakhs! You are a person with secondary education. I wonder how it turned out that you appeared to be a common soldier in the army! – Inexorably says the Commissioner, and his right arm, not yet weaned from the habit of working, made a move to reach for a pen to make the resolution. But the hand slightly stirred up in the sleeve and stopped. – Every unit is our “own”! – he rather sharply objected to all of my arguments and concluded: - Do not ask. Nothing will work.
It made me recur to the last expedient: I pulled out all the letters of my comrades – Volodya, Petya, and Sergei, who had returned from the hospital, and political commissar Revyakin. I put them on the table as hard evidence in my favor.
It is from a woman, - he said with a barely perceptible smile, looking askance at the top letter.
I hurriedly hid the last letter from Akbota.
Sorry, Comrade Commissar.
Curious to relate, this letter made a change in the mood of the Commissioner. He grinned, his eyes softened and his tone became different. Wives and children always soften the heart of the military people. Maybe that is why, fearing of losing the necessary severity, they do not like to talk about on these topics.
A hope to persuade him suddenly flashed in me.
Overcoming his reluctance, the commissioner, obviously to still disagree with me, pulled my pack of letters up to him and, almost without looking, leafed through them.
Political commissar Revyakin? – he suddenly stared at me questioningly.
Yes, Comrade Commissioner, political commissar Revyakin.
Misha Revyakin? What is his name – Mikhail?
Yes, Comrade Commissioner, political commissar Mikhail Ivanovich Revyakin.
That is where he is, the damned! So, he is staying in Rostov?
Yes sir, in Rostov.
We are really good friends with him!
Yes sir...
We took a few courses with him in Kharkov. He is originally from Kursk, right?..
Yes sir!
I wasn’t able to answer fully, because the pleased Commissioner expressed his sentences at a machine gun speed. But I wanted to confirm each of his words, as he wanted to verify his discovery. I guess I would do that even if it was another Revyakin: judging by tone of voice Commissioner, I realized that this name opens the way for me to return to the unit.
Fortunately, our political commissar was just the one who Tarasenko knew so well.
Why were you my exhausting soul then? You could have just told me that Revyakin ordered you to return...
My combat friends, the award that was waiting for me, joining the party – everything was close to me. It was difficult to answer sensibly on the final note, and I somehow managed to mutter:
Yes sir... he ordered...
If he values you and if you are needed there so much, then go. Misha needs help... Go... Take a letter to him from me.
Will do, Comrade Commissar.
Well, sit down, sit down, tell me, how is he? How was the fight with the Germans? Where exactly? Tell me everything in order.
Everything suddenly became clear and simple.
We have been talking for over an hour. I told him our whole path, traversed with Revyakin. But I had another task in front of me – to help out Grishin.
From the conversation I learned that Tarasenko was a miner, a party worker in Donbass, and only last year he got into military service, remaining a miner in his heart. He did not think about leaving Karaganda, it was the opposite – he loved it, he saw its future. His family, which managed to get evacuated on time, lived here, and his wife, Coal Mining specialist, the foreman in Karaganda during the war time. I saw a patriot of Karaganda in him and realized that Vasya Grishin has advantages that he could also fall in love with Karaganda and with one of the workers of Karaganda.
No, Vasya surely did not throw indiscreet eye on Gulya, he did not even say a word beyond the general conversation. But when, sometimes, she was going to go out of the ward, he would look at me and comrades so pleadingly that I would ask her a new question about the front, the Kazakh economy and international relations just to make her stay for a few minutes.
I think even if she finds her beloved one and if she is happy with him again, Vasya will still come back here.
On the day of discharge from the hospital, when all the documents had been signed, we have been packing and fixing our outfits for a good hour, until we reached the familiar beep of blue car. Vasya jumped out, despite the fact that had not even managed to pick a boots for himself...
During the last conversation with little Gulya, I asked her for permission for both of us to occasionally write about ourselves and inquire about her. She wrote down the address in my notebook.
Planning to negotiate with the Commissioner about Vasya, I was hoping for a sincere interest of my friend in the development of the mineral resources of Karaganda. I thought that if Vasya talks to Tarasenko, they will find common ground and agree on it. I began to tell the Commissioner about Vasya.
Tell me, please! Let a woman into the heaven, she will drag her cow there with her! – exclaimed Tarasenko with a friendly reproach, and I ceased to doubt the success of my new venture.
Tarasenko exposed me, but nevertheless, Grishin was called to the office of the Commissioner and received, a closed package, just like me...
We started departing from Karaganda, the same way we had arrived – at night, but this time it was a soft summer night, barely taking our eyes off the majestic mine waste, covered with the sea of lights. Gulya’s face flashed at the car window again. She waved us with her little hand. Her eyes glowed with warmth and said hi to all our front and to the one and only man, whom, maybe, we would meet...
After all, there can also be mistakes in the death notices!...
III
If I was a writer, I would probably think that similar situations are not worth describing. Especially, I would avoid repetitions in the description of such unpleasant and heavy operations for a fighter as a retreat.
But the peculiarity of big wars is that they are not related neither to the reader, not to the writer, and cannot go without a certain monotony and repetition.
However, these repetitions are always only apparent. On every following stage, one party is closer to the victory, while the other – to the defeat. One is a weaker one, another is gaining strength. But the weakening side also rushes and makes desperate attempts to defeat the enemy before he fully prepares himself to strike a rather powerful attack...
I got back to my unit in one of the gloomy days of our retreat in the Caucasus. My comrades did not even have time to properly look at me and admire enough. I think they would like to ask me about the deep rear, what it looks like, what it breathes, whether his heart is beating securely and safely.
I myself went with the idea that I'm taking the confidence in our abilities with me from the rear. I saw the echelons of healthy and strong fighters ahead of us, I saw long and heavy trains, in front of which all semaphores opened out of turn. At the deepest rear, I saw heavy steel cars on wide caterpillar threads on the road; I saw how dozens of new aircrafts, humming with engines God knows where, far from the front, circle in the sky, shining in the sun. I saw fields of high and spiciferous wheat and even jumped out of the crowded train car to touch its bristly and heavy heads with my palm... I was taking so many invigorating stories with me about the Karaganda coal, copper, manganese... But no. This last topic I, of course, left to Vasya, who came with me. I was afraid of him not getting into our platoon, but everything turned out perfectly. These days, no one allowed new recruits, and the men addressed directly in this unit, were accepted without objection. Both of us were sent to Miroshnikov’s platoon and, without losing time, Miroschnik ordered:
Comrade Senior Sergeant, take your division...
The war has found itself in the foothills of the Caucasus. The Kazbek bulk gloomily looks at us, the gray eyebrows are gloomily shifted under a white woolen hat, and its terrible breath echoes in the ravines, vastly bouncing off the rocks. The guns fire at the advancing enemy from the stone chest. But a stupid tank’s snout climbs to us with a formidable grunt from every more or less comfortable and wide path.
The enemy, badly wounded near Moscow, recovered again and accumulated its force and reaches his claws out to Stalingrad, to the Volga. Tanks franticly rush to the Don and the gorges of the Caucasus – to Grozny.
My new place appeared be the one among my old friends. Now a bunch of well-trained fighting dogs was sent to us. This understanding, though wordless team of tank destroyers consisted of sweet since the childhood, not very pedigreed, not purebred in Aryan was, but quite normal assorted mongrels.
Staring at me by pleading hungry eyes, they are all waiting for me to bring them out and show under which of the German tanks to look for food.
We are sitting almost on the road in a wonderful cave between the rocks, protected on all sides and overgrown with inconspicuous little gray bushes. We snuck in here at night and took this position in front of the defense location of the barriers. We – the edge rearguard of the retreating army, and we are – the cutting edge of our barrier.
There is a small miracle in our cave: spring water flows down into the recess at the bottom of it – just for one soldier flask. The water does not rise above the same level, but does not fall below either. As soon as you drain it to the bottom, the same inexhaustible flask of water will flow up again.
The German infantry settled to the right and in front of us, and it pours our position with fire. There is no need to dig around here. Spring mountain water have created so many folds here throughout centuries, that entire divisions can hide here.
Today, Germans are where we were yesterday. There is a broad valley with collective kolkhoz fields behind them a, and further – the village in the dormant shady gardens of fruit-bearing trees.
Sergei and Vasya Grishin got down with sniper rifles behind a large rock at the entrance to the cave and, slowly, picking carefully, shoot at the German officers, who do not even look in our direction, concerned about the weakening of fire from our divisions, lying behind us. They have no idea that the first line of defense may be much closer to them.
Petya and another new friend, whom I have not had time to get to know, are down with antitank rifles
Being under the fire from our artillery, fascist tanks crawl across the wide plain, preparing for the next attack. When they attack our positions, they will go to the right and left of us: our shelter between two small hills is unreachable for tanks. We are impatiently waiting for them.
What did you take so long to recover, Kostya? You got married or something? –Volodya asked me at the first meeting. He asks this question now as well.
Indeed, did I get married or not? And this time, I sadly kept silence, because I thought that I had completely lost Akbota.
Is there any change in your life? Cheating? – he tries to get it out from me.
No, worse...
Volodya, who, as I know, does not know anything in this world worse than cheating in all its manifestations, stopped and puzzled, being afraid of inadvertently hurting my wound.
Our artillery finds German tanks in any of their shelter with amazing precision and makes it impossible for them to concentrate. Probably, that is why the enemy tanks moved toward our positions in a strange battle formation: they gathered in a heap in front of the front edge and, roaring, moved to the attack.
Tanks were on the right and on the left.
We cannot reveal our nest. Although it is brilliantly hidden from tanks, we can be attacked by the numerous infantry.
Caucasus’ spurs get dotted with burning tanks. Our anti-tank guns and rifles fire at the enemy tanks. Everyone is happy to have at least one more tank among his trophies.
But the German tanks appear over the horizon again and again and climb up the flank higher and higher.
By the evening, the Germans have discovered our shelter. Tons of shells showered us. A heap of stone fragments grew at the entrance to the cave. Not even buzzing, bullets clatter against stones and break branches of the nearby bushes. It was enough to rise a helmet on a bayonet helmet to let the fascist snipers start shooting at it from several points.
Our machine gun outposts were forced to fall silent, in order not to be prematurely crushed and to be able to give us support, when the fascist infantry rush at us. And soon it will.
They are coming around from the right, – says Vasya Grishin for the second time.
From the left as well, – I reply. They won’t dare to come in – they do not know what forces are gathered here...
I was wrong: from far away, with some dance easiness, a small group of gunmen suddenly impudently got on their feet. We met them with fire.
Now they know about us a bit more. They know that we also have rifles.
Outflanking us from the left will not turn out to be successful: we are covered by the fire of our front line there. Gunners began to descend to the ravine by sudden advance. They gathered there, but every time they tried to get to the other side, they toppled back into the ravine, where we did a good job showering them with our fire.
Our right-hand side is weaker. The German riflemen took their positions there with large group. There is no doubt that they are sneaking to us as a hunter to the bushes, under which quails sit.
The most difficult moment is approaching. In the semicircle of surrounding, a small group of nine soldiers meets a whole squadron, and we will die, if we are not able to stand still, if we hurry, don’t take into account the distance or the opposite – miss the moment. There must be a precise estimation. Enemy should not be repelled, but destroyed at the approaches to our position.
The distance between us is shrinking. The hardest thing is to count this distance and seconds. You shake not because fear takes over you, but because of the pressure you have to suppress during two more long seconds.
A hundred and fifty... One hundred and thirty... One hundred and twenty steps...
And it is necessary to allow them to approach another twenty steps closer... This is the very moment when you, as if in real life, recall Anna from the treasured “Chapayev” film before the “psychic attack” of the White Guards. This is the moment which a fighter finds himself in every fight...
I feared for my sparse tenor, feared that in such a nervous atmosphere my command would sound with the scared uncertainty. A soldier perfectly perceives the tone of a command: the sound of it creates either confidence or anxiety...
And my command “Fire!” sounded so firmly as if there was a regiment in front of me, but not the division of nine fighters.
To be fair – the ranks of German machine gunners did not flinch from the command or from the wearing fire of our rifles and machine guns. They only added more steps, continuing to heavily shower us with fire... At this critical for us moment, in the front, right in the forehead, the second group of fascists rushed to us.
I still see a fierce gleam in the eyes of my comrades, when, being one against a dozen of enemies, blackened from the seething anger, we firmly clung to our rifles.
Not a step back! – I reminded my comrades about the firm order of the High Command. It was an order of the homeland. An honored fighter could not break it.
The Germans were forbidden to retreat as well, but it was by other means. We have assured ourselves of that on the same day.
The gunners, who were attacking us, pressed to the ground by our fire, got down in front of the shelter no farther than twenty meters. We now started firing at the lying gunners. And then something that we repeatedly saw in the future just happened the first time: a soldier, lying behind a rock in three dozen paces away, suddenly jumped up with a shout, threw the gun and ran toward us, holding up both hands. He swung down into our stone nest. I prevented Volodya from shooting on time. But shots followed after a defector from behind. He was wounded in the back, shoulder and heel.
He was not of the “Aryan” blond, he was a tan, thin, short Hungarian. He understood that it would be difficult to survive with three bullets in the body, and maybe that was because he was in a hurry to share his cherished thoughts with us. He spoke quickly, and every sound from his lips struggled with bad whistle. He licked his lips often with his dry tongue. I handed him a flask and left him alone for a while.
The group that was attacking us got down and did not raise its head for a long time, and those, who climbed to the right, crawled back and disappeared into the ravine.
They are waiting for the night, - said Volodya.
And he says something different, - pointing at the defector, said Vasya Grishin, who knew German pretty well. – He says that all of those soldiers are Hungarians and Romanians. They will not go forward until they are pushed by the German machine-gunners... During attacks, they look for such a shelter that they are not reach reachable by neither our fire, nor the German one...
What? What is he talking about?
While Grishin tried to clarify the answer, we all saw that in real life: the German machine guns blew the crossed fire at the lying the gunners from two points. Each gunner looked back with a clear expression of anger and ran forward to meet our fire. Not protected from it, driven by a deadly whip of German machine guns, they died without any logic and purpose – helpless, confused, and miserable creatures. This group of machine gunners was killed, without causing us harm or even hooking the edge of our cave by their random, aimless fire.
If people see no point in the war and do not want it, you can make them go for the death. But it is impossible to make him win it.
The Hungarian was still babbling and, as if gesturing weakly in explanation, replied Vasya to his question.
I dreamed of being captured since the fall of the last year, – Grishin translated to us, – I know that we, Hungarians, do not need anything in Russia... However, ours behave outrageously and rob everything here as well... A man with a gun and with no idea is easily converted into a bandit, and the fascists encourage robbery... I am a Christian. I will not lie to you before my death. Hungarians do not want that war... they did not want it since a long time ago...
He grimaced in pain. It became more and more difficult for him to talk. Words became lethargic, as if lazy. Grishin’s translation became abrupt. Vasya was catching on foreign speech with great difficulty, and finally fell silent, as the priest reading “a prayer for the dying” over the dying, involuntarily got silent, observing the moment of death...
At night I was called up by our commander. Only then did I notice the extra cube on the lapels of his shirt.
Comrade Senior Lieutenant, Sergeant Sartaleev arrived at your order! – I reported to him in due form.
Miroschnik shook my hand with a smile and nodded, inviting to sit down.
He and Revyakin were sitting in a well-protected stone recess. Covering the corner by the ground sheet, they even lit a wick lamp, at the light of which Miroschnik, almost dropping his eyes to the paper, was trying to read the fading letters of the recently received order. I handed him a flashlight taken from our dead Hungarian, and told about the incident, which has strengthened the courage of our guys.
Miroschnik informed about the situation. The total line of our defense arched again, and it was not expected to be fixed the next day. However, this he did not say anything about this, and who tells about it at all! But only a bad soldier does not feel what day awaits him tomorrow. It is better not to sleep at all, than going to sleep in uncertainty about the combat situation tomorrow.
Our goal for tomorrow was to keep this mountain road junction for another day. During one more day, our position is going to be still important, then, if we are alive, we can leave our shelter and catch up with the entire unit closer to the heart of Caucasus. It meant that we were going to retreat again, and it was the worst...
I remembered my last night before the injury. What a great night it was, despite its impenetrable darkness, the cold, the snow storm!.. How easily and happily we were bearing all the losses!.. We were attacking then...
I gave Revyakin the letter of the Commissioner of the transit point Tarasenko. The guys asked me to get the dispatch summary, when I was leaving.
What summary? – said the political commissar. – We don’t have it today, it wasn’t sent with the order. We have to wait until tomorrow. They are crawling on Stalingrad now, those bastards! – he said with a sigh.
They will break their teeth here! Will Soviet people really give up Volga? – Miroshnik replied. – Kostya, what do you think, will they?
Oh, don’t say that, comrade Senior Lieutenant! – those words passed my lips with some kind of fear.
Exactly, I am saying the same – they won’t! – confirmed Miroshnik. – I understand our mission this way: to accumulate more strength. To stand up to the last. To hang on their shoulders as hard as we can. So, Sartaleev, stand still for a day... We must stand still!.. – He finished and stopped at mid-sentence.
It was not necessary to say anything else anyway. Everything was clear. Everybody of us understood that our platoon will have a very hard day tomorrow.
The commander reached his hand out to me.
I looked at Revyakin, and the words that I would write and give him now instantly flashed in my head, “In case of death, I ask to consider me...”
But, reaching out his hand, Revyakin interrupted me:
Tomorrow, Comrade Senior Sergeant, when we return to the unit, you will get the order you have been waiting for... And tomorrow we will accept you to the candidates of the party.
The regulations do not allow hugging a political commissar, but I hugged him anyway.
We said goodbye, and in the dark, over the rocks, from bush to bush, I crawled back to my nest, where my comrades were looking forward to meeting me.
In one place, low whistling bullets made me pull over to the hard stone and wait. I got down and imagined tomorrow’s party meeting. It will be held in a spacious hall, where rocky cliffs are instead of columns, while the ceiling is the dark blue Caucasian sky. I will be accepted into the party under its bright and big stars.
I got to my cave at the moment when Petya brought back a new leash of four-legged tank destroyers. It was still dark and quiet. In the ravine, closer to the road, our observers were lying. The Germans, who fear the darkness, rarely fired with flares. Here and there were heard single shots. Fighting day ended.
He proved to us that our division will be able to stand here for another day and one more, and, perhaps, three days in a row. It will cost Hitler seventy-two hours of delay. And it will be for the rest of the Germans.
IV
Where is your wife now, Kostya?
Still there.
And what does she write to you?
It is not from her ...
Resting and reformation are coming to an end. We are washed, shaved, dressed, as they say, brand-new. New underwear and a new tunic with unusual epaulets smell fresh and pleasant. Boots start creaking: they are on such thick hills that we will surely get to Berlin in those.
Vasya, being in a new form with orders and medals, rested, refreshed, is definitely handsome. A few days of rest lyrically set him up, and he absently asks idle questions. Despite his usual thoroughness, he forgot to throw away his trampled shoes that are lying under his bunk, jaws agape, as a young hippo; even our thrifty foreman refused to take them for exchange and left them to Vasya “in memory”.
I continue to read the letter, but the lines start blurring from the surprise by the question, every word, as if running away from me like an ant, along with Vasily, also asks me, “Where is your wife?”
Indeed, where is my wife?
I have finally got used to the idea that Akbota is my wife. My comrades also convince me in that:
Good God! How can you be in doubt when she writes such letters to you? Only a wife writes in such a way, it is a fact!
None of our guys is married and no one knows how wives write their husbands, but all of them are equally convinced that it was the only way a wife should write her husband.
And my mom gets more and more distressed about Akbota than about me. She believes that such a work as a war is easier for boys, so what about the poor girl Akbota?.. Notifying me her field post number, Mom convinced me to go “there” and settle with my Akbota. She asks whether Akbota drinks tea with milk, as she likes. The only thing she clearly imagines is that there is no ayran or koumiss at the war. She asked me to take good care of Akbota... She thinks that once we are on one war, it’s kind of like being in one collective farm team.
In turn, I, except the field post number and very rough idea of Akbota’s title, know nothing about her...
Who is it from, then? – Vasya persistently repeats for the second time.
From Gulya, from Karaganda.
Bob broke out, turned his back at me and went back to writing something, strenuously moving his right shoulder.
So, that's what will Fergana Canal will be like! Huh? Have you seen it, Comrade Sergeant? Have you, huh? – Exclaims Samad Abdulaev, an Uzbek, who had just come to us as one of the recruits. – Have you seen it?
Well, of course, I have ... – breaking away from my own thoughts, I said.
We watched the newsreels together, where they showed a grand canal that Uzbekistan created at that time. In the same way, we were present at the solemn promise of the Uzbek people to increase the productivity and exceed the plan on cotton. Samed can’t wait for us to confirm our admiration for the affairs of his country once again.
Look at the oath they gave on cotton, eh? – Continued Samed.
I confirm everything and add it to match:
And our Karaganda has now replaced Donbas.
Samad, becoming suddenly serious, nods a few times.
Vaysa, realizing that I replied Samad with a line from Gulya’s letter, suddenly turned to me:
What did she write about the new plant she was interested in?
Construction will be completed soon.
Vasya fiercely tears another sheet of paper, apparently acknowledging that the thoughts he expressed on it were unworthy. Crumpled and torn shreds are scattered around him, as if he were writing a novel. He taps his pencil on the desk, as if someone is knocking from the neighboring room.
I guessed that Vasya is writing a letter to Gulya. Of course, he planned to write a lyric letter to her, but I can safely say that he is trying to do that in the form of expressing his love for Karaganda, he will list its mineral wealth, and the lyrics will turn out to be geologic.
Ushakov entered, jingling with medals. It seemed like even the field cap was smilling on him.
Here, guys, I gave a close-up! – he announces, shining with white teeth under his valiant black mustache. – Go, Vasya, to the close-up!
And how do you know what kind of close-up you gave? – Grins Grishin.
The cameraman told me himself! He says you will hold a Guards badge on the screen...
Yes, the comrades deserve to be shown close-up on the screens of the country. On the first night of the new forty-third year we arrived at this rest in the fire of relentless attacks. We walked, drove in cars, tanks, both our and others’, catching a fleeing enemy.
The New Year started off really good for us! What a joy he smiled with to the soldiers! How fun the silver peaks of the Caucasus gleam, when, hurrying the running, stepping over the bodies of dead enemies, every soldier shouted: “Happy New Year, the old man Caucasus!”
In the morning bluish gray mist, Elbrus was majestically rising, who was the judge and the memory of history. He was a witness of how the Soviet people defended the Caucasus, he saw how we swept the fascist hordes away from all ravines and gorges...
We already knew by this day that a tight steel hoop has been put on the Stalingrad necklace that cuts tighter into the throat of the fascist army. We knew that the Hitler camp at Stalingrad, cut off from the rest of the horde, counted down its last days. The arteries were cut off and did not feed the reptile head anymore, even though it continued to grin and snap.
We celebrated the New Year at the headquarters of Major Krueger, in far not brilliant group of his six officers, humbly sitting at the stove under the protection of our soldiers.
To raise the falling spirit of the soldier, who began to lose faith in his invincibility, Major decided to meet her last Christmas with lights. Multicolored lights of rockets and tracer bullets as streamers flew over the village, to which Mr. Major withdrew before meeting the new Year.
Just yesterday they were in a panic to get away from devouring “Katyusha” fire. And today, we suddenly decided to celebrate the New Year in a carefree way in the village, from which only fragments were left.
Do they want to show off their courage? – Said Petya, with whom we have been called to Revyakin.
They are probably asking to be captured, – objected Revyakin. – Go, friends, check out what their situation is.
We went out to investigate. A month ago, we retained the village with the fight. We had known every stone here. It was not that hard to walk around the ruins, and in half an hour we were able to report to the lieutenant Miroshnikov that both soldiers and officers are all drunk.
Let’s capture those impudent bastards! – Miroshnikov said, looking at drunken illuminations of the fascists who lost their caution.
Revyakin with our department – from the west, Miroschnik with two other departments – from the south, approached at a distance of hundreds of meters, struck all at once with machine guns and, shouting “Hurray”, which shook the whole neighborhood, went on the attack. Stunned fascists, stopping their exercises with lights, started screaming without shooting, “Kaput! Kaput!”
German soldiers were at every dung heap, under each wreck, but instead of firing back, raised their hands.
And now Miroschnik is sitting at a New Year's table set on the leeward side of a large Russian stove, in fact – right on the street, because the hut was gone, there were only two walls, even without a roof. However, the fragments were removed for the New Year’s feast and the floor was swept clean by the lower ranks for the gentlemen of the German officers.
In the corner behind the stove, the organizers of the holiday were sitting on this clean floor. Embarrassingly bending knees, all six of the officers, sobered by the novelty of the situation, self-consciously turned away from the tubes of the two rifles that were gazing hard at them. What to say – it is an unpleasant feeling when this blunt nose look at you so closely. Major Kruger himself sat in the center of the group and threw unfriendly glances of his whitish eye at our lieutenant.
In a dark street, huddled in a dark heap, like sheep at the well, German soldiers were captured.
We have voluntarily surrendered ourselves... I threw the weapon myself! I threw my gun myself!.. – They cried to Vasya Grishin.
We do not want to fight! We are not your enemies! – They interrupted each other.
In another group of captives, protected by Sergei alone, suddenly some kind of dump took place. The captives cursed in all the languages of Europe.
What is happening there? – I asked Sergei.
They are paying back,- he said quietly, without moving from the spot.
Two battered fascists were already lying on the ground in the center of the group. A lot of hands pointed at them, and multilingual crowd shouted: “Fascists! Fascist!” The eyes of the shouting burned with hatred.
Black shaggy Romanian with an artistic dexterity expressed with gestures and facial expressions how these lying now on the ground gunners had been driving him into battle, pushing with the fire, while sitting in the shelter. Then, taking the haughty look, he walked slowly and arrogantly to the lying fascists and, without looking, stepped on one of them. Before I could stop him, he, not changing his position, shouted out in German: “Get up, Romanian pig! Ahead!”
I wanted to grab him, but he immediately bounced back and, running around as hell and wildly gesticulating, began to explain something to me in an incomprehensible language, pointing first at himself, then at the Germans. However, the re-enactment was clear without words... “That is what they did to us!” – it said.
That shows the fascist “friendship of nationalities,” – with a smile remarked Sergei.
Fearing for the safety of the two Germans, who could come in handy for questioning at the headquarters, I told Sergei to make sure that their allies did not express more of their “friendly” feelings. He reminded us of the episode with the Hungarian. Day by day we have been receiving information about the fact that they are driven at all fronts. In the middle of the winter they ran through the desolated by them wilderness and died in the snow... We were chasing them, but were still behind them, and, on our way, we have started to be overtaken by heavy “six-wheelers” of young fighters in a new outfit. We were overtaken by tanks with red stars, with the words “To Berlin!”, “Death to fascism!”, “Ahead, to the victory!”.
We escorted these guys with the eyes of envy...
We were left to clean the rears in turn.
Our next stop was at the source, where once compassionate Mary, furtively from the older, raised a glass dropped by Grushnitsky. But we had neither Petchorins, nor Grushnitski with us, we have our own heroes of our time, and we have our own Mary.
These are those heroes of our time, who are now invited to star in a close-up movie.
Vasya went out. He, the poor man, strained his idea so bad that a deep furrow appeared between his eyebrows. I see that he is not satisfied with his work again, and, of course, never wrote a more or less suitable line ... This can affect the quality of the “close-up”. I no longer wanted to torment him and handed a letter of Gulya, which was addressed to both of us.
Sergei turned his vacation into torment. In one of the villages occupied by us, the Germans left us a lot of different stolen things, including canvases, brushes and paint. It exposed the weakness of our surveyor. Sergei appeared to be an amateur painter. He discovered his passion when he was in college already. At that time, after the death of his father, he was left to his mother and two little sisters. He needed to sustain all of them and didn’t have the opportunity to go to art school. Seeing a brush and paint, he became somebody else, and although it seemed to us those days that our attack would not lose this tempo until we reach Berlin, – he still took those things with him.
Now he is paying the price. Resting is much harder than fighting for him, he sits in front of a canvas from morning till late night.
We unanimously approved the first of his paintings and presented it to the director of the resort, where our whole unit stayed to rest and to replenish.
On this canvas, Sergei painted the German retreat. There is a wide steppe landscape, and German helmets with a swastika, like pale green pumpkins, everywhere. On the foreground, there is a dead head with dark eye sockets and a death emblem on the helmet, and a raven, sitting in front of it, as if to make sure there are no eyes left for him anymore. Furtively glancing at his head and at the crow, the shadows of the German soldiers, wrapped in horrible cloths, slip around, which vividly reminds of the French retreat in 1812.
Sergei immediately began painting the second picture, which is not yet done. Volodya, perched behind the artist, criticizes him.
What is this symbolism? Morning rays always fall on the mountain peaks first. Did you forget how they burned on the snowy tops?.. Just like frozen lightning!
Well, alright, alright. I admit this one, – agrees Sergei.
What about this one, you don’t? – Volodya provocatively points with the end of the brush at the familiar to all of us gorge over Terek. – You don’t admit it?
Sergei draws his eyes to us, as if asking for support against the ruthless critic who considers his realism to be symbolism!
Why would you put a crowd of ragamuffins and beggars here? – Asks Volodya.
Those are captives, remember?
Get rid of the fascists on the picture! Why do you need them? You better portray our guys! So that the sun starts shining in their eyes, so that they go ahead!
We all take active part in the creative suffering of the poor artist: one does not like the colors, the other wants to express our lives in the Caucasus and this winter on one canvas.
We asked him to put “Farewell” as the theme of this painting. It is us, our platoon, before the entire front rushed forward to attack. Terek – the extreme line that we had been defending for a long time.
We recognize the turbulent river on the picture, hopping from stone to stone. The wayward daughter of two old gray men Nazbek and the Caspian Sea became a sister for us during those days. We loved her and defended from the enemy. These cliffs were brothers for us, they defended us with their stone shoulders from bullets and shells...
Our youth did not leave us even in battles. In the stone folds of the mountains, we read the lines which once had been read there by Lermontov himself. We listened in the song of Terek the words that once had been overheard by Pushkin... We decided that our favorite poet had been standing here, on this blood-black rock, and his thoughtful look had been sliding from silver peaks to the dark gloomy gorge.
It was on the New Year’s Day. Our unit came forward and moved with the fight, while we were oredered to wait for specific instructions. Miroschnik was summoned to the headquarters, to the commander of the division. Our platoon stayed in the gorge at the mountain road. The first two branches were located lower, and we were on the ground near the dark rock.
What a mighty poet he was! – Proclaimed Volodya, finishind reading “The Novice”. He went down to the river and took some Terek water with the helmet.
Late discovery, – said Grishin, - we all have heard that before.
Freak! Hearing is one thing, and here you see it with your own eyes!
We spent the whole winter here, and could not feel it all. Now, an hour was enough to feel the poetic Caucasus of Lermontov. The joy of the night victory, beautiful Sovinformburo reports, awareness of the fact that we were going to attack – all of those made us happy and young, and something that had been living in our hearts since the childhood, but had been forgotten in the battles, started coming to life now. I myself had to learn for the first time Lermontov’s verses translated by Abai, but to me they sounded the same as it sounded in Russian for the others. Poets echoed through space, through many decades. If their consonance echoed so deeply in people’s hearts, it was born in the destiny of nations.
Sergei silently lifted a bayonet from the pile of trophies and outlined his portrait of the poet on a dark rock of a cliff. We saw his agility in the art for the first time and were astonished.
Drawing only the outlines with scratches, he began carving them. Then me and Volodya simultaneously began to write the words on the polished by rain cliff that each of us wanted to leave for the memory of Caucasus.
Miroschnik did not return. We continued our work silently and with concentration, as if performing some kind of sacred act.
When I finished writing, I went to Volodya, who was also putting the last dot. I read, perhaps, somewhat distorting the word, but still maintaining the full meaning:
…And Terek, jumping like a lion,
With shaggy mane on the ridge,
Roared like a mountain beast and bird,
Whirling at the azure height,
And mastering the water magic...
There was nothing surprising in the fact that there was a scratched in the Kazakh language Abai’s translation of these same lines on the other side of the cliff. To please me, Volodya began to read in Kazakh, stumbling over each letter:
Asau Terek doldanyp, buyrkanyp,
Taudy uzyp, Jol salgan, tasty zharyp...
Yes, Lermontov left a deep imprint in the soul and work of the Kazakh poet. Not only translations, but also original poems of Abai sound with the same greatness:
I shouted from the mountain cliff
The world should never doubt to live;
The echo answered me from far away...
Now it was not just a cliff in front of us. It was a sacred rock with a portrait and the words of the great Lermontov, to which the enemy will never come up again. I left the name of Abay there. It stands as a border post on the extreme point, which used to be reached by the Germans and from which they began their retreat on a New Year of 1943, quickly transformed into the flight...
I remembered my border service and the striped pillar that I had been defending. There was a river as well, which was flowing briskly, jumping from stone to stone. It was a place of threats appearing behind it. Mykola Shurup, who is still guarding the same border, wrote to me a month ago that he expected the moment when he would have to try his fighting luck. If the waves of the German attacks had not broken on this rock, and would have gone on, those bastards with old-fashioned curved sabers would attack Mykola as well. But now Mikhail Ivanocivh Revjakin believes that “this historical option will never come true.”
Now it’s too late for them. They are not fools, they understand! – He says.
Yeah, who knows what other “historical options” are prepared for us by the enemies (and maybe even some “bosom friends”) hoping for the fact that the Caucasian rock will not bear the fascist attacks, that Stepan Razin’s cliff Razin won’t be able to stand in front of them, that the Germans will be able to break through the Volga?
In the midst of Stalingrad battles, when the word “Volga” echoed in the hearts of men, as serious pain, when each of us, no matter where the destiny put him, flew in his heart to Stalingrad, our “friends” and allies only asked questions: “What do you think, can you still fight back?” But they got a clear and harsh response addressed not only to Hitler fascists, but, just in case, to those who, following them, would dare to doubt our capabilities to fight back to any aggressor, anyone, who would want to secure the world domination.
Now on the other side of the post familiar to me and my friend Mykola, there wasn’t enough enemies waving swords. Instead of the drumming, Mykola probably hears only delicate and sensitive flute sounds, already trying to pick up a lyrical tune...
So many events flooded, so much has changed since last fall that, if you look back, you will be dazzled... Is surprising that our still inexperienced artist got confused in front of this wealth of motifs and themes!
On the background of a wide landscape, he painted a string of tanks, which then rushed on all roads of the Caucasus by the endless stream. Those days, every mountain gorge, each fold of a mountain seemed to give birth to tank convoys. Not fearing the fascist air bombing, in broad daylight, heavy trucks with fresh troops and soldiers in uniform rolled out of our rears... And we stood at the rock in the old uniform, in riddled overcoats with patches of ours and enemy’s blood, and looked enviously at these brave guys who were shouting “Hurray!” to us and waving with their caps. The rocks replied with stunning echoes to the hums of engines, rumbling in the sky and on the ground...”
Sergei tries to capture everything that erupts in the memory, and, therefore, loses the most important thing behind the little ones.
Do you really think they look like tanks? These are some running cockroaches, – rages merciless Volodya.
You, Volodya, need to understand the whole idea... It is background, mood, and in the center of the picture there is our cliff, – confusingly objects Sergey, blushing like a schoolboy in front of the teacher.
Cliff? – critically asks Volodya. – The cliff is simply stolen from Lermontov. You added nothing here from yourself.
We all, of course, have seen the Caucasus through the eyes of Lermontov then. After all, Volodya himself began to read “Novice” to us.
You, fellow artist, have to find your own creative way, but now you are copying, being in the thrall of a great artist... People say that this path does not lead to glory, – Volodya started playing around, playing the “venerable.”
Sergei sees that there is the truth behind the humorous words of Volodya. He certainly did not expect such a critical agility from anyone of us, and he even slightly showed off his ability to draw, and now here you go! Sergei got lost. If I were him, I would say that my creative way, dear critic, have been in the trenches, on the tanks, in the dugouts for the past years…
You certainly have talent, fellow artist, you create great works of art, but you still lack your image here, - concludes Volodya.
He hugged Sergei and sat next to him.
Don’t get mad, Seryozhka. Let’s create a collective soldier work together with you… Just look at this guy. Look how handsome he became with the help of your hands. One might think that it is Pechorin himself; after all, he is our common friend… Saying that he is very handsome will be a lie! Let’s paint him the way he is, and let him be mad at God, not at us! I remember he had a huge soldier overcoat on him then, it was all in holes. He was trying to sew it in the car then…
I pretend not to hear and understand that Volodya is saying all that about me.
You see, Seryozha, – Volodya got carried away, – because village bailiff's wife Vasilisa went down in history not because it she was beautiful… I think even his wife would not be mad at you for it.
Wife... Yes, my wife!.. Here, on vacation, I started to get her letters three or four days earlier than before, but where she is and what she does is still unknown. According to the messages, there is a terrible heat there, fruits are in, and, therefore, she is somewhere here on the Southern Front as well...
The alarm signal plays. Captain Miroshnikov’s command is heard, he is sparkling with a brand new uniform and four stars on his epaulettes.
A transport plane is in front of us. We go on the right side of one of them, get onboard...
The plane starts shaking, spinning a swirl of dust. The autumn grass, which has already turned yellow, clings to the ground by a strong wind, swelled by a propeller.
Our squadron was divided into two parts. Captain Revyakin, the political officer, is flying with us. Miroschnik takes the rest in the other plane.
Without any farewell ritual, the plane headed to the south...
V
It is really difficult to describe what is happening during a big night of battle, and when it is difficult to describe something, in order to be clear, we start to compare it to the things that we know well, or (as odd as it may seem) with something that we don’t know at all, with such things as, for example, the hell.
So, the hell took place this night in a burning city and its surroundings. Everything was engulfed with fire, and it seemed that the shell blows cause destruction of not just buildings, but some kind of burning rocks. In the clouds of smoke, in a choking swarm to our left, over the sea, heavy black sky was hanging without a single star, and only sometimes the moon rose up by faded greyish bubble somewhere very far away.
Shells and mines were flying at us from the burning city, fell constantly in the field, flashed by huge crimson bushes with broad fire leaves for a moment, which were immediately enveloped by the smoky darkness and cloud of flying dirt.
To the right of us, as if from a volcano, lava of fire erupted: enveloping the night with black smoke, a huge cement factory was burning. Until the last night, its territory still belonged to no one. Now it is occupied by the devouring flames.
It was the hometown of Volodya Tolstov. Here he was born and grew up here. His father used to work at this factory.
Further to the right, behind the factory, a ridge of high hills took place. In the afternoon it was bare gray mountains, looking like a herd of giant hillsides. There was no sign of life on their soft hillsides. During the night, it seemed like a new town was created on them, flashing with lights, as if in the windows of hundreds of houses lights turn on and off. At these altitudes, our heavy artillery settled for the night.
We make our way to the city by the sea coast. In a flashing light of rockets and shells we see high waves, but its usual hum gets drowned in the din of battle. We were ordered to find out the position of the amphibious assault, which had landed yesterday in the city at the marina and the connection with which was lost.
At every step, stumbling over the corpses of men and horses, under thick firing of artillery and machine guns, we are slowly approaching the city borders. Crawling from one shell crater to another, from one human corpse to another, we have moved five kilometers forward.
I attached two twenty-meter cords to the ends of the belt on my back. Samed and Volodya, who knows the city well, are at the other end of the cords. The cords serve for silent communication and for not losing each other among the hundreds of human bodies, which, at the moments of wrong field lighting by the fire of rockets, also seem to be crawling with us to the city, and in our direction – to the sea, depending on at what point of the attacks our and enemy soldiers are mixed here by the fighting fire. The air over the field became heavy because of the smell of the human corpses, even the wind cannot not get rid of it.
Volodya pulled my cord: “Stop!”
“What!” – I ask him the same way.
“Come here!” – hastily called the cord ...
We crawl up on call.
A Red Army soldier was lying near a body of a dead horse, next to him – Volodya.
What's the matter?
German scouts are ahead.
In the shell crater... about fifty steps away, no more, - said the wounded man.
And who are you?
A scout.
Are you hurt bad?
Both legs... I have been watching them the whole time... They have approached in the dusk already, but do not dare to come closer... They are sitting and smoking over there, in the crater ... The smell of smoke is blown here...
It is difficult to meet a fighter like that, who needs help, but you actually can’t do that... We had to leave him, just putting a binder on the wound.
If we are alive, we will get back to you and pick you up, – Volodya promised to the scout.
Okay, guys... Thank you, go... Just lean me against this horse... I need to see everything... I am not a fighter anymore...
It was hard for him to talk. Whispers intermittently flew from his mouth. He wanted at least to see the fight one more time, since he could no longer participate. He wanted to see one more victory. He spoke quietly and simply, without the lofty words which the dying novel heros say. I bent down to look at his face, but, unfortunately, none of the rockets flashed in those short minutes.
We gave him a flask of water and a few pieces of cigarettes.
Better give me some tobacco and a piece of newspaper, guys, - let my hands do something, since it is so boring...
Leaving him, we crawled closer to the indicated crater.
We did not have to be afraid of a noise or a shot: this night, abrupt machine gun fire or a single explosion of grenades was no more than a child clapping.
We noticed a group of huddled people at the crater.
Iya, khannan! – Shouted Samed. – That is how we destroyed you in Stalingrad!..
We got down, but after two grenade explosions, there was no longer any movement or groans in the crater.
Later I asked Samed what “Iya, khannan!” meant in his language.
Who knows! Nasreddin Hodja shouted like that, when hitting limbers of Khan's vizier who stole his wife...
Marine troopers stood still, forced close to the sea shore. Volodya brought us very close to them. A continuous roar was on this tiny area, just like hail hitting the roof. Frequent explosions of hand grenade, loud shouts and incessant crackle of machine guns and rifles meant a lot, but a small space, separating us from the assault, was completely occupied by enemy infantry and mortar and machine-gun points. It was impossible to come closer and establish a connection...
On the way back we found the abandoned fighter in the field, he was still sitting there, leaning against a dead horse. His eyes were open, and flashes of fire and explosions were reflected in them, but he did not see them anymore...
When I got back, captain Miroshnik was not in the dugout.
He had been waiting for you for a long time... he left to the coastal artillery headquarters and ordered you to go there. It is the third cave from us over the shore.
The headquarters of our advancing units were located in small caves of the old quarries on the steep sea shore. Even the splash of the surf was heard there. The holes letting see the sea served for observation that day, but it was impossible to light a fire in the evening there, so as not to detect the observation points. In the darkness of the cave through the sounds of the sea, I heard the voice of our captain:
Yes, Comrade Guard Colonel, I sent them out long time ago. Waiting for their return at the moment.
I understood that he was talking about us. It would be foolish for me to wait until they pay attention to me.
Comrade Guard Colonel, let me turn to Guard Captain Miroshnikov, - I sounded it out.
Who is there? – the voice of colonel was heard from the darkness.
The commander of the first branch of the first Platoon, the Senior Guard Sergeant Sartaleev has arrived at the order of the squadron commander, Guard Captain Miroshnikov, – I replied, just as Miroschnik loved, exactly according to the regulations.
Kostya? My friend from the crossing? They said that you disappeared in the hospital! – Said the colonel, and recognized my old friend, Major Rusakov. – Well, report, Kostya.
I reported everything from the results of exploration that I considered important.
I was asked questions by our captain and the colonel, specifying the location of our paratroopers.
Well, thank you, my friend, - the Colonel told me. His strong arm caught my left one in the darkness and abruptly pulled up to him. - Oh, you are still a boy! – He said, not just hugging me, but somehow putting me right up next to him.
I wanted to see his face, but it was quite dark...
Phone beeped.
“Cucumber”, Rusakov, - replied the colonel. I am listening, Irakly Georgievich. I am comming... Lieutenant-General is calling, I'll be back in five minutes, wait, – said Rusakov, already leaving the cave. – You, Kostya, as well...
The crossing came to my mind. Cigarette, which he friendly stuck in my mouth. I was pleased to have this meeting with the witness of our first steps on the road of war...
At the exit of the cave, the colonel shouted to someone, “Get down!” At that moment, just before the cave, an enemy shell exploded with a roar. The light bluish light of the entrance eclipsed, and the dust and smoke hit us. Stones and clods of dirt fell somewhere nearby. Then, in the silence, the splash of the sea was heard, and a voice softly and frustratingly shouted:
The Colonel is killed!
“Killed”... How often have we heard and said that short heavy word ourselves!.. How many times had we to say goodbye to a friend forever, with whom you smoked a last cigarette, who warmed you by the warm participation and care, with whom you shared your frontline sadness and joy! With each fallen in battle comrade, you seem to bury a part of yourself.
The word “killed”, which sounded quietly in the dark cave, for me sounded louder than if it had been shouted by the whole platoon.
As soon as captain Miroschnik reported on the landing troops to the new commander, who took command instead of Rusakov, as soon as we managed to go back to see, our squadron moved by the head of the advancing infantry by the sea shore.
A double fire hung above us: fascists hit us with artillery, machine-guns and mortar fire, and our own artillery cleared the way for us through our own heads. We walked in the footsteps of our own shells behind the fire cover, sometimes almost overtaking it, and got down. Then our shells exploded in front of us only a few hundreds of meters away... And fire moved forward and forward again, clearing off the way for our new attack.
Novorossiysk, Volodya’s hometown, was the last powerful stronghold of the fascists on the eastern shore of the Black Sea. The Germans fiercely resisted, but the sudden infantry attack overturned their methodical calculation. They waited for the usual artillery preparation and after – for the attack of the infantrymen. Their expectations were not fulfilled. The infantry was piling on them almost together with the shells. Desperate courage of the troopers united with amazing clarity and precision of our artillery.
Iya, Khannan! –Samad Abdulaev reminded of himself. – That is how we destroyed you in Stalingrad! – He added after each explosion of his grenades.
And we will keep destroying you now! – replied Vasya Grishin.
The divisions, of course, sometimes got mixed. Often, an unfamiliar voice would repliy on your cry. Some slogan, thrown somewhere on the flank, picked up by neighbors, flies away on the other flank, many times changing its exact meaning, gets back to you, acquiring new content.
Somewhere, a soldier would remember his lost in the battle friend, and shout:
For Grisha!
He felt that it was a moment of worthy revenge for his battle friend.
For Olga! – Picks up the neighbor, remembering the lost beloved girl.
And suddenly, like a flash of rifle shots, female names would start going around the infantry crowd:
For Shura!.. For Lyuba!..
All of them are here with us, they are invisibly supporting a soldier’s soul: we are defending some of them and take the revenge for the others – and here they all came to help us in the fight...
For Zhenya!.. – came from somewhere to the left.
For my wife! – Immediately sounded the mighty voice of Samed.
But there are calls that sound accurately in the hot battle and, going around the front and countlessly being repeated, return unchanged. They carry our sacred filial feelings for the homeland...
Without waiting for the transfer of artillery fire, the infantry rushed eagerly for the close connection with our amphibious assault. They are having a hard time there. They are fighting, bleeding the last blood, let our “Hurray!” add strength and support to them a...
Hurra-a-a-a-ay!..
Now you are not running away – you are flying on a powerful wave, the tension that was growing in every fighter and now exploded in that cry, carries you forward. This is the moment that we have been waiting for a few weeks. At such battle moments, each soldier ceases to feel separate from others. His “self” has dissolved and merged together with everybody who was breaking forward through a hail of fire with the incessant screaming, getting out of his chest and throat:
Hurra-a-a-a-ay!..
Many times I had the opportunity to get convinced that the boiling with mighty wave shaft of the attacking and assaulting “Hurray” is one of the most terrible Gods of War.
When we burst into the area of the yacht club, the Germans rushed in all directions, throwing weapons... In the light of the sunrise, I saw a marine who, chasing them, threw a grenade at a run after them, then turned to us and, heavily limping and staggering, rushed in our direction. His head was bandaged with a blood, sucking through a bandage, from under which only the right eye was staring at us. He raised his hand with the gun as if to hug, but suddenly, forcing my right hand against his chest, leaned toward me, as if instantly falling asleep... I hugged him.
Get off your hand ... My back... There is no unwounded space on it,- he croaked.
I pulled my hand away. My palm was covered in his blood.
Our troopers were hugging the mariners next to us. But there was no time to express feelings...
Ahead! – I heard a cry.
I thought it was the voice of Volodya.
Fire! They are rushing at us! Fire! – the multi-voiced cries were heard ahead.
The marine leaned heavily on me, I noticed that he was losing his strength, and gently put him on a box.
Well, my friend, get some rest here... The medical aid will come soon,- I told him, running ahead.
Just look at him!.. – I heard a voice back there. – I am going forward as well... Forward!..
He rushed almost next to me with shaking steps to chase the fleeing Germans...
By the morning, the Germans had left the city “for strategic reasons”, that was how Goebbels used to calm the fascists who were afraid for their own destiny.
As it always happened, we had to put out the scattered fire, clean up basements and attics.
Petya Ushakov ran to the enemy passenger car which had crashed at the iron lamp pole at the intersection of two streets. Opening the door, he pushed by his feet someone’s bottom, which was sticking out from under the seat...
Come out, you bastard!
With his hands up, the officer in the known black SS uniform got out of the car.
Captive, Captive... – he muttered in fear.
Before Sergei shouted “Stop!”, Peter had shot across the SS-man’s chest with the gunfire.
What are you doing, Petya!..
For the first time I saw Petya Ushakov being such a person: his lips curled, his mustache bristled up, the whites of his eyes got drawn in blood, her nostrils flared. He was breathing heavily, and angrily flashing his eyes at Sergei, quietly began to pull out documents of the fascist’s pocket.
Here you go, you like “Zolotoe runo”. It is our tobacco – smoke some. – He handed a pack of cigarettes to Volodya Tolstov.
It seemed too heavy to Tolstov. He opened it: there were several pairs of clock, rings, earrings, gold teeth and bridges, taken out of the shot or still alive people… Who knows...
The city, lying in ruins, was still burning. Certain surviving houses looked strange. We went around dozens of streets and greeted the residents ... The city was dead, and every pile of rubble was calling for revenge.
Passing by the remains of a brick house on the southern outskirts of the city, Volodya suddenly said in a trembling voice:
Kostya... Let’s go inside.
I understood everything right away: we stumbled upon the very thing that each of us has avoided talking about during all these days. We knew that Volodya was born here and that his parents lived here. He knew that they had managed to be saved from the attacks of the fascist hordes, but traces of them were lost then.
Now he looks at the ruins and says “let’s go inside”, which certainly meant “our house”... But there’s was nothing left from it to go inside.
In front of us, like the ancient tombs, there are ruins of one crumbling wall, near which is a ridiculous round painted stove...
That’s where my family lived... – says Volodya. His lips formed into a grin, from which the heart aches.
He leaned forward, looking at the corner of the wall, even held a finger on it. It seemed like he was looking for something. With some embarrassment and shyness he scraped away the garbage on the floor of the room and pointed at a purple spot.
Here my sister Tanya spilled ink... – he grinned again. – She loved to “write”, while she was not old enough for school yet… Of course, I whipped her for that... You see scribbles on the stove – “D” means “Dad”, here is “M” – it means “Mom”… And the “V” was crossed out... That is why I spanked her... We made peace with her when I was leaving to the front , - I still managed to get home... – He continued to look at the stove and suddenly, delighted, exclaimed, - Kostya, look at that! Show wrote it again! Here, you see, “V”, “V”, and “V”! Look how many times!.. – He could not help keeping calm, his voice trembled.
It seemed like it was easier for him to stand the view of ruined city or a native house, than to see this sign of a child’s longing.
An hour later, when we were already in the car and headed to Taman, Volodya came back to the state he was in before: he was joking, laughing, but never looked back at his ruined city.
VI
Taman Peninsula is not really the most beautiful and cozy place on the planet. Its soil constantly exudes putrid water. The area of its estuaries is perhaps superior to the area of its land. Soldiers’ feet keep getting in the marsh swamp. If you crawl, you get wet, if you jump up to run, you will get sucked in... It is especially bad if you get here in March, when the snow melts and rain continually pours.
The German tanks and convoys of cars passed through the entire peninsula with heavy tread, which was followed by our convoy; and now it is there, all riddled by their tracks, covered with hills of mass graves, piles of wrecked cars and humpback silhouettes of burnt tanks. Muddy and sleepy spring water lazily flows through the deeply indented by the tracks of heavy military roads.
After the Caucasus and Kuban medley, it seems that this dull Peninsula was dragged from somewhere and was thrown here, at the west door of the Caucasus, as an old carpet.
Taman Peninsula is separated only by a narrow strait from the Kerchensky, which is still occupied by the Nazis. It looks like our soldier life prepares us to jump across the strait to the Crimea. Nobody, of course, said nothing about it to us. But we have already reached the extreme limits of the land. The Nazis, who were not killed, were thrown into the sea. There is no place to step further.
The justice of our soldiers guesses is confirmed by the fact that we are taught a new art: we get in the boat, it makes a semi-circle in the sea, fifty meters from the shore, and we must, getting across the board, get to the coast and immediately fire. Drowning is not permitted under any circumstances. Swimming in clothes is not easy. Some tools that can save from death cannot save from the icy water. But the most surprising fact is that under these bathing we have forgotten how to catch a cold.
Just think about it: how would mothers, wives and sisters moan and groan, if you accidentally fall out of the boat at this time of year, you would get home all wet! They would call upon all the power of modern science and all ancestors’ drugs for help, you would be put under the covers, under the fur and feather beds, you would be forced to drink hot tea, raspberries, you would be chafed and sighed at... And here – you get a sip of vodka and a new bathing tomorrow. That’s it ... Maybe the half of the human race diseases occurs only because they are so afraid of them...
It is a hard time for Petya Ushakov: he decided to take a machine gun and even an extra pair of bullet strings, not counting grenades. He jumped out of the water, shot out, quickly undressed and began to twist his shirt. A shell is flying in from Kerch... “Get down!” Everyone fell down. A water fountain rose up near the shore. We get up, being all dirty, but Petya was especially lucky: he gets up, being as black as a Negro because of the sticky coast slime, angrily wipes the stuck dirt off the respected by all of us mustache.
That was so mean! – He grumbles.
When the missiles are coming at you during the shelling, you can actually differentiate which one is dangerous, and fall to the ground on time. But when such a single crazy shell swoops, everyone considers salvation from it as some special luck. A joyful mood takes over everyone.
This proves, dear Peter Afanasievich, as our dear Senior Guard Sergeant Constantin Sartaleevich would say, - intentionally stretching and complicating his joke, says Volodya, - that the enemy should be immediately put in front of you so that he will be kicked out from the Crimea by a single kick, and from Berlin by the other one!
Volodya Himself, a seaside resident, a member of that same yacht club, in the territory of which our meeting with the marines took place during the capture of Novorossiysk, is an excellent swimmer. He was the first one to get out of the water, even managing not to wet his chest pockets, and he was the first one to get changed.
It turns out that sea water is just like the usual water... The only bad thing is that it is very cold ... – responds Samed. – It is really pleasant to walk in the water in Uzbekistan. And I do not like the cold.
It is alright, Samed, when you jump from the cold to the hot battle, you will get warm right away! – Vasya promises.
Volodya jokes with everybody else. He calls Petya's mustache a seal mustache, he also teases me and Sergei, Vasya, and the Ural forester Egorushka, a fellow, who is of no less height than was our Zonin; Vladimir says that he will not sink to any depth, because his head will still be stuck out of the water. His jokes did not hurt anyone, and only Petya, ruffling his mustaches, snapped dully at him without a smile and began to clean his notebook. He saved it from the water, put in a cap, but could not rescue from the mud when he got down. He leafed through and busily wiped each page.
What Peter, your score were washed away? – Volodya insistently draws him into the common playful tone.
No, my score will never be washed away, it will always stay there, – still angrily responds Petya...
Peter keeps a personal score by sections: soldiers, officers, vehicles and tanks. After each battle, he gently specifies the combat case and only after receiving confirmation from his comrades, writes it down in his book. His score had long been passed over two hundred, but, as it seems, he did not add anything to the list during the night battle for Novorossiysk. Typically, in a big battle, especially at night, it is difficult to count how many enemies were killed by the person, and take credit for the whole city is a bit uncomfortable.
I think that our Petya will return home from the war being a harsh and inaccessible for jokes person, and being very demanding to himself and to the people.
In your team, no matter where you work, there will be order! – Says Sergei.
And there won’t be order in yours? No, brother, you are also going to work as you do now. Come on, Kostya, read the letter from your mother to him again. Let him remember how women work now: they are devils for work.
Petya can speak on this subject so convincingly, as if he has been thinking about the kolkhoz labor the whole war, as if the whole platoon is going to the seed tomorrow...
Where is this Gelendzhik? Maybe, it will be much better there? – Samed asked Volodya.
The water will be deeper and the coast – much higher.
What about dirt?
No, there won’t be dirt.
There is a rumor among the soldiers that we are being moved to Gelendzhik for training. We conclude from this that the high coasts and the real sea are waiting for us somewhere. I am not afraid of seas or high coasts, but I have a reason to regret about leaving the Taman Peninsula. In recent days, I hear the voice of Akbota really close: her letters reach me on the second day already. Akbota lives somewhere behind these estuaries or those low red hills. I even sing songs now, so that she can hear it, if she accidentally passes by. I sing the most emotional songs, but singing is allowed only during the rest time in the dugout. Maybe that's why Akbota does not hear me... Why wouldn’t she accidentally pass by our dugout and, hearing a familiar song and greeting us in a military fashion, shout loudly and joyfully:
Comrade Senior Guard Sergeant, let me request permission to speak!..
However, no matter how nice this option of the meeting of husband and wife is, I think it is not the most brilliant one. And what if was a woman in cleverly fitted officer greatcoat suddenly appears in front of me, and I become the one who would need to ask for permission to speak...Knock it off!.. Rather let her respond to me with a similar song... However, the war is not an opera, and that option rapidly disappears. I want to see her so bad, but how?..
The war ruined millions of families. There is only the brave mother living in our own nest alone. My brother is in the far north, and I am in the far south... And now you feel somewhere here, next to you, a close creature, one might say – your wife, but she turns out to be as far away from you as if she was living at home...
Can I ask why your face got clouded, my boss? – always cheerful Volodya says.
A true warrior always overcomes grief and sorrow of his heart, – I say, trying to hit tone.
Samed, tell us about Mullah Nasreddin, - asks Sergei.
Not now, we will have a lock up now.
There is enough time! The guys over there behind the oblique are still getting out of the water.
Samed ensconced himself comfortably and took the most serious look.
He knows countless number of stories about Mullah Nasreddin and has a great gift of humor... In his stories, Mulla Nasrudin comes to life in the trenches of the World War II, hits the scouts and gets taken to the headquarters of Hitler, drowns the Nazis in pits, where it seems to them that they see notorious “hens” and “eggs”, he meets Roosevelt and Churchill at the Tehran street and asks them tricky questions about the second front...
The signal for the line-up sounds off. We go back to the dugouts on the boat...
I have been closely watching Samed all these days. He came to us from the hospital in the last hours before boarding the plane that brought us to Novorossiysk. He went on the scout with us three times already and distinguished himself as a brave and intelligent soldier. In the battle for Novorossiysk, he bravely stood up, throwing grenades, he shoot accurately, and fought using whatever he could manage in a close fight, even the stock. Tall, dry, thin ... I wanted to guess who he was by profession: the farm keeper, elementary school teacher, perhaps an agronomist or a technician builder?.. In practice he turned out to be a projectionist, riding on a motorcycle to teahouses and kolkhozes, managing to show a movie on three or four screen over the night. Maybe that is where his efficiency and accuracy, with which he carries out the combat missions and the most insignificant tasks, comes from.
He does everything with some kind of a special easiness, which sometimes gives the impression of carelessness. In moments of danger, his two rows of white teeth sparkle with a smile to the comrades, as if he himself is never in danger. Samed talks to everyone with a simple “you”. He maintains the statutory respectful “you” and the tone of a subordinate only when he talks to me, but his sharp brown eyes at this time joyfully and friendly say to me: “Let’s drop formalities”. Joke flies off his tongue even when it seems like it is not the right time for jokes. In any case, he would certainly remember the national sage Mulla Nasruddin and his dictum. But his carelessness and playfulness irritates nobody, it is on the contrary – everyone is grateful to him...
When we got back to our dugout after one more bathing, I went up to him and held out my tobacco pouch.
Mulla Nasruddin advises not to obey the Koran all the time, – said Samed, beginning to roll the “dog leg”.
Squinting, he looked at me straight in the eye and said with not a tone of assumption, but of statement:
Comrade Senior Guards Sergeant decided to find out what kind of a creepy guy I am... Right?
No, no, - I muttered, somewhat taken aback by the direct question. – I just would like to know where you got so many interesting stories from…
From an old friend, whom I met once during a battle, - said Samed.
I heard that you are from the Stalingrad Front...
Yes, I had to... – he said briefly, and dark reflection of his experience appeared on his face.
Why do not you tell us about the Stalingrad battles? – I asked, feeling that he himself would like to share the experience. – Stalingrad is the hometown for us as well, we also fought for it in the Caucasus... Tell me!
No a single soldier will not tell you that, – Samed replied. – Perhaps, even the whole regiment of soldiers won’t. Unless you collect a battalion of generals, they will somehow manage to cope with it...
Just tell me what you saw yourself.
Not so much... Because a soldier sees only what is on his line of sight... I had not moved for three months and three days. We defended the house. It was an excellent house with stone arches, with concrete pillars; it would stay for the centuries. To our right was a big beautiful theater, and behind it one could see a beautiful city. At first, I was sitting in the attic with a machine gun. Three days later, the top floor got demolished. We went down and put a new machine gun, replacing the broken one. Then everything became less visible, the theater closed everything in front of us, except for the nearest street. Then, day after day, each on the floors got demolished, and we had to go in the basement. A half-destroyed coffering and concreted columns hung above us, so we had to clear it off. Have you ever been to Samarkand? No?.. His beautiful wife Bibi Khanum ordered to build an amazing mosque by the return of Aksak-Temira from the war. When you look at it, you always feel sorry that the time has destroyed this wonderful beauty. But the time had been working for six centuries, and here in front of us the whole city turned into ruins worse than Bibi Khanum’s Mosque... There are only nine people left from the whole squadron during these three months... We have forgotten what a person's face is like when he laughs... what the voice when people joke sounds like... When only seven of us were left, the Germans threw their battalion in the attack directly at us. The commander sent me to ask for reinforcements. As I waded through the flying stones, iron and steel, the night came... I was not allowed to get reinforcements – I was coming back and hearing how the Germans were pressing on us. At that moment I thought mostly of the fact that it was necessary to get to my comrades alive, no matter what it would take, because I was that reinforcement for them... And then I met an old friend who whispered a few words and made me smile. It was Mullah Nasreddin. So we crawled among ruins with him, discussing his advice. When we got to our guys, there were only three survivors. The Nazis were still pressing... But together with Nasreddin we spoiled it all. “Iya, Khannan!” – Shouted Nasreddin, throwing a grenade and, jumping out of the shelter with his rifle, rushed to fascists... I followed him, and the guys followed me – the Germans ran away. Nasreddin deceived them: they thought that we had a whole fresh squadron with us. I and Nasreddin got a Patriotic War order and have agreed since then to never part...
Samed smiled cheerfully and warmly. After finishing listening to him, I shook his hand.
Okay, dear Samed, wake your Mullah Nasreddin often. Let him fight with us. A good soldier is always needed during the war!
Soldier rumors materialized. At the dawn, our boat made the same semicircle at the highest speed, but on the new location – the high Gelendzhik coast.
This Gelendzhik is fake, - whispered to me Volodya, but did not explain what that “fake” meant, and jumped overboard.
Everyone else followed him – Samed, Egorushka, Petya, Sergei, Vasily...
The second boat approached as well...
Samed and Egorushka, reaching the bottom with the feet, wanted to go to the shore.
Swim! – I cried.
We attacked from the sea three times before the morning under the crackle of machine guns and explosions of grenades from the shore, where the imaginary enemy was positioned.
Volodya was the best swimmer, but Petya was ahead of him and quickly opened fire. Emerging from the icy water, as if from under a heavy blanket, he fired from a machine gun ahead of everybody, suppressing the coast fire of the “enemy”. Sergei turned out to be the weakest. He was the last to come out of the water and climb on the rocks.
I will catch up with everybody by the evening, I just have to change my boots – these ones are too bog! – Sergei kept bragging.
The cold Sun was rising from behind the ridge, when, quickly twisting our clothes, we got dressed and grabbed our flasks.
Mohammed did not allow drinking wine! – Samed laughed, tapping his teeth on the neck of the flask.
After taking a sip, Sergei does “running in place”, and Ushakov still twists his shirt.
Twist it tighter, so that it no longer gets wet! – they invigorate each other.
We all got dressed and poured water out of our boots and although the body heats up from a sip of alcohol, our teeth still tapped and there was not enough of joyful laughter to warm up. Laughter is the inner fire of a person.
Allah had two wives ... – suddenly, purposely distorting the language, Samed begins one of his jokes.
Everybody starts laughing all at once from the unexpected joke.
Our friendly laughter, echoing in the bare coastal cliffs, drew attention of three people sitting on the rocks not far away from us. They started approaching us. We recognized captain Miroshnik. Next to him are two others guys in baggy flying suites. Commanding “Attention!”, I'm waiting for the captain to approach. Overcoming chills, our guys stretched. And suddenly, one of those pilots, which had epaulets of the Aviation Lieutenant Colonel, appeared to be the closest to me person: Shegen was approaching us.
I stood in front of him wet, pinched with cold, but full of pride for the good path I had gone through. His eyes met mine and warmed my whole body right away. Shegen, as a senior officer, gave the command “rest!” and appealed to Miroshnikov.
You have my little brother here, Comrade Guards Captain.
No, we did not rush to hug each other, did not kiss. Nothing of that happened. We did not even tap each other’s shoulder...
Each of us, taking a closer look at the other, knew how the other one fought and continues to fight.
Our paths crossed many times, when Shegen flew over my head. It happened, as it turned out, so often, that he knew by heart everything I could tell.
Obviously remembering his former attitude towards me, Shegen remarked casually:
Well, you've seen in this war perhaps more than me at my height...
I said nothing.
We insensibly started discussing the topic, which once seemed too childish to talk about with Shegen.
Do you remember your first day in Guryev? – He asked me and I read our entire Gurevsk summer in his eyes.
The whole city appeared right before me in the way I first saw it: overcrowded, cramped, noisy as the crowd at a marketplace. It seemed to me then that the houses were put to one another so close, because all the people live in the bazaar, and the whole city is the Bazaar itself. It was a different situation in the village... Kara-Murt sends you to call uncle Sabit. And there is a whole field in front of you – no streets or alleys. You run through all the yards, jump over a familiar dog, deliberately turn sideways to jump through a calf-bound, go over the roof of the dugout... Now it is surprising how such a dugout managed not to collapses on its residents... I lived in such a dugout myself, and in the same one Shegen was born and lived during his early childhood. We were able to remember even something we experienced once apart – we had so much in common at the beginning of life...
Interrupting each other, we further remembered what we have experienced together.
Do you remember our policemen? – Shegen reminded with a brightened up look of the strict cold eyes, and without waiting for an answer, answers himself with a delight: - He wanted us to study so bad!..
He is now the chairman of our kolkhoz.
Seriously? Give me his address. I will write and send him a card, – Shegen pulls a notebook out. By the way, here… - he handed me a photo of a woman with a small child on her lap, - my wife and daughter. My wife knows you not worse than I do. I had been telling her about our childhood the whole time I was on vacation.
Shegen wrote down the address of our kolkhoz in his book, then took mine, tore a sheet of paper and wrote his field post number. Folding it, he handed it to me, and I hid it by the lapels of my cap.
You know, Kostya, let's not lose each other anymore. Perhaps, we will get to Berlin together... See you, – said Shegen, leaving.
In Berlin?
Of course not! I’ll see you before. Now I know that we are always neighbors and fight together.
Two days later, we learned to quickly climb out of the water to the shore, and even Sergei kept up with the others.
We were given new uniforms. The boots were with such thick soles that one could go further Berlin in those.
At night, before the formation of the whole squadron, the commander read us a special order of the Supreme Commander of our unit, the landing on the Kerch Peninsula was planned that night.
We wrote a soldier’s oath on the order sheet to fulfill the combat mission.
VII
Black shore of the boiling night sea. A sharp wind penetrates us, and I hate to think that we will have to swim in this cold roaring water. We are waiting for boats to come.
Get ready! – Revyakin’s command is heard is a neighboring platoon two dozen meters from us...
We are already ready. Soldier gathering is not that difficult. – The breeze brings us the roar of engines through the grumbling sea.... Are they coming? No, it is a hearing deception.
I was writing to Shegen when Revjakin came in the dugout. He came to talk about the upcoming mission.
You will have a landing behind enemy lines. This time landing can be cut off for a while...
Revyakin prepared us for the biggest surprises.
It was about what Volodya Ushakov said: kick the enemy out from the Crimea by a strong kick. To do this, it was necessary to establish a foothold first of all. Our task was to climb the Kerch peninsula from its southern side. Another group had already arrived on the north side...
Concluding the conversation, Revyakin took folded triangles – letters – from the bag and placed them in front of me. And judging by the way his eyes stopped on me, I realized that one of them was from Akbota. Revyakin had learned to recognize her letters by the handwriting since long time ago.
It appeared to be true, when he distributed letters to us; one of them was given to Vasya, and the other one – to me... Opening it, I jumped up: Akbota’s letter was written on the same day in the morning...
Reply to the letters today, better right now, - significantly emphasized Revyakin.
But we understood ourselves that there is not much time after such a conversation before a military operation.
So, Akbota is somewhere close. Maybe a few hundred meters away... Maybe I could find her tomorrow.
What if we really do not leave today! After all, it maybe that the operation will not happen today, but tomorrow?..
But just in case, I wrote her a letter, instructing Shegen to take care of her, introducing him to her as my older brother in absentia. In a letter to Shegen, I added a request to find Akbota and informed about her address. Not hesitating in my expressions, I told him how painful it was to know that she was close, but I had neither the time nor the opportunity to find her. Of course, I did not write anything about the upcoming landing.
Finishing both letters, I took Shegen’s sheet out of the lapel of my cap, on which he wrote down his field post number... I looked at it and closed my eyes tight, as if from the lightning: it was the same four-digit number as in Akbota’s address, the only thing was that after the number, instead of the usual “A”, was letter “D”...
The war forbade us to tell each other about the exact place of stay and the nature of the unit. Honestly, I informed Akbota that I was a scout, while she, as a woman, was more pedantic and did not write anything on that about her... But how could I still not guess where the place of “wind commanders” and “clouds masters” was!.. “One must be quite foolish and stupid not to understand that she is in the aviation!” – I reproached myself.
In the first quarter, the target was outstripped by twenty-three! – snapped Grishin.
By twenty-three? – I did not understand what he was informing me about. - Hold on, what kind of target?..
What do you mean “what kind of target”! Where did you come from? Quarterly!
Quarterly?
He shook his head.
Karaganda! What is not understandable for you here! The factory have been launched already...
Oh... yes, yes... Congratulations...
Vasya replies: “Thank you.” He became so close with Karaganda that my incomprehension kind of hurt him. He wanted to please me with the news of the homeland, and it seems to him that I was not happily accepting his news...
But I was thinking about something else. If I still have tomorrow’s day, I will ask Miroshnik to let me go to the airdrome on a car moving in the same direction. I know that it is here, just ten kilometers away...
However, just at this time, we were lined-up; and here we are, waiting for the arrival of boats.
I told Volodya about what happened, confessing that I was now afraid of being away from my wife once again. I just created an illusion of proximity and relative prosperity in our “family” with Akbota – and here is what happened...
Hodja Nasreddin told me once, – intervened Samed: - “A husband feels bad when he does not know where his wife is and what she is doing. But Allah sends husbands such tests, so that he knows that his wife doesn’t like uncertainties about the fate of his husband either...”
Samed stopped his wise tirade, listening to the crashing waves. Yes, that's not just a rumble of waves, it is engines... It means that the boats are coming.
The engines are buzzing louder. Silhouettes of boats flashed on the black wave in the light of the moon struck from clouds. They fly on the crests and go back again, fearing stones.
Get ready! - Captain Miroshnik’s command sounds next to us.
Hanging on the wave, the boat emerges from the sea and stops at the shore.
Iya, Khannan! – exclaims Samed, getting on the boat.
I see a huge figure of his neighbor next to him, Egorushka. I recognize other people jumping on board. We all hold the handrails. The wave tosses the boat with us, but it becomes heavier and stable from our cargo. The captain is already on the boat.
Sartaleev, is everyone onboard?
Yes sir!..
Gorin, yours too?
Yes sir.
Our boat goes by, cutting maned waves, first climbing on them and then gliding like from a mountain. When it climbs like a beetle on the crest of a wave, other boats become visible to us for a moment. First we saw them next to us, now they scatter in different directions and disappear.
The sea hits our little ship at the front, back, hips, tosses up and throws into an abyss...
The bottom of the hell is no deeper, – says Samed.
Have you?
I haven’t. Hodja Nasreddin wrote a letter from there...
We were all soaked to the skin. The tightness does not allow warming up with movements. Numbed fingers do not feel the handrails which we hold tightly. The steering man boldly cuts waves.
What else does Hodja Nasreddin writes about? Samed, tell us...
The boats pulled up, getting close to each other in the open sea. We saw once again in the moonlight what a threatening military armada we were. And now, turning abruptly, boats rushed to the shore...
No matter how strong the hum of the sea was, the Germans caught the sound of the engines and opened fire. Nazi planes roared above our heads, and suddenly the hanging lights flares began to light up high above us, brightly lighting our fleet. The shelling from the shore intensified. The shells fell between the boats, tossing the water fountains up.
Iya, Khannan! Try to hit us!
Samed took an aim and knocked a bright light dangling above us by a shot...
Rounds of tracer bullets burst from boats at the rockets, extinguishing the lights. But the shells and bombs rained down on the landing party thicker and thicker.
Our boat was going fast to the shore. Behind it, in the rocket light, two long gray breaking waves stretched. There was a wall of fire at the coast – rockets, tracer bullets, explosions of bombs and shells. But for some reason, our boat was out of that zone, as if they did not fight with us: bullets whistled above our heads, planes bombed far behind...
We are cut off from the rest, – calmly noticed Miroshnik, - but it is better for us...
It wasn’t that difficult to understand the captain’s thought. The fountains of water were left astern. After passing through the lighting strips, the boat got into the thick darkness again. We got through the fire zone, and the shore was already blackening in front of us...
Is anybody hurt? – the captain asked.
It seems like nobody.
And just a minute later, overcoming the embarrassment, Sergei admitted:
I am hurt a little bit...
He turned out to be wounded in the right arm. Any other wound would not upset us as much as this one. Yes, he is a soldier now, but we saw a future artist in him.
It is absolutely nothing... – he muttered when we were bandaging the wound.
You will be taken back on the same boat! – ordered Miroschnik.
Not far from the coast, the boat made its usual semicircle.
Jump! – ordered the captain and first rushed into the water ...
So we parted with Sergei, without even having time to say goodbye. Who knows how he will go back, it’s better to be all together... Petya was the only one who, removing his gun and grenades, managed to hug him before jumping into the sea, which was boiling on the shore, as a kettle.
Jumping out, I felt the sea bottom under my feet, but the deep icy water covered my head, fettering my movement at first. Instinct pulled my body up. I jumped out of the water to the shoulders and swallowed the night air with the whole chest. A wave caught me, showered, carried away, and I started feeling the stones underfoot, but I was knocked down again by a heavy blow and carried deep down. The next wave blow threw me on the rocks again. I grabbed them, and run away from the waves at the moment of the undertow...
Two people appeared in front of me the darkness. I suddenly remembered about my gun and held it up.
Belay! – captain Miroschnik quietly stopped me.
Each of us overcame craftiness of the sea in our own way, so everybody got out of the water. Caps, bags and other extra weight were left in the sea. Machines and ammunition were preserved. The sea let our fighters by one and two. Thrown one of the last ones, Samed rushed to Volodya.
Iya, Khannan! – he shouted.
A steep rocky shore stood before us. Almost over our heads, two German machine guns reluctantly and with pauses sent rounds at the maritime space. The Germans saw that the boats left, they thought that the landing was broken, and they apparently came down on us just in case. That is how the village dogs lazily respond to a fight in a nearby village.
It is a paradise here, – said Samed, – only pilaf is missing!
But we had already taken a sip of alcohol from flasks without pilaf...
Somewhere, to the left from us, the shelling of the sea continued and was not weakening. No boats on the sea that came to our side were seen anymore. It could be assumed that the troops turned back, judging by the motion of rocket fires, shrapnel blows and the flight of tracer bullets from the shore. The battle on sea was neither the task, not a possibility of our troops.
Lying on our stomachs under the steep shore, at the suggestion of Captain Miroshnik we opened the first “council of war”...
Expecting that the Germans will now begin to “comb” the shore, we sent one man for the patrol in both directions along the narrow coastal strip.
The width of the area is exactly five meters. The stones are above us and the sea is behind. It is precisely the thing that is called “squeezed by pleased”, – said the captain with a vigorous and even joyful tone. – As you, my friends see, we have nowhere to retreat. But there is as much space for the attack as you want. So, we'll go for the attack. The peninsula is ours, the Soviet one anyway. Let us prove to the Germans that we are the masters of our land, let them retreat from us!
We remembered the oath we gave during the announcement of the order. Our “council of war” decided to attack.
Each of us knew that the landing of two dozen fighters is not able to capture cities. But it can keep the area from which it will give assistance to the next, larger landing, if it doesn’t lose its head. This head for us was the head of captain Miroschnik. And twenty fighters who know their capabilities, under the command of an intelligent and brave commander, could become a huge force. We knew that we had come here not for a walk. We all had been preparing for the fact that we would have to give our lives for our country. But this does not mean that we were going to die anyhow...
Machine guns of the German Coast Guard continued to fire, just in case firing the rouds at the dark rustling sea, occasionally illuminating the coastal strip with rockets.
While we were lying at the rocky shore, putting out legs up to make the water flow out of our boots, our overcoats got dried a little, the weapons were inspected and put on alert. Our captain divided our squadron into two groups. He commanded the left wing himself, and gave me the right one.
If we are not deviated so far, a village should be three kilometers from here, and we need to rush through it with the speed of a bullet. There is a mound half a kilometer to the north. According to the plan of the large landing, our squadron has been appointed to capture this mound. We will act according to the given order. The combat mission remains the same: to capture the heights dominating the shore to the north of the village. Is it clear to everyone?
Yes sir, clear.
Then the captain gave each soldier a special slogan, so that it seemed like there were a lot of voices: “Death to the fascist snake!”, “For the Soviet land!”, “Death to the invaders!”, “For the Crimea!”, “Ahead till Sevastopol!” As soon as the captain shouts the slogan “For the Motherland!”, the voices of fighters should not get silent, until we reach the intended mound.
Captain Miroschnik also distributed the following command between us:
“Ukrainian battalion, ahead!”
“Kazakh battalion, ahead!”
“Uzbek Battalion, follow me!”
And it did not seem ridiculous to anyone that there would be only one person in each of these “battalions”. We had to take place of the entire regiment.
Move silently until we face resistance. Be guided by me, - concluded the captain.
I was walking with my squad, guided by the set by the captain interval of ten meters between the fighters. Our captain was walking with his men fifty meters to the left.
We got up quietly, but during the first fifty paces a hornet’s nest buzzed from the coastal cliff, and a fight began.
Our captain shouted his slogan. I cried the most lingering command in the world:
Ka-aza-kh ba-ta-l-one, a-he-ead!
The commanders of our “battalions” shouted no less formidable command, “hurray” thundered, and our “regiment” rushed into the attack under the crackle of machine guns...
We really attacked the enemy as a whole regiment, but at the same time sought to the target, as to a shelter. Experience told us that trenches should be on the mound, perhaps, and machine-gun nests...
Our voices were heard incessantly. Samed was bawling his strange and savage, “Iya, khannan!” We filled up the German trenches with a few grenades and, without entering into a close fight, rushed over them to the goal. Taken by surprise, the Germans threw grenades that exploded behind us already at a safe distance. The others, frightened by noise and explosions, rushed to flee.
As ordered, “at the speed of a bullet” we got through the village, firing the machine-gun rounds through the streets.
The sky hump of the target height was starting to outline before us. Machine guns hit from high-rises of the two points in the darkness. But we were hit not only by these two machine guns: we were hit from the left and right, front, back, and were hit by the voices, the grenade explosions, the sound of our shooting.
The turmoil raised by the Germans was the one thing that saved us: one would have an impression that a powerful crossfire was taking place in the great night battle. Our fire was the least of all. But the German shooting helped us – we ran through the enemy location, and raised after us gunfire hit the Germans themselves, which, of course, thought that it was the enemy fire.
We got to the mound with such a speed that the machine guns fired only our footprint. As if waking up slowly, machine guns started answering through the entire neighborhood already. Germans nervously opened fire, as it seemed, all over the peninsula. As captain Miroschnik admitted after, for a few minutes he, like me, had hope that we were not alone, and that maybe fighters who landed along the coast went on the attack following us...
We were already at the foot of the mound, and only occasional bullets whistled over our heads. We climbed up the mound without a single shot, covered by the darkness, then, standing up, attacked the top with a sudden cry. A few gray figures jumped out of the dark trenches under our automatic gunfire.
Get down! – Commanded us Miroshnik.
Explosions sounded. Several grenades flew into the machine gun bunker...
Hände hoch! Iya, khannan!..
The Garrison of fascist machine-gun bunker was destroyed.
Do not stop shelling the slopes of the mound even for a moment! Find rockets, fire them in all directions! Let them think that the mound is in their hands...
Volodya and Egorushka began to fire from guns abandoned by the Germans.
Sartaleev, go investigate the location and report what king of wealth is there!
The men worked quickly and clearly. The bunker was cleared of dead Germans, rocket soared into the sky...
Together with Petya I examined the defenses, while the captain looked through the wealth in the dugout.
The height turned out to be well fortified, though not yet completed by equipment. The main room of the concrete bunker was connected by underground tunnels with two concrete machine-gun nests. Deep covered trenches showed the way to the camouflaged cells of submachine-gunners.
I reported everything. Captain Miroschnik confusingly gave a shrug of the shoulders.
What the hell did they give is this stuff for so cheap?
Do not get mad at them, please, Comrade Captain, –Samed’s voice was heard, who was counting captured ammunition.
Analyzing the remaining trophies, we found a plan of the captured frontier. We counted our losses. Seven people could not make it to the mound top. We were confident that there was no one among our fighters who yielded himself prisoner. For three and a half kilometers of the battle way and for an operation such as capture of the defended height in the heart of enemy territory, the losses were incredibly small. If this operation was carried out in full battalion and the height was captured with the loss of three fighters – it could be considered a perfectly completed mission.
The captain outlined in the plan where to place the weapon emplacements.
Our squadron – as the head division of the landing – was to hoist the banner over the mound. Petya pulled out from under his overcoat the banner of the Rostov regional committee of Komsomol entrusted to him.
Comrade Captain, let me hoist our flag over the bunker.
Let's wait, Sergeant Ushakov.
Phone buzzed constantly.
Sartaleev, call Grishina to me! – Ordered the captain, looking through the documents of the dead Germans.
Vasya arrived.
Pick up the phone. You will be lance-corporal Grubbe. Say that everything is alright here, that all the attacks were repelled.
Vasya picked up the phone and spoke in German:
Hello! Yes, sir... lance-corporal Grubbe... Yes, sir ... It is all quiet... Yes, yes... My voice? I am not Grubbe? – Vasya’s face got surprised. – Lieutenant Weisberg is asleep... Yes ... I am not Grubbe? I am a pig? – And suddenly Grishin concluded in Russian: - You are the bastard, dammed dog! Just try to come here!
What are you doing? – Miroschnik jumped on the spot.
He doesn’t believe anyway. That bastard is cursing in Russian! – explained Vasily and continued to shout into the phone – I'm a Bolshevik, and you, son of a bitch, are a fascist! Now we will press you down!.. You will make us captives? Ha! You attacked the wrong people!.. It is okay, there are enough of us! What? You are an idiot! Capture the mound first, and then we will see... You won’t have enough ropes for everybody. Leave them to yourself to hang on it!
Well, enough, tell his to go to hell! – Ordered Miroschnik.
Our general ordered to tell you to go... – Grishin flied off the handle. – Excuse me, Comrade Captain! – He jumped in front of Miroshnikom and hung up.
Miroschnik waived.
Ushakov! – he called. – Expand the Soviet flag over the bunker...
VIII
The first night was spent in a suspicious silence and lingering anxiety. There is nothing new added in our position of sleeping.
On the smallest ever island in the world, completely unaware of what was happening around and what to expect in the morning, there was a handful of Soviet soldiers left.
The landing did not turn out to be successful. Whether our boats sunk or repulsed, they turned back or half of them sunk to the bottom of the sea – we did not know anything. There were no shots in our direction, only occasionally from the hostile world around us colored lights of signal rockets rose up. Our outposts, in turn, also fired signal rockets – we had enough of them.
There are seven of us in the central room of the bunker...
They are also firing the lights, – Samed noticed out loud, watching through a crack.
No one answered him. Everybody’s thoughts are occupied by something completely different. We are all sitting silent and motionless, as if everyone got stuck to his seat.
Just yesterday each of us dreamed that we would get to Berlin in those boots. Now we are sitting in an unusual oppressive silence, being cut off from out native Soviet world. Everyone pretends he wants to sleep, and it is necessary to sleep to be more vigorous and capable for fighting: since we have to replace the soldiers entrenched on the jacks in two hours. But sleep does not take over us.
Comrade Nasreddin once told me: “The thoughts you have might also be the same thoughts of your enemy” – Samed turned to Volodya. – What are your thoughts, friend?
About the fact that the Germans feel like our time has come to an end and that they have is in their pockets.
Oh no-no-no! Never consider the enemy more stupid than yourself! – Said Samed.- The enemy is not stupid, he knows that he can lose his hand in that pocket! – Samed moves to his usual ton. – You, my dear Volodya, say so, because you’re afraid. But Mulla Nasredin says otherwise: “If you want to seem terrible to your enemy, first of all do not be afraid yourself.”
And he did he say anything for us? – Vasya interjected with a grin.
This is what he said about us!..
Have your mullah himself been in the war once? - Egorushka turned to Samed.
Egorushka, who has never heard of the name of the wise joker before, still cannot figure out who this Nasreddin is. However, even I, the Kazakh, did not realize what was going on. At first I assumed that Samed each time remembers sayings of Mullah taken from the common anecdotes about him, which I have also heard. But over time I realized that I was wrong: Samed did not quote, he created his own Hodja Nasreddin, in a new way lighting his image created by fathers and grandfathers. So, probably, that was how Nasreddin had been born throughout the centuries in the mouths of the brave men – the cheerful fighter for the truth, hating every despots, simple and cunning, cheerful philosopher, helping people keep vigorousness and self-confidence in any severe moment. Now our Samed called Hodja Nasreddin into the army, and he honestly serves the people, helping us with in a serious soldier’s work...
Uh, Mulla Nasrudin, my brother, is such a great fighter – he have been fighting against the thousands all his life! – Samed replied to Egorushka. – He feared no one ...
That’s how it is! – he said respectfully said. – He probably got the Hero title? Hero has nothing to be afraid of, that is why he is a hero...
Aren’t you a hero? – Samed teased.
What kind of a hero am I, – waved Egor. – Am I arrogant about it! I even fear my wife. As soon as she gets angry – I get out of the hut and run away into the woods...
And there is a bear in the woods! – Volodya grinned.
A bear is not a problem. I stubbed three of them and shot two.
Did you hunt for bears alone? – Peter intervened.
Well, am I really going to take a woman to hunt for a bear or something!.. Ham out of him will be yummy, – Egor suddenly concluded.
It would be great to have it here!
Comrade Hodja Nasreddin advises not to dream about what you cannot get. You will not find even a piece of a bear on Kerch peninsula.
You will get crackers in the morning, - I said. – The captain ordered to announce that our stock allows giving each one of you only three hundred grams.
And how many days will it last? – Petya asked.
It wasn’t a carefully asked question. Stock of products for a post is always a military secret. But what is the point of keeping secrets from these guys? They were reliable and experienced fighters.
The stock is for up on two days, – I said.
Then we have to reduce it. Let it at least three, - emphatically said Petya.
Our flasks will give us two more days – that’s five, - Samed chuckled.
What about the water? – Asked Volodya.
Water? When there is no water, says Hodja Nasreddin, think of saxaul: he lives in the desert, doesn’t see any water, but still carries on, grows!
We agreed with him.
I ask myself the question: what is it – the desire to live two days longer or the desire to stay in a fight two days longer? But in essence, it is an empty question. As Shegen says,- “metaphysics.” After all, it turns out the same in any way: an extra day of life – an extra day in the battle...
In the morning, we have defined our location. It turned out that we took the top of one of the mounds located by the wide range of the coast around the ancient Kerch settlement. Even if the same bunker was on each of them was, ours had an advantage: it prevailed over others.
At night, it seemed to us that we have gone far away from the shore, but we saw the sea very close to us from the mound – less than a kilometer by a straight line. It was seen that there used to be collective farm gardens from the hills to the sea. Now it was all plowed up and burned. Charred ruins were somewhere among the waste land. The lake to the north of us gleamed with cold patch, and to the east of us was the city of Kerch. Impoverished neighborhood proved to us for the hundreds time that Hitler wanted to turn the entire country into a desert.
The German soldiers were marching around the high point occupied by us.
It is the front here, and they are drilling! – Egor got surprised.
Miroschnik, looking at the trophy telescope, explained:
They want to show that we are not afraid of us... They obviously realized what kind of joke our terrible night “battalions” were.
Those vulgarians! – Petya exclaimed and clung to his machine gun.
The high point was surrounded by a double row of trenches, the task of which was to protect it. Now they also surround it by a ring of siege. The Germans marched toward these trenches.
We are not used to seeing the enemy so close and not firing at him. Everybody waited for the command “fire” and everyone readied for firing, taking the loopholes. But the captain calmly gave another command:
Belay that! They want to cause firing, but we will keep silent while it is possible to remain silent. Clear?
Yes sir, clear!
The captain continued his observation. He shook his head and the screw in his hand began to spin even more nervous.
What the hell? What the hell? – He muttered, moving his eyes at a new point. And again – What the hell is this?..
Comrade Captain, what happened? – I dared to ask him.
Looking at the top of the mounds, - he said.
I began to observe.
Our native red flags fluttered above each of the high points, as well as above our own. It meant that the fascist turmoil was not for nothing; it meant that among our screaming and shots we did not hear how our comrades from other boats attacked the other mounds...
Andrey Denisovich, our guys are everywhere. Hurrah! – I exclaimed. Our guys! At all the barrows...
Hurrah! – Picked up guys, rushing to the battle embrasures to make sure with their eyes.
The captain carries on twisting his screw. The nervous lean fingers moved impatiently.
Nonsense, – he says finally, - Fake!.. If so many points were occupied by our guys, the Germans would not climb on trouble like that. We would give them that fear!..
You think they have raised the red flags themselves? What for? – I got surprised by his statement.
Maybe they are waiting for landing and want to prevent our guys to figure out where we are... They want to mix our cards and get us confused.
Hodja Nasreddin could make the ace of trumps out of any card, – timidly muttered Samed.
He does not dare to tell about Hodja to the captain, but the captain has long been familiar with Hodja Nasreddin. He treats this highly experienced fighter with the apparent sympathy and he is ready to enroll him in his squadron, adopting a whole arsenal of his fighting wisdom.
Let’s try to learn from Hodja Nasreddin, – in tone with Samed says the captain, - Our priority now should be observation. Let’s take one of the high points under strong surveillance. Come here, comrade Samad, sit down and watch without stopping.
Samed takes his observation point.
However, we ourselves are observing everything that is happening around. Observation is now our only business.
Here is the active movement among the Germans. They started running. Others stared at the horizon... Airplane! Ours! The entire peninsula startled by the explosion. A scout is flying in. As flakes of wool, there is a white haze from exploding anti-aircraft shells around... A spark starts flashing high. But the aircraft is maneuvering, instantly loses altitude, dives over the mounds, not going up after and hugging the ground, flies away from the sea.
Forty-three twelve! – Enthusiastically shouted Grishin, who managed to see the number of the scout.
He exclaimed as if he met a friend.
And all felt that we were not on a deserted island, but in the invincible ranks of the Red Army again.
The scout flew by like a swirl and disappeared again. It seemed like the pilot cried, “Where are you, comrades?”
We need to put on the highest point some distinguishing mark, which is not understandable to the Germans, – orders Miroschnik.
Volodya went out of the bunker, crawling on top, which was overgrown with weeds, and puts with bandages the number of our division that could not be able to put by the Germans...
Volodya returned safely, without being noticed by the Germans. The scout appears at the high altitude again, makes a circle over the area of the mounds and, almost imperceptibly shaking its wing, flies to the east.
He said: “I see you!”
He said: “Good morning!” – the scout guys translated the signal.
Of course, he said both. But he said a lot more than those greetings, said something that cannot be described by words. To understand him, one had to sit on this mound, surrounded by thousands of enemies.
Around noon, a fascist tank came from the city towards our high point, and it had the white flag of “good intentions” on it.
We have heard a lot about the “good intentions” of the fascists during the war, and were well aware of their character.
Parliamentaire...We have to accept him, – said the captain. – Grishin, get ready.
Vasya straightened his collar, stretched out, put a cap on Volodin, which was the only one left, and looked in a pocket mirror.
It is so indecent! – he said comically, looking at his face, which was already beginning to hair.
I should have shaved yesterday! – said Volodya.
Together with the captain, they descended into the trench five meters below our bunker.
Won’t they kill them? – asked Peter in fear.
With the white flag?! – exclaimed Samed.
After all, they are fascists! What is the white flag for them?
Prepare grenades just in the case, – I said.
And I’ll take that parliametaire at gunpoint, – said Volodya.
The hatch of the tank opened, and an officer's head got out. It vividly reminded me of the “spectacled snake”, which had stung me in Rostov plant shop. The snake even slightly smiled and began to speak in such a tone, as if wished us good morning.
He asks whether we want to enter into negotiations with the German command ourselves, – translates Volodya.
Tell him, Comrade Sergeant, - said the captain clearly, so that we could hear his words. – Tell that we are not authorized by our government to negotiate peace with the fascist Germany.
The German officer kindly smiled and pretended to applaud.
Bravo, bravo! – He exclaimed. He said something long and flowery.
But Grishin translated it very briefly:
He is offering us to surrender, that bastard
And what did he say about Berlin?
He promises to send us on an airplane to Berlin..
Tell him that we will come there very soon. Let them wait for us.
Vasya with particular pride firmly said captain’s words to the German. The officer's face started changing. Instead of smiles his face got the expression of sadness and regret.
I offer you the most precious thing. You will save your life, – said the officer. – Isn’t it precious to you?
That’s why we are not giving up, since our lives are important to us. We will come to Germany and explain to all of you that life is a precious thing! – Says the captain.
The officer becomes dry. He brings his wristwatch to his eyes concludes with a tone of a more strong side:
An hour. I give you exactly one hour to think about my offer.
We did not come here for an hour. We are the owners of this country. Kurgan, where we are located, is free from the fascist invaders forever. Our negotiations are over, – replied firmly Miroschnik.
The officer waved his hand, going back into a hatch. At the same moment, the lower trench, where the captain stood, was hit by the round of the German gunfire, and the captain shook and fell.
Fire! – I shouted.
Petya threw a bunch of grenades. Volodya and I fired from machine guns, but the hatch shut quickly.
Destroy the tank! - I ordered, not turning to anyone, but with this exclamation I realized that I had already taken the command.
Everybody rushed to the trench at once on my orders.
Belay that! Where are you all going? – I had to call out.
I! – shouted Petya from the trench of the upper tier.
Go!
Petya rushed and in one leap was in the grassy ditch, which surrounded all the mounds. He fell near the tank, which had already started. Petya was now out of the machine-gun fire, but there was nowhere to hide from his own grenade fragments. However, not thinking about it, he threw a bunch of grenades and leaned backwards. The tank shifted in place from the explosion. Ushakov jumped up and began pounding his fist against the steel wall.
Get out, fascist bastard!.. Oh, you're still not going back to Berlin!
Petka, get down! – I shouted, seeing that one of the fascists at the top swung a grenade through the hatch.
Peter fell on his face and, as it seemed to me, wept with rage. Volodya managed to shoot a soldier with a grenade and it exploded on the other side of the tank.
I ran down the trench. The captain was lying wounded in the chest and shoulder, breathing heavily and abruptly. I leaned toward him.
Captain! Andrey Denisovich! – I shouted.
He looked at me with a stern look of big black eyes, his eyelids fell and froze. He stopped breathing. Together with Egor we carried him upstairs.
They are coming! – Samed told me and nodded forward.
I clung with my eye to the viewing crack.
Pouring the mound with fire from all sides, Nazi machine gunners moved at us.
They are running at us. It would be great to shoot all of them down, but we cannot reveal our strength. Besides, Petya cannot get up: he can jump up only when the attack is repelled.
I ordered to focus the gunpoint of three light machine guns, but not to fire, allowing fascists to come closer.
A group of attacking machine gunners from the west!
From the North!
From the east! – the guys report to the command post of the bunker.
I see. Hold on!
Samad and Volodya took the gunpoint thirty meters in front of the tank. I myself also clung to the gun and waited...
From the south!
I see. Stay where you are!
Oh my God! But who are you yourself? Do you have enough intelligence and endurance not to destroy the lives of these brave people for nothing, not to give the enemy this piece of freed Motherland? The captain said that we had freed the mound from the Nazis forever. His word should be harder than steel. He was able to keep his word.
Fire!
We splashed fire at them right in the face... They are falling down, damn... Rushing forward!
Fire! – I unnecessarily give the command to cause the courage of our guys. – Shoot at the fascist bastards more precisely!.. Go for it!..
There is no such a command in the charter, but it helps.
Hurrah! – I hear from the left flank, where the submachine gunners shook and ran.
Hurrah! – We all picked up...
Taking advantage of the confusion and retreat of the Nazis, Petya threw one of his last grenades in their backs and managed to slip out of the ditch into the trench.
Leaving on each side one person at the guns for observing, I convened a second Kerch “council of war”.
Ammunition for the submachine guns was not in abundance. There were not much of the trophy ones either.
Shoot from submachine guns only with single fire, – offers Volodya.
Fire from the machine guns only at close range as well – said Samed.
You can let them come closer for the grenade throw from the north. There is a trench convenient for grenades. Leave one machinegun belt at the northern slope. I will hide there with grenades. Sweet business! – Grimly joked Petya.
These were the main points of the decision of the “council of war”.
We had to divide our small “front” into western, northern, southern and eastern areas. There was three to five fighters in each direction. In addition, we used the German phone, which worked fine and connected all the points linked to the command center.
Fascist pressing began to grow again.
“If you are not sweating, it is not work yet!” – said Mullah Nasreddin,- Samed said cheerfully.
The Germans had already started climbing on the mound from the north and Petya with two soldiers was waiting for them, spreading the grenades, when the air suddenly boomed from the heavy rumble of our bombers, which were seen far away over the sea.
Intercepting them, the herds of German cars rose up, but when our bombers approached, it became clear that they were under the protection of sets of aircraft fighters. The Germans did not dare to take the fight with us, turned west and disappeared.
Aha! Do you remember, Kostya, how they climbed on us in nineteen forty one? Now quieted down I bet! – joyfully shouted Volodya to whom I went down to the concrete machine-gun “nest,” as he affectionately called his firing point.
The heart was pounding with joy at the sight of how bombs were crushing German trenches around our bunker. Even the squadron! It’s looking for the enemy... We see better from the mound where to bomb, – during this morning we spied where we can assume the headquarters and the mortar battery. There was clearly one more bunker in one of the neighboring mounds, similar to what we had.
Volodya, fire with the tracer ones! Show the direction to that mound with a bunker! – I shouted.
Volodya replaced the machinegun belt and fired a long burst of red bullets. Aircrafts did not see them.
Fire some more, longer!
Fire streamed through the air.
Hurrah! The bombers chain broke, and powerful explosions hit the indicated mound over and over again.
Let's go to the headquarters, to that kindergarten at the school! – I encouraged Volodya.
He fired a rocket there.
The aircrafts fired more and more... The house was caught by fire. We see how the fascist officers run away...
Everything seemed to extinct in front of us. The Nazis hid in the slot.
We also pointed out the mortar battery, on which once a few bombs were brought down. It seemed to me that I talked to Shegen, he listened to my advice and did everything I considered necessary.
“Shegen, can you hear me?”
He can. He destroyed three well-camouflaged dugouts that could not be seen from the air. Under the blows of bombs the layers of logs and planks flew out from the ground and rose to the sky with the dirt...I wish bombs fell closer, I wanted them to destroy that damaged tank with a snake inside, I wanted them to hit the closest trenches that were full of Germans, who would go on the attack again as soon as the planes disappear…
Shegenu will certainly have something to tell Akbota of our joint battle.
Oh wow! Oh wow! - exclaims Egor, admiring the work of aviation.
“Goodbye, Shegen! Can you hear me?”
The aircrafts left, leaving in us confidents that we were not alone, that we were not just a surrounded unit, but a permanent post of the Soviet defense in the rear of the Nazis.
Until the evening, the Germans had been repeatedly going to attack us right in our face, but retreated under the fire of squinting machine guns.
During one of those German attacks, just before the sunset, a chain of “Eagles” appeared again and started shooting on low-level flight... from the machine guns at the attacking fascists… Our friends as if told us to stand still, that they needed us there. This added strength to us, although we were tired, hungry and were fatally thirsty.
The sun set behind the black cloud, the surging thick waves went on the sea.
Eh, there will be a storm! – Volodya whispered to me. – Boats will never pass through in this weather... Landing troops will not come tonight...
An artillery strike fell upon us before the dusk. Heavy shells flew in one after another, falling around a concrete cap, under which we sheltered. Everything around was covered with shell fragments and ground, as if the sky was pouring the iron and stone rain with sand... At this point, there was no danger of infantry attack...
Guys, let's go have a rest in the lower tier. It won’t be banging so hard there. We will go deaf here, – I called Volodya and Samed, who did not part with the embrasures.
Wait, Comrade Sergeant, I am not going, - waved disciplined and accurate Samed.
Why not? – I was surprised.
I am watching the tank. The hatch was up twice. I see they are afraid to get out under the shelling. As soon as they dare to do so, I will feed them with a grenade.
How long are you going to wait?
Hodja Nasreddin once cooked chicken soup for his friend, then he had to sit on eggs until they brought chickens. I will sit and wait just like him...
The high point had been being bombed for two hours in a row. But this concrete firmly rooted in the ground. They could not beat it and get back into the attack at night.
Do not hesitate to use as many rockets as you want, guys, – look how many of them we have: we will spend less bullets this way, – I said.
Suddenly, two explosions sounded one after the other.
Chickens, chickens! – shouted Samed. - He thought it was dark and I could not see! But I see! Everything was so dark. I have become like a cat. He opened the hatch and started climbing out. I was silent. The other climbed out – I was still silent. The third one... I fired! Then fired one more time!.. All three of the fell down! – Samed said triumphantly about his hunt.
I silently shook his long and thin arm. We rocketed. It lighted up three fascist corpses next to the tank.
However, there were no longer dozens, but hundreds around the high point. But the Germans seriously decided to settle accounts with us. In the darkness, they climbed on us. Machine guns got heated by a continuous fire.
They are climbing from the west!
Climbing from the south! – reports rained.
Stay where you are, - I answered everyone.
There is not enough ammunition!
Vitya, get some, – I sent the messenger, a young volunteer from Gorin’s office.
Victor constantly warped messages through trenches, bringing ammunition.
They are coming right at us, more than a hundred! –Volodya said by telephone.
Do you have machinegun belts?
Yes.
Well, get ready...
IX
The ended day significantly worsened our situation. Firstly, one officer, Captain Miroschnik, had been eliminated, and although we had a group of active and experienced fighters, neither I nor anyone else from my comrades could replace him. Secondly, there were only nine of us. Thirdly, during the German attack, the commander of the second branch Fyodor Gorin was killed. Petya Ushakov now commands the department instead of him, in which there are only four left, including him, while in my department there were four too, and me as the fifth one.
The most difficult thing is that there are only two fighters left in each direction.
We need to cut one direction, - offers Petya, - we must create defenses at the trenches.
The defense plan on the mound has long prompted this thought, but before we did not have time to regroup.
I accepted his offer.
The counting of ammunition turned out to be even less comforting. The abundance of rockets left to us by former owners does not replace any machine gun or submachine gun ammunition. The only consolation is the thought that the Germans will not have to make such sacrifices for the second time. We decide that we have enough ammunition for two days of defense.
There are no words on grenades. In the quiet agreement we put them for the end, when we will have to defend our last moments in the trench at the very top.
We distribute two German sniper rifles into two divisions. We distribute seriously, as if it was about an entrusted to us artillery division.
Vasya looked at his watch and woke up Samed who was sleeping on the bunk. They are going to replace outposts.
Haven’t slept on a good mattress for a long time... Hodja Nasreddin says: “if you sleep well, you will work well”.
Where did he go? – Petya sighs sadly.
I am afraid he is killed, – I say.
We are talking about Egorushka, who went to get some water two hours ago, but never came back.
After such a hot fight day, we drank all the water we found in cans. There was no more than half a cup per person. Samed distributed, and Petya made sure that everyone got the same portion. Egor decided to go down to the water, and now he is gone.
But did he know exactly where the water was?
Yes, absolutely.
In the afternoon, watching the neighborhood through a telescope, we saw at a glance a small river that flowed through the bottom of a ravine near the village. Egor claimed that when we made our way to the mound yesterday, he nearly fell into it. In addition, the river was also indicated on our map. If it turned out to be that the Germans had been guarding the source, then Egor should have gone back.
As far as we know Egor, his concept of courage was not boyish, and he used to get geographical bearings better than all of us. In our situation it was easy to understand how difficult it tomorrow would be, if we stay completely without water. And the night time was the only time for searching for it.
You will get no sip of water,
It will even get much hotter...-
Egorushka started singing, getting up from his seat.
And now he is gone. Losing one of the remaining nine people was harder now than it has ever been before.
What do you think, Kostya, – suddenly asks Petya, - What do you think, can it happen that we are the first ones to step onto the streets of Berlin?
Why not, of course...
No, seriously? When we departed, we were always at the forefront... right?
So?
And when we attacked, we were always at the forefront.
And what?
So, the character of our troop is that we are always the closest ones to the enemy.
Oh, right.
So, maybe we will be able to be the first to hoist the Soviet flag over Berlin... You know, I found an officer notebook with the plan of Berlin. We can explore all the streets to come to the center by a shorter way. It would be great to bring the same flag we have been carrying from Rostov!.. It had been riddled today, it is not going to look that nice...
No problem. Wounds on the flag are not a shame of the soldiers.
And yet people may ask: what kind of a flag is that? You will have to report to the Marshal, will you dare to?
Why wouldn’t I? I will say as it is: “Comrade Marshal of the Soviet Union, the flag of the scout platoon of the X regiment of the X landing division has been hoisted by the Hero of the Soviet Union Petr Ushakov...”
Peter whistled.
Wow, you really got carried away!
Maybe there was a lot of childish staff in all this chatter, but that is how the soldier dreams are born in the most difficult moments.
Returning from the post, Volodya looked at us and asked:
Why are you so excited? Egor returned?
We captured Berlin! Kaput happened to fascism! – we excitedly blurted out with Petya.
Kaput happened to fascism? Well, to the German one – certainly, - seriously said Vasily. But fascism comes from the word “fascine” – connection. Whose connection? Of course, the capitalists, the bankers. And therefore, while the capital is still alive, it will seek to get to fascism.
Then what, comrade professor, do you want us to hold the submachine guns at the ready after Berlin?
Probably, not everyone will have to give the submachine guns back.
And I just wanted to run out to the field! – exclaimed Petya. – Damn, you always spoil the mood...
I myself was not a hunter before the military craft. You have to study, but time is running out. Well, do you want me to become an engineer at forty years old? I won’t even be able to write! – Vasya threw his hands up.
The sounds of automatic and machine-gun fire were heard outside the dugout.
Those bastards! They are coming again!
We all jumped up and rushed to our places.
It turned out that the shooting was not directed at us. From the village, moving forward closer and closer to the mound, the signal rockets started falling, and in the middle of the fire Egor was running with a can through the plain. It was as bright as during the day, and we saw how under the bright figure of Yegor his shadow ran around. Now that he was caught by the light, it was useless to get down, and he was running in zigzags, rushing to the right and to the left. Swarms of glowing bullets were flying very close to him. Petya and Vasya opened machine-gun fire, covering the retreat of Egorushka. But they could not see the targets. Egor was only twenty paces from the trench. He fell, and the can was thrown to the side. If he just fell, he would not drop the can. “He is probably injured,” - I thought. But Egor jumped up, grabbed his burden and obstinately moved toward us with wrong steps. His shadow started swinging in all directions. Having reached the trench, he threw a can into it and fell, but we saw from above that his one leg was stuck out over the trench motionless... He was killed...
The lights faded away, but it seemed to me that I saw this long motionless foot even in the darkness.
Only eight fighters are left, – Vasya sighed.
Yes, there were only eight of us. The roll will not take too much time.
Volodya came up with the can. The galvanized dish was shot in three places, and the water in it was almost gone... It was an expensive water. Our fearless comrade died for it.
We have not heard the last words of our Egorushka. He did not express to us his latest and cherished idea, but we already know it: wounded, instead of jumping into the shelter, he threw his precious finding in there in order to add more strength to comrades for fighting. We know all his thoughts and feelings – they are our feelings and thoughts. We know his dream – it is our dream...
I had already said that it would storm today. No less than nine points. It roars! – Volodya said, putting the can down.
Shots were not heard, and in silence, even here, at this distance, we could hear the raging sea.
We were silent. We looked at Volodya, expecting him to say something about Egor. But he concluded:
The boats will not be able to pass.
It was clear that the night was not promising anything good.
Petya quietly counted the shells shot by him and Vasya to cover Egor.
Fifty seven less, - he said.
Our staff reduced by one fighter. The ammunition stock was reduced in a significant proportion.
Volodya, noting that all are silent, suddenly said:
I do know the Black Sea. It will quiet down by the sunrise, you will see yourself.
His gentle eyes shine even at the faded light of a weak lantern. He wants us to be sure to believe that the powerful landing troops will manage to come rescue us on time.
Samed comes in with a shot and torn flag.
Shot right in the middle, the cursed one! It should be tightened harder...
Dawn roused the high point by a heavy blow. Five self-propelled “Ferdinand” guns lined up against us five hundred meters away and began to raid our bunker by the direct-fire. The Germans could make sure they did not spend their working time in vain: the bunker could stand armor-piercing shell strikes. The Germans fired right at the “head” trying to hit the embrasure...
Yeah ... – pointedly says Vasya, – they decided to pick open.
We knew that we had two or three rows of rails overhead, which were covered by concrete and as one more layer with a reliable concrete cap. It was easier for the Germans to start picking open the embrasures, of course, but this activity is not short and quite costly. However, these hits overwhelmingly got on the nerves.
To help the “Ferdinand”, three “Tiger” tanks climbed up and also came into play.
God knows what a vile mood it is when you cannot answer your enemy! It is ridiculous to fire at those tanks.
Powerful methodical hitting began to have effect. First, the dust flies up in front of the embrasure, then a piece of concrete will break off its side.
The top of the mound started to get covered by a cloud. It grew and got dark.
Kostya, Kostya! – said Vasily, shouting directly into my ear. – A machinegun nest in the northern direction has been demolished. Together with Vitya!..
The fighter is still not here.
I am watching the sea. The storm was asleep, and there is no one on the horizon, – says Volodya.
You are waiting in vain. They won’t attack during the day… You can stop watching it until the night time... If we manage to stand still...
The shell struck somewhere at the bottom under the wall of the bunker. A mountain of dirt soared into the air in front of the embrasure and flunked the observation point. From hitting the ceiling, a crack run through, just like on eggshells. It’s time to get out. Picking up the gun and binoculars, we left the center and went into a side point.
The gun-fire ceased. The Germans want to check what happened to us. A squadron of submachinegun fighters emerges from the trenches and comes at us in all directions.
Machine guns! – I command.
We have been saving our ammunition for this case, – prudently says Petya. – Now we have the right to spend a little bit of it... Wow! Look, Kostya, we have a great view from the nest! They cut off the ledge of the mound and opened a wide space...
I started watching the attacking fascists.
Fire!
We fired from three machine guns.
It turns out that it was a provocation: they wanted to cause us to fire. They are retreating, leaving seven dead soldiers... And there are only seven survived people in our team.
The “Ferdinands” brazenly moved closer. They will start smash the machine-gun side points now. Then everything will go on much faster...
Kostya, I see two gunners of the “Ferdinands”, give me a sniper rifle, – asks Petya.
He put his binoculars to the embrasure, looking for another target.
I gave him the sniper rifle, but Petya suddenly fell down with the whole body.
Petya! – exclaimed Volodya, supporting him.
Ushakov’s head sank helplessly. There was a black hole right in the middle of his forehead. Blood did not come out of it.
A round of “Ferdinands” hit us, then more and more...
The embrasure is filled up with ground, - informed a machine gunner of the western machine-gun point.
Take the machinegun out into the trench!
There are six of us. There was only one reliable southern machine gun nest.
“Perhaps, they will no longer hit the central bunker. And you can find shelter for the machine-gun fire in the ruins,” - Volodya thought overshadows.
Shall I go?
Take a look, - I reply.
Now we do not see the “Ferdinands.” Our view is very narrow. The guns fell silent again. Maybe they are changing the position.
They are climbing from the west! – I hear the voice of Samed.
Guys! Troopers!.. Comrades! There is a battle on the sea! – shouts from above Volodya.
Samed, hold on!
There is no time to at the sea. Samed, hiding in a trench, built himself a new gun nest in a nearby fresh crater.
Hold on, Samed! Troopers! – I shouted, coming up to him.
Troopers! Troopers! – We shouted to each other, not letting our machine guns down.
The “Ferdinands” went to the sea! – Volodya shouts from his makeshift observation post, where he seems to feel quite good.
Through the roar of our guns and crackling of rifles below, we are more guessing than actually hearing his words.
For the motherland! – We shout.
Death to the invaders!
Hit the bastard fascists!
Our high point is probably similar to the volcano, which has ceased to erupt lava, but still continues to smoke. Using the fact that we have poor visibility through the smoke enveloped the high point, the gunners climbed up, but their fire also lost sighting in the smoke. Samed managed to knock one of them out by hitting him on the head with the gun butt when he reached his crater and then fell to the bottom himself.
Grenades!
Grenades were the last thing we decided to use in the trench on top of the mound.
We threw a dozen grenades in a row. Vasya clung to the gun of Samed.
I ran to my friend. Samed was lying with a smile.
Where, Samed?
Probably wherever everybody went, – he said with a grin.
I am asking you about where were you wounded?
I do not know... It's a pity I could not get to Berlin... Hodja Nasreddin... – He stopped.
We had only five soldiers left.
The Germans responded to our grenades by the throws of grenades.
We had plenty of grenades, but there were more Germans than us. We spread out along the trench, and tried not to give them time to recover. The fight took place on the gentle slope of the mound, which was favorable for us and unfavorable for the enemy.
The smoke began to dissipate.
Kostya, I will fire at them from the machine gun, – said Vasily.
Do you see them?
I do.
Go for it.
The machine gun, which the Germans apparently thought was silent due to lack of ammunition, struck them in the forehead.
For Petka! – Vasily shouted. - Running! They are running! For Samed as well!..
He fired a long round at the running.
They are retreating, dammed fascists! Give me a new belt. I cannot stand up, they are holding me at their gunpoint ...
I threw him a new belt.
At that moment, from the bottom, far away from the sea, “hurrah” reached out ears...
The first “hurrah” of the new landing troop!
If a machinegun had a soul, I would have pulled it and shake so that we would teach the machinegun to fire a thousand bullets a minute to beat the Germans from the rear to support the landing troop.
And suddenly I felt something that was not noticed in the heat stress: my right leg grew heavy, and moving my fingers on it, I felt a sharp pain. I realized that I was wounded by a grenade.
Volodya, a rocket! Samed, the flag! – I ordered and, realizing that I am giving commands to killed soldiers, I corrected myself: - Kolya, the flag!
The fighter from Gorin’s unit, Kolya Lyubimov, threw himself into a heap of concrete fragments to search among them for our knocked flag. Lenya Shtanko, the second survivor from his unit, slightly wounded in the head, was sneaking upstairs to Volodya with a sniper rifle.
I know that the death of the commander can alarm my comrades. Therefore, I was trying to squeeze out of myself the most thunderous command, which my lungs and throat were capable of.
Everybody move to the top! Collect all the ammunition there!
Kostya, I found here a shelter for the machinegun! Climb up here! – Volodya shouted excitedly from the broken bunker.
He did not know that I was wounded.
The fight moved to the shore. We were left alone: shells were not falling at us anymore, machine gunners also moved to the previous positions behind the trenches. On the slope, there were only about thirty fascists killed by our grenades and machineguns.
Volodya got out of the crater of Samed and pulled the gun in the mangled wreck of the concrete bunker. Volodya attached the second machinegun to a narrow crack in the concrete wall, which was created after the destruction of the bunker.
I crawled toward them. From here, through the crack between the ruined concrete blocks, the entire shore was visible. Our guys beat the Germans with mortars and machine guns. The wind scattered the smoke above us, and we now see the movement of our new landing.
I sat next to Volodya and took the binoculars.
The Germans seem to believe that we are quite powerless. I see here how they are grouped together to strike the flank of the landing.
Kolya Lubimov jumped out of the concrete wreckage with the flag.
Found it! Here it is! – He shouted joyfully, poking in the narrow gap between the stones.
Our poor flag! How lacerated it was!
At this time, with a triumphant roar, as yesterday, the Soviet aircrafts came to the battlefield. The fascist anti-aircrafts stroke from the village. White clouds swirled up in the sky.
Now we faced an active combat mission. We did not lose so many fighters just to be saved as children in distress. We are soldiers and know how the war is made.
Rockets! – I commanded to Kolya.
He immediately brought the bag of rockets out of the trench.
Guys! I will be pointing out the target for the aircrafts, the Germans will now climb up again... Prepare grenades!
Now we were all lying together in a shapeless concrete shelter. There are five of us. Two machine gunner looks from the cracks at the slopes of the hill to prevent the gunmen from reaching us. Two soldiers lie, looking through grenades, preparing them for battle. I am watching in the binoculars.
Here the German machine gunners are getting closer to the right of our new landing.
A rocket!
It flashed with a red stripe, indicating the target. Three air-bombers separated from the flight of the steel birds and dived on a pile of mouse overcoats, huddled over the hill. The ground was tossed up in a crowd of overcoats, and some kind of torn rags soared high. Another strike. One more.
Antiaircraft guns shoot from the village at the aircrafts. Against the backdrop of the nearby mound I was able to see an instantly flashed sparkle. I watched through binoculars and saw a bunch of people in the bush. Here, of course, is the anti-aircraft battery. Here!
A rocket, just like a pointing finger, poked at the anti-aircraft battery, hidden between bushes and trees. A new shot, and explosions and blasts took place there...
Attack! – shouts Volodya and presses the trigger of his gun.
The German gunners, who first rushed at us, had to get down again.
I'm looking for a new target. What else should I point to the aircrafts?
“Ferdinands”? Tanks .. There they crawled under the trees ... Get them!
A rocket!
An aerial bomb dropped on the other side makes a terrific roar: that’s right, the car with “Ferdinand” ammunition exploded
The aircrafts went into the deepness of the peninsula, - probably to bomb the road on the outskirts of the shore to prevent the Nazis reserves to come here. The Germans are pressed to the ground along the coast. Others got mixed and started running. The troopers is moving closer to us...
Our attack is different from the German one by the swiftness of the strikes. Here our guys already ran for the “bayonet” fight...
“Hurrah” is growing and coming to us. We see running soldiers, and without binoculars recognize the officers.
Revyakin! Revyakin! – Volodya shouted, pointing toward the approaching Soviet attack.
The Germans jump up and run past our mound...
Hurrah! – we shout with liquid voices in response.
Machine guns! Fire at the fascists! – I command, and we begin to fire from the top, chasing the runaways.
I shoot rockets up one after the other.
Kostya, let’s go! Faster! Ours are already in the trench… let’s go meet them! – Urges Volodya.
I try to get up, but no longer can rely on my foot.
What’s wrong? Injured?
Hurrah!.. The fighters flow around our hill, take the trench on our mound and immediately open smashing fire against the fascist trenches. The mortar fire blew at the fascists from our high point.
Revyakin quickly enters the remains of our bunker and sees us at the proud scraps of our flag. He looks at us a bit confusingly. He hugs each one of us. He leaned toward me.
What?
My foot.
Revyakin looked at everybody again, looked at the smiling, wet from tears, exhausted, yet happy faces. He counted us by the eyes.
Is everybody here?
Everybody, Mikhail Ivanovich... Comrade Captain ...
Everybody, – he repeated softly and took his cap off...
X
The bridgehead expanded every day. The owners of the Soviet land stepped firmer on this site every day. However, there wasn’t much of liberated land here yet, but every day we were growing into it stronger and deeper. Now it was a space with two commanding heights with a wide passage to the sea, and the days when we had to wait for food and ammunition to be thrown from the air are now gone. Light aircrafts could land on a small private airfield site. Troopers replenished by sea and air.
In the back of the mound, which was our first bridgehead, a chain of bunkers and shelters was built – the whole underground quarter: the headquarters, hospital, power plant, warehouses of ammunition, even newspaper.
There are seven wounded people in our hospital room. It's hot. The stuffy smell of drugs, a dim light of a “Lilliputian” lamp. However, we are entertained by the radio here. There were headphones stretched to us from the studio, and we listened to Moscow all day long...
I missed the most important news to me in the morning on the radio. Comrades said that I slept through it. Now, for the hundredth time, I read it in the newspaper.
The list of twenty people in alphabetical order started with Abdulaev Samad.
I already know by heart, word for word, and can list in the order all the twenty names, who were awarded the Hero of the Soviet Union title. But as soon as the newspaper lying next to me gets in my eyes, I again and again re-read everything from beginning to end.
My look stops at Samed’s name for quite long, a toothy jovial, with whom it was easier to fight, at captain Miroshnik’s name. He trusted our youth the difficult and responsible job. He believed that could cope with anything. Petya’s name touches my heart even more. When I said that at the time of the capture of Berlin he will be a Hero of the Soviet Union, he whistled then! And at that time he already was a hero, even though he did not consider himself worthy of such a title. Egorushka, Fedya Gorin...
My dear friends Volodya and Vasya, of course, are also next to me on the list. We even stood on a nearby spot in the alphabetic order.
Revyakin told us that Sergei returned safely to the shore and was being treated somewhere near the rear; if he were with us in that landing, he would certainly deserve he high rank...
Get ready for the departure, - our doctor told me today, the Major of the medical service.
I asked his to leave me here until recovery. He frowned.
Do not mess with things like that, – he stopped me. – I will tell you frankly that the situation is very serious. It is possible that you will have your leg chopped off. I cannot definitively decide myself. You will be sent to the rear to good surgeons...
I will have to leave. How do I know if I am able to get back to my unit? The guys consoled me: they say that the Hero of the Soviet Union can be sent to wherever he asks. Vasya and Volodya, of course, will reach Berlin. And where will I be this day? On crutches, without a leg?..
I won’t let my leg be cut off. I need my feet to march in Berlin, - I said to the doctor.
We'll see. They will look at you and decide. Your leg will not be cut off in vain. If it is possible to leave it like that – then they won’t cut it off.
Don’t let them to! – Volodya says. – Two legs are good only when paired.
And Revyakin, who now commands our squadron, just said to me in the orderly manner:
Throw the amputation out of your head. Nonsense! You will catch up with us at the Oder. Be careful, I won’t take you in my squadron at the Spree!..
Only Vasya talks to me differently. He sees the front and the rear, and even after the war.
Do not rush, get well, - he said to me. – When you get better, you will know how much you are needed everywhere! How many working hands and heads will be needed! You will have to study, of course... Everybody need to...
Vasya wants to quietly sneak the comfort to me in case if surgeons still leave me without a leg. He told me how my mother would be pleased that her son is the Hero, he even described the meeting with her, and, meanwhile, he quietly jumped to his favorite topic. Strongly sucking a cigarette and wrapping in a bluish haze, he hints that I can get back to the hospital in Karaganda.
He was caught and immediately got blushed.
And what is she writing about? – I asked.
Who?
Karaganda, of course! – I laughed.
Come on, get him on a stretcher faster! – ordered the doctor in the next-door room.
Nurses came in.
Comrade Major, let me ... – the voice of Volodya was heard.
I am shifted to a stretcher.
Faster, faster, - the doctor hurries us. – The medical plane landed, when a German spy was flying around. It will load you onboard and rush back to the mainland...
Vasya and Volodya, hitting their foreheads, kissed me on both cheeks.
Well, recover, get well ...
We will wait for you...
Write every day...
How could I not write? Where else would I find such friends?..
The stretcher flows under the overhanging lamp, a second one, third. The air is getting fresher and cooler. How nice it is to breathe fresh air after the crypt smelling like medicines!
The roar of engines is heard in the sky. Several of our “eagles” protect this piece of land reclaimed by us. It happened exactly as Miroschnik said then: we’re not going anywhere, this mound will always stay free from the fascists. The fascists killed him, but we kept his iron word. Kept, no matter what...
Trembling by the sparkling body, the air ambulance with red crosses on the wings waited for us. The captain of the ship was standing at his car.
Vasya stretched out in front of someone and respectfully gave greetings. I turned my eyes. Shegen appeared next to the stretcher.
I came to you on purpose, my boy ... The plane was specially sent after you on the order of General of the Army... It is alright, you will be repaired soon. Our guys are good at it. Our brother airman sometimes breaks all four legs... They would fix it right away! – Comforted me Shegen, walking next to me and holding on to a stretcher.
Comrades gathered in front of the aircraft. In the roar of the engine, I could not hear the farewell cries, and I randomly say:
Bye! I will recover quickly!
Medics place me onboard and fasten my belt. Then, the other stretchers are loaded onboard, the third ones, fourth, fifth. A woman in a white coat quickly enters the pilot cabin. Then I see a friendly and smiling face Shegen, who takes his place in the pilot cabin. I follow him with my eyes...
The aircraft ran, pushed off the ground, jumped again ... and slowly flew up. It is so cam and nice in the flight...
I involuntarily closed my eyes, but something made me open them again...
No, it’s not a dream and not a delirium: I looked at the wet black eyes, full of sweet tenderness and warmth!.. They looked with such an amazing affection...
Only then I understood what that sly smile on Sheen’s face was about, when he walked into the cabin.
I was afraid that tears would flood my cheeks, and I closed my eyes again to hide the excitement. I think she could hear the sound of my heart even through the roar of the engine. I wanted to call her name, but my throat was dry and the voice was gone. I moved my lips and suddenly for the first time in my life felt a wonderful, such a refreshing, incomparable to anything, taste of her kiss.
She kissed my unshaven pale face, forehead, hair, not being embarrassed of anyone. After all, she found me, as I did, in the millions of people.
Kayrush! – she whispered.
Bota! – my lips responded with the dumb movement.
I closed my eyes again. Her hand was put on them with a soft coolness, caressing my eyelids, and I was afraid of raising them again to prolong this warm and joyful dream...
Is it the plane that is carrying me or is it a dream that is taking me away on the wings?..
She is sitting next to me, and I do not want to talk about anything. Maybe I need to ask her something, to answer... Please, not now, please! I still want to know everything about you, but now I want to sit together with you in silence.
And then we will sit down and tell each other about everything for so many years!
Then we’ll go with you through the years and years on all the roads of the world, and if necessary, - the roads of war. After all, we have already gone through them together, though not in the same unit, but does it matter? That’s even better. You would not bear so much, my little camel!..
My mother probably became too old, she has long been wanting to be called a grandmother. We will comfort her... No, I will not say it out loud to you, my little camel!
My comrades look with envy at the way you leaned to me and put your head on my chest. Here my hand touched your hair and your back. This light touch seems a little bit shy to you... I am not getting shy. I’m afraid to flush out your eyelashes, which touch my unshaven chin with quivering wings. They are wet... But I can feel through your white coat that had been put on just for order that there was a shoulder-strap on you, which was not really a soldier’s strap. An officer, it seems to me, should never cry…
I do not even dare to inquire how many stars you had on the shoulder-straps. And what if there will suddenly be some unprecedented constellation – a sign of your authority over the celestial spheres...
I will not even tell you this out loud either, you’ll think it’s a joke, but I have no particular feelings for you, but love...
And I won’t tell you even that.
Songs should be sung about this, but I'm in bad voice today. A man, who is going to lose one of his few limbs, cannot sing well.
I am interested in everything about you, everything in you is so dear to me. But you did not write even a word to me about you officer shoulder-strips. If I dared to touch your breast with my hand, maybe I would feel there the combat badges. And if I got to the heart ... Everything there is honestly clear just like in this clear sky that is shaking outside of the window of the aircraft?
No, I will not give my leg to the surgeons. I want to walk with you, stepping firmly on any road, though all the spaces to Berlin.
As Comrade Hodja Nasreddin said, “There is no place on this planet better than the one you were born and grew up on.” I want to make it even better for those whom you yourself will nurture. But so far I'm not telling you this out loud.
I'm not asking you when you will leave me. Maybe it will happen in a few minutes, as soon as the engine stops buzzing and machine glides smoothly on the ground. Then this dream will end. You will touch my lips with yours, take off your white coat and become a warrior. I would not dare to call from the battlefield for sake of love...
My wife! My little black-eyed camel! I want to get well soon to end the war with the victory and go home... Our home ... The civilian life, teachings, work, love...
That’s what I’ll tell you out loud... goodbye.
1949
