marasmus. He thought that by the time he was eighty-two years old, it was time for his mind to move. And to this he was presented with strong evidence … That he himself has ever even thought of the fact that you can hit his comrade … Yes never. Never even a thought. Getting mad at someone, yes. An argument, yes. But not hitting. The plagues do that for us. But to hit a fellow man. Never. How can you do that? We're shoulder to shoulder. You can't survive here without each other. We're all family here! No, such things just don't make sense. "Young people? No. What youth? We didn't do that when we were their age," thought Galina Borisovna. It seemed to her that all this was some ridiculous coincidence that these two had misunderstood something about the relations between everyone at the mine, about the fact that here one individual person does not represent anything without the rest of the collective.
And in spite of all the excuses for their stupidity, she still felt sorry for them.
The thoughts of all the miners went around these two words: stupidity and pity.
Gora moved toward the fighting men. They were fifteen meters away, and when it became ten, they both spotted the approaching man. Immediately they separated and froze in their places.
Gora didn't even think about what was going on; he walked over and cracked one of them so hard that his head flew back a few meters and he fell to the ground. The other didn't move, for fear of doing something worse. A broad, sweeping blow knocked him aside. Both were now lying on the ground, barely moving or breathing.
Kirill Stolov stood aside, not even blinking. He had seen Pinishchev executed once before, and he knew perfectly well that he himself could have been in his place. That incident had been enough for him for the rest of his life, and now he wanted it all to be over and the work to go on.
Gora spotted the one he needed and beckoned to him with his hand. It was Stolov. His eyes fell open in fear and froze at their last point. His legs slowly swung forward.
"For the first time they will live," said the Mountain to the one who feared him most. — But the next time will be the last." His voice was quiet enough that no one but Stolov could hear it, but as soon as he was gone, every word he said would be known to everyone. And Stolov would tell it all so that no one would ever think of doing anything like that again.
Zhivenko
The city of Kremenchug. It is quite warm and the snow is almost melted. Spring is almost here.
Victor Khmelnitsky and his "Squad 14" moved here for a while.
A house among the houses, as wooden as all the others. Inside, an unheated stove and Misha Zhivenko at the table. His eyes darkened and his head drooped, but his hands did not drop.
His thoughts are slow and anxious. For a month now he had been blaming himself for letting Sasha go alone, for letting his horse twist his leg, for giving him a chance to change everything.
The commander of the Nikopol group wrote him a letter personally. He had read it so many times that he had learned it by heart: "My friend! I cannot write officially, because this is an unofficial letter. It contains neither secret information nor instructions for action. It is only to help us in these difficult times.
I am sure that you, like me, have seen our comrades die and give their lives for the sake of victory. You and I have lost many friends and family members. And there is nothing we can do about it. We can only endure and continue what they died for and what we may have to die for.
This is our destiny, and we have no choice but to follow it.
We all think that way and strive to do what we have to do at all costs. But there are moments that push us forward even harder, that make us believe in victory. That's heroism.
More than once I have seen it on and off the battlefield, and each instance I will never forget.
That morning was unusually beautiful and sunny. The ancients believed that the beautiful days of the Earth should be beautiful for man as well… I stood on the porch then and felt that this was that beautiful day.
Two of them were returning from the patrol, but soon I saw a third with them. It was Sasha. At first I thought he was all right. He got off his horse easily and came toward me. But then I noticed that his fingers weren't moving, they were blue and dead. I don't know how, but he pulled something out of his jacket with them. It was a letter. And then he collapsed on his back and never regained consciousness. I didn't even get to hear his last words. Then I remembered his eyes well… I didn't immediately realize what their expression meant. They were calm and contented. I had never seen such eyes in the dead.
Only the next day it became clear to me why he looked at the sky like that for the last time. He didn't need anything else, he wanted to die.
Then we found his footprints. In the snowy steppe. I can't describe how I felt then… Those footprints went into infinity. I can't imagine what it must have taken for him to walk all that way.
I couldn't help but write you this letter, I had to at least tell someone about our friend's courage.
Heavenly kingdom to him!
Your eternal friend, friend of Sasha Rucheyov."
Quite some time had passed since that incident. Misha had been promoted to captain and had recently been in charge of three officers and a platoon: Max Rozhkov, Grisha Listov and Kostya Metsov.
There was a light knock on the door, and Major Sergei Bolotnikov came in. He looked quite satisfied, though he didn't say anything, but still reassuring.
"And today is a good day…," he said cheerfully, rattling his boots on the creaking floor. This is a typical Soviet officer: neat, but not dressed up as for a parade, with apparent adherence to the rule "A healthy body has a healthy spirit" and without unnecessary forms of ostentation like a wide step a meter to the side.
"Yes." the captain answered him without raising his head. — Just like when Sanya died."
— You know, your insubordination is gonna get you to the edge someday. I'm okay with it, but you know how it is. It's not like we don't have it.
"You're right," Misha simply brushed it off now, not wanting to spin such a pointless conversation with only one ending in prospect.
— Come on, that's not why I'm here. I have good news for you. Don't ask me why it's so late, I won't tell you… A month ago they sent Sanya and you a letter. You've been going crazy about this story. I hope you'll feel better. The letter contained an order to mine the
Dnepropetrovsk-Donetsk road near the Volchya River. Thanks to Sana, they managed to do it in time. Five buras were ambushed. That's more than two hundred chums.
It really made me feel better: "Two hundred plagues. Well done, Sanya."
— On top of that, the river flooded the tunnel. It is not known when they fixed it and whether they fixed it at all, but they got it in the nuts, that's for sure.
Both postants smiled sarcastically.
"All right, Mish. We're on the right road to victory. — Bolotnikov deduced and made his favorite greeting sign — tapping his heels, soundly and decorously. — Bless you, my friend."
This rebel was quite encouraging to the man who had become miffed with himself, and he decided to walk through the camp.
When he went outside, Misha found the place full of people. Why did everyone come out like it was a holiday?
After walking past a few cabins and saying hello to a dozen wonderful and not so wonderful people, he came across someone he never would have wanted to see and wouldn't have approached, but that person wanted something, so she approached herself.
Captain Raniere. He's a real loudmouth. Every time something came up in conversation, he'd start an empty argument. Just about nothing. I don't know why, but on some genetic level he was trying to prove that his point of view was right and everything else was worthless. Not only that, but if there was no business to be done anywhere and no one called him, he would come in with completely useless questions and almost demand answers, especially from the lower ranks.
Having experienced this more than once, Misha prepared to open his mouth and send him away.
"Have you seen Kostya?" — Ranierov asked.
A rather odd question, and the answer was a negative nod of the head with a continued forward motion.
— You've heard of Wolfsbane, right?
Maybe we should give him a chance. At least this time he'll say something nice.
"I heard," Misha replied haltingly.
— They're all right, aren't they?
— Uh-huh. Probably just a little bit more and that's it…
— That's it?
— And we will win. — The
