voice came a little timidly, but from the heart.
At this Ranierov grinned: "Shall we win?! Ha! You're all fantasists here! You like to think about your feats. That's maximalism…"
There was neither strength nor sense in speaking further — Misha switched off his hearing and moved on. He kept shouting something, but it didn't matter: he'd had enough. Somewhere in the middle there was a pinch and an ache. It was the pain of resentment; it lodged somewhere in my stomach and pressed deep down. It's unclear where that depth is, and where it's allowed to press, but it's getting stronger and stronger, and it's not going to go away.
"Why did I talk to that man again. It's the same thing every time. And each time it gets harder. We say, 'We're dreamers.' We dream? "Maximalism." This stupid psychoanalytics; they invented words to explain unknown things and unknown why, and now they use it… We're trying our best, and they wipe their feet on us. If only they had found a place where it was still clean, they would have dirty the whole place… Doesn't someone like him have no one who died in the war, doesn't he want to continue and finish what whole generations laid down their heads for? Does he like to confuse others instead of doing what life obliges him to do? That's what we're all doing here — learning. To love, to fight, to overcome… well, we have to fight, so what if we can't cope? We have to cope. We must win!" — this was going through his brain in waves, and despite all his convictions, the pain did not subside.
Grisha, one of his subordinates, sat on a bench near his porch and ate bread. It was stale and withered, but still real bread.
Seeing the commander, he jumped up and saluted in a military manner over his cap:
"Greetings, Comrade Captain."
"Sit down already, what's up," Misha didn't like all these honors, even though he understood perfectly well how important all these formalities were. But he especially hated formation training. When it came to the elementary techniques of formation step, he had no questions about the expediency of practicing them, but he had once read that the ancients gave it a certain delicate importance: they created special units that dealt only with this, organized special performances. What kind of nonsense is that? It's an army. Let them learn to shoot and hide. And to lie still with their eyes wide open. It will save their lives… They won't defeat the enemy with their antics with prehistoric rifles.
"Grish, tell me, what are we doing here?" — Misha asked, sitting down next to him on the steps.
Thoth apparently thought he was being tested for ideological suitability and replied along the lines of, "We are fighting for freedom, our cultural heritage, and we…"
— Give up the propaganda. We are Unit 14, not the KPM (Makah Propaganda Committee; its task was to agitate the people working for the chumas, including calling for rebellion). You tell me what you think."
"Я?… Sorry, I don't know, Comrade Captain. — During this answer Misha made such a face that one could think he was talking to a person who was completely distant from everything that was going on. — Honestly, I ran away from the factory, because I was afraid that next time I could not stand it, when the plagues begin to throw up the volume of smelting, and scream. We rarely met the norm, after all. I wouldn't have been able to withstand a couple more blows".
It was dangerous for someone like him to continue his revelations — almost all his gestures showed that he was ashamed of something he wanted to tell, but couldn't. Misha interrupted because it wasn't the first time he'd seen it. He knew that this was what his subordinate wanted to reveal, and that it would be better if he did it without coercion.
The rebel wandered back through the camp, replaying what Ranierov had told him in his head as if it would never come out and be forgotten.
Natalya Koshkina, a senior lieutenant from the sanitation department, ran into him. She was only twenty-five years old, but she was a good judge of character. One glance was enough for her to realize that help was needed: "Mish, why are you so glum?"
When she said such phrases, adding her marvelous facial expression, the mood lifted by itself. Not everyone in the group liked her, but she held no grudges and always tried to be supportive when she needed it. It seemed alien to her not to help because of an unfulfilled relationship. "Even if there were no war now," she said to those who didn't quite understand her.
— we wouldn't survive without each other. We're here to help others."
Though Misha didn't like her position entirely — "Really, how can you help, for example, Ranierov?". He respected her and could never even afford to argue with her.
— It's nothing, it's nothing.
— You didn't have lunch, did you?
— No, I didn't have lunch.
— Then I, uh.
— No, no, Natasha, don't. You don't have anything to eat.
— Do I have to talk you into it? — she asked sincerely and a little resentfully.
— Natash, I really don't want to — Misha hasn't eaten anything in almost 24 hours, but "taking" food from anyone, much less her, would be a crime.
— Stop it. I know you haven't eaten anything.
— Oh, come on. It's no big deal.
— You haven't eaten, and I'm missing a whole pot of soup. Let's go!
— Uh, I, uh.
After that she was tired of arguing and persuading this altruist, and she took him by the hand and dragged him to her house.
The Maquis changed their location at least once a week, and it was rare for anyone to set up a place to live while in any neighborhood. This was in no way true of Koshkina.
Entering her house Misha didn't understand what was going on: everything was so wellgroomed and cozy. And the most interesting thing was that it was impossible to say why. Maybe because of the towel with the image of a tiger hanging on the wall, maybe because of the tablecloth with roses and big, the size of a fist, ladybugs on the table, and maybe just a rag for shoes at the entrance. A lot of these wonderful little things can't be called luxury in any way — it's more like the humanity of the soul, that's all.
Natasha walked to the clay tile in the far corner of the room. Her movements were strikingly appealing to the eye. Her footsteps were soft and yet very confident. It was as if everything around her was coming to life.
Her military uniform didn't spoil her in the least: black full ankle boots, dark tights, visible only at the knees, and then a green skirt and the same tunic. Black hair in a thin braid in the back.
Seeing all the beauty around him, Misha stood only and cleaned his shoes to no end, not taking a step away from the door.
Turning around the hostess smiled, "So what's stuck in there?"
— I'm just
— Just get out of here.
And for good reason: in addition to everything else, the soup turned out to be exorbitantly delicious. Soup with cabbage and potatoes and everything. Just like the real thing. Just like they used to make it.
Natasha sat next to him, waiting for something. Maybe a compliment. Maybe something more. It was as if she didn't show it, but it was obvious she needed it. The warmth of the person next to her. That was what she wanted most of all right now.
And it was necessary first of all to add warmth to her heart. And then he noticed that he was not eating from an ordinary plate, not from an aluminum plate like everyone else's, but from a wooden plate painted with red paintings, as if the Old Slavonic traditions had been resurrected from nowhere.
— Natash, I didn't notice something right away… These are such beautiful plates.
Her mouth turned up in a smile, but it was obvious that it wasn't what she was expecting,
"Really? You like it? It's khokhloma."
"It's very pretty. Do you carry that with you?" — Misha realized at the same moment that he had asked a disastrously stupid and inappropriate question: during the Maquis crossings, they were allowed to take only the necessary things, but this was just an instruction — you can, take as much as you want, just don't dare to fall behind; it turned into a reproach.
"No, I found it here," Natasha responded so friendly to the question that the tension eased itself. Now he wouldn't have to feel like a stale censor.
Misha decided to smooth over his intemperance entirely, "It's a shame you don't wear them. They're wonderful plates." As soon as he said it out loud, he realized that he had said something nonsense. And he was so incomprehensible to himself that he blushed.
She seemed to like it. She turned her eyes playfully away, turned her head slightly to the
