Yuri German
Dear my man
I will not praise the timidly lurking virtue that shows itself in nothing and shows no signs of life, the virtue that never makes sorties to face the enemy, and which shamefully flees from the competition when the laurel wreath is won in the heat and dust .
John Milton
Whoever is rooting for a cause must be able to fight for it, otherwise he does not need to take on any business at all.
Johann Wolfgang Goethe
Chapter one
TRAIN GOING WEST
The international express started off slowly, as befits trains of this highest category, and both foreign diplomats immediately, each in their own direction, ripped the silk breezebushes on the mirrored window of the dining car. Ustimenko squinted and peered even more attentively at these athletic little, wiry, arrogant people - in black evening suits, glasses, with cigars, with rings on their fingers. They did not notice him, greedily looked at the silent, boundless expanse and peace there, in the steppes, over which the full moon floated in the black autumn sky. What did they hope to see when they crossed the border? Fires? War? German tanks?
In the kitchen, behind Volodya, the cooks were beating meat with choppers, there was a delicious smell of fried onions, the barmaid on a tray carried misted bottles of Russian Zhiguli beer. It was dinner time, at the next table a belly-bellied American journalist was peeling an orange with thick fingers, his military "forecasts" were respectfully listened to by bespectacled, slicked-haired diplomats who looked like twins.
Bastard! Volodya said.
What he says? asked Tod-Jin.
Bastard! Ustimenko repeated. - Fascist!
The diplomats nodded their heads and smiled. The famous American columnist-journalist joked. “This joke is already flying over the radiotelephone to my newspaper,” he explained to his interlocutors and threw an orange slice into his mouth - with a click. His mouth was as big as a frog's, from ear to ear. And all three of them had a lot of fun, but they became even more fun over cognac.
We must have peace of mind! said Tod-Jin, looking compassionately at Ustimenka. - You have to get yourself together, yes, yes.
Finally, a waiter came up and recommended to Volodya and Tod-Zhin "monastic sturgeon" or "mutton chops." Ustimenko leafed through the menu, the waiter, beaming parted, waited - the strict Tod-Jin with his motionless face seemed to the waiter an important and rich eastern foreigner.
A bottle of beer and beef stroganoff,” said Volodya.
Go to hell, Tod-Jin, - Ustimenko got angry. - I have a lot of money.
Tod-Jin repeated dryly:
Porridge and tea.
The waiter raised his eyebrows, made a mournful face and left. The American observer poured cognac into the narzan, rinsed his mouth with this mixture and filled his pipe with black tobacco. Another gentleman approached the three of them - as if he got out not from the next car, but from the collected works of Charles Dickens, lop-eared, short-sighted, with a duck nose and a mouth like a chicken tail. It was to him - this plaid-striped one - that the journalist said that phrase, from which Volodya even went cold.
No need! - asked Tod-Jin and squeezed his cold hand Volodya's wrist. - It doesn't help, so, yeah...
But Volodya did not hear Tod-Jin, or rather, he did, but he was not in the mood for prudence. And, rising at his table - tall, lithe, in an old black sweater - he barked at the whole car, piercing the journalist with furious eyes, barked at his terrifying, soul-chilling, amateurishly studied English language:
Hey reviewer! Yes, you, it is you, I tell you...
A look of bewilderment flashed across the journalist's flat, fat face, the diplomats instantly became politely arrogant, the Dickensian gentleman stepped back a little.
You enjoy the hospitality of my country! shouted Volodya. A country of which I have the high honor of being a citizen. And I do not allow you to make such disgusting, and so cynical, and so vile jokes about the great battle that our people are waging! Otherwise, I will throw you out of this wagon to hell ...
Approximately so Volodya imagined what he said. In fact, he said a phrase much more meaningless, but nevertheless, the observer understood Volodya perfectly, this was evident from the way his jaw dropped for a moment and small, fish teeth in the frog's mouth were exposed. But immediately he was found - he was not so small as not to find a way out of any situation.
Bravo! - he exclaimed and even portrayed something like applause. Bravo, my enthusiastic friend! I'm glad I awakened your feelings with my little provocation. We have not yet traveled a hundred kilometers from the border, and I have already received grateful material ... “Your old Pete was almost thrown out of the express train at full speed just for a little joke about the combat capability of the Russian people” - this is how my telegram will begin; does that suit you, my irascible friend?
What could he say, poor fellow?
To portray a dry mine and take on beef stroganoff?
So Volodya did. But the observer did not lag behind him: having moved to his table, he wished to know who Ustimenko was, what he did, where he was going, why he was returning to Russia. And as he wrote, he said:
Oh great. Missionary doctor, returns to fight under the banner...
Listen! exclaimed Ustimenko. - Missionaries are priests, and I ...
You can’t fool old Pete,” the journalist said, puffing on his pipe. Old Pete knows his reader. And show me your muscles, could you really throw me out of the car?
I had to show. Then old Pete showed his and wished to drink cognac with Volodya and his "friend - Eastern Byron". Tod-Jin finished his porridge, poured liquid tea into himself and left, and Volodya, feeling the mocking glances of the diplomats and the Dickensian striped man, suffered for a long time with old Pete, cursing himself in every possible way for the stupid scene.
What was there? Tod-Jin asked sternly when Volodya returned to their compartment. And after listening, he lit a cigarette and said sadly:
They are always smarter than us, so, yes, doctor. I was still small - like this ...
He showed with his palm what he was:
Like this one, and they, like this old Pete, like that, yes, they gave me candy. No, they didn't beat us, they gave us sweets. And my mother, she beat me, so, yes, because she could not live from her fatigue and illness. And I thought - I'll go to this old Pete, and he will always give me candy. And Pete also gave adults sweets - alcohol. And we brought him animal skins and gold, so, yes, and then death came ... Old Pete is very, very cunning ...
Volodya sighed.
It's been pretty stupid. And now he will write that I am either a priest or a monk ...
Hopping onto the top bunk, he stripped down to his underpants, lay down in crisp, cool, starched sheets, and turned on the radio. Soon they were to transmit a summary of the Sovinformburo. With his hands behind his head, Volodya lay motionless, waiting. Tod-Jin stood looking out the window - at the endless steppe under the moonlight. Finally, Moscow spoke: on this day, according to the announcer, Kyiv fell. Volodya turned to the wall, pulled a blanket over the sheet. For some reason, he imagined the face of the one who called himself old Pete, and he even closed his eyes in disgust.
Nothing, - Tod-Zhin said muffledly, - the USSR will win. It will still be very bad, but then it will be great. After the night comes the morning. I heard the radio - Adolf Hitler will surround Moscow so that not a single Russian leaves the city. And then he will flood Moscow with water, he has everything decided, so, yes, he wants, where Moscow used to be, the sea will become and there will forever be no capital of the country of communism. I heard and I thought: I studied in Moscow, I must be where they want to see the sea. From a gun I get into the eye of a kite, this is necessary in the war. I get in the eye of a sable too. In the Central Committee, I said the same as you, comrade doctor, now. I said they are the day, if they are not there, eternal night will come. For our people, absolutely - yes, yes. And I'm going back to Moscow, the second time I'm going. I’m not afraid of anything at all, no frost, and I can do everything in the war ...
After a pause, he asked:
I can't refuse, right?
You will not be refused, Tod-Jin, - Volodya answered quietly.
Then Ustimenko closed his eyes.
And suddenly I saw that the caravan had started moving. And grandfather Abatai ran next to Volodya's horse. The Orient Express thundered at the joints, sometimes the locomotive howled long and powerfully, and around Volodya the horses kicked up dust, and more and more people crowded around. For some reason, Varya was riding on a small maned horse, patting its withers with her wide palm, the dusty wind of Khara ruffled her tangled, soft hair, and the girl Tush was crying, stretching her thin arms towards Volodya. And familiar and semi-familiar people walked near Ustimenka and handed him sour cheese, which he loved.
I will not praise the timidly lurking virtue that shows itself in nothing and shows no signs of life, the virtue that never makes sorties to face the enemy, and which shamefully flees from the competition when the laurel wreath is won in the heat and dust .
John Milton
Whoever is rooting for a cause must be able to fight for it, otherwise he does not need to take on any business at all.
Johann Wolfgang Goethe
Chapter one
The train is going west
The international express started slowly, as befits trains of this highest category, and both foreign diplomats immediately, each in their own direction, ripped the silk breezebushes on the mirrored window of the dining car. Ustimenko narrowed his eyes and peered even more attentively at these athletic little, wiry, arrogant people - in black evening suits, glasses, with cigars, with rings on their fingers. They did not notice him, greedily looked at the silent, boundless expanse and peace there, in the steppes, over which the full moon floated in the black autumn sky. What did they hope to see when they crossed the border? Fires? War? German tanks?
In the kitchen, behind Volodya, the cooks were beating meat with choppers, there was a delicious smell of fried onions, the barmaid on a tray carried misted bottles of Russian Zhiguli beer. It was dinner time, at the next table a belly-bellied American journalist was peeling an orange with thick fingers, his military "forecasts" were respectfully listened to by bespectacled, slicked-haired diplomats who looked like twins.
- Bastard! Volodya said.
- What he says? Tod-Jin asked.
- Bastard! Ustimenko repeated. - Fascist!
The diplomats nodded their heads and smiled. The famous American columnist-journalist joked. “This joke is already flying over the radiotelephone to my newspaper,” he explained to his interlocutors and threw an orange slice into his mouth with a click. His mouth was as big as a frog's, from ear to ear. And all three of them had a lot of fun, but they became even more fun over cognac.
- We must have peace of mind! Tod-Jin said, looking compassionately at Ustimenka. “You have to take matters into your own hands, yes.
Finally, a waiter came up and recommended to Volodya and Tod-Zhin "monastic sturgeon" or "mutton chops." Ustimenko leafed through the menu, the waiter, beaming parted, waited - the strict Tod-Jin with his motionless face seemed to the waiter an important and rich eastern foreigner.
“A bottle of beer and beef stroganoff,” said Volodya.
“Go to hell, Tod-Jin,” Ustimenko got angry. - I have a lot of money.
Tod-Jin repeated dryly:
- Porridge and tea.
The waiter raised his eyebrows, made a mournful face and left. The American observer poured cognac into the narzan, rinsed his mouth with this mixture and filled his pipe with black tobacco. Another gentleman approached the three of them - as if he got out not from the next car, but from the collected works of Charles Dickens - lop-eared, blind, with a duck nose and a mouth like a chicken tail. It was to him - this checkered-striped one - that the journalist said that phrase, from which Volodya even went cold.
- No need! Tod-Jin asked and squeezed Volodino's wrist with his cold hand. - It doesn't help, so, yes ...
But Volodya did not hear Tod-Jin, or rather, he did, but he was not in the mood for prudence. And, rising at his table - tall, lithe, in an old black sweater - he barked at the whole car, glaring at the journalist with furious eyes, barked in his terrifying, soul-chilling, self-learned English:
- Hey, reviewer! Yes, you, it is you, I tell you...
A look of bewilderment flashed across the journalist's flat, fat face, the diplomats instantly became politely arrogant, the Dickensian gentleman stepped back a little.
“You enjoy the hospitality of my country!” shouted Volodya. – A country of which I have the high honor of being a citizen. And I do not allow you to make such disgusting, and so cynical, and so vile jokes about the great battle that our people are waging! Otherwise, I will throw you out of this wagon to hell ...
Approximately so Volodya imagined what he said. In fact, he said a phrase much more meaningless, but nevertheless, the observer understood Volodya perfectly, this was evident from the way his jaw dropped for a moment and small, fish teeth in the frog's mouth were exposed. But immediately he was found - he was not so small as not to find a way out of any situation.
– Bravo! he exclaimed, and even mimicked something like applause. “Bravo, my enthusiastic friend! I'm glad I awakened your feelings with my little provocation. We have not yet traveled a hundred kilometers from the border, and I have already received grateful material ... “Your old Pete was almost thrown out of the express train at full speed just for a little joke about the combat capability of the Russian people” - this is how my telegram will begin; does that suit you, my irascible friend?
What could he say, poor fellow?
To portray a dry mine and take on beef stroganoff?
So Volodya did. But the observer did not lag behind him: having moved to his table, he wished to know who Ustimenko was, what he did, where he was going, why he was returning to Russia. And as he wrote, he said:
- Oh great. Missionary doctor, returns to fight under the banner...
- Listen! exclaimed Ustimenko. - Missionaries are priests, and I ...
“You can’t fool Old Pete,” the journalist said, puffing on his pipe. Old Pete knows his reader. And show me your muscles, could you really throw me out of the car?
I had to show. Then old Pete showed his and wished to drink cognac with Volodya and his "friend - Eastern Byron". Tod-Jin finished his porridge, poured liquid tea into himself and left, and Volodya, feeling the mocking glances of the diplomats and the Dickensian striped man, suffered for a long time with old Pete, cursing himself in every possible way for the stupid scene.
- What was there? Tod-Jin asked sternly when Volodya returned to their compartment. And after listening, he lit a cigarette and said sadly: - They are always more cunning than us, so, yes, doctor. I was still small - like this ...
He showed with his palm what he was.
“Here it is, and they, like this old Pete, like that, yes, they gave me candy. No, they didn't beat us, they gave us sweets. And my mother, she beat me, so, yes, because she could not live from her fatigue and illness. And I thought: I'll go to this old Pete, and he will always give me candy. And Pete also gave adults sweets - alcohol. And we brought him animal skins and gold, so, yes, and then death came ... Old Pete is very, very cunning ...
Volodya sighed.
- It's pretty stupid. And now he will write that I am either a priest or a monk ...
Hopping onto the top bunk, he stripped down to his underpants, lay down in crisp, cool, starched sheets, and turned on the radio. Soon they were to transmit a summary of the Sovinformburo. With his hands behind his head, Volodya lay motionless, waiting. Tod-Jin stood looking out the window at the endless steppe under the moonlight. Finally, Moscow spoke: on this day, according to the announcer, Kyiv fell. Volodya turned to the wall, pulled a blanket over the sheet. For some reason, he imagined the face of the one who called himself old Pete, and he even closed his eyes in disgust.
“Nothing,” Tod-Jin said muffledly, “the USSR will win.” It will still be very bad, but then it will be great. After the night comes the morning. I heard the radio - Adolf Hitler will surround Moscow so that not a single Russian leaves the city. And then he will flood Moscow with water, he has everything decided, so, yes, he wants, where Moscow used to be, the sea will become and there will forever be no capital of the country of communism. I heard and I thought: I studied in Moscow, I must be where they want to see the sea. From a gun I get into the eye of a kite, this is necessary in the war. I get in the eye of a sable too. In the Central Committee, I said the same as you, comrade doctor, now. I said they are the day, if they are not there, eternal night will come. For our people, absolutely - yes, yes. And I'm going back to Moscow, the second time I'm going. I’m not afraid of anything at all, no frost, and I can do everything in the war ...
Contrary to popular belief, Cannes, blinded by the brilliance of our only gold, was not discovered by Batalov by Kalatozov. The ability to play a tense, but hidden from prying eyes, inner life, mental, intellectual, professional - that is, which was the uniqueness of Batalov's acting talent, was really used by Kheifits for the first time, and the screenwriter of Kheifits Yuri German (since without the writer's intervention the actor , it seems, would forever be stuck in the role of a working boy). The script for the film “My Dear Man” was written by German specifically for Batalov and “on” Batalov, with inspiration and with great confidence in the actor, who was entrusted with the mission of humanizing the seemingly worked “on the knee”, strung on a living thread of the text. The result, obviously, exceeded the most daring writer's expectations: the image of the doctor Ustimenko was molded by Batalov so cleverly, voluminously, convincingly and at the same time with such genuine, such life-like reticence that the author himself felt ashamed and seriously intrigued. Herman's acclaimed trilogy, which became table book of all medical students, in fact, grew out of this dissatisfaction of the screenwriter, bypassed by the actor in the subtleties of understanding the character. Herman in it only explored those depths of Vladimir Ustimenko's character that Batalov had already embodied on the screen - rationalizing, analyzing, tracking his origin, formation, development, and not caring in the least about his original screenplay material, focusing more on the plot (oddly enough, this sounds) on subsequent characters of the same Batalov (physicist Gusev from Nine Days of One Year, Dr. Berezkin from Day of Happiness ...)
And then to say: the charm and mystery of the "generation of whales" ("they are too tough - all teeth are soft, they are not for soups - pots are too small"), carried by Batalov through his entire filmography (up to the complete fraying of the type, almost self-parody in the form of an intellectual locksmith Gosha), already in “My Dear Man” by Kheifits, they clearly crush the strained (if not stilted) scenario under themselves in places. until the days of the last bottom "thanks to Batalov, it undergoes a radical revision in the novel. A brilliant scene of an operation in military conditions, under the roar of shrapnel, in the wrong light of an oil lamp - a white cap, a white respiratory bandage, Olympian calm of all features, all muscles, a sweating forehead and furry Batalov eyes , extremely intensively living during these minutes a whole life - a scene similar to a chaste, unconscious ritual by the participants - anticipated one of the Germanic formulas included in the anthologies: one must serve one's cause, not incense
There, under the oil lamp, in military infirmary routine and routine, half-hidden by a bandage from indiscreet eyes, Batalov-Ustimenko at once pours out on the viewer all the radiance that the character carried in himself throughout the film - carefully and gently, afraid to spill it in everyday bustle. In this scene - an explanation and justification of his restraint (ill-wishers said: freezing) in all other human manifestations: love, grief, indignation. Devoted to one completely, undividedly, uncompromisingly, he cannot be otherwise. No "Odysseys in the darkness of steamship offices, Agamemnons between tavern markers" with their in vain and in vain burning eyes. Ustimenko Batalova is a man at work, to whom all his strength is given, he has no time to waste himself outside.
The coldness and detachment of the title character is more than compensated by the supporting cast, which seems to compete in the brightness and expressive capacity of the instantaneous (but not fleeting) flashes of feelings unwittingly exposed by them. The mighty stooped shoulders of the hero Usovnichenko, who was disappointed in the object of love, timid, belated (“Ah, Lyuba, Lyuba. Love! ... Nikolaevna.”); the burning look of the black eyes of Dr. Veresova (Bella Vinogradova), the cruel female resentment in her short attack ( "For whom am I painting? - For you!"); the ferocious growl of Captain Kozyrev (performed by Pereverzev) in response to the attempts of orderly Zhilin to switch his attention from sergeant Stepanova to a pretty nurse - all these momentary, poignantly recognizable situations unfold themselves in the audience's perception in a life-long story. Against this background rich in talents, even the magnificent Inna Makarova is a little bored - very picturesque and femininely attractive in the role of Varya, but who did not say anything new in this film, in fact, once again playing the "home" part of the role of Lyubka Shevtsova (after all, the dramatic turn - from "Girls" to "Women" - the actress is still ahead). It seems that Herman was not impressed with her game either, for the novel he borrowed from Varka only a figurine “like a turnip” ... However, isn’t tactful self-elimination the main virtue (and special happiness) of a woman who loves the one who has gone headlong into her own, big, a man? The one that "barely walks, barely breathes - if only he would be healthy"? Didn't Inna Makarova deliberately dim the colors of her individuality so as not to push her dear person into the shadows - exactly the way her heroine learned to do?
DEAR MY PERSON!
Almost all that night she did not close her eyes: she lay quietly, her fist under her burning cheek, looking out of the dark window, behind which the October, dull, evenly noisy rain poured incessantly.
She lay, thought, remembered, forbade herself to remember, and remembered again, rejoicing at these memories and despising herself for the fact that she could not help remembering.
“He is a stranger to me,” she said to herself, “he is a stranger, separate, his inner world, his moral life, his family are now separated from me. I will not be able to be his friend, girlfriend, comrade, I will not endure even an hour of such torture, and therefore I cannot deceive myself and try, as it were, to get to know him again. I love him, I loved him as a girl and loved him throughout the war, I love him endlessly, painfully and unbearably now, which means that I just need to leave immediately and try not to be here, near him, neither I nor he needs it, yes and what am I entitled to, after all?”
But thinking so, she knew that she would not leave, she could not leave without seeing him at least from afar.
And again, almost crying, she angrily asked herself:
- What for? Why? What is this flour for?
But at the same time she was thinking about how, where to see her so that he would not notice her, so that he would not be annoyed, not upset. Of course, at the same time, she did not at all consider that seeing him secretly from himself was humiliating for her self-esteem, her love was not such as to measure insults, to reflect on pride, on self-esteem. He was always everything to her, was more than herself, her personality was completely dissolved in him, but how can you be offended by yourself? Isn't it infinitely stupid to put on airs in front of yourself? And doesn't he know that she loved him, loves and will always love him, didn't she tell him about it? This means that the whole point is just not to upset him, not to put him in a false and difficult position, so as not to upset the balance that he found after he almost lost the meaning of his life - business, so as not to offend his sense of decency according to family, wife and child...
She lit a match, looked at her watch: five. At two o'clock in the afternoon, my father and grandfather Methodius were to arrive. Rodion Methodievich, of course, wants to see Volodya, but she has no right to be present, because she will complicate their meeting for Volodya. She has the right only to be with her father and immediately go to her place in Cherny Yar. And then let them meet as much as they want and as they want ...
Thinking so, she suddenly sobbed offendedly, for a moment becoming jealous of Ustimenka for her father, but she immediately realized that it was ridiculous, and, cursing herself, began to figure out how and where to see Volodya before the two-hour Moscow train. At times she would feel chilly, and she would pull the blanket over herself, at other times she would feel hot, and then, with her small strong legs, she would angrily and quickly dump aside, to the sofa cushion, both the blanket and some old katsaveika, which Iraida had stocked up with in the evening. Then suddenly she felt stuffy, as if she were sitting in front of the stove, then she had to open the window and breathe in the night, rainy dampness until she completely froze, making plans one more unrealizable and more stupid than the other ...
Behind the wall, Yevgeny snored measuredly and complacently, here on the wall an oak clock resembling a children's coffin was loudly ticking, one could hear Yurka, the youngest of the Stepanovs, strangely threatening in a dream: “I’ll shoot them!”, how Iraida gave her son water to drink, when Eugene cursed in a fat voice:
- Can I have a piece of peace at least at night?
Just before dawn, when the rain-drenched window began to turn gray, Varvara immediately thought of everything, sat on the sofa in a long nightgown, shook her head, laughed timidly and happily, and suddenly said in a whisper, like a spell:
- I'll see! I'll see! I'll see!
And although she knew for sure that he would not see her, she began to dress in all the best and most beautiful that she had. Opening a battered suitcase, she took out the most “important”, as she considered, blouse from there: a white, smart one, about which she once said that this blouse was “like cream”, a suit, smooth patent leather shoes, a checkered scarf and unworn, insanely expensive stockings...
Dipping in the kitchen over the vat cold water and all the while hissing at himself: “Shhh! Quiet! Shh!" - Varvara, again in her "main" shirt - blue with lace - briefly stopped in front of the mirror, putting her pigtails in her hair and tying them below the back of her head with her favorite pretzel. Her round eyes and slightly upturned nose, from which the skin burned in summer was still peeling off a little, and strong cheeks, and lips quivering with joyful excitement - all together made the most depressing impression on her, she pointed her finger at the mirror and, forgetting that in silence should be observed in the brother’s house, she said in the same voice with which she commanded her sappers in the war, “Stand!”:
- Face! Well, is it a face?
- What? - Yevgeny shouted frightened from the bedroom (he was maniacally afraid of thieves). – What-oh? What?
- The thieves! Barbara replied the same way. - Robbery! Steal! Guard!
The door creaked, Zhenya without glasses, screwing up his eyes, complained dejectedly:
Always stupid jokes...
And asked:
“Have you forgotten that the train is at fourteen?”
It was exactly six when Varvara left the house - in a green raincoat, in a checkered scarf tied in a knot under her chin, in "main" patent leather shoes. It was still raining. It was about forty minutes walk to the station - along the ruts, craters and pits of the times of the last battles for the city, and when Varya finally got into the creaking trophy DKV, her shoes were completely soaked.
- Where? the unshaven driver asked angrily.
Sitting down sideways, she pulled off her wet stockings, wrung out the hem of her skirt and sighed: now it was quite clear that the former “main” shoes could be thrown away - their soles had fallen off.
How long are we going to chill? the driver inquired.
- Yes, and so: how much do you work per shift in the best case? But in a divine way, without rudeness.
“In a divine way, without rudeness,” the driver thought. - Up to a thousand.
- How many "before"? Five hundred is “up to”, six hundred is also “up to”.
“Interesting citizen,” said the driver, lighting a cigarette. - You, for an hour, are not from the authorities?
"It doesn't matter," Varvara answered enigmatically. “I need you before noon. And you don't care if it's driving or parking. I cry with a chok, so that you will not be offended. It's clear?
- Turn on the counter? Do we issue a receipt? the driver asked matter-of-factly.
“That I don't know.
- No out-of-town trips are foreseen?
“And I don't know.
- Good. So, chohom - seven hundred.
“Isn’t this arrogant banditry on your part?” Varya asked.
“Ridiculous,” said the driver. Do you buy bread at the market?
“All right,” Varvara ordered, not listening to the driver. - Lenin, twenty-three, next to the State Bank. We'll wait there.
The car hobbled along the potholes of the Ovrazhkov. Tram rails were already being laid here, the right side was closed to traffic, there, snorting, trucks were working, bringing up broken stone. Completely dawned. The rain was still pouring down, the sky was grey, low, the old birches on Gornaya were already without leaves. When they stopped near the State Bank, Varvara, barefoot, climbed forward - to the driver. Now she could see the ugly scar on his chin.
- Soldier? she asked.
“It was,” he replied sullenly.
- Where did they mend it so badly?
- And what? You are a doctor, right?
- Not. But I know a wonderful doctor. Amazing.
The driver looked at Varvara in surprise. He heard tears in her voice.
“He will do anything for a soldier,” Varya continued. He will spare no effort. He is one of those...
She blew her nose into the corner of her checkered handkerchief, wiped her wet face with a small hand, and fell silent. And the driver skillfully and quickly dozed off. He woke up because a strange passenger deftly and painfully beat him in the side with her fist, saying:
- Hurry, hurry, hurry! Get out with a stick! Tall, in a black coat. Navy cloak, see? No hat...
Her face was so white that the driver even got scared.
“Only without your tricks,” he said in a sleepy voice. - And it happens - splashes with sulfuric acid, then figure it out!
- Moron! Varya said inoffensively. "Hurry, or we'll miss it!"
Her lips were trembling, her eyes were full of tears. With an angry movement, she wiped her wet eyes, almost pressed herself against the viewing glass, and said in such an unusual, soul-rending voice that the driver suddenly stopped:
If we lose him, I will die. Truth!
“I only have to look, just look,” she said quickly, pressing closer and closer to the rain-soaked viewing glass. “I just want to see him, you know?
He walked quickly, leaning on a stick, but at the same time he walked freely and widely. There was nothing pitiful in his gait; he was walking a strong and healthy man, who had suffered a little at the front in his time. The autumn wind ruffled his dark, slightly wavy hair, the rain lashed his back, the shoulders of his cloak soon turned completely black from the rain. Varvara did not see Volodya's face, but it was not for her, and it is important now.
He was here, almost with her, he was walking - her Volodya, her torment and her happiness, alive, genuine, so his own and so far away ...
Squeezing her throat with her small palms so as not to scream from this happy torment, breathing often, almost suffocating, she said, as if conjuring:
“Just don’t miss it, you understand, the driver, dear, dear, don’t miss it. I know - he is going to the former oncology clinic, to the institute, that's where, please, be so kind, don't miss it ...
- Crush the bastard! The driver suddenly went berserk. - The shaggy devil, he tortures such a girl too ...
- You? What are you for?
But Varya did not answer.
Ustimenko stopped in front of what had once been an oncological institute, in front of a pile of blown-up ruins, from which twisted rusty iron beams protruded ...
“Now past him, to that post,” she asked so quietly, as if Volodya could hear. And we'll stop there. See the telegraph pole?
The driver set the speed and slightly pressed the gas. The car, creaking and groaning, slowly descended into the pit, growled and crawled out near the post. Varya cautiously opened her door. Now she saw Volodya's face - wet from the rain, with strongly protruding cheekbones, with dark eyebrows. And suddenly she was surprised: he stood over these ruins as if he did not notice them, as if not ruins - ugly and mournful - were spread out before him, but a huge wasteland, where excellent materials were brought, from which to build a new and beautiful building for him - clean, majestic and what people need no less than they need bread, water, sunshine and love.
The doer and creator - stood, leaning on a stick, under a long, tedious autumn rain. And there was no rain for him, no ruins, no weariness, nothing but the cause he served.
“My dear,” Varvara said softly and joyfully, weeping and no longer wiping her tears. - My dear, dear, only, my dear man!
Yuri German
Dear my man
I will not praise the timidly lurking virtue that shows itself in nothing and shows no signs of life, the virtue that never makes sorties to face the enemy, and which shamefully flees from the competition when the laurel wreath is won in the heat and dust .
John Milton
Whoever is rooting for a cause must be able to fight for it, otherwise he does not need to take on any business at all.
Johann Wolfgang Goethe
Chapter one
TRAIN GOING WEST
The international express started off slowly, as befits trains of this highest category, and both foreign diplomats immediately, each in their own direction, ripped the silk breezebushes on the mirrored window of the dining car. Ustimenko squinted and peered even more attentively at these athletic little, wiry, arrogant people - in black evening suits, glasses, with cigars, with rings on their fingers. They did not notice him, greedily looked at the silent, boundless expanse and peace there, in the steppes, over which the full moon floated in the black autumn sky. What did they hope to see when they crossed the border? Fires? War? German tanks?
In the kitchen, behind Volodya, the cooks were beating meat with choppers, there was a delicious smell of fried onions, the barmaid on a tray carried misted bottles of Russian Zhiguli beer. It was dinner time, at the next table a belly-bellied American journalist was peeling an orange with thick fingers, his military "forecasts" were respectfully listened to by bespectacled, slicked-haired diplomats who looked like twins.
Bastard! Volodya said.
What he says? asked Tod-Jin.
Bastard! Ustimenko repeated. - Fascist!
The diplomats nodded their heads and smiled. The famous American columnist-journalist joked. “This joke is already flying over the radiotelephone to my newspaper,” he explained to his interlocutors and threw an orange slice into his mouth - with a click. His mouth was as big as a frog's, from ear to ear. And all three of them had a lot of fun, but they became even more fun over cognac.
We must have peace of mind! said Tod-Jin, looking compassionately at Ustimenka. - You have to get yourself together, yes, yes.
Finally, a waiter came up and recommended to Volodya and Tod-Zhin "monastic sturgeon" or "mutton chops." Ustimenko leafed through the menu, the waiter, beaming parted, waited - the strict Tod-Jin with his motionless face seemed to the waiter an important and rich eastern foreigner.
A bottle of beer and beef stroganoff,” said Volodya.
Go to hell, Tod-Jin, - Ustimenko got angry. - I have a lot of money.
Tod-Jin repeated dryly:
Porridge and tea.
The waiter raised his eyebrows, made a mournful face and left. The American observer poured cognac into the narzan, rinsed his mouth with this mixture and filled his pipe with black tobacco. Another gentleman approached the three of them - as if he got out not from the next car, but from the collected works of Charles Dickens, lop-eared, short-sighted, with a duck nose and a mouth like a chicken tail. It was to him - this plaid-striped one - that the journalist said that phrase, from which Volodya even went cold.
No need! asked Tod-Jin, and squeezed Volodino's wrist with his cold hand. - It doesn't help, so, yeah...
But Volodya did not hear Tod-Jin, or rather, he did, but he was not in the mood for prudence. And, rising at his table - tall, lithe, in an old black sweater - he barked at the whole car, piercing the journalist with furious eyes, barked in his terrifying, soul-chilling, self-learned English:
Hey reviewer! Yes, you, it is you, I tell you...
A look of bewilderment flashed across the journalist's flat, fat face, the diplomats instantly became politely arrogant, the Dickensian gentleman stepped back a little.
You enjoy the hospitality of my country! shouted Volodya. A country of which I have the high honor of being a citizen. And I do not allow you to make such disgusting, and so cynical, and so vile jokes about the great battle that our people are waging! Otherwise, I will throw you out of this wagon to hell ...
Approximately so Volodya imagined what he said. In fact, he said a phrase much more meaningless, but nevertheless, the observer understood Volodya perfectly, this was evident from the way his jaw dropped for a moment and small, fish teeth in the frog's mouth were exposed. But immediately he was found - he was not so small as not to find a way out of any situation.
Bravo! - he exclaimed and even portrayed something like applause. Bravo, my enthusiastic friend! I'm glad I awakened your feelings with my little provocation. We have not yet traveled a hundred kilometers from the border, and I have already received grateful material ... “Your old Pete was almost thrown out of the express train at full speed just for a little joke about the combat capability of the Russian people” - this is how my telegram will begin; does that suit you, my irascible friend?
What could he say, poor fellow?
To portray a dry mine and take on beef stroganoff?
So Volodya did. But the observer did not lag behind him: having moved to his table, he wished to know who Ustimenko was, what he did, where he was going, why he was returning to Russia. And as he wrote, he said:
Oh great. Missionary doctor, returns to fight under the banner...
Listen! exclaimed Ustimenko. - Missionaries are priests, and I ...
You can’t fool old Pete,” the journalist said, puffing on his pipe. Old Pete knows his reader. And show me your muscles, could you really throw me out of the car?
I had to show. Then old Pete showed his and wished to drink cognac with Volodya and his "friend - Eastern Byron". Tod-Jin finished his porridge, poured liquid tea into himself and left, and Volodya, feeling the mocking glances of the diplomats and the Dickensian striped man, suffered for a long time with old Pete, cursing himself in every possible way for the stupid scene.
What was there? Tod-Jin asked sternly when Volodya returned to their compartment. And after listening, he lit a cigarette and said sadly:
They are always smarter than us, so, yes, doctor. I was still small - like this ...
He showed with his palm what he was:
Like this one, and they, like this old Pete, like that, yes, they gave me candy. No, they didn't beat us, they gave us sweets. And my mother, she beat me, so, yes, because she could not live from her fatigue and illness. And I thought - I'll go to this old Pete, and he will always give me candy. And Pete also gave adults sweets - alcohol. And we brought him animal skins and gold, so, yes, and then death came ... Old Pete is very, very cunning ...
