Boris Lvovich Vasilyev - was not on the list - read the book for free. Not on the lists read online Kolya Pluzhnikov was not on the lists

Boris Vasiliev

Not on the lists

Part one

In his entire life, Kolya Pluzhnikov has never encountered as many pleasant surprises as he has experienced in the last three weeks. He had been waiting for the order to confer a military rank on him, Nikolai Petrovich Pluzhnikov, for a long time, but following the order, pleasant surprises rained down in such abundance that Kolya woke up at night from his own laughter.

After the morning formation, at which the order was read out, they were immediately taken to the clothing warehouse. No, not the general cadet one, but the cherished one, where chrome boots of unimaginable beauty, crisp sword belts, stiff holsters, commander bags with smooth lacquer tablets, overcoats with buttons and strict diagonal tunics were issued. And then everyone, the entire graduating class, rushed to the school tailors to have the uniform adjusted to both height and waist, to blend into it as if into their own skin. And there they jostled, fussed and laughed so much that the official enamel lampshade began to sway under the ceiling.

In the evening, the head of the school himself congratulated everyone on graduation and presented them with the “Red Army Commander’s Identity Card” and a weighty TT. The beardless lieutenants loudly shouted the pistol number and squeezed the general's dry palm with all their might. And at the banquet the commanders of the training platoons were enthusiastically rocking and trying to settle scores with the foreman. However, everything turned out well, and this evening - the most beautiful of all evenings - began and ended solemnly and beautifully.

For some reason, it was on the night after the banquet that Lieutenant Pluzhnikov discovered that he was crunching. It crunches pleasantly, loudly and courageously. It crunches with fresh leather sword belts, uncrumpled uniforms, and shining boots. The whole thing crunches like a brand new ruble, which the boys of those years easily called “crunch” for this feature.

Actually, it all started a little earlier. Yesterday's cadets came with their girls to the ball that followed the banquet. But Kolya didn’t have a girlfriend, and he, hesitatingly, invited the librarian Zoya. Zoya pursed her lips in concern and said thoughtfully: “I don’t know, I don’t know...”, but she came. They danced, and Kolya, out of burning shyness, kept talking and talking, and since Zoya worked in the library, he talked about Russian literature. Zoya at first assented, and in the end, her clumsily painted lips stuck out resentfully:

You're crunching too hard, Comrade Lieutenant. In school language, this meant that Lieutenant Pluzhnikov was wondering. Then Kolya understood this, and when he arrived at the barracks, he discovered that he was crunching in the most natural and pleasant way.

“I’m crunching,” he told his friend and bunkmate, not without pride.

They were sitting on the windowsill in the second floor corridor. It was the beginning of June, and the nights at the school smelled of lilacs, which no one was allowed to break.

Crunch for your health, said the friend. - Only, you know, not in front of Zoya: she’s a fool, Kolka. She is a terrible fool and is married to a sergeant major from the ammunition platoon.

But Kolka listened with half an ear because he was studying the crunch. And he really liked this crunch.

The next day the guys began to leave: everyone was entitled to leave. They said goodbye noisily, exchanged addresses, promised to write, and one after another disappeared behind the barred gates of the school.

But for some reason, Kolya was not given travel documents (though the journey was nothing at all: to Moscow). Kolya waited two days and was just about to go find out when the orderly shouted from a distance:

Lieutenant Pluzhnikov to the commissar!..

The commissioner, who looked very much like the suddenly aged artist Chirkov, listened to the report, shook hands, indicated where to sit, and silently offered cigarettes.

“I don’t smoke,” said Kolya and began to blush: he was generally thrown into a fever with extraordinary ease.

Well done,” said the commissioner. - But I, you know, still can’t quit, I don’t have enough willpower.

And he lit a cigarette. Kolya wanted to give advice on how to strengthen his will, but the commissar spoke again.

We know you, Lieutenant, as an extremely conscientious and efficient person. We also know that you have a mother and sister in Moscow, that you haven’t seen them for two years and miss them. And you are entitled to vacation. - He paused, got out from behind the table, walked around, looking intently at his feet. - We know all this, and yet we decided to make a request to you... This is not an order, this is a request, please note, Pluzhnikov. We no longer have the right to order you...

I'm listening, Comrade Regimental Commissar. - Kolya suddenly decided that he would be offered to go to work in intelligence, and he tensed up, ready to scream deafeningly: “Yes!..”

The warehouse in which foreman Stepan Matveevich, senior sergeant Fedorchuk, Red Army soldier Vasya Volkov and three women were drinking tea at dawn on June 22 was covered by a heavy shell in the first minutes of artillery preparation. A shell exploded above the entrance, the ceilings held up, but the stairs collapsed, cutting off the only way up - the path to salvation, as they believed then. Pluzhnikov remembered this shell: the blast wave threw him into a fresh crater, where later, when he had already come to his senses, Salnikov tumbled in. But for him this shell exploded from behind, and for them - in front, and their paths diverged for a long time.

For them, walled up alive in a remote casemate, the whole war was now going on above. Old, meter-high masonry walls shook from it, the warehouse was filled with new layers of sand and broken bricks, the vents collapsed. They were cut off from their own people and from the whole world, but they had food, and on the second day they got water from the well. The men broke into the floor and dug it out, and within a day up to two pots accumulated there. There was something to eat, something to drink, and something to do: they hammered at the walls at random in all directions, hoping to dig a passage to the surface or penetrate into neighboring dungeons. These passages were blocked during the next bombing, and they dug again and one day they made their way into a tangled labyrinth of underground corridors, dead ends and deserted casemates. From there we made our way into the armory, the exit from which was also walled up by a direct hit, and into the far compartment, from where a narrow hole led upward.

For the first time in many days, they went upstairs: buried alive, they frantically strived for freedom, air, their own people. One by one they crawled out of the dungeon - all six of them - and froze, not daring to take a step from that crack that, as it seemed to them, led to life and salvation.

The fortress was still alive. In some places near the ring barracks, on the other side of Mukhavets and behind the church, they were still shooting, something else was burning and collapsing. But here in the center it was quiet that night. And unrecognizable. And there were no people, no air, no freedom.

Khan,” Fedorchuk wheezed.

Aunt Khristya cried, collecting her tears in the corner of her head scarf like a peasant. Mirra pressed herself close to her: spasms choked her from the cadaverous stench. And only Anna Petrovna, looking dryly with her eyes burning even in the darkness, silently walked across the yard.

Anya! - Stepan Matveevich called out. -Where are you going, Anya?

Children. - She turned around for a second. - The children are there. My children.

Anna Petrovna left, and they, confused and depressed, returned to the dungeon.

“Reconnaissance is needed,” said the foreman. - Where to go, where are they, ours?

Where for reconnaissance, where? - Fedorchuk sighed. - The Germans are all around.

And the mother walked, stumbling over corpses, with dry eyes, already touched by madness, peering into the purple glow of the rockets. And no one called out to her or stopped her, because she was walking through an area already abandoned by ours, already blown up by German sappers and reared up by many days of bombing. She passed the three-arched gate and climbed onto the bridge - still slippery with blood, still littered with corpses - and fell here, among her own people, shot in three places by a random burst. She fell as she walked: straight and stern, stretching out her hands to the children who had long been dead.

But no one knew about this. Neither those remaining in the dungeons, nor especially Lieutenant Pluzhnikov.

Having come to his senses, he demanded cartridges. And when he was led through the gaps in the walls, through an underground hole, into the warehouse - the warehouse where Salnikov fled in the first hours of the war - and he saw brand new PPShs, dull from grease, full disks and sealed, untouched zinc, he could hardly hold back his tears . The weapon for which they had spent so many nights paying with the lives of their comrades now lay before him, and he did not expect or want greater happiness. He forced everyone to clean their weapons, remove the grease, prepare them for battle, and everyone feverishly wiped the barrels and bolts, infected with his furious energy.

By evening everything was ready: machine guns, spare discs, zinc and cartridges. Everything was transferred to a dead end under the gap, where during the day he lay, gasping for breath, not believing in his own salvation and listening to footsteps. He took all the men with him: each, in addition to weapons and ammunition, carried a flask of water from Stepan Matveevich’s well. The women stayed here.

“We’ll be back,” said Pluzhnikov.

He spoke briefly and angrily, and they silently obeyed him. Some with respect and readiness, some with fear, some with poorly hidden displeasure, but no one dared to object. This overgrown lieutenant, black from hunger and insomnia, in a tattered, bloody tunic, was very scary. Only once did the foreman quietly intervene:

Take everything away. Breadcrumbs for him and a glass of boiling water.

This is when the compassionate Aunt Khristya dragged everything that she had been saving for a rainy day onto the plank table. Hungry spasms squeezed Pluzhnikov’s throat, and he went to this table, holding out his hands. He went to eat everything, everything he saw, to fill his stomach to capacity, to finally drown out the cramps that made him roll on the ground more than once, gnawing on his sleeve so as not to scream. But the foreman firmly took him by the hands and blocked the table.

Take it away, Yanovna. You can't, Comrade Lieutenant. You will die. You need a little bit. The stomach needs to be re-accustomed.

Pluzhnikov restrained himself. He swallowed a convulsive lump, saw Mirra’s round, tear-filled eyes, tried to smile, realized that he had forgotten how to smile, and turned away.

Even before the sortie to his own people, as soon as it got dark, he, together with a young, frightened, silent fighter Vasya Volkov, carefully crawled out of the crack. He lay there for a long time, listening to the distant shooting, catching the sounds of footsteps, conversation, and the clang of weapons. But it was quiet here.

Behind me. And don't rush: listen first. They climbed all the craters, checked every rubble, felt every corpse. Salnikov was not there.

Alive,” Pluzhnikov said with relief when they went down to their people. - They took us captive: they don’t bury our dead.

Still, he felt guilty: guilty not out of reason, but out of conscience. He had been fighting for several days and already understood well that war has its own laws, its own morality, and what is considered unacceptable in peaceful life is simply a necessity in battle. But, realizing that he could not save Salnikov, that he had to, was obliged - not to himself, no! - before those who sent him on this search - to try to leave and left, Pluzhnikov was very afraid to find Salnikov dead. But the Germans took him prisoner, and that means there was still a chance that the lucky, cheerful Salnikov would survive, get out, and maybe even escape. Over the days and nights of endless battles, from a frightened boy with a scratched cheek, he grew into a desperate, smart, cunning and resourceful fighter. And Pluzhnikov sighed with relief:

They brought a lot of weapons and ammunition into the dead end under the gap: the breakthrough had to be ensured by firepower that was unexpected for the enemy. It was impossible to carry everything to his own people at once, and Pluzhnikov expected to return that same night. That’s why he told the women that he would return, but the closer the time for the sortie approached, the more nervous Pluzhnikov became. There was one more issue left to resolve, to resolve immediately, but Pluzhnikov did not know how to approach it.

Women could not be taken with them on the breakthrough: this task was too dangerous and difficult even for the soldiers under fire. But it was impossible to leave them here to their fate, and Pluzhnikov was constantly searching painfully for a way out. But no matter how he thought, there was only one way out.

“You will stay here,” he said, trying not to meet the girl’s gaze. - Tomorrow afternoon - the Germans have lunch from fourteen to sixteen, the quietest time - tomorrow you will go upstairs with white rags. And surrender yourself.

Captured? - Mirra asked quietly and incredulously.

What else have you come up with! - Without allowing him to answer, Aunt Khristya said loudly and indignantly. - Captured - what else have you come up with! Who needs me, an old woman, in captivity? And the girl? - She hugged Mirra and pressed her to her. - With a dry leg, on a piece of wood?.. May you, comrade lieutenant, invent, will!

“I won’t make it,” Mirra said barely audibly, and for some reason Pluzhnikov immediately understood that she was not talking about the path to the Germans, but about the path by which these Germans would drive her into captivity.

Therefore, he immediately did not find anything to object to, and was gloomily silent, agreeing and disagreeing with the women’s arguments.

Look what you came up with! - Aunt Khristya continued in a different tone, now as if surprised. - Your decision is bad, even though you are a commander. Totally worthless.

“You can’t stay here,” he said uncertainly. - And there was an order from the command, all the women left...

So they were a burden to you, that’s why they left! And I will leave if I feel like it’s a burden. And now, now, son, who will Mirrochka and I disturb in our hole? No one, fight for your health! But we have a place and food, and we are not a burden to anyone, and we will sit here until our people return.

Pluzhnikov was silent. He did not want to say that the Germans report every day about the capture of more and more cities, about the battles near Moscow and Leningrad, about the defeat of the Red Army. He did not believe the German speeches, but he had not heard the roar of our guns for a long time,

“The girl is a Jew,” Fedorchuk suddenly said. - A little Jew and a cripple: they’ll slam her down like hell.

Don't you dare say that! - Pluzhnikov shouted. - This is their word, theirs! This is a fascist word!

“It’s not a matter of words,” the foreman sighed. - The word, of course, is not good, but only Fedorchuk speaks the truth. They do not like the Jewish nation.

I know! - Pluzhnikov abruptly interrupted. - Understood. All. You will stay. Maybe they will withdraw the troops from the fortress, then leave. Somehow.

He made a decision, but was unhappy with it. And the more I thought about it, the more I protested internally, but I could not offer anything else. Therefore, he gloomily gave the command, gloomily promised to return for ammunition, gloomily climbed up after the quiet Vasya Volkov, who had been sent on reconnaissance.

Volkov was an efficient boy, but he preferred sleep to all earthly joys and used every opportunity for it. Having experienced horror in the first minutes of the war - the horror of being buried alive - he still managed to suppress it within himself, but became even more inconspicuous and even more efficient. He decided to rely on his elders in everything, and he greeted the sudden appearance of the lieutenant with great relief. He did not understand well why this dirty, ragged, thin commander was angry, but he was firmly convinced that from now on it was this commander who was responsible for his, Volkov’s, life.

He diligently did everything that was ordered: he quietly climbed up, listened, looked around, found no one, and began to actively pull weapons and ammunition out of the hole.

And German machine gunners passed nearby. They did not notice Volkov, and he, having noticed them, did not track where they were going, and did not even report, because this went beyond the scope of the assignment that he received. The Germans were not interested in their shelter, they were going somewhere about their business, and their path was clear. And while he was pulling zinc and machine guns out of the narrow hole, while everyone had gotten to the surface, the Germans had already passed, and Pluzhnikov, no matter how hard he listened, did not find anything suspicious. Somewhere they were shooting, somewhere they were throwing mines, somewhere they were shining brightly with rockets, but the torn-up center of the citadel was deserted.

Volkov is with me, the foreman and sergeant are bringing up the rear. Fast forward.

Bent down, they moved towards the dark distant ruins, where their own people were still holding out, where Denishchik was dying, where the sergeant had three disks left for the “tar”. And at that moment, a white flame blazed brightly in the ruins, a roar was heard, followed by short and dry bursts of machine gun fire.

They blew it up! - Pluzhnikov shouted. - The Germans blew up the wall!

Quiet, comrade lieutenant, quiet! Come to your senses!

Let me go! There are guys there, there are no cartridges, there are wounded...

Where to let it go, where?

Pluzhnikov struggled, trying to free himself from under the heavy, strong body. But Stepan Matveyevich held tightly and let go only when Pluzhnikov stopped trying.

It’s too late, Comrade Lieutenant,” he sighed. - Late. Listen.

The battle in the ruins died down. Here and there, German machine guns rarely fired: either they shot through the dark compartments, or they finished off the defenders, but there was no return fire, no matter how hard Pluzhnikov listened. And the machine gun that was firing in the darkness at his voice also fell silent, and Pluzhnikov realized that he had not had time, that he had not followed the last order.

He was still lying on the ground, still hoping, still listening to the now very rare bursts of fire. He didn’t know what to do, where to go, where to look for his people. And the foreman lay silently next to him and also did not know where to go or what to do.

They go around. - Fedorchuk tugged at the foreman. - They'll cut it off again. They killed this one, or what?

Pluzhnikov did not protest. Silently he went down into the dungeon and lay down silently. They told him something, calmed him down, made him comfortable, and gave him tea. He obediently turned around, got up, lay down, drank what was given - and was silent. Even when the girl, covering him with her overcoat, said:

This is your overcoat, Comrade Lieutenant. Yours, remember?

Yes, it was his overcoat. Brand new, with gilded commander buttons, tailored to the figure. The overcoat that he was so proud of and which he had never worn. He recognized her immediately, but said nothing: he didn’t care anymore.

He didn’t know how many days he had been lying like this, without words, thoughts or movement, and he didn’t want to know. Day and night there was a sepulchral silence in the dungeon, day and night the fat pans glowed dimly, day and night behind the yellow fuzzy light there was darkness, viscous and impenetrable, like death. And Pluzhnikov looked at her incessantly. I looked into the death for which I was guilty.

With amazing clarity he now saw them all. Everyone who, covering him, rushed forward, rushed without hesitation, without thinking, driven by something incomprehensible, incomprehensible to him. And Pluzhnikov did not try to understand now why all of them - all of them who died through his fault - acted this way: he simply let them pass before his eyes again, he simply peered leisurely, carefully and mercilessly.

He then hesitated at the arched window of the church, from which machine gun fire was unbearably bright. No, not because he was confused, not because he was gathering strength: it was his window, that’s the whole reason. It was his window, he himself had chosen it even before the attack, but it was not he who rushed through his window, into his beating death, but that tall border guard with a hot light machine gun. And then - already dead - he continued to cover Pluzhnikov from bullets, and his thickened blood hit Pluzhnikov in the face as a reminder.

And the next morning he fled from the church. He fled, leaving the sergeant with his head bandaged. But this sergeant remained, although he was right at the breach. He could have left and did not leave, did not retreat, did not hide, and Pluzhnikov then reached the basements only because the sergeant remained in the church. Just like Volodka Denishchik, who covered him with his chest in the night attack on the bridge. Just like Salnikov, who had knocked down the German when Pluzhnikov had already surrendered, no longer thought about resistance, he was already hiccupping with fear, obediently raising both hands into the sky. Just like those to whom he promised cartridges and did not deliver them on time.

He lay motionless on the bench under his own overcoat, ate when given, drank when they brought the mug to his mouth. And he remained silent, not answering questions. And I didn’t even think: I just counted my debts.

He survived only because someone died for him. He made this discovery without realizing that this was the law of war. Simple and necessary, like death: if you survived, it means someone died for you. But he discovered this law not abstractly, not through inferences: he discovered it through his own experience, and for him it was not a question of conscience, but a question of life.

The lieutenant got moving,” Fedorchuk said, caring little whether Pluzhnikov heard him or not. - Well, what are we going to do? You have to think for yourself, sergeant major.

The foreman was silent, but Fedorchuk was already acting. And first of all, he carefully blocked with bricks the only crack that led up. He wanted to live, not fight. Just live. Live as long as there is food and this remote dungeon unknown to the Germans.

“He’s weakened,” sighed the foreman. - Our lieutenant has weakened. Feed him little by little, Yanovna.

Aunt Khristya fed, crying with pity, and Stepan Matveevich, having given this advice, did not believe in it, he himself understood that the lieutenant was not weak in body, but broken, and he did not know what to do.

And only Mirra knew what to do: she had to, she had to bring this man back to life, make him talk, act, smile. For this reason, she brought him an overcoat, which everyone had long forgotten about. And for this reason, alone, without explaining anything to anyone, she patiently sorted out the bricks that had fallen from the door arch.

Well, what are you rattling about there? - Fedorchuk grumbled. - There haven’t been landslides for a long time, are you bored? We must live quietly.

She silently continued to dig and on the third day she triumphantly pulled out a dirty, crumpled suitcase from the rubble. The one that I have been looking for so hard and for a long time.

Here! - she said joyfully, dragging him to the table. - I remembered that he was standing at the door.

“That’s what you were looking for,” Aunt Khristya sighed. - Oh, girl, girl, it’s not the right time for your heart to tremble.

“You can’t command your heart, as they say, but it’s in vain,” said Stepan Matveevich. “It would be time for him to forget everything: he already remembers too much.”

An extra shirt won’t hurt,” Fedorchuk said. - Well, bring it, what are you standing for? Maybe he will smile, although I doubt it.

Pluzhnikov did not smile. He leisurely examined everything that his mother had packed before leaving: linen, a couple of summer uniforms, photographs. He closed the crooked, dented lid.

These are your things. Yours,” Mirra said quietly.

I remember.

And he turned to the wall.

That’s it,” Fedorchuk sighed. - Now, for sure, that’s it. The boy is over.

And he swore long and loudly. And no one stopped him.

Well, sergeant major, what are we going to do? You have to decide: should you lie in this grave or in another, which one?

What to decide? - Aunt Khristya said uncertainly. - It’s already been decided: we’ll wait.

What? - Fedorchuk shouted. - What are we waiting for? Of death? Winters? Germans? What, I ask?

“We’ll wait for the Red Army,” Mirra said.

Red?.. - Fedorchuk asked mockingly. - Stupid! Here it is, your Red Army: lying unconscious. All! Defeat her! Defeat to her, is that clear?

He shouted for everyone to hear, and everyone heard, but were silent. And Pluzhnikov also heard and was also silent. He had already decided everything, thought through everything and was now patiently waiting for everyone to fall asleep. He learned to wait.

When everything calmed down, when the foreman began snoring, and two of the three bowls were turned off for the night, Pluzhnikov got up. He sat for a long time, listening to the breathing of the sleeping people and waiting for the dizziness to stop. Then he put the pistol in his pocket, silently walked to the shelf where the torches prepared by the foreman lay, took one and, without lighting it, groped towards the hole that led to the underground corridors. He didn’t know them well and didn’t hope to get out without light.

He didn’t blurt anything, didn’t creak, he knew how to move silently in the dark and was sure that no one would wake up and disturb him. He thought about everything in detail, he weighed everything, he drew a line under everything, and the result that he received under this line meant his unfulfilled duty. And there was only one thing he could not take into account: a man who had already slept with half an eye for many nights, listening to his breathing just as he listened to the breathing of others today.

Pluzhnikov climbed out into the corridor through a narrow hole and lit a torch: from here its light could no longer penetrate into the casemate where the people were sleeping. Holding the torch above his head, he walked slowly through the corridors, scattering the rats. It is strange that they still frightened him, and therefore he did not extinguish the torch, although he had already found his bearings and knew where to go.

He came to a dead end where he had stumbled in while fleeing from the Germans: ammunition zinc was still lying here. He raised the torch and illuminated it, but the hole turned out to be tightly blocked with bricks. I shook: the bricks did not give way. Then he fixed the torch in the rubble and began to swing these bricks with both hands. He managed to knock out a few pieces, but the rest sat tight: Fedorchuk did a great job.

Having found out that the entrance was firmly blocked, Pluzhnikov stopped his pointless attempts. He really didn’t want to do what he decided to do here in the dungeon, because these people lived here. They might misinterpret his decision as a result of weakness or mental disorder, and this would be unpleasant for him. He would rather just disappear. Disappear without explanation, go into nowhere, but he was deprived of this opportunity. That means they'll have to think whatever they want, they'll have to discuss his death, they'll have to mess with his body. He will have to, because the blocked exit did not in the least shake him in the justice of the sentence that he passed on himself.

Thinking this way, he took out a pistol, pulled the bolt, hesitated for a moment, not knowing where best to shoot, and brought it to his chest: after all, he didn’t want to lie there with a crushed skull. With his left hand he felt his heart: it beat quickly, but evenly, almost calmly. He removed his hand and raised the pistol, trying to ensure that the barrel rested exactly on his heart...

If she had shouted any other word - even in the same voice, ringing with fear. Any other word and he would have pulled the trigger. But what she shouted came from there, from that world where the world was, and here, here there was not and could not be a woman who would scream his name so terribly and invitingly. And he involuntarily lowered his hand, lowered it to see who was screaming. He lowered it for just a second, but she managed to run, dragging her leg.

Kolya! Kolya, don't! Ring, honey!

Her legs could not hold her, and she fell, clutching with all her might the hand in which he held the gun. She pressed her face, wet with tears, to his hand, kissed the dirty sleeve of his tunic that smelled of gunpowder and death, she pressed his hand into her own chest, pressed it, forgetting about modesty, instinctively feeling that there, in the girl’s elastic warmth, he would not pull the trigger .

Give it up. Give it up. I won't let go. Then shoot me first. Shoot me.

The thick yellow light of the tow soaked in lard illuminated them. Humpbacked shadows darted across the vaults that disappeared into the darkness, and Pluzhnikov heard her heart beating.

Why are you here? - he asked sadly. Mirra raised her face for the first time: the light of the torch was fragmented in tears.

“You are the Red Army,” she said. You are my Red Army. How can you? How can you leave me? For what?

He was not embarrassed by the beauty of her words: he was embarrassed by something else. It turns out that someone needed him, someone still needed him. Needed as a protector, as a friend, as a comrade.

Let go of your hand.

First, drop the gun.

He's on edge. There might be a shot.

Pluzhnikov helped Mirra get up. She stood up, but still stood close, ready to intercept his hand at any second. He grinned, put the safety on the gun, pulled the trigger and put the gun in his pocket. And he took the torch.

She walked next to him, holding his hand. She stopped near the hole:

I will not tell anyone. Even Aunt Christ.

He silently stroked her head. How small. And he extinguished the torch in the sand.

Good night! - Mirra whispered, diving into the hole.

Following her, Pluzhnikov crawled into the casemate, where the foreman was still snoring powerfully and the bowl was smoking. He went to his bench, covered himself with his overcoat, wanted to think about what to do next, and fell asleep. Firm and calm.

In the morning Pluzhnikov got up along with everyone else. He removed everything from the bench on which he had lain for so many days, looking at one point.

Are you getting better, Comrade Lieutenant? - the foreman asked, smiling incredulously.

Is there water? At least three mugs.

There is water, there is! - Stepan Matveevich began to fuss.

Give it to me, Volkov. - For the first time in many days, Pluzhnikov tore off his rotted tunic, which he was wearing on his naked body: the T-shirt had long been used for bandages. He took out a change of linen, soap, and a towel from the dented suitcase. - Mirra, sew me a collar to my summer tunic.

He crawled out into the underground passage, washed himself for a long time, diligently, all the time thinking that he was wasting water, and for the first time, consciously not sparing this water. He returned and just as silently, carefully and clumsily shaved with a brand new razor, bought at the school military store not out of necessity, but as a reserve. He rubbed cologne on his thin face, cut by an unusual razor, put on the tunic that Mirra gave him, and pulled the belt tight. He sat down at the table - his thin boyish neck protruded from his collar, which had become prohibitively wide.

Report.

We looked at each other. The foreman asked uncertainly:

What to report?

All. - Pluzhnikov spoke harshly and briefly: he chopped. - Where are ours, where is the enemy.

So this... - The foreman hesitated. - The enemy knows where: at the top. And ours... Ours are unknown.

Why is it unknown?

“We know where our people are,” Fedorchuk said gloomily. - At the bottom. The Germans are at the top, and ours are at the bottom.

Pluzhnikov did not pay attention to his words. He spoke to the foreman as to his deputy, and emphasized this in every possible way.

Why don't you know where ours are?

Stepan Matveevich sighed guiltily:

No reconnaissance was carried out.

I guess. I ask why?

But how can I say it? You were sick. And we laid a way out.

Who laid it?

The foreman remained silent. Aunt Khristya wanted to explain something, but Mirra stopped her.

I ask, who laid it?

Well, I! - Fedorchuk said loudly.

Didn't understand.

Once again I don’t understand,” Pluzhnikov said in the same tone, without looking at the senior sergeant.

Senior Sergeant Fedorchuk.

So, Comrade Senior Sergeant, report to me in an hour that the way up is clear.

I won't work during the day.

“In an hour, report on the execution,” Pluzhnikov repeated. - And I order you to forget the words “I won’t”, “I don’t want” or “I can’t”. Forget until the end of the war. We are a unit of the Red Army. An ordinary unit, that's all.

An hour ago, when he woke up, he didn’t know what he would say, but he understood that he had to speak. He deliberately delayed this minute - a minute that should either put everything in its place, or deprive him of the right to command these people. That's why he started washing, changing clothes, shaving: he was thinking and preparing for this conversation. He was preparing to continue the war, and there was no longer any doubt or hesitation in him. Everything remained there, in yesterday, which he was destined to survive.

On that day, Fedorchuk carried out Pluzhnikov’s orders: the path to the top was clear. That night they carried out a thorough reconnaissance in two pairs: Pluzhnikov walked with the Red Army soldier Volkov, Fedorchuk with the foreman. The fortress was still alive, still snarling with rare outbreaks of firefights, but these firefights broke out far from them, beyond Mukhavets, and it was not possible to establish contact with anyone. Both groups returned without meeting either their own or others.

Some are beaten,” sighed Stepan Matveevich. - Our brother was beaten a lot. Oh, a lot!

Pluzhnikov repeated the search in the afternoon. He did not really count on communication with his own, realizing that the scattered groups of surviving defenders had retreated into remote dungeons. But he had to find the Germans, determine their location, communications, and methods of movement around the destroyed fortress. He had to, otherwise their wonderful and super-reliable position turned out to be simply meaningless.

He himself went on this reconnaissance mission. I reached the Terespol Gate and hid for a day in the neighboring ruins. The Germans entered the fortress precisely through these gates: regularly, every morning, at the same time. And in the evening they left just as carefully, leaving reinforced guards. Apparently, the tactics did not change: they no longer sought to attack, but, having discovered pockets of resistance, blocked them and called in flamethrowers. And these Germans looked shorter than those with whom Pluzhnikov had previously encountered, and they clearly had fewer machine guns: carbines became more common weapons.

“Either I’ve grown up, or the Germans have shrunk,” Pluzhnikov joked sadly in the evening. “Something has changed in them, but I don’t understand what.” We'll go with you tomorrow, Stepan Matveevich. I want you to take a look too.

Together with the foreman, they moved in the dark to the burnt and destroyed boxes of the barracks of the 84th regiment: Stepan Matveevich knew these barracks well. We settled down in advance with almost all the comforts. Pluzhnikov watched the banks of the Bug, the foreman watched the inner part of the fortress near the Kholm Gate.

The morning was clear and quiet: only occasionally did feverish shooting suddenly break out somewhere on the Kobrin fortification, near the outer ramparts. It suddenly flared up and just as suddenly stopped, and Pluzhnikov could not understand whether the Germans were shooting at the casemates just in case, or whether the last groups of defenders of the fortress were holding out somewhere else.

Comrade Lieutenant! - the foreman called out in a tense whisper.

Pluzhnikov moved over to him and looked out: a line of German machine gunners was forming very close by. And their appearance, and their weapons, and their manner of behavior - the manner of experienced soldiers to whom much is forgiven - everything was quite ordinary. The Germans did not shrink, did not become smaller, they remained the same as Lieutenant Pluzhnikov remembered them for the rest of his life.

Three officers were approaching the line. A short command was sounded, the formation stretched out, the commander reported to the one going first: tall and middle-aged, apparently the eldest. The elder accepted the report and slowly walked along the frozen formation. The officers followed; one held boxes, which the elder handed to the soldiers marching out of the ranks.

He issues orders,” Pluzhnikov realized. - Rewards on the battlefield. Oh, you German bastard, I’ll show you the rewards...

He forgot now that he was not alone, that he had not come out to fight, that the ruins of the barracks behind him were a very inconvenient position. He now remembered those for whom these tall guys, frozen in the parade formation, received crosses. I remembered those killed, those who died from wounds, those who had gone crazy. I remembered and picked up the machine gun.

Short bursts hit almost point blank, from a dozen steps away. The senior officer who was handing out the awards fell, as did both of his assistants and one of those who had just been awarded. But it was not for nothing that these guys received orders: their confusion was instantaneous, and before Pluzhnikov’s line had time to fall silent, the formation scattered, took cover and hit the ruins with all their machine guns.

If it weren’t for the foreman, they would not have left alive then: the Germans became furious, were not afraid of anyone and quickly closed the ring. But Stepan Matveyevich knew these premises from his peaceful life and managed to get Pluzhnikov out. Taking advantage of the shooting, running around and confusion, they made their way through the courtyard and ducked into their hole while the German machine gunners were still shooting through every nook and cranny in the ruins of the barracks.

The German has not changed. - Pluzhnikov tried to laugh, but a wheeze escaped from his dry throat, and he immediately stopped smiling. “If it weren’t for you, sergeant major, I would have had a hard time.”

Only the sergeants knew about that door in the regiment,” Stepan Matveevich sighed. - That means it came in handy.

He pulled off his boot with difficulty: the footcloth was swollen with blood. Aunt Khristya screamed and waved her hands.

It’s nothing, Yanovna,” said the foreman. - The meat is hooked, I feel it. But the bone is intact. The bone is intact, this is the main thing: the hole will heal.

Well, why is this? - Fedorchuk asked irritably. - We shot, ran around - but why? So, this will make the war end sooner, or what? We will end sooner than the war. The war will end in due course, but here we are...

He fell silent, and then everyone remained silent. They remained silent because they were full of victorious triumph and battle excitement, and they simply did not want to argue with the gloomy senior sergeant.

And on the fourth day Fedorchuk disappeared. He really didn’t want to go into secret, he started blaring, and Pluzhnikov had to shout.

Okay, I’m coming, I’m coming,” the senior sergeant grumbled. - These observations are needed as...

They went into secrets for the whole day: from dark to dark. Pluzhnikov wanted to know everything he could about the enemy before moving on to hostilities. Fedorchuk left at dawn, did not return either in the evening or at night, and the worried Pluzhnikov decided to look for who knows where the senior sergeant had disappeared.

Leave the machine gun,” he told Volkov. - Take the carbine.

He himself was carrying a machine gun, but it was on this sortie that he first ordered his partner to take a carbine. He did not believe in any premonitions, but he gave the order and did not regret it later, although it was inconvenient to crawl with a rifle, and Pluzhnikov kept hissing at the obedient Volkov so that he would not blurt out or stick it out anywhere. But Pluzhnikov was angry not at all because of the rifle, but because they were unable to find any traces of Sergeant Fedorchuk.

It was dawn when they entered the dilapidated tower above the Terespol Gate. Judging by previous observations, the Germans avoided climbing it, and Pluzhnikov expected to calmly look around from the height and, perhaps, somewhere and spot a senior sergeant. Alive, wounded or dead, but - to discover and calm down, because the unknown was the worst of all.

Having ordered Volkov to keep the opposite bank and the bridge over the Bug under surveillance, Pluzhnikov carefully examined the fortress courtyard, riddled with craters. There were still many uncleaned corpses lying around in it, and Pluzhnikov peered at each one for a long time, trying to determine from afar whether it was Fedorchuk. But Fedorchuk was still nowhere to be seen, and the corpses were old, already noticeably touched by decay.

Volkov breathed out this word so quietly that Pluzhnikov understood it only because he himself had been waiting for these Germans all the time. He carefully moved to the other side and looked out.

The Germans - about ten of them - stood on the opposite bank, near the bridge. They stood freely: they shouted, laughed, waving their arms, looking somewhere at this shore. Pluzhnikov craned his neck, squinted his eyes, looked down, almost at the root of the tower, and saw what he was thinking about and what he was so afraid to see.

Fedorchuk walked from the tower towards the Germans across the bridge. He walked with his arms raised, and white gauze rags swayed in his fists in time with his heavy, confident steps. He walked into captivity so calmly, so deliberately and leisurely, as if he was returning home after hard and tedious work. His whole being radiated such a devoted readiness to serve that the Germans understood him without words and waited with jokes and laughter, their rifles hanging peacefully over their shoulders.

“Comrade Fedorchuk,” Volkov said in surprise. - Comrade Senior Sergeant...

Comrade?.. - Pluzhnikov, without looking, demandingly extended his hand: - A rifle.

Volkov began to fuss as usual, but suddenly froze. And he swallowed loudly.

Rifle! Alive!

Fedorchuk was already approaching the Germans, and Pluzhnikov was in a hurry. He shot well, but right now, when there was no way he could miss, he pulled the trigger too sharply. Too abruptly, because Fedorchuk had already passed the bridge and was four steps away from the Germans.

The bullet struck the ground behind the staff sergeant. Either the Germans did not hear the single shot, or simply did not pay attention to it, but their behavior did not change. And for Fedorchuk, this shot that thundered behind him was his shot: the shot that his wide, suddenly sweaty back, tightly covered with a tunic, was waiting for. Hearing him, he jumped to the side, fell, rushed to the Germans on all fours, and the Germans, cackling and having fun, backed away from him, and he either fell to the ground, then rushed about, then crawled, then rose to his knees and stretched his hands towards the Germans. white gauze rags clenched in fists.

The second bullet found him on his knees. He leaned forward, he still writhed, still crawled, still shouted something wildly and incomprehensibly. And the Germans had not yet had time to understand anything, they were still laughing, making fun of the hefty man who so wanted to live. No one had time to realize anything, because Pluzhnikov fired the next three shots as at a school speed shooting competition.

The Germans opened an erratic return fire when Pluzhnikov and the confused Volkov were already below, in the empty, destroyed casemates. Several mines exploded somewhere overhead. Volkov tried to hide in the gap, but Pluzhnikov picked him up, and they again ran somewhere, fell, crawled and managed to cross the yard and fall into a crater behind a damaged armored car.

That’s it,” Pluzhnikov said, breathless. - He's a bastard. Reptile. Traitor.

Volkov looked at him with round, frightened eyes and nodded hastily and incomprehensibly. And Pluzhnikov kept talking and talking, repeating the same thing:

Traitor. Reptile. He walked with a handkerchief, did you see it? I found some clean gauze, probably stole it from Aunt Christa. I would sell everything for my rotten life, everything. And he would sell you and me. Viper. With a handkerchief, eh? Saw? Did you see how he walked, Volkov? He walked calmly, thoughtfully.

He wanted to speak out, just say the words. He killed his enemies and never felt the need to explain it. And now I couldn’t remain silent. He felt no remorse in shooting a man with whom he had sat at a common table more than once. On the contrary, he felt an angry, joyful excitement and therefore spoke and spoke.

And the Red Army soldier of the first year of service, Vasya Volkov, drafted into the army in May '41, nodded obediently and listened to him, without hearing a single word. He had never been in battle, and for him even German soldiers were still people who could not be shot, at least until ordered. And the first death he saw was the death of the man with whom he, Vasya Volkov, had lived for so many days - the most terrible days in his short, quiet and peaceful life. It was this man who he knew closest, because even before the war they served in the same regiment and slept in the same casemate. This man grumpily taught him how to make weapons, gave him tea with sugar and allowed him to sleep a little during boring army outfits.

And now this man was lying on the other bank, lying face down, with his face buried in the ground and his hands stretched forward with pieces of gauze clutched in front of him. Volkov did not want to think badly of Fedorchuk, although he did not understand why the senior sergeant was going to the Germans. Volkov believed that Senior Sergeant Fedorchuk could have had his own reasons for such an act, and these reasons should have been known before shooting in the back. But this lieutenant - thin, scary and incomprehensible - this alien lieutenant did not want to understand anything. From the very beginning, when he appeared with them, he began to threaten, threaten with execution, and wave his weapon.

Thinking this way, Volkov experienced nothing but loneliness, and this loneliness was painful and unnatural. It prevented Volkov from feeling like a man and a fighter; it stood like an insurmountable wall between him and Pluzhnikov. And Volkov was already afraid of his commander, did not understand him and therefore did not believe him.

The Germans appeared in the fortress, passing through the Terespol Gate: many, up to a platoon. They came out in formation, but immediately scattered, combing the sections of the ring barracks adjacent to the Terespol Gate: soon explosions of grenades and the tight exhalations of flamethrower volleys began to be heard from there. But Pluzhnikov did not have time to rejoice that the enemy was looking for him in the wrong direction, because another German detachment came out of the same gate. He came out, immediately turned around in a chain and headed towards the ruins of the barracks of the 333rd regiment. And there, too, explosions roared and flamethrowers whined heavily.

It was this German detachment that was supposed to reach them sooner or later. It was necessary to immediately retreat, but not to our own people, not to the hole leading to the dungeons, because this section of the yard was easily visible to the enemy. We had to retreat deeper into the ruins of the barracks behind the church.

Pluzhnikov explained in detail to the fighter where and how to retreat. Volkov listened to everything with silent submission, didn’t ask again about anything, didn’t clarify anything, didn’t even nod. Pluzhnikov did not like this, but he did not waste time asking questions. The fighter was unarmed (Pluzhnikov himself had thrown his rifle there, in the tower), felt uncomfortable and was probably afraid. And to encourage him, Pluzhnikov winked and even smiled, but both the wink and the smile came out so strained that they could have frightened even someone more courageous than Volkov.

Okay, we’ll get you a weapon,” Pluzhnikov muttered gloomily, hastily stopping smiling. - I went ahead. Until the next funnel.

In short dashes they crossed open space and disappeared into the ruins. It was almost safe here, you could take a break and look around.

They won't find it here, don't be afraid.

Pluzhnikov again tried to smile, but Volkov again remained silent. He was generally silent, and therefore Pluzhnikov was not surprised, but for some reason he suddenly remembered Salnikov. And sighed.

Somewhere behind the ruins - not behind, where the German search groups remained, but in front, where no Germans should have been - a noise, unclear voices, and footsteps were heard. Judging by the sounds, there were a lot of people there, they weren’t hiding anymore, so they couldn’t be their own. Most likely, some other German detachment was moving here, and Pluzhnikov became wary, trying to understand where he was going. However, people did not appear anywhere, and the unclear noise, the hum of voices and shuffling continued, neither approaching nor moving away from them.

“Sit here,” said Pluzhnikov. - Sit and keep your head down until I return.

And again Volkov remained silent. And again he looked with strange, intense eyes.

Wait,” Pluzhnikov repeated, catching this glance.

He crept carefully through the ruins. He made his way along the brick scree without moving a single piece of debris, ran across open spaces, and often stopped, freezing and listening. He followed strange noises, and these noises were now getting closer, becoming clearer, and Pluzhnikov was already guessing who was wandering there, on the other side of the ruins. I guessed, but still didn’t dare to believe it.

He crawled the last meters, scraping his knees on the sharp edges of brick fragments and petrified plaster. I looked for shelter, crawled in, cocked the machine gun and looked out.

People worked in the fortress yard. They dragged half-decomposed corpses into deep craters and covered them with fragments of bricks and sand. Without examining, without collecting documents, without removing the medallions. Slowly, tired and indifferent. And, not yet noticing the guards, Pluzhnikov realized that these were prisoners. He realized this while he was running, but for some reason he did not dare to believe in his own guess, he was afraid to see his own Soviet people at point-blank range, with his own eyes, three steps away, in a familiar, native uniform. Soviet, but no longer his own, already distant from him, the career lieutenant of the Red Army Pluzhnikov, with the ominous word “PRISONER”.

He watched them for a long time. I watched them work: non-stop and indifferently, like automatic machines. I watched how they walked: hunched over, shuffling their feet, as if they had suddenly aged three times. I watched them stare blankly in front of them, not even trying to get their bearings, decide, or understand where they were. I watched how the few guards lazily glanced at them. I looked and could not understand why these prisoners did not scatter, did not try to leave, hide, and regain freedom. Pluzhnikov could not find an explanation for this and even thought that the Germans were giving prisoners some kind of injections, which turned yesterday’s active fighters into stupid performers who no longer dreamed of freedom and weapons. This assumption at least somehow reconciled him with what he saw with his own eyes, and which was so contrary to his personal ideas about the honor and pride of the Soviet man.

Having explained to himself the strange passivity and strange obedience of the prisoners, Pluzhnikov began to look at them somewhat differently. He already felt sorry for them, sympathized with them, as one feels sorry and sympathizes with those who are seriously ill. He thought about Salnikov, looked for him among those who were working, did not find him, and was delighted. He did not know whether Salnikov was alive or had already died, but he was not here, and, therefore, he was not turned into a submissive performer. But some other acquaintance - large, slow and diligent - was here, and Pluzhnikov, having noticed him, all the time painfully strained his memory, trying to remember who he was.

And the tall prisoner, as luck would have it, walked nearby, two steps from Pluzhnikov, scooping up brick chips with a huge shovel. He walked nearby, scratched with his shovel right next to his ear and still didn’t turn his face...

However, Pluzhnikov recognized him anyway. Having found out, I suddenly remembered the battles in the church, and the night leaving from there, and the name of this fighter. I remembered that this fighter was a local soldier, who regretted voluntarily joining the army in May instead of October, and that Salnikov claimed then that he died in that sudden night shootout. Pluzhnikov remembered all this very clearly and, waiting until the fighter approached his hole again, called:

Prizhnyuk!

The wide back shuddered and bent even lower. And she froze, scared and submissive.

It's me, Prizhnyuk, Lieutenant Pluzhnikov. Do you remember in the church?

The prisoner did not turn around, did not show anything that he heard the voice of his former commander. He simply bent over a shovel, exposing his wide, submissive back, tightly covered in a dirty, tattered tunic. That back was now full of anticipation: it was so tense, so arched, so frozen. And Pluzhnikov suddenly realized that Prizhnyuk was waiting with horror for the shot and that his back - a huge and unprotected back - had become stooped and submissive precisely because it had been waiting for the shot for a long time and habitually every moment.

Have you seen Salnikov? Did you meet Salnikov in captivity? Answer, there is no one here.

He's in the infirmary.

In the camp infirmary.

Sick, or what?

Prizhnyuk remained silent.

What about him? Why is he in the infirmary?

Comrade commander, comrade commander... - Prizhnyuk suddenly whispered, looking around furtively. - Don’t destroy me, comrade commander, I pray to God, don’t destroy me. For us who work well, who try hard, we will have some relief. And the locals would let them go home, they promised that they would definitely go home...

Okay, don’t lament,” Pluzhnikov interrupted angrily. - Serve them, earn freedom, run home - you’re still not a person. But you will do one thing, Prizhnyuk. Do it, or I'll shoot you to hell now.

Will you do it, I ask? Either - or, I'm not kidding.

Well, what can I do? I am a slave.

Give the pistol to Salnikov. Pass it on and tell him to ask to work in the fortress. Understood?

Prizhnyuk was silent.

If you don't pass it on, look. I’ll find it underground, Prizhnyuk. Here you go.

Swinging, Pluzhnikov threw the pistol directly onto Prizhnyuk’s shovel. And as soon as this pistol clanked on the shovel, Prizhnyuk suddenly darted to the side and ran, shouting loudly:

Here! Here, the man is here! Mister German, here! The lieutenant is here, the Soviet lieutenant!

It was so unexpected that for a moment Pluzhnikov was confused. And when he came to his senses, Prizhnyuk had already run out of the sector of his fire, the camp guards were running towards the hole, rattling their heeled boots, and the first signal shot had already hit the air.

It was impossible to retreat back to where the unarmed and frightened Volkov was hiding, and Pluzhnikov rushed in the other direction. He did not try to shoot back, because there were many Germans; he wanted to break away from the pursuit, huddle in a remote casemate and lie there until dark. And at night find Volkov and return to his own.

He easily managed to escape: the Germans weren’t really keen on going into dark cellars, and running around the ruins didn’t suit them either. They shot after him, shouted, fired a rocket, but Pluzhnikov saw this rocket already from a safe basement.

Now was the time to think. But even here, in the sensitive darkness of the dungeon, Pluzhnikov could not think about Fedorchuk, whom he had shot, or about the confused Volkov, or about the submissive, already bent Prizhnyuk. He couldn’t think about them, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was constantly thinking about something completely different and much more important: about the Germans.

He didn't recognize them again today. I didn’t recognize them as strong, self-confident, desperate young guys, stubborn in attacks, tenacious in pursuit, persistent in hand-to-hand combat. No, those Germans with whom he had fought before would not have let him out alive after Prizhnyuk’s cry. Those Germans would not have stood openly on the shore, waiting for a Red Army soldier to approach them with his hands up. And they wouldn’t laugh after the first shot. And they certainly would not have allowed him and Volkov to escape with impunity after the execution of the defector.

Those Germans, those Germans... Without knowing anything, he himself already assumed the difference between the Germans of the period of the storming of the fortress and the Germans of today. In all likelihood, those active, “assault” Germans were withdrawn from the fortress, and their place was taken by Germans of a different type, of a different fighting style. They are not inclined to take initiative, do not like risks and are openly afraid of dark, shooting dungeons.

Having made this conclusion, Pluzhnikov not only became cheerful, but also became insolent in a certain way. The concept he had newly created required experimental verification, and Pluzhnikov deliberately did something that he would never have dared to do before: he walked towards the exit in full view, without hiding and deliberately rattling his boots.

So he left the basement: only he kept his machine gun at hand, cocked. There were no Germans at the entrance, which once again confirmed his guess and greatly simplified their situation. Now we had to think, consult with the foreman and choose a new tactic of resistance. New tactics for their personal war with Nazi Germany.

Thinking about this, Pluzhnikov walked far around the prisoners - a sad shuffling could still be heard behind the ruins - and approached the place where he left Volkov on the other side. These places were familiar to him, he learned to quickly and accurately navigate the ruins and immediately went to the inclined brick block, under which he hid Volkov. The block was there, but Volkov himself was neither under it nor near it.

Not believing his eyes, Pluzhnikov felt this block, climbed the neighboring ruins, looked into each casemate, even risked several times calling out to the missing young unfired soldier with strange, almost unblinking eyes, but he could not find him. Volkov disappeared inexplicably and mysteriously, leaving behind not a scrap of clothing, not a drop of blood, not a cry, not a sigh.

So, you removed Fedorchuk,” Stepan Matveevich sighed. - I feel sorry for the boy. The boy, Comrade Lieutenant, will disappear; he has been scared since childhood.

Quiet Vasya Volkov was remembered several more times, but Fedorchuk was no longer spoken about. It was as if he didn’t exist, as if he didn’t eat at this table and didn’t sleep in the next corner. Only Mirra asked when they were alone:

Shot?

She hesitantly pronounced this word with difficulty. It was alien, not from the everyday life that had developed in her family. There they talked about children and bread, about work and fatigue, about firewood and potatoes. And also about diseases, which were always enough.

Shot?

Pluzhnikov nodded. He understood that she was asking, pitying him, and not Fedorchuk. Regretting and horrified by the severity of what had been done, although he himself did not feel any heaviness: only fatigue.

My God! - Mirra sighed. - My God, your children are going crazy!

She said this in an adult way, bitterly and calmly. And just like an adult, she calmly pulled his head towards her and kissed him three times: on the forehead and on both eyes.

I will take your grief, I will take your illnesses, I will take your misfortunes.

That's what her mother said when one of the children got sick. And there were many children, a lot of eternally hungry children, and mother did not know either her grief or her illnesses: she had enough of other people’s illnesses and other people’s grief. But she taught all her girls to think first not about their troubles. And Mirrochka too, although she always sighed at the same time:

And you’ll always be rooting for strangers: there won’t be any of your own, daughter.

Since childhood, Mirra has become accustomed to the idea that she is destined to become a nanny for happier sisters. She got used to it and no longer grieved, because her special position - the position of a crippled person whom no one would covet - also had its advantages and, above all, freedom.

And Aunt Khristya kept wandering around the basement and counting the crackers chewed by the rats. And she whispered:

There are two missing. There are two missing. There are two missing. Lately she has been walking with difficulty. It was cool in the dungeons, Aunt Christa’s legs were swollen, and she herself, without the sun, movement and fresh air, became loose, slept poorly and was out of breath. She felt that her health had suddenly broken down, understood that every day she would get worse and worse, and secretly decided to leave. And she cried at night, feeling sorry not for herself, but for the girl who would soon be left alone. Without a mother's hand and female advice.

She herself was lonely. Three of her children died in infancy, her husband went to work and disappeared, the house was taken away for debts, and Aunt Khristya, fleeing hunger, moved to Brest. She served as a servant, getting by somehow until the Red Army arrived. This Red Army - cheerful, generous and kind - for the first time in her life gave Aunt Christa a permanent job, prosperity, comrades and a room for condensation.

“This is God’s army,” Aunt Christya explained importantly to the unusually quiet Brest market, “Pray, Panova.”

She herself had not prayed for a long time, not because she did not believe, but because she was offended. She was offended by the great injustice that deprived her of her children and husband, and at once stopped all communication with heaven. And even now, when she felt very bad, she did her best to restrain herself, although she really wanted to pray for the Red Army, and for the young lieutenant, and for the girl who had been so cruelly offended by her own Jewish god. She was overwhelmed with these thoughts, internal struggle and anticipation of the imminent end. And she did everything according to her long-term habit of work and order, no longer listening to conversations in the dungeon.

Do you think another German has come?

The sergeant-major's shot leg ached unbearably from the constant cold. It swollen and burned incessantly, but Stepan Matveevich did not tell anyone about this. He stubbornly believed in his own health, and since his bone was intact, the hole was bound to heal on its own.

Why didn't they run after me? - Pluzhnikov thought. - They always ran, but here they let us out. Why?

Or they might not have changed the Germans,” said the foreman, after thinking. - They could have given them such an order not to go into the basements.

“They could,” Pluzhnikov sighed. - Only I should know. Know everything about them.

Having rested, he again slipped upstairs to look for the mysteriously missing Volkov. He crawled again, choking on the dust and cadaverous stench, calling and listening. There was no answer.

The meeting happened unexpectedly. Two Germans, talking peacefully, came out to him from behind the surviving wall. The carbines hung over their shoulders, but even if they were holding them in their hands, Pluzhnikov would have managed to shoot first. He had already developed a lightning-fast reaction, and only it had saved him so far.

And the second German was saved by an accident, which previously would have cost Pluzhnikov his life. His machine gun fired a short burst, the first German collapsed on the bricks, and the cartridge was distorted when fed. While Pluzhnikov was frantically pulling the shutter, the second German could have finished him off long ago or run away, but instead he fell to his knees. And he obediently waited for Pluzhnikov to knock out the stuck cartridge.

The sun had long since set, but it was still light: these Germans were somehow late today and did not have time to leave the dead yard plowed up by shells in time. They didn’t have time, and now one had stopped shuddering, and the second was kneeling in front of Pluzhnikov, bowing his head. And he was silent.

And Pluzhnikov was silent too. He already realized that he would not be able to shoot the enemy who had knelt down, but something prevented him from suddenly turning around and disappearing into the ruins. The same question kept bothering him, occupying him no less than the missing soldier: why did the Germans become like this one, who obediently fell to his knees. He did not consider his war over, and therefore he needed to know everything about the enemy. And the answer is not assumptions, not speculation, but an accurate, real answer! - this answer stood before him now, awaiting death.

Comm,” he said, pointing with the machine where he should go.

The German said something along the way, often looking around, but Pluzhnikov had no time to recall the German words. He drove the prisoner to the hole by the shortest route, expecting shooting, pursuit, and shouts. And the German, bent down, trotted ahead, his head drawn into his narrow civilian shoulders.

So they ran across the courtyard, made their way into the dungeons, and the German was the first to climb into the dimly lit casemate. And here he suddenly fell silent, seeing a bearded foreman and two women at a long plank table. And they, too, were silent, looking in surprise at the stooped, mortally frightened and far from young enemy.

“I got the tongue,” said Pluzhnikov and looked at Mirra with boyish triumph. - Now we’ll find out all the riddles, Stepan Matveevich.

“I don’t understand anything,” Pluzhnikov said confusedly. - Rumbles.

“He’s a worker,” the foreman realized. “You see, he’s showing his hands?”

Lyangzam,” said Pluzhnikov. - Bitte, lyangzam. He strained to recall German phrases, but only individual words were remembered. The German nodded hastily, uttered several phrases slowly and diligently, but suddenly, sobbing, he again broke into feverish patter.

“A frightened man,” Aunt Khristya sighed. - Trembling.

“He says that he is not a soldier,” Mirra suddenly said. - He's a security guard.

Do you understand them? - Stepan Matveevich was surprised.

A little bit.

That is, how is it possible that you are not a soldier? - Pluzhnikov frowned. - What is he doing in our fortress?

Nicht soldat! - the German shouted. - Nicht Soldat, Nicht Wehrmacht!

Things to do,” the foreman drawled, puzzled. - Maybe he’s protecting our prisoners?

Mirra translated the question. The German listened, nodding frequently, and burst into a long tirade as soon as she fell silent.

The prisoners are guarded by others,” the girl translated not very confidently. - They were ordered to guard the entrances and exits from the fortress. They are the guard team. He is a real German, and the fortress was stormed by Austrians from the forty-fifth division, fellow countrymen of the Fuhrer himself. And he is a worker, mobilized in April...

I told you I was a worker! - the foreman noted with pleasure.

How could he - a worker, a proletarian - how could he be against us... - Pluzhnikov fell silent and waved his hand. - Okay, don't ask about that. Ask if there are combat units in the fortress or if they have already been withdrawn.

How do you say combat units in German?

Well, I don’t know... Ask if there are soldiers? Slowly, choosing words, Mirra began to translate. The German listened, hanging his head with effort. He clarified several times, asking something again, and then again began to chatter rapidly, sometimes poking at his chest, then, pretending to be a machine gunner: “Tut-Tut-Tut!”

There were real soldiers left in the fortress: sappers, machine gunners, flamethrowers. They are called when Russians are discovered: that is the order. But he is not a soldier, he is a guard duty, he has never shot at people.

The German started babbling something again and waved his hands. Then he suddenly solemnly shook his finger at Khristina Yanovna and slowly and importantly took out from his pocket a black bag glued together from automobile rubber. He pulled out four photographs from the bag and placed them on the table.

Children,” Aunt Khristya sighed. - He appears to be his children.

Kinder! - the German shouted. - Main kinder! Dry! And he proudly pointed his finger at his unsightly narrow chest: his hands no longer trembled.

Mirra and Aunt Khristya looked at the photographs, asked the prisoner about something important, stupidly detailed and kind in a feminine way. About children, buns, health, school grades, colds, breakfast, jackets. The men sat on the sidelines and thought about what would happen later, when they had to end this good-neighborly conversation. And the foreman said without looking:

You will have to, Comrade Lieutenant: I have difficulty with my leg. But letting go is dangerous: he knows the way to us.

Pluzhnikov nodded. His heart suddenly ached, ached heavily and hopelessly, and for the first time he acutely regretted that he had not shot this German as soon as he reloaded the machine gun. This thought made him physically sick: even now he was not fit to be an executioner.

“Sorry,” the foreman said guiltily. - Leg, you know...

I understand, I understand! - Pluzhnikov interrupted too hastily. - My cartridge is skewed... He abruptly interrupted, stood up, took the machine gun:

Even in the dim light of the wen one could see how gray the German had turned. He turned gray, hunched over even more and began to fussily collect photographs. But my hands did not obey, they trembled, my fingers did not bend, and the photographs kept slipping onto the table.

Forverts! - Pluzhnikov shouted, cocking his machine gun. He felt that in just a moment his determination would leave him. He could no longer look at those fussy, trembling hands.

Forverts!

The German, staggering, stood at the table and slowly walked towards the hole.

I forgot my cards! - Aunt Khristya was alarmed, - Wait.

Waddled on swollen legs, she caught up with the German and pushed the photographs into the pocket of his uniform. The German stood swaying, looking blankly ahead.

Comm! - Pluzhnikov pushed the prisoner with the barrel of a machine gun.

They both knew what was coming. The German walked, dragging his feet heavily, with shaking hands, picking and picking at the flaps of his crumpled uniform. His back suddenly began to sweat, a dark stain spread across his uniform, and the foul smell of mortal sweat trailed behind him like a trail.

And Pluzhnikov had to kill him. Take him upstairs and shoot him point-blank with a machine gun at that suddenly sweaty, stooped back. A back that covered three children. Of course, this German did not want to fight, of course, he did not wander into these terrible ruins, reeking of smoke, soot and human rot, of his own accord. Of course not. Pluzhnikov understood all this and, understanding, mercilessly drove forward:

Schnell! Schnell!

Without turning around, he knew that Mirra was following, leaning on her sore leg. He goes so that it will not be difficult for him alone when he does what he is obliged to do. He will do it upstairs, return here, and here, in the dark, they will meet. It’s good that it’s in the dark: he won’t see her eyes. She'll just say something to him. Something to make my soul less painful.

Well, get in there!

The German could not get through the hole. His weakened hands tore himself from the bricks, he rolled back onto Pluzhnikov, sniffling and sobbing. He smelled bad: even Pluzhnikov, who had gotten used to the stench, could hardly bear this smell - the smell of death in a still living creature.

He still pushed him upstairs. The German took a step, his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees. Pluzhnikov poked him with the muzzle of his machine gun, the German softly rolled over onto his side and, crouching, froze.

Mirra stood in the dungeon, looked at the hole, no longer visible in the darkness, and waited in horror for the shot. But there were still no shots.

There was a rustling sound in the hole, and Pluzhnikov jumped from above. And I immediately felt that she was standing next to me.

You know, it turns out I can't shoot a person.

Cool hands groped his head and pulled him towards them. He felt her cheek with his cheek: it was wet with tears.

Why do we need this? For what, well for what? What did we do wrong? We haven’t had time to do anything yet, nothing!

She cried, pressing her face to his. Pluzhnikov clumsily stroked her thin shoulders.

Well, what are you doing, little sister? For what?

I was afraid. I was afraid that you would shoot this old man. “She suddenly hugged him tightly and kissed him hastily several times. - Thank you, thank you, thank you. Don’t tell them: let it be our secret. Well, it's like you did it for me, okay?

He wanted to say that he really did it for her, but he didn’t say it, because he didn’t shoot this German for himself after all. For my conscience, which wanted to remain pure, no matter what.

They won't ask.

They really didn’t ask anything, and everything went on as it had until that evening. Only the table was now more spacious, and they still slept in their corners: Aunt Khristya alone with the girl, the foreman on the boards, and Pluzhnikov on the bench.

And that night Aunt Khristya did not sleep. I listened to the sergeant major moaning in his sleep, the young lieutenant gritting his teeth terribly, the rats squeaking and stomping in the dark, Mirra silently sighing. She listened, and the tears flowed and flowed, and Aunt Khristya had not wiped them away for a long time, because her left hand was very painful and did not obey well, and the girl was sleeping on her right. Tears flowed and dripped from the cheeks, and the old padded jacket was already wet.

My legs, back, and arms ached, but most of all my heart ached, and Aunt Christia thought now that she would soon die, that she would die up there, and certainly in the sun. Definitely in the sun, because she really wanted to warm up. And in order to see this sun, she had to leave while she still had strength, while she alone, without anyone else’s help, could get up. And she decided that tomorrow she would definitely try to see if she still had the strength, and whether it was time for her to leave before it was too late.

With this thought she forgot herself, already half asleep, kissing the black girl’s head that had lain on her hand for so many nights. And in the morning I got up and, even before breakfast, barely crawled through the hole into the underground corridor.

There was a torch burning here. Lieutenant Pluzhnikov washed himself - fortunately, there was now enough water - and Mirra poured it on him. She poured little by little and not at all where he asked: Pluzhnikov was angry, and the girl laughed.

Where are you going, Aunt Khristya?

And to the hole, to the hole,” she hastily explained. - I want to breathe.

Maybe I should accompany you? - Mirrochka asked.

What are you saying, no need. My lieutenant.

Yes, she's playing around! - Pluzhnikov said angrily. And they laughed again, and Aunt Khristya, leaning on the wall, slowly walked towards the hole, carefully stepping with her swollen feet. However, she walked on her own, she still had strength, and this made Aunt Christia very happy.

“Maybe I won’t leave today. Maybe I’ll have another day, maybe I’ll live a little longer.”

Aunt Khristya was already near the hole, but it was not she who heard the noise above, but Pluzhnikov. He heard this incomprehensible noise, became alert and, not yet understanding anything, pushed the girl into the hole:

Mirra dove into the dungeon without asking or hesitating: she was already accustomed to obeying. And Pluzhnikov, tensely catching this extraneous noise, only managed to shout:

Aunt Khristya, go back!

There was a loud sound in the hole, and a tight wave of hot air hit Pluzhnikov in the chest. He choked, fell, painfully gasping for air with his open mouth, managed to feel the hole and dive into it. The flame flared up unbearably brightly, and a fiery tornado burst into the dungeon, for a moment, illuminating the brick vaults, the fleeing rats, the floors covered with dust and sand, and the frozen figure of Aunt Christa. And the next moment a terrible inhuman scream was heard, and Aunt Khristya, engulfed in flames, rushed to run along the corridor. There was already the smell of burnt human flesh, and Aunt Christia was still running, still screaming, still calling for help. She ran, already burned in the thousand-degree flamethrower jet. And suddenly it collapsed, as if it had melted, and it became quiet, only melted brick crumbs dripped from above. Rare as blood.

Even in the casemate there was a burning smell. Stepan Matveevich blocked the hole with bricks and filled it with old quilted jackets, but it still smelled burnt. Burnt human flesh.

Having shouted out, Mirra fell silent in the corner. From time to time she began to tremble; then she got up and walked around the casemate, trying not to get close to the men. Now she looked at them aloofly, as if they were on the other side of an invisible barrier. Probably, this barrier existed before, but then between its sides, between her and the men, there was a transmission link: Aunt Christia. Aunt Khristya kept her warm at night, Aunt Khristya fed her at the table, Aunt Khristya grumpily taught her not to be afraid of anything, even rats, and at night she drove them away from her, and Mirra slept peacefully. Aunt Khristya helped her get dressed, fasten her prosthesis in the morning, wash and take care of herself. Aunt Khristya rudely drove away men when it was necessary, and behind her broad and kind back, Mirra lived without embarrassment.

Now that back was gone. Now Mirra was alone, and for the first time she felt that invisible barrier that separated her from the men. Now she was helpless, and the horror of the consciousness of this physical helplessness fell heavily on her thin shoulders.

That means they spotted us,” Stepan Matveevich sighed. - No matter how they looked after them, no matter how they buried them.

It's my fault! - Pluzhnikov jumped up and rushed around the casemate. - Me, just me! Yesterday I…

He fell silent, bumping into Mirra. She did not look at him, she was completely immersed in herself, in her thoughts, and nothing existed for her now except these thoughts. But for Pluzhnikov, there was her, and her yesterday’s gratitude, and that cry “Kolya!..”, which once stopped him in the very place where Aunt Christa’s ashes now lay. For him, their common secret already existed, her whisper, whose breath he felt on his cheek. And that’s why he didn’t admit that yesterday he released the German who brought the flamethrowers in the morning. This confession could no longer correct anything.

What is your fault, Lieutenant?

Until now, Stepan Matveyevich rarely addressed Pluzhnikov with the simplicity that was dictated by the difference in age and their position. He always emphatically recognized him as a commander and spoke as required by the regulations. But today there was no longer a charter, but there were two young people and a tired adult man with a rotting leg.

What is your fault?

I arrived and the misfortunes began. And Aunt Khristya, and Volkov, and even this... this bastard. It's all because of me. You lived peacefully before me.

The rats live in peace too. Look how many of them have dispersed in our peace. You're looking for someone to blame in the wrong direction, Lieutenant. But I, for one, am grateful to you. If it weren’t for you, I would never have killed a single German. And it looks like he killed me. Killed him, huh? There, at the Kholm Gate?

At the Kholm Gate, the foreman did not kill anyone: the only burst he managed to fire was too long, and all the bullets went into the sky. But he really wanted to believe in it, and Pluzhnikov confirmed:

Two, I think.

I can’t say for two, but one definitely fell. Exactly. So thank you for that, Lieutenant. This means I can kill them too. So it’s not in vain that I’m here...

On this day they did not leave their casemate. It’s not that they were afraid of the Germans - the Germans would hardly have risked going into the dungeons - they just couldn’t see that day what the flamethrower jet left behind.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” said the foreman. - Tomorrow I still have enough strength. Oh, Yanovna, Yanovna, you should be late for that hole... So, they enter the fortress through the Terespol Gate?

Through Terespolskie. And what?

So. For information.

The foreman paused, looking sideways at Mirra. Then he came up, took him by the hand, and pulled him to the bench:

Sit down.

Mirra obediently sat down. All day she thought about Aunt Christ and about her helplessness and was tired of these thoughts.

You will sleep next to me.

Mirra straightened up sharply:

Why else?

Don't be scared, daughter. - Stepan Matveevich grinned sadly. - Old me. I’m old and sick and still can’t sleep at night. So I’ll drive the rats away from you, just like Yanovna did.

Mirra lowered her head low, turned around, and touched her forehead. The foreman hugged her and said, lowering his voice:

Yes, and you and I need to talk when the lieutenant falls asleep. Soon you will be alone with him. Don't argue, I know what I'm saying.

That night, other tears flowed onto the old padded jacket that served as a headboard. The foreman talked and talked, Mirra cried for a long time, and then, exhausted, fell asleep. And Stepan Matveyevich also dozed off by morning, hugging the girl’s trusting shoulders.

He forgot himself for a short time: he dozed off, deceived his fatigue, and with a clear head once again calmly and thoroughly thought about the whole path that he had to go through today. Everything had already been decided, decided consciously, without doubt or hesitation, and the foreman was simply clarifying the details. And then, carefully, so as not to wake Mirra, he stood up and, taking out grenades, began knitting bundles.

What are you going to blow up? - asked Pluzhnikov, catching him doing this.

I'll find it. - Stepan Matveyevich glanced sideways at the sleeping girl, lowered his voice: - Don’t offend her, Nikolai.

Pluzhnikov was shivering. He wrapped himself in an overcoat and yawned.

I don't understand.

“Don’t offend me,” the foreman repeated sternly. - She's still small. And the patient, you need to understand this too. And don’t leave one alone: ​​if you decide to leave, remember about her first. Get out of the fortress together: the girl will disappear alone.

And you... What are you doing?

I have an infection, Nikolai. As long as I have the strength, as long as my legs hold up, I’ll get to the top. Die, so with music.

Stepan Matveevich...

That's it, comrade lieutenant, the foreman has fought back. And your orders are now invalid: now my orders are more important. And here is my last order for you: save the girl and survive. Survive. To spite them - survive. For all of us.

He stood up, put the bundles in his bosom and, falling heavily on his swollen foot, as if his boot was flooded, went to the hole. Pluzhnikov said something, convinced, but the foreman did not listen to him: the main thing was said. I took apart the bricks in the hole.

So, you say, they enter the fortress through Terespolsky? Well, goodbye, son. Live!

And he got out. A burnt stench emanated from the open manhole.

Good morning.

Mirra was sitting on the bed, wrapped in a pea coat. Pluzhnikov stood silently at the manhole.

What does it smell like...

She saw the black gap of an open hole and fell silent. Pluzhnikov suddenly grabbed a machine gun:

I'm up. Don't go near the hole!

It was a completely different cry: confused, helpless. Pluzhnikov stopped:

The foreman left. He took the grenades and left. I'll catch up.

Let's catch up. - She hurriedly scurried around in the corner. - Only together.

Where are you going... - Pluzhnikov paused.

“I know that I’m lame,” Mirra said quietly. - But this is from birth, what to do. And I'm afraid here alone. I'm very afraid. I can’t do it here alone, I’d better get out myself.

He lit a torch, and they crawled out of the casemate. It was impossible to breathe in the sticky, thick stench. The rats were busy with a pile of charred bones, and that was all that was left of Aunt Christa.

“Don’t look,” said Pluzhnikov. - Let's go back and bury it.

The bricks in the hole were melted by yesterday's flamethrower salvo. Pluzhnikov got out first, looked around, and helped Mirra get out. She climbed with difficulty, clumsily, falling on the slippery, melted bricks. He dragged her to the very exit and held her there just in case:

Wait.

He looked around again: the sun had not yet appeared, and the likelihood of meeting the Germans was low, but Pluzhnikov did not want to take risks.

Get out.

She hesitated. Pluzhnikov looked around to hurry her up and suddenly saw a thin, very pale face and two huge eyes that looked at him in fear and tension. And he was silent: he saw her for the first time in daylight.

That's what you are, it turns out.

Mirra lowered her eyes, crawled out and sat down on the bricks, carefully wrapping her dress around her knees. She glanced at him, because for the first time she also saw him not in the smokey flame of the smokehouse, but she glanced furtively, sideways, each time, like a screen, raising her long eyelashes.

Probably, in peaceful days, among other girls, he simply would not have noticed her. She was generally invisible - only her big sad eyes and eyelashes were noticeable - but here now there was no one more beautiful than her.

So this is what you are, it turns out.

Well, like that,” she said angrily. - Don't look at me, please. Don't look, otherwise I'll crawl into the hole again.

OK. - He smiled. - I won’t, just listen.

Pluzhnikov made his way to the fragment of the wall and looked out: neither the foreman nor the Germans were in the empty, torn-up yard.

Come here.

Mirra, stumbling on the bricks, approached. He hugged her shoulders and bowed his head.

Hide. Do you see the gate with the tower? These are the Terespolskys.

He asked me something about them... Mirra said nothing. Looking around, she recognized and did not recognize the familiar fortress. The commandant's office building lay in ruins, the broken frame of the church was gloomily dark, and only trunks remained of the chestnut trees that grew around. And there was no one, not a single living soul in the whole wide world.

How scary,” she sighed. - There, underground, it still seems that there is still someone above. Someone alive.

“Surely there is,” he said. “We’re not the only ones so lucky.” There is somewhere, otherwise there would be no shooting, but it happens. It is somewhere, and I will find where.

Find it,” she asked quietly. - Please find it.

Germans,” he said. - Calmly. Just keep your head down.

A patrol came out of the Terespol Gate: three Germans appeared from the dark gap of the gate, stood there, and slowly walked along the barracks to the Kholm Gate. From somewhere in the distance came an abrupt song: as if it was not sung, but shouted out at a good fifty throats. The song grew louder, Pluzhnikov already heard the stomping and realized that the German detachment was now entering under the arch of the Terespol Gate singing.

Where is Stepan Matveevich? - Mirra asked worriedly.

Pluzhnikov did not answer. The head of the German column appeared at the gate: they walked in threes, loudly shouting a song. And at that moment a dark figure fell from above, from the broken tower. It flashed in the air, falling straight on the walking Germans, and a powerful explosion of two bunches of grenades shattered the morning silence.

Here is Stepan Matveevich! - Pluzhnikov shouted. - Here it is, Mirra! Here he is!..

Current page: 1 (book has 14 pages in total)

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Boris Vasiliev
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© Vasiliev B. L., heirs, 2015

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Part one

1

In his entire life, Kolya Pluzhnikov has never encountered as many pleasant surprises as he has experienced in the last three weeks. He had been waiting for the order to confer a military rank on him, Nikolai Petrovich Pluzhnikov, for a long time, but after the order, pleasant surprises rained down in such abundance that Kolya woke up at night from his own laughter.

After the morning formation, at which the order was read out, they were immediately taken to the clothing warehouse. No, not the general cadet one, but the cherished one, where chrome boots of unimaginable beauty, crisp sword belts, stiff holsters, commander bags with smooth lacquer tablets, overcoats with buttons and a strict diagonal tunic were issued. And then everyone, the entire graduating class, rushed to the school tailors to have the uniform adjusted to both height and waist, to blend into it as if into their own skin. And there they jostled, fussed and laughed so much that the official enamel lampshade began to sway under the ceiling.

In the evening, the head of the school himself congratulated everyone on graduation and presented them with the “Red Army Commander’s Identity Card” and a weighty “TT”. The beardless lieutenants loudly shouted the pistol number and squeezed the general's dry palm with all their might. And at the banquet the commanders of the training platoons were enthusiastically rocking and trying to settle scores with the foreman. However, everything turned out well, and this evening - the most beautiful of all evenings - began and ended solemnly and beautifully.

For some reason, it was on the night after the banquet that Lieutenant Pluzhnikov discovered that he was crunching. It crunches pleasantly, loudly and courageously. It crunches with fresh leather sword belts, uncrumpled uniforms, and shining boots. The whole thing crunches like a brand new ruble, which the boys of those years easily called “crunch” for this feature.

Actually, it all started a little earlier. Yesterday's cadets came with their girls to the ball that followed the banquet. But Kolya didn’t have a girlfriend, and he, hesitatingly, invited the librarian Zoya. Zoya pursed her lips in concern and said thoughtfully: “I don’t know, I don’t know...” - but she came. They danced, and Kolya, out of burning shyness, kept talking and talking, and since Zoya worked in the library, he talked about Russian literature. Zoya at first assented, and in the end, her clumsily painted lips stuck out resentfully:

“You’re crunching too hard, Comrade Lieutenant.”

In school language, this meant that Lieutenant Pluzhnikov was wondering. Then Kolya understood this, and when he arrived at the barracks, he discovered that he was crunching in the most natural and pleasant way.

“I’m crunchy,” he told his friend and bunkmate, not without pride.

They were sitting on the windowsill in the second floor corridor. It was the beginning of June, and the nights at the school smelled of lilacs, which no one was allowed to break.

“Crunch for your health,” said the friend. “But, you know, not in front of Zoya: she’s a fool, Kolka.” She is a terrible fool and is married to a sergeant major from the ammunition platoon.

But Kolya listened with half an ear because he was studying the crunch. And he really liked this crunch.

The next day the guys began to leave: everyone was entitled to leave. They said goodbye noisily, exchanged addresses, promised to write, and one after another disappeared behind the barred gates of the school.

But for some reason, Kolya was not given travel documents (though the journey was nothing at all: to Moscow). Kolya waited two days and was just about to go find out when the orderly shouted from a distance:

- Lieutenant Pluzhnikov to the commissar!..

The commissioner, who looked very much like the suddenly aged artist Chirkov, listened to the report, shook hands, indicated where to sit, and silently offered cigarettes.

“I don’t smoke,” said Kolya and began to blush: he was generally thrown into a fever with extraordinary ease.

“Well done,” said the commissioner. “But, you know, I still can’t quit, I don’t have enough willpower.”

And he lit a cigarette. Kolya wanted to advise how to strengthen his will, but the commissar spoke again:

– We know you, Lieutenant, as an extremely conscientious and diligent person. We also know that you have a mother and sister in Moscow, that you haven’t seen them for two years and miss them. And you are entitled to vacation. “He paused, got out from behind the table, walked around, looking intently at his feet. – We know all this and still decided to turn to you with a request... This is not an order, this is a request, please note, Pluzhnikov. We no longer have the right to order you...

– I’m listening, Comrade Regimental Commissar. “Kolya suddenly decided that he would be offered to go work in intelligence, and he tensed up, ready to shout deafeningly: “Yes!”

“Our school is expanding,” said the commissioner. “The situation is complicated, there is war in Europe, and we need to have as many combined arms commanders as possible.” In this regard, we are opening two more training companies. But they are not yet fully staffed, but property is already arriving. So we ask you, Comrade Pluzhnikov, to help us deal with this property. Accept it, capitalize it...

And Kolya Pluzhnikov remained at the school in a strange position “wherever they send you.” His entire course had long since left, he had been having affairs for a long time, sunbathing, swimming, dancing, and Kolya was diligently counting bedding sets, linear meters of foot wraps and pairs of cowhide boots. And he wrote all sorts of reports.

Two weeks passed like this. For two weeks, Kolya patiently, from waking up until bedtime and seven days a week, received, counted and arrived property, without ever leaving the gate, as if he was still a cadet and waiting for leave from an angry foreman.

In June there were few people left at the school: almost everyone had already left for the camps. Usually Kolya did not meet with anyone, he was up to his neck busy with endless calculations, statements and acts, but somehow he was joyfully surprised to find that he was... welcomed. They greet you according to all the rules of army regulations, with cadet chic, throwing your palm to your temple and jauntily raising your chin. Kolya tried his best to answer with tired carelessness, but his heart sank sweetly in a fit of youthful vanity.

That's when he started walking in the evenings. With his hands behind his back, he walked straight towards the groups of cadets smoking before bed at the entrance to the barracks. Wearily, he looked sternly in front of him, and his ears grew and grew, catching a cautious whisper:

- Commander...

And, already knowing that his palms were about to fly elastically to his temples, he carefully furrowed his eyebrows, trying to give his round, fresh, like a French roll, face an expression of incredible concern...

- Hello, Comrade Lieutenant.

It was on the third evening: nose to nose - Zoya. In the warm twilight, white teeth sparkled with a chill, and numerous frills moved by themselves, because there was no wind. And this living thrill was especially frightening.

- For some reason you are nowhere to be seen, Comrade Lieutenant. And you don’t come to the library anymore...

- Job.

-Are you left at the school?

“I have a special task,” Kolya said vaguely.

For some reason they were already walking side by side and in the wrong direction.

Zoya talked and talked, laughing incessantly; he did not grasp the meaning, surprised that he was so obediently walking in the wrong direction. Then he thought with concern whether his uniform had lost its romantic crunch, moved his shoulder, and the sword belt immediately responded with a tight, noble creak...

-...Terribly funny! We laughed so much, we laughed so much. You're not listening, Comrade Lieutenant.

- No, I'm listening. You laughed.

She stopped: her teeth flashed again in the darkness. And he no longer saw anything except this smile.

– You liked me, didn’t you? Well, tell me, Kolya, did you like it?..

“No,” he answered in a whisper. - I just do not know. You're married.

“Married?” She laughed noisily. - Married, right? You were told? So what if she’s married? I accidentally married him, it was a mistake...

Somehow he grabbed her by the shoulders. Or maybe he didn’t take it, but she herself moved them so deftly that his hands suddenly appeared on her shoulders.

“By the way, he left,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you walk along this alley to the fence, and then along the fence to our house, no one will notice. You want some tea, Kolya, don't you?

He already wanted tea, but then a dark spot moved towards them from the alley darkness, swam and said:

- Sorry.

- Comrade regimental commissar! – Kolya desperately shouted, rushing after the figure who stepped to the side. - Comrade regimental commissar, I...

- Comrade Pluzhnikov? Why did you leave the girl? Ay, ay.

- Yes of course. - Kolya rushed back and said hastily: - Zoya, excuse me. Affairs. Official matters.

What Kolya muttered to the commissar as he made his way out of the lilac alley into the calm expanse of the school parade ground, he completely forgot within an hour. Something about a footcloth of non-standard width, or, it seems, a standard width, but not quite a linen... The commissioner listened and listened, and then asked:

- What was this, your friend?

- No, no, what are you talking about! - Kolya was scared. - What are you talking about, Comrade Regimental Commissar, this is Zoya from the library. I didn’t give her the book, so...

And he fell silent, feeling that he was blushing: he had great respect for the good-natured elderly commissar and was embarrassed to lie. However, the commissar started talking about something else, and Kolya somehow came to his senses.

– It’s good that you don’t run the documentation: little things in our military life play a huge disciplinary role. For example, a civilian can sometimes afford something, but we, career commanders of the Red Army, cannot. We cannot, for example, walk with a married woman, because we are in plain sight, we must always, every minute, be a model of discipline for our subordinates. And it’s very good that you understand this... Tomorrow, Comrade Pluzhnikov, at eleven thirty I ask you to come to me. Let's talk about your future service, maybe we'll go to the general.

- Well, then, see you tomorrow. “The commissar extended his hand, held it, and said quietly: “But the book will have to be returned to the library, Kolya.” Have to!..

It turned out very badly, of course, that I had to deceive the comrade regimental commissar, but for some reason Kolya was not too upset. In the future, a possible date with the head of the school was expected, and yesterday’s cadet was looking forward to this date with impatience, fear and trepidation, like a girl waiting for a meeting with her first love. He got up long before getting up, polished his crisp boots until they glowed on their own, hemmed a fresh collar and polished all the buttons. In the command canteen - Kolya was monstrously proud that he fed in this canteen and personally paid for the food - he could not eat anything, but only drank three servings of dried fruit compote. And at exactly eleven he arrived at the commissar.

- Oh, Pluzhnikov, great! – Lieutenant Gorobtsov, the former commander of Kolya’s training platoon, was sitting in front of the door of the commissar’s office, also polished, ironed and tightened. - How's it going? Are you done with foot wraps?

Pluzhnikov was a detailed man and therefore told everything about his affairs, secretly wondering why Lieutenant Gorobtsov was not interested in what he, Kolya, was doing here. And he ended with a hint:

“Yesterday, Comrade Regimental Commissar also asked me about business. And he ordered...

Lieutenant Velichko was also the commander of a training platoon, but the second, and always argued with Lieutenant Gorobtsov on all occasions. Kolya did not understand anything of what Gorobtsov told him, but nodded politely. And when he opened his mouth to ask for clarification, the door of the commissar’s office swung open and a beaming and also very smart Lieutenant Velichko came out.

“They gave me a company,” he told Gorobtsov. - I wish the same!

Gorobtsov jumped up, straightened his tunic as usual, pushing all the folds back in one movement, and entered the office.

“Hello, Pluzhnikov,” Velichko said and sat down next to him. - Well, how are you, in general? Did you pass everything and accept everything?

- In general, yes. – Kolya again spoke in detail about his affairs. But he didn’t have time to hint anything about the commissar, because the impatient Velichko interrupted earlier:

- Kolya, they will offer you - ask me. I said a few words there, but you, in general, ask.

- Where to apply?

Then the regimental commissar and lieutenant Gorobtsov came out into the corridor, and Velichko and Kolya jumped up. Kolya began “on your orders...”, but the commissioner did not listen to the end:

“Let’s go, Comrade Pluzhnikov, the general is waiting.” You are free, comrade commanders.

They went to the head of the school not through the reception room, where the duty officer was sitting, but through an empty room. In the depths of this room there was a door through which the commissioner went out, leaving the preoccupied Kolya alone.

Until now, Kolya had met with the general, when the general handed him a certificate and a personal weapon, which tugged at his side so pleasantly. There was, however, one more meeting, but Kolya was embarrassed to remember it, and the general forgot forever.

This meeting took place two years ago, when Kolya – still a civilian, but already with a clipper haircut – together with other cropped men had just arrived from the station at the school. Right on the parade ground they unloaded their suitcases, and the mustachioed foreman (the same one they were trying to beat after the banquet) ordered everyone to go to the bathhouse. Everyone went - still out of formation, in a herd, talking loudly and laughing - but Kolya hesitated because he had chafed his leg and was sitting barefoot. While he was putting on his boots, everyone had already disappeared around the corner. Kolya jumped up and was about to rush after him, but then they suddenly called out to him:

-Where are you going, young man?

The thin, short general looked at him angrily.

“There is an army here, and orders are carried out unquestioningly.” You have been ordered to guard the property, so guard it until a change comes or the order is canceled.

No one gave Kolya an order, but Kolya no longer doubted that this order seemed to exist by itself. And therefore, awkwardly stretching out and muffledly shouting: “Yes, Comrade General!” – stayed with the suitcases.

And the guys, as luck would have it, disappeared somewhere. Then it turned out that after the bath they received cadet uniforms, and the foreman took them to the tailor's workshop so that everyone could have their clothes tailored to their figure. All this took a lot of time, and Kolya obediently stood next to the things no one needed. He stood there and was extremely proud of it, as if he were guarding an ammunition depot. And no one paid attention to him until two gloomy cadets, who had received special assignments for yesterday's AWOL, came to get their things.

- I won’t let you in! - Kolya shouted. – Don’t you dare come closer!..

- What? – one of the penalty box asked rather rudely. - Now I’ll hit you in the neck...

- Back! – Pluzhnikov yelled enthusiastically. - I am a sentry! I order!..

Naturally, he did not have a weapon, but he screamed so much that the cadets decided not to get involved, just in case. They went for the senior officer, but Kolya did not obey him either and demanded either a change or cancellation. And since there was no change and could not be, they began to find out who appointed him to this post. However, Kolya refused to engage in conversation and made noise until the school duty officer showed up. The red bandage worked, but after giving up his post, Kolya did not know where to go or what to do. And the duty officer didn’t know either, and when they figured it out, the bathhouse had already closed, and Kolya had to live as a civilian for another day, but then incur the vengeful wrath of the foreman...

And today I had to meet with the general for the third time. Kolya wanted this and was desperately cowardly because he believed in mysterious rumors about the general’s participation in the Spanish events. And having believed, I could not help but be afraid of the eyes that had only recently seen real fascists and real battles.

Finally the door opened slightly, and the commissar beckoned him with his finger. Kolya hastily pulled down his tunic, licked his suddenly dry lips and stepped behind the blank curtains.

The entrance was opposite the official one, and Kolya found himself behind the general’s stooped back. This confused him somewhat, and he shouted the report not as clearly as he had hoped. The general listened and pointed to a chair in front of the table. Kolya sat down, putting his hands on his knees and straightening up unnaturally. The general looked at him carefully, put on his glasses (Kolya was extremely upset when he saw these glasses...) and began to read some sheets of paper filed in a red folder: Kolya did not yet know that this was exactly what his, Lieutenant Pluzhnikov’s, private matter looked like.

- All A's and one C? – the general was surprised. - Why three?

“C in software,” said Kolya, blushing deeply, like a girl. “I’ll retake it, Comrade General.”

“No, Comrade Lieutenant, it’s too late,” the general grinned.

“Excellent characteristics from the Komsomol and from the comrades,” the commissar said quietly.

“Yeah,” the general confirmed, immersing himself in reading again.

The commissioner went to the open window, lit a cigarette and smiled at Kolya as if he were an old friend. Kolya politely moved his lips in response and again stared intently at the bridge of the general’s nose.

- It turns out that you are an excellent shooter? – asked the general. – A prize-winning shooter, one might say.

“He defended the honor of the school,” the commissioner confirmed.

- Wonderful! “The general closed the red folder, pushed it aside and took off his glasses. – We have a proposal for you, Comrade Lieutenant.

Kolya readily leaned forward without saying a word. After the post of commissioner for foot wraps, he no longer hoped for intelligence.

“We suggest that you remain at the school as the commander of a training platoon,” said the general. - The position is responsible. What year are you?

– I was born on the twelfth of April, one thousand nine hundred and twenty-two! - Kolya rattled off.

He said mechanically, because he was feverishly wondering what to do. Of course, the proposed position was extremely honorable for yesterday’s graduate, but Kolya could not just suddenly jump up and shout: “With pleasure, Comrade General!” He could not because the commander - he was firmly convinced of this - becomes a real commander only after serving in the troops, having shared the same pot with the soldiers, and learning to command them. And he wanted to become such a commander and so he went to a general military school when everyone was raving about aviation or, in extreme cases, tanks.

“In three years you will have the right to enter the academy,” the general continued. – And apparently, you should study further.

“We’ll even give you the right to choose,” the commissioner smiled. - Well, whose company do you want to join: Gorobtsov or Velichko?

“He’s probably tired of Gorobtsov,” the general chuckled.

Kolya wanted to say that he was not at all tired of Gorobtsov, that he was an excellent commander, but all this was of no use, because he, Nikolai Pluzhnikov, was not going to stay at the school. He needs a unit, fighters, the sweaty strap of a platoon commander - all that is called in the short word “service”. That’s what he wanted to say, but the words got confused in his head, and Kolya suddenly began to blush again.

“You can light a cigarette, Comrade Lieutenant,” said the general, hiding a smile. – Have a smoke, think about the proposal...

“It won’t work,” the regimental commissar sighed. - He doesn’t smoke, that’s bad luck.

“I don’t smoke,” Kolya confirmed and carefully cleared his throat. - Comrade General, would you allow me?

- I’m listening, I’m listening.

– Comrade General, I thank you, of course, and thank you very much for your trust. I understand that this is a great honor for me, but still allow me to refuse, Comrade General.

- Why? “The regimental commissar frowned and stepped away from the window. - What's the news, Pluzhnikov?

The general looked at him silently. He looked with obvious interest, and Kolya perked up:

“I believe that every commander should first serve in the troops, Comrade General.” This is what they told us at the school, and the comrade regimental commissar himself also said at the gala evening that only in a military unit can you become a real commander.

The commissioner coughed in confusion and returned to the window. The general was still looking at Kolya.

“And so, of course, thank you very much, Comrade General, - so I ask you very much: please send me to the unit.” To any unit and for any position.

Kolya fell silent, and there was a pause in the office. However, neither the general nor the commissar noticed her, but Kolya felt her reaching out and was very embarrassed.

- Of course, I understand, Comrade General, that...

“But he’s a young fellow, commissar,” the chief suddenly said cheerfully. - You’re a good fellow, lieutenant, by God, you’re a good fellow!

And the commissar suddenly laughed and clapped Kolya firmly on the shoulder:

– Thanks for the memory, Pluzhnikov!

And all three smiled as if they had found a way out of a not very comfortable situation.

- So, to the unit?

- To the unit, Comrade General.

- Won't you change your mind? – The boss suddenly switched to “you” and did not change his address.

– And it doesn’t matter where they send you? – asked the commissioner. - What about his mother, little sister?.. He doesn’t have a father, Comrade General.

- I know. “The general hid his smile, looked seriously, and drummed his fingers on the red folder. - Will a special Western one suit you, Lieutenant?

Kolya turned pink: they dreamed of serving in the Special Districts as an unimaginable success.

– Do you agree with the platoon commander?

“Comrade General!..” Kolya jumped up and immediately sat down, remembering discipline. – Thank you very, very much, Comrade General!..

“But on one condition,” the general said very seriously. - I give you, lieutenant, a year of military practice. And exactly one year later I will request you back to the school, to the position of commander of a training platoon. Agree?

- I agree, Comrade General. If you order...

- We will order, we will order! – the commissioner laughed. – We need such non-smoking passions as we need.

“There’s just one problem here, Lieutenant: you can’t get a vacation.” You should be in the unit on Sunday at the latest.

“Yes, you won’t have to stay with your mother in Moscow,” the commissar smiled. -Where does she live there?

– On Ostozhenka... That is, now it’s called Metrostroevskaya.

“On Ostozhenka...” the general sighed and, standing up, extended his hand to Kolya: “Well, happy to serve, lieutenant.” I'm waiting in a year, remember!

- Thank you, Comrade General. Goodbye! – Kolya shouted and marched out of the office.

In those days, it was difficult to obtain train tickets, but the commissioner, escorting Kolya through the mysterious room, promised to get this ticket. All day long Kolya handed in his cases, ran around with a round sheet, and received documents from the combat department. There another pleasant surprise awaited him: the head of the school issued an order to thank him for completing a special task. And in the evening, the duty officer handed over a ticket, and Kolya Pluzhnikov, carefully saying goodbye to everyone, departed for the place of his new service through the city of Moscow, having three days left: until Sunday...

2

The train arrived in Moscow in the morning. Kolya got to Kropotkinskaya by metro - the most beautiful metro in the world; he always remembered this and felt an incredible sense of pride as he descended underground. He got off at the Palace of Soviets station; Opposite, a blank fence rose, behind which something knocked, hissed and rumbled. And Kolya also looked at this fence with great pride, because behind it the foundation of the tallest building in the world was being laid: the Palace of the Soviets with a giant statue of Lenin at the top.

Kolya stopped near the house where he left for college two years ago. This house - the most ordinary Moscow apartment building with arched gates, a backyard and many cats - this house was very special to him. Here he knew every staircase, every corner and every brick in every corner. This was his home, and if the concept of “Motherland” was felt as something grandiose, then the house was simply the most native place on the whole earth.

Kolya stood near the house, smiled and thought that there, in the yard, on the sunny side, Matveevna was probably sitting, knitting an endless stocking and talking to everyone who passed by. He imagined how she would stop him and ask where he was going, whose he was and where he was from. For some reason he was sure that Matveevna would never recognize him, and he was happy in advance.

And then two girls came out of the gate. The one who was a little taller had a dress with short sleeves, but the difference between the girls ended there: they wore the same hairstyles, the same white socks and white rubber shoes. The little girl glanced briefly at the lieutenant, who was stretched out to the point of impossibility, with a suitcase, turned after her friend, but suddenly slowed down and looked back again.

- Faith? – Kolya asked in a whisper. - Verka, little devil, is that you?..

A squeal was heard at the Manege. His sister ran towards his neck, as in childhood, bending her knees, and he could barely resist: she had become quite heavy, this little sister of his...

- Kolya! Ring! Kolka!..

– How big you have become, Vera.

- Sixteen years! – she said proudly. – And you thought you were growing up alone, right? Oh, you're already a lieutenant! Valyushka, congratulate comrade lieutenant.

The tall one, smiling, stepped forward:

- Hello, Kolya.

He buried his gaze into his chintz-covered chest. He remembered very well two skinny girls with legs like grasshoppers. And he quickly looked away:

- Well, girls, you are unrecognizable...

- Oh, we're going to school! – Vera sighed. – Today is the last Komsomol meeting, and it’s simply impossible not to go.

“We’ll meet in the evening,” said Valya.

She shamelessly looked at him with surprisingly calm eyes. This made Kolya embarrassed and angry, because he was older and by all laws girls should be embarrassed.

- I'm leaving in the evening.

- Where? – Vera was surprised.

“To a new duty station,” he said, not without importance. - I'm passing through here.

- So, at lunchtime. – Valya caught his gaze again and smiled. - I'll bring the gramophone.

– Do you know what kind of records Valyushka has? Polish, you'll rock! - Well, we ran.

- Mom is at home?

They really ran - to the left, towards the school: he himself had been running this way for ten years. Kolya looked after her, watched how the hair flew up, how the dresses and tanned calves fluttered, and wanted the girls to look back. And he thought: “If they look back, then...” He didn’t have time to guess what would happen then: the tall one suddenly turned to him. He waved back and immediately bent down to pick up the suitcase, feeling himself begin to blush.

“This is terrible,” he thought with pleasure. “Well, why on earth should I blush?”

He walked through the dark corridor of the gate and looked to the left, at the sunny side of the yard, but Matveevna was not there. This unpleasantly surprised him, but then Kolya found himself in front of his own entrance and flew into the fifth floor in one breath.

Mom didn’t change at all, and she even wore the same robe, with polka dots. Seeing him, she suddenly began to cry:

- God, how much you look like your father!..

Kolya remembered his father vaguely: in 1926, he left for Central Asia and never returned. Mom was called to the Main Political Directorate and there they told me that Commissar Pluzhnikov had been killed in a battle with the Basmachi near the village of Koz-Kuduk.

Mom fed him breakfast and talked continuously. Kolya agreed, but listened absentmindedly: he kept thinking about this suddenly grown Valka from apartment forty-nine and really wanted his mother to talk about her. But my mother was interested in other questions:

– ...And I tell them: “My God, my God, do children really have to listen to this loud radio all day long? They have small ears, and in general it’s not pedagogical.” Of course, they refused me, because the work order had already been signed, and a loudspeaker was installed. But I went to the district committee and explained everything...

Mom was in charge of a kindergarten and was constantly in some strange troubles. In two years, Kolya has become quite unaccustomed to everything and now he would listen with pleasure, but this Valya-Valentina was always spinning in his head...

“Yes, mom, I met Verochka at the gate,” he said casually, interrupting his mother at the most exciting point. - She was with this... Well, what's her name?.. With Valya...

- Yes, they went to school. Would you like some more coffee?

- No, mom, thank you. - Kolya walked around the room, creaking to his satisfaction...

Mom again began to remember something from kindergarten, but he interrupted:

- Well, this Valya is still studying, right?

- What, Kolyusha, don’t you remember Vali? She didn't leave us. “Mom suddenly laughed. “Verochka said that Valyusha was in love with you.”

- This is nonsense! – Kolya shouted angrily. - Nonsense!..

“Of course, nonsense,” my mother agreed unexpectedly easily. “She was just a girl then, but now she’s a real beauty.” Our Verochka is also good, but Valya is simply beautiful.

“What a beauty,” he said grumpily, with difficulty hiding the joy that suddenly overwhelmed him. - An ordinary girl, like there are thousands in our country... Better tell me, how Matveevna feels? I enter the yard...

“Our Matveevna died,” mother sighed.

- How did you die? – he didn’t understand.

“People are dying, Kolya,” my mother sighed again. – You’re happy, you don’t have to think about it yet.

And Kolya thought that he was really happy, since he met such an amazing girl near the gate, and from the conversation he found out that this girl was in love with him...

After breakfast, Kolya went to the Belorussky station. The train he needed left at seven in the evening, which was completely impossible. Kolya walked around the station, sighed and not very decisively knocked on the door of the assistant military commandant on duty.

- Later? - The assistant on duty was also young and winked undignifiedly: - What, lieutenant, matters of the heart?

“No,” Kolya said, lowering his head. - My mother is sick, it turns out. Very... - Here he was afraid that he might actually be causing illness, and hastily corrected himself: - No, not very, not very...

“I see,” the duty officer winked again. - Now let's see about mom.

He leafed through the book, then began making phone calls, seemingly talking about other things. Kolya waited patiently, looking at the transportation posters. Finally the attendant hung up the last phone:

– Do you agree with the transplant? Departure at three minutes past twelve, train Moscow - Minsk. There is a transfer in Minsk.

“I agree,” said Kolya. – Thank you very much, Comrade Senior Lieutenant.

Having received the ticket, he immediately went into a grocery store on Gorky Street and, frowning, looked at the wines for a long time. Finally I bought champagne because I drank it at the graduation banquet, cherry liqueur because my mother made that liqueur, and Madeira because I read about it in a novel about aristocrats.

- You are crazy! - Mom said angrily. - What is this: a bottle for each?

“Ah!..” Kolya waved his hand carelessly. - Walk like that!

The meeting was a great success. It began with a gala dinner, for which my mother borrowed another kerosene stove from the neighbors. Vera hovered in the kitchen, but often burst in with another question:

-Did you fire a machine gun?

- Shot.

- From Maxim?

- From Maxim. And from other systems too.

“That’s great!” Vera gasped in admiration.

Kolya walked around the room anxiously. He hemmed a fresh collar, polished his boots and was now crunching all his belts. Out of excitement, he didn’t want to eat at all, but Valya still didn’t go and didn’t go.

- Will they give you a room?

- They will give, they will.

- Separate?

- Certainly. – He looked at Verochka condescendingly. - I am a combat commander.

“We will come to you,” she whispered mysteriously. - We’ll send mom and the kindergarten to the dacha and come to you...

- Who are we"?

He understood everything, and his heart seemed to sway.

– So who are “we”?

– Don’t you understand? Well, “we” is us: me and Valyushka.

Boris Vasiliev

Not on the lists

Part one

In his entire life, Kolya Pluzhnikov has never encountered as many pleasant surprises as he has experienced in the last three weeks. He had been waiting for the order to confer a military rank on him, Nikolai Petrovich Pluzhnikov, for a long time, but following the order, pleasant surprises rained down in such abundance that Kolya woke up at night from his own laughter.

After the morning formation, at which the order was read out, they were immediately taken to the clothing warehouse. No, not the general cadet one, but the cherished one, where chrome boots of unimaginable beauty, crisp sword belts, stiff holsters, commander bags with smooth lacquer tablets, overcoats with buttons and strict diagonal tunics were issued. And then everyone, the entire graduating class, rushed to the school tailors to have the uniform adjusted to both height and waist, to blend into it as if into their own skin. And there they jostled, fussed and laughed so much that the official enamel lampshade began to sway under the ceiling.

In the evening, the head of the school himself congratulated everyone on graduation and presented them with the “Red Army Commander’s Identity Card” and a weighty TT. The beardless lieutenants loudly shouted the pistol number and squeezed the general's dry palm with all their might. And at the banquet the commanders of the training platoons were enthusiastically rocking and trying to settle scores with the foreman. However, everything turned out well, and this evening - the most beautiful of all evenings - began and ended solemnly and beautifully.

For some reason, it was on the night after the banquet that Lieutenant Pluzhnikov discovered that he was crunching. It crunches pleasantly, loudly and courageously. It crunches with fresh leather sword belts, uncrumpled uniforms, and shining boots. The whole thing crunches like a brand new ruble, which the boys of those years easily called “crunch” for this feature.

Actually, it all started a little earlier. Yesterday's cadets came with their girls to the ball that followed the banquet. But Kolya didn’t have a girlfriend, and he, hesitatingly, invited the librarian Zoya. Zoya pursed her lips in concern and said thoughtfully: “I don’t know, I don’t know...”, but she came. They danced, and Kolya, out of burning shyness, kept talking and talking, and since Zoya worked in the library, he talked about Russian literature. Zoya at first assented, and in the end, her clumsily painted lips stuck out resentfully:

You're crunching too hard, Comrade Lieutenant. In school language, this meant that Lieutenant Pluzhnikov was wondering. Then Kolya understood this, and when he arrived at the barracks, he discovered that he was crunching in the most natural and pleasant way.

“I’m crunching,” he told his friend and bunkmate, not without pride.

They were sitting on the windowsill in the second floor corridor. It was the beginning of June, and the nights at the school smelled of lilacs, which no one was allowed to break.

Crunch for your health, said the friend. - Only, you know, not in front of Zoya: she’s a fool, Kolka. She is a terrible fool and is married to a sergeant major from the ammunition platoon.

But Kolka listened with half an ear because he was studying the crunch. And he really liked this crunch.

The next day the guys began to leave: everyone was entitled to leave. They said goodbye noisily, exchanged addresses, promised to write, and one after another disappeared behind the barred gates of the school.

But for some reason, Kolya was not given travel documents (though the journey was nothing at all: to Moscow). Kolya waited two days and was just about to go find out when the orderly shouted from a distance:

Lieutenant Pluzhnikov to the commissar!..

The commissioner, who looked very much like the suddenly aged artist Chirkov, listened to the report, shook hands, indicated where to sit, and silently offered cigarettes.

“I don’t smoke,” said Kolya and began to blush: he was generally thrown into a fever with extraordinary ease.

Well done,” said the commissioner. - But I, you know, still can’t quit, I don’t have enough willpower.

And he lit a cigarette. Kolya wanted to give advice on how to strengthen his will, but the commissar spoke again.

We know you, Lieutenant, as an extremely conscientious and efficient person. We also know that you have a mother and sister in Moscow, that you haven’t seen them for two years and miss them. And you are entitled to vacation. - He paused, got out from behind the table, walked around, looking intently at his feet. - We know all this, and yet we decided to make a request to you... This is not an order, this is a request, please note, Pluzhnikov. We no longer have the right to order you...

I'm listening, Comrade Regimental Commissar. - Kolya suddenly decided that he would be offered to go to work in intelligence, and he tensed up, ready to scream deafeningly: “Yes!..”

Our school is expanding,” said the commissioner. - The situation is difficult, there is a war in Europe, and we need to have as many combined arms commanders as possible. In this regard, we are opening two more training companies. But they are not yet fully staffed, but property is already arriving. So we ask you, Comrade Pluzhnikov, to help us deal with this property. Accept it, capitalize it...

And Kolya Pluzhnikov remained at the school in a strange position “wherever they send you.” His entire course had long since left, he had been having affairs for a long time, sunbathing, swimming, dancing, and Kolya was diligently counting bedding sets, linear meters of foot wraps and pairs of cowhide boots. And he wrote all sorts of reports.

Two weeks passed like this. For two weeks, Kolya patiently, from waking up until bedtime and seven days a week, received, counted and arrived property, without ever leaving the gate, as if he was still a cadet and waiting for leave from an angry foreman.

In June there were few people left at the school: almost everyone had already left for the camps. Usually Kolya did not meet with anyone, he was up to his neck busy with endless calculations, statements and acts, but somehow he was joyfully surprised to find that he was... welcomed. They greet you according to all the rules of army regulations, with cadet chic, throwing your palm to your temple and jauntily raising your chin. Kolya tried his best to answer with tired carelessness, but his heart sank sweetly in a fit of youthful vanity.

That's when he started walking in the evenings. With his hands behind his back, he walked straight towards the groups of cadets smoking before bed at the entrance to the barracks. Wearily, he looked sternly in front of him, and his ears grew and grew, catching a cautious whisper:

Commander…

And, already knowing that his palms were about to fly elastically to his temples, he carefully furrowed his eyebrows, trying to give his round, fresh, like a French roll, face an expression of incredible concern...

Hello, Comrade Lieutenant.

It was on the third evening: nose to nose - Zoya. In the warm twilight, white teeth sparkled with a chill, and numerous frills moved by themselves, because there was no wind. And this living thrill was especially frightening.

For some reason you are nowhere to be seen, comrade lieutenant, and you don’t come to the library anymore...

Are you left at the school?

“I have a special task,” Kolya said vaguely. For some reason they were already walking side by side and in the wrong direction. Zoya talked and talked, laughing incessantly; he did not grasp the meaning, surprised that he was so obediently walking in the wrong direction. Then he thought with concern whether his uniform had lost its romantic crunch, moved his shoulder, and the sword belt immediately responded with a tight, noble creak...

-...terribly funny! We laughed so much, laughed so much... You’re not listening, Comrade Lieutenant.

No, I'm listening. You laughed.

She stopped: her teeth flashed again in the darkness. And he no longer saw anything except this smile.

You liked me, right? Well, tell me, Kolya, did you like it?..

No,” he answered in a whisper. - I just do not know. You're married.

Married?.. - She laughed noisily: - Married, right? You were told? Well, so what if she’s married? I accidentally married him, it was a mistake...

Somehow he grabbed her by the shoulders. Or maybe he didn’t take it, but she herself moved them so deftly that his hands ended up on her shoulders.

By the way, he left,” she said matter-of-factly. - If you walk along this alley to the fence, and then along the fence to our house, no one will notice. You want some tea, Kolya, don't you?..

Among books about the war, the works of Boris Vasiliev occupy a special place. There are several reasons for this: firstly, he knows how to simply, clearly and concisely, in just a couple of sentences, paint a three-dimensional picture of war and people at war. Probably no one has ever written about the war as harshly, accurately and piercingly clearly as Vasiliev.

Secondly, Vasiliev knew what he was writing about firsthand: his young years fell during the Great Patriotic War, which he went through to the end, miraculously surviving.

The novel “Not on the Lists,” the summary of which can be conveyed in a few sentences, is read in one breath. What is he talking about? About the beginning of the war, about the heroic and tragic defense of the Brest Fortress, which, even dying, did not surrender to the enemy - it simply bled to death, according to one of the heroes of the novel.

And this novel is also about freedom, about duty, about love and hatred, about devotion and betrayal, in a word, about what our ordinary life consists of. Only in war do all these concepts become larger and more voluminous, and a person, his whole soul, can be seen as if through a magnifying glass...

The main characters are Lieutenant Nikolai Pluzhnikov, his colleagues Salnikov and Denishchik, as well as a young girl, almost a girl, Mirra, who by the will of fate became Kolya Pluzhnikov’s only lover.

The author gives the central place to Nikolai Pluzhnikov. A college graduate who has just received the shoulder straps of a lieutenant arrives at the Brest Fortress before the first dawn of the war, a few hours before the volleys of guns that forever crossed out his former peaceful life.

The image of the main character
At the beginning of the novel, the author calls the young man simply by name - Kolya - emphasizing his youth and inexperience. Kolya himself asked the school management to send him to a combat unit, to a special section - he wanted to become a real fighter, to “smell gunpowder.” Only in this way, he believed, can one gain the right to command others, instruct and train young people.

Kolya was heading to the fortress authorities to submit a report about himself when shots rang out. So he took the first battle without being included in the list of defenders. Well, and then there was no time for lists - there was no one and there was no time to compile and verify them.

Nikolai’s baptism of fire was difficult: at some point he could not stand it, abandoned the church that he was supposed to hold without surrendering to the Nazis, and tried to instinctively save himself and his life. But he overcomes the horror, so natural in this situation, and again goes to the rescue of his comrades. The continuous battle, the need to fight to the death, to think and make decisions not only for oneself, but also for those who are weaker - all this gradually changes the lieutenant. After a couple of months of mortal battles, it is no longer Kolya before us, but battle-hardened Lieutenant Pluzhnikov - a tough, determined man. For every month in the Brest Fortress, he lived like ten years.

And yet youth still lived in him, still bursting through with a stubborn faith in the future, in the fact that our people would come, that help was close. This hope did not fade even with the loss of two friends found in the fortress - the cheerful, cheerful Salnikov and the stern border guard Volodya Denishchik.

They were with Pluzhnikov from the first fight. Salnikov turned from a funny boy into a man, into a friend who would save at any cost, even at the cost of his life. Denishchik looked after Pluzhnikov until he himself was mortally wounded.

Both died saving Pluzhnikov’s life.

Among the main characters, we must definitely name one more person - the quiet, modest, inconspicuous girl Mirra. The war found her at 16 years old.

Mirra was crippled since childhood: she wore a prosthesis. The lameness forced her to come to terms with the sentence of never having a family of her own, but always being a helper to others, living for others. In the fortress she worked part-time in peacetime, helping to cook.

The war cut her off from all her loved ones and walled her up in a dungeon. The whole being of this young girl was permeated by a strong need for love. She still knew nothing about life, and life played such a cruel joke on her. This is how Mirra perceived the war until the destinies of her and Lieutenant Pluzhnikov crossed. What inevitably had to happen when two young creatures met happened - love broke out. And for the short happiness of love, Mirra paid with her life: she died under the blows of the butts of the camp guards. Her last thoughts were only about her beloved, about how to protect him from the terrible spectacle of a monstrous murder - her and the child she was already carrying in her womb. Mirra succeeded. And this was her personal human feat.

The main idea of ​​the book

At first glance, it seems that the author’s main desire was to show the reader the feat of the defenders of the Brest Fortress, to reveal the details of the battles, to talk about the courage of the people who fought for several months without help, practically without water and food, and without medical care. They fought, at first stubbornly hoping that our people would come and take the fight, and then without this hope, they simply fought because they could not, did not consider themselves entitled to give up the fortress to the enemy.

But if you read “Not on the Lists” more thoughtfully, you understand: this book is about a person. It is about the fact that human possibilities are limitless. A person cannot be defeated until he himself wants it. He can be tortured, starved, deprived of physical strength, even killed - but he cannot be defeated.

Lieutenant Pluzhnikov was not included in the lists of those who served in the fortress. But he gave himself the order to fight, without anyone’s commands from above. He did not leave - he remained where his own inner voice ordered him to stay.

No force can destroy the spiritual power of someone who has faith in victory and faith in himself.

The summary of the novel “Not on the Lists” is easy to remember, but without carefully reading the book, it is impossible to grasp the idea that the author wanted to convey to us.

The action covers 10 months - the first 10 months of the war. That is how long the endless battle lasted for Lieutenant Pluzhnikov. He found and lost friends and his beloved in this battle. He lost and found himself - in the very first battle, the young man, out of fatigue, horror and confusion, abandoned the building of the church, which he should have held until the last. But the words of the senior soldier inspired him with courage, and he returned to his combat post. In a matter of hours, a core matured in the soul of the 19-year-old boy, which remained his support until the very end.

Officers and soldiers continued to fight. Half-dead, with their backs and heads shot through, their legs torn off, half-blind, they fought, slowly going one by one into oblivion.

Of course, there were also those in whom the natural instinct of survival turned out to be stronger than the voice of conscience, the sense of responsibility for others. They just wanted to live - and nothing more. The war quickly turned such people into weak-willed slaves, ready to do anything just for the opportunity to survive at least one more day. This was the former musician Reuben Svitsky. The “former man,” as Vasiliev writes about him, having found himself in a ghetto for Jews, immediately and irrevocably submitted to his fate: he walked with his head low, obeyed any orders, did not dare to raise his eyes to his tormentors - to those who turned him into a subhuman who wants nothing and hopes for nothing.

The war molded traitors out of other weak-spirited people. Sergeant Major Fedorchuk voluntarily surrendered. A healthy, strong man who could fight, made the decision to survive at any cost. This opportunity was taken away from him by Pluzhnikov, who destroyed the traitor with a shot in the back. War has its own laws: there is a value here greater than the value of human life. This value: victory. They died and killed for her without hesitation.

Pluzhnikov continued to make forays, undermining the enemy’s forces, until he was left completely alone in the dilapidated fortress. But even then, until the last bullet, he fought an unequal battle against the fascists. Finally they discovered the shelter where he had been hiding for many months.

The end of the novel is tragic - it simply could not have been otherwise. An almost blind, skeletal-thin man with black frostbitten feet and shoulder-length gray hair is taken out of the shelter. This man has no age, and no one would believe that according to his passport he is only 20 years old. He left the shelter voluntarily and only after the news that Moscow had not been taken.

A man stands among his enemies, looking at the sun with blind eyes from which tears flow. And - an unthinkable thing - the Nazis give him the highest military honors: everyone, including the general. But he doesn't care anymore. He became higher than people, higher than life, higher than death itself. He seemed to have reached the limit of human capabilities - and realized that they were limitless.

“Not on the lists” - to the modern generation

The novel “Not on the Lists” should be read by all of us living today. We did not know the horrors of war, our childhood was cloudless, our youth was calm and happy. This book causes a real explosion in the soul of a modern person, accustomed to comfort, confidence in the future, and security.

But the core of the work is still not a narrative about the war. Vasiliev invites the reader to look at himself from the outside, to probe all the secret places of his soul: could I do the same? Do I have inner strength - the same as those defenders of the fortress, just emerging from childhood? Am I worthy to be called a Human?

Let these questions forever remain rhetorical. May fate never confront us with such a terrible choice as that great, courageous generation faced. But let's always remember them. They died so that we could live. But they died undefeated.