What historical event is Fadeev's novel The Defeat dedicated to? Essay “Genre originality of the novel “Destruction”” by A.A. Fadeev

Alexander Alexandrovich Fadeev is a writer whose biography is very closely connected with the history of our state: revolution, Civil War, Patriotic War.

The novel “Destruction” is one of the best works of A. Fadeev of the twenties. This is a lyric-epic work, where descriptions and experiences are merged in meaningful details, where even the landscapes are romantic and emotional in their own way. Fadeev was guided by Tolstoy's perception of phrases in the novel, by Tolstoy's approach to depiction. But in the end it turned out to be a romantic and bright work. The element of heroism and lyricism seems to enter the work from the very beginning and remains in it until the end.

Psychological vigilance is what is characteristic of Fadeev’s novel. Here is one example. Metelitsa, a cheerful person who was caught by the whites, is interrogated by a white officer. It is clear to Metelitsa that death awaits him, and the whole interrogation is simply disgusting to him. Suddenly the officer, looking at his torn face, asks, as if introducing an unnecessary, false note for Metelitsa of humanity, regret, fragile hope, as if bringing them together across barriers: “Have you had smallpox for a long time?”

Why this question? Why random sentimentality that leads nowhere? Metelitsa is annoyed; he did not accept such an attitude, the game of humanism, the false humanization of the fight. He does not want to cling to life, to be humiliated in front of the enemy: “He was confused because in the boss’s question there was no mockery or ridicule, but it was clear that he was simply interested in his pockmarked face. However, realizing this, Metelitsa became even more angry...”

And so it is in everything. The real details in the novel are presented sharply and clearly. To reveal its essence, a special situation is created, a plot amendment. Levinson's prototype was I.M. Pevzner, commander of the Special Communist Detachment. The details of the climax of the novel - the meeting of the patrolman Morozka with the White Guards - are so close to the description of the real event that Fadeev spoke about. He said that a small detachment of Reds ran into an ambush of enemies. While firing back, the soldiers gave the prearranged signal and saved the main forces.

In “Destruction,” the latter situation is romantically transformed and sharpened. Morozka did not just shoot at the enemies who threatened him directly: he pulled out a revolver and, raising it high above his head so that he could hear it more clearly, fired three times, as agreed.

The real situation is very much exaggerated, transformed, glorified - before the shots, Morozka was convinced that Mechik really betrayed him, betrayed the detachment: “He ran away, you bastard...”. The hero also experiences a feeling of being right in this dispute with a selfish, egoist, and a deeper feeling of kinship with the fighters, with the people who trusted him. The author also experienced all this. These three shots are three points in the storylines, in the dialogues with Levinson, who almost took away his weapon after stealing melons, with Varya, whom he still loved, and finally, with Mechik, invulnerable in disputes, in the art of self-defense.

Fadeev's realism is realism inspired by a dream; This realism determined the entire art of concentration of action, the sharp delineation of the characters of Levinson, Morozka, Metelitsa and their antipode Mechik.

How are the realistic and romantic combined when revealing Levinson’s character?

The novel depicts many large and small acts in which this hero - a man of short stature, vulnerable to the blows of fate, knowing, as we have seen, doubts and states of powerlessness - seems to float with the flow, according to the will of events. Whites and Japanese are advancing on the area - he takes the detachment away and prepares camp crackers in advance. He asks Doctor Stashinsky to reduce the torment of the hopelessly ill Frolov. The detachment needs to be fed - he takes a pig from a Korean peasant. Finally, being pressed by the Cossacks to the swamp, he, saving the detachment, orders the construction of a road. In everyday life, he either re-educates Morozka, who is capable of stealing melons from melon fields, or listens carefully to Mechik’s confessions, amazed at one thing: what a set of simple pride, consciousness of his exclusivity, disrespect for the partisan miners, for Morozka and Metelitsa lives in him. “Here you go... well - porridge!” - thought Levinson.

At one point, Levinson suddenly, like the martyr Christ, overcomes the pain and suffering of his mortal body and feels a surge of extraordinary forces, “raising him to an unattainable height.” The writer, however, makes a reservation, saving the hero from resemblance to the unearthly Messiah: “And from this vast, earthly human height, he ruled over his ailments, over his weak body...” But this height and this dominance are, in a certain sense, precisely unearthly, generated by an Idea, tomorrow, a dream. In fact, all the time in Levinson there is an awareness of the inevitability of his earthly path. On the one hand, he sees all the poverty and poverty of the life of an old, decrepit person living in poverty and dirt. On the other hand, he sees a different world, is able to strengthen in himself the will to win, to overcome this poverty of life.

What is the meaning of this struggle, which reveals the vital forces of Morozka and Mechik?

The character of Morozka, Levinson's orderly, is perhaps the most lively folk character in the novel. The hero goes through a difficult path before the spiritual gaze of the reader: from recklessness, irresponsibility before the detachment, before the miners to a high sense of brotherhood, to an understanding of his deprivation in love. But if Levinson’s psychological life is either hidden or enshrined in his quotation formulas about the new man, then Morozka is revealed in seemingly thoughtless actions, in dramatic situations, in plot twists.

In this comparison of heroes there is a huge truth of the novel. It seems that Morozka, who does not think about anything serious, does not know his personality, has clearly forgotten about it, at the end of the novel appears before us as a completely different person.

Fadeev defined the main idea of ​​the novel as follows: “In a civil war, human material is selected... Everything that is unable to fight is eliminated... People are being remade.”

This kind of alteration happened to all the heroes of this work. No matter how controversial the assessment of the civil war may be from the perspective of today, Fadeev’s undoubted merit is that he showed the war from the inside.

"Devastation"

The civil war is the main theme of the novel. The writer has no doubt that historical justice won in the revolution. For Fadeev, the revolution was, first of all, the beginning of a new world. What this world will be like, what laws will reign in it, largely depends on how the causes of the revolution and the tasks of the class struggle are understood.

The novel was highly praised by Soviet critics immediately after publication. M. Gorky believed that “Destruction” gives “a broad, truthful and talented picture of the Civil War.” But the artistic principles of the novel caused controversy. One of the subjects of dispute between literary figures of that time was psychologism. Thus, O. Brik wrote an article condemning Fadeev’s focus on revealing the inner world of his characters to the detriment of historical accuracy in the depiction of events. He called Fadeev an “intuitionist” who wrote a novel “based on the self-instruction manual of Tolstoy and Chekhov.” A. Voronsky saw in the novel “not only Tolstoy’s construction of a phrase, but also Tolstoy’s worldview, Tolstoy’s method of depicting a person’s psychological state.” As you know, after the revolution, some artists declared a rejection of the classical heritage. Psychologism was now often recognized not as an advantage, but as a disadvantage. “A person is valuable not because of what he experiences, but because of what he does,” says the hero of the novel. Fadeev strives to explore the psychology of his heroes. This is determined by the task that the author formulated during a meeting with young readers: “What are the main ideas of the novel “Destruction”? I can define them this way, the first and main idea: in the Civil War, a selection of human material occurs, everything hostile is swept away by the revolution, everything incapable of a real revolutionary struggle, accidentally falling into the camp of the revolution, is eliminated, and everything that has risen from the true roots of the revolution is eliminated. from the millions of people, is tempered, grows, develops in this struggle. There is a huge transformation of people taking place.” This explains the artistic features of the work and the features of its psychologism. The writer's attention is directed to how his characters behave in the proposed historical conditions, whether they accept the demands made by the time and the revolution. For members of the partisan detachment there is no choice. They fight in the name of the future, which is not very clear to them; they only know for sure that it will be better than the past and present.

In this regard, the image of Morozka, one of the heroes of the novel, is interesting. Actually, his presence at the center of the work is explained by the fact that he is an example of a new person undergoing a “remake.” The author spoke about him in his speech: “Morozka is a man with a difficult past... He could steal, he could swear rudely, he could lie, he could drink. All these traits of his character are undoubtedly his huge shortcomings. But in difficult, decisive moments of the struggle, he did what was necessary for the revolution, overcoming his weaknesses. The process of his participation in the revolutionary struggle was the process of forming his personality...”

Speaking about the selection of “human material”, the writer had in mind not only those who turned out to be necessary for the revolution. People “unsuitable” for building a new society are mercilessly discarded. Such a hero in the novel is Mechik. It is no coincidence that this man, by social origin, belongs to the intelligentsia and deliberately joins the partisan detachment, led by the idea of ​​the revolution as a great romantic event. Mechik’s belonging to a different class, despite his conscious desire to fight for the revolution, immediately alienates those around him. “To tell the truth, Morozka didn’t like the rescued one at first sight. Morozka did not like clean people. In his life experience, these were fickle, worthless people who could not be trusted.” This is the first certification that Mechik receives. Morozka’s doubts are consonant with the words of V. Mayakovsky: “An intellectual does not like risk, / He is as red as a radish.”

Several chapters are devoted to Mechik, one of which bears the very characteristic title “One”. Alienation from the team, feeling like an independent person is, in Fadeev’s eyes, the worst drawback. The sword cannot be remade. And the writer contemptuously notes that his hero could not even kill a pig, but he ate pork with everyone else because he was hungry. He cannot insult a woman, swear, or commit petty theft. But these advantages become disadvantages for those around him, especially since he cannot also clean a rifle, handle a horse, or generally become a fighter. Mechik’s problem is that he came to the detachment of his own free will, but he can no longer leave it when he realizes his inadequacy. He leaves the detachment only after committing betrayal.

In the ethical system of the novel, class hatred is a completely natural and valuable feeling. Peaceful life for the author of “Destruction” is at the very bottom of the value scale. The highest self-realization of man is class struggle with weapons in hand. The events that took place in public life were the reason for changes in the psychology of the heroes and the author’s close attention to the inner world of man.

Formulating the main thoughts of the novel “Destruction” and reflecting on the remaking of people, Fadeev wrote: “This remaking of people is happening successfully because the revolution is led by advanced representatives of the working class - communists who clearly see the goal of the movement and who lead the more backward and help them re-educate " This is how Levinson appears in the novel. Levinson reserved the right to violence because “his power is correct.” He does not know fear and doubt, and if he knows and experiences ordinary human feelings, he tries with all his might to hide them. He must be a leader who “leads the more backward.” This is an ideal image, corresponding not so much to the truth of life as to the author’s idea.

Describing the features of the works of the 1920s, we talked about the depiction of the revolutionary masses, the poetics of rebellion. Fadeev has not individual heroes, but a single collective, namely a collective, and not a crowd that does not have common tasks and clearly visible guidelines. The main thing in it is the presence of a unifying, high revolutionary goal. The spontaneity praised by many in those years does not at all attract Fadeev. Members of the detachment often indulge in hooligan acts (stealing melons from a chestnut tree, for example), which is evidence of their low consciousness, proof of the need to “remake” a person for a new life. The story of the theft of melons is described at the very beginning of the novel, when we still see the “former” Morozka. Overcoming spontaneity, getting rid of what was brought from the past, the mass becomes a collective. “Yes, I’ll give blood a vein for each, and it’s not like it’s a shame or anything!” - Morozka exclaims when it comes to expelling him from the squad. The comrades come out in defense of Morozka: “I’m not in defense, because you can’t play on both sides here,” the guy did a mischief, I myself suffer with him every day... But the guy, to say, is a fighter, you can’t get rid of him. He and I went through the entire Ussuri Front, on the front lines. He won’t give up his guy, he won’t sell him...” says Goncharenko. Dubov echoes him: “Do you think he’s not ours?.. They smoked in one hole... We’ve been sleeping under the same overcoat for three months!” Partnership that has passed the test is the highest value for these people.

As a collective, the members of the detachment recognize themselves in contrast to the peasants (chapter “Men and the Coal Tribe”). The entire time the detachment is in the village, the two groups of people exist separately. The people, for the sake of whose happiness the revolution was carried out, are not the most important thing at the moment. Even more than that, the interests of the revolution and the interests of the people often do not coincide; revolutionary necessity stands above the people. The partisan detachment is more necessary for the revolution, and when difficult times come, Levinson does everything for the detachment: “From that day on, Levinson no longer considered anything, if it was necessary to get food, to find an extra day of rest. He stole cows, robbed peasants’ fields and vegetable gardens, but even Morozka saw that this was not at all like stealing melons from Ryabtsev Bashtan.” The theft of melons was undertaken by Moroznaya for herself, while Levinson acts in the name of the interests of the collective, and therefore, by and large, the interests of the revolution.

Even the life of an individual - partisan Frolov, mortally wounded and therefore hindering the advance of the detachment - can be sacrificed to the interests of the collective. Social necessity for Fadeev and his hero is more important than “abstract humanism.” Once upon a time, talking about the life of an old pawnbroker and the good of humanity, Raskolnikov said: “Yes, there’s arithmetic!” Indeed, arithmetic calculations convince Raskolnikov and Levinson that they are right. But F.M. Dostoevsky rejected this approach to life, believing that one cannot buy the happiness of all mankind even at the cost of one “tear of a child.” This is an ethical imperative1 of all Russian classical literature. She always proved that the end does not justify the means. Fadeev’s ethical system is different. For him there is a higher goal - revolutionary good - that justifies any means.

Revolutionary ethics is built on a strictly rational approach to the world and man. The author of the novel himself said: “Mechik, the other “hero” of the novel, is very “moral” from the point of view of the Ten Commandments... but these qualities remain external to him, they cover up his internal egoism, lack of dedication to the cause of the working class, his purely petty individualism " There is a direct contrast here between the morality of the Ten Commandments and devotion to the working class cause. The author, preaching the triumph of the revolutionary idea, does not notice that the combination of this idea with life turns into violence against life, cruelty. For him, the professed idea is not utopian, and therefore any cruelty is justified.

Abstract on the topic:

Defeat (novel)

Plan:

Introduction

• 1 Plot description
• 2 History of creation
• 3 Screen adaptation
Notes

Introduction

Destruction- a novel by Soviet writer A. A. Fadeev.

1. Description of the plot

The novel tells the story of the partisan red detachment. The events take place in the 1920s during the Civil War in the Ussuri region. The inner world of the main characters of the novel is shown: the commander of the detachment Levinson and the fighters of the detachment Mechik, Morozka, and his wife Varya.

The partisan detachment (like other detachments) is stationed in the village and does not conduct combat operations for a long time. People get used to deceptive calm. But soon the enemy begins a large-scale offensive, crushing the partisan detachments one after another, and a ring of enemies tightens around the detachment. The squad leader is doing everything possible to save people and continue the fight. The detachment, pressed against the quagmire, makes a road and crosses it into the taiga. In the finale, the detachment falls into a Cossack ambush, but, having suffered terrible losses, breaks through the ring.

2. History of creation

The novel was written in 1924 - 1926 by the then little-known writer Alexander Fadeev.

The novel “Destruction” undoubtedly occupies one of the highest places in Russian literature. Moreover, he should rightfully occupy much more and be known much more widely. The author gives a real picture of the events of the Civil War. There is no talk of any victorious march of socialist ideas in the work. It is about something else: about human relationships, about difficult conditions in which one must survive, and about loyalty to the cause, of course not without this. It is no coincidence that Fadeev chooses to describe in the novel the time when the detachment has already been defeated. He wants to show not only the successes of the Red Army, but also its failures. Just don’t immediately think about the anti-Soviet “double day” of the novel, this is a clear Soviet work.

But some metamorphosis occurred. One of the main positive characters of the novel is a man named Levinson. Fadeev made the positive hero of his work a Jew by nationality, in accordance with the internationalism of the 20s. But in the following years, just a few years later, a long-term state anti-Semitic campaign began in the country, and the positive Jewish hero no longer had a worthy place in the new Soviet literature. For the school curriculum of that time, until the end of the 80s, the book was recommended as optional. And literary scholars, deliberately distorting the work, stubbornly called Morozka, not Levinson, the main character. Nowadays, the novel is studied, published and available on the Internet.

“Destruction” brought fame and recognition to the young writer; Fadeev became one of the leading writers of the USSR, although after this novel he had practically no time for books, since he became more of a literary official than a writer.

3. Screen adaptation

• "The Youth of Our Fathers" (1958)

Notes

1. “Literary Encyclopedia” T. 11 / M.: Khudozh. lit., 1939. article “Fadeev Alexander Alexandrovich” - feb-web.ru/feb/litenc/encyclop/leb/leb-6411.htm?cmd=2&istext=1 link dated September 28, 2008

Morozka trotted out beyond the cattle.

An overgrown country road hugged the river. Filled with the sun, buckwheat and wheat fields lay across the river. The blue caps of the Sikhote-Alin ridge swayed in a warm shroud.

Morozka was a second generation miner. His grandfather - the Suchansky grandfather, offended by his god and people - was still plowing the land; father traded black soil for coal.

Morozka was born in a dark barracks, near mine No. 2, when a hoarse whistle called the morning shift to work.

“Son?...” the father asked when the mine doctor came out of the closet and told him that it was the son who was born, and not anyone else.

“So, the fourth one...” the father summed up obediently. - Happy life...

Then he pulled on a coal-stained canvas jacket and went to work.

At the age of twelve, Morozka learned to get up when the whistle sounded, to roll trolleys, to say unnecessary, mostly swear words, and to drink vodka. There were no fewer taverns at the Suchansky mine than piledrivers.

A hundred fathoms from the mine the valley ended and the hills began. From there, moss-covered fir trees looked sternly at the village. On gray, foggy mornings, taiga red deer tried to shout over the horns. In the blue spans of the ridges, through steep passes, on endless rails, day after day, deco-villes loaded with coal crawled to the Kangauz station. On the ridges, drums black with fuel oil, trembling from tireless tension, wound slippery cables. At the foot of the passes, where stone buildings were uninvited among the fragrant pine needles, people were working for unknown reasons, “cuckoos” were whistling in discordant voices, and electric lifts were humming.

Life really was fun.

In this life, Morozka did not look for new roads, but followed old, already proven paths. When the time came, I bought a satin shirt, chrome bottles, boots and began to go to the village in the valley on holidays. There he played the harmonica with other guys, fought with guys, sang shameful songs and “spoilt” village girls.

On the way back, the “miners” stole watermelons and round Murom cucumbers from the chestnuts and swam in a fast mountain stream. Their loud, cheerful voices excited the taiga, the flawed moon looked with envy from behind the cliff, and the warm dampness of the night floated over the river.

When the time came, Morozka was put in a musty police station that smelled of onuchas and bedbugs. This happened at the height of the April strike, when underground water, muddy, like the tears of blinded mining horses, trickled down the mine shafts day and night and no one pumped it out.

He was imprisoned not for any outstanding feats, but simply for talkativeness: they hoped to incriminate him and find out about the instigators. Sitting in a stinking cell with the Maikha alcohol drinkers, Morozka told them a countless number of obscene jokes, but did not reveal the instigators.

When the time came, he went to the front and joined the cavalry. There he learned, like all cavalrymen, to look contemptuously at the “foot filly”; he was wounded six times, shell-shocked twice, and was discharged with a clean bill of health even before the revolution.

And when he returned home, he got drunk for two weeks and married a kind, prostituted and barren hauler from Mine No. 1. He did everything thoughtlessly: life seemed to him simple, unsophisticated, like a round Murom cucumber from the Suchan towers.

Maybe that’s why, taking his wife with him, he left in 1918 to defend the Soviets.

Be that as it may, from then on he was denied entry to the mine: the Soviets could not be defended, and the new government did not really respect such guys.

The bear clicked its forged hooves angrily; orange webs buzzed annoyingly over the ear, got tangled in the shaggy fur, biting until they bled.

Morozka went to the Sviyagino combat area. Krylovka lurks invisibly behind the bright green walnut hill; Shaldyba's detachment was stationed there.

“V-z-z... v-z-z...” the restless spiders sang hotly.

A strange, bursting sound fucked and rolled over the hill. Behind him - another, a third... It was as if an animal that had broken free from its chain was breaking a thorny bush in its wake.

“Wait,” Morozka said barely audibly, pulling on the reins. The bear obediently froze, leaning forward with its muscular body.

“Do you hear?.. They’re shooting!..,” the orderly muttered excitedly, straightening up. - They’re shooting!.. Yes?..

“Ta-ta-ta...” the machine gun burst out behind the hill, stitching together with fiery threads the deafening hoot of the Berdans and the rounded clear cry of Japanese carbines.

“To the quarry!” Morozka shouted in a tight, excited voice.

Socks habitually dug into the stirrups, trembling fingers unfastened the holster, and Mishka was already rushing to the top through the flapping bushes.

Without reaching the ridge, Morozka reined in his horse.

“Wait here,” he said, jumping to the ground and throwing the reins over the bow of the saddle: Mishka, a faithful slave, did not need a leash.

Morozka crawled to the top. To the right, having passed Krylovka, small identical figures with yellow-green bands on their caps ran in regular chains, as if in a parade. On the left, in a panic, people rushed in frustrated groups through the golden-haired barley, firing back from Berdan guns as they ran. The enraged Shaldyba (Morozka recognized him by his black horse and pointed badger hat) lashed with his whip in all directions and could not restrain the people. Some were seen stealthily tearing off red bows.

“Bastards, what are they doing, what are they doing...” Morozka muttered, getting more and more excited from the shootout.

In the back group of people running in panic, in a bandage made of a scarf, in a short city jacket, clumsily dragging a rifle, a lean boy ran, limping. The rest, apparently, deliberately followed his run, not wanting to leave him alone. The pile quickly thinned out, and the boy in the white bandage also fell. However, he was not killed - several times he tried to get up, crawl, stretched out his hands, and shouted something inaudible.

People accelerated their pace, leaving him behind without looking back.

- Bastards, and what are they doing! – Morozka said again, nervously digging his fingers into the sweaty carabiner.

“Mishka, here!..” he suddenly shouted in a voice that was not his own. The stallion, scratched and bleeding, flared its nostrils magnificently, and rushed to the top with a quiet neigh.

A few seconds later, Morozka, spread out like a bird, was flying across the barley field. Leaden and fiery webs screamed angrily above my head, a horse's back fell somewhere into the abyss, barley whistled headlong under my feet.

“Get down!” Morozka shouted, throwing the reins to one side and furiously spurring the stallion with one leg.

Mishka did not want to lie down under the bullets and jumped with all four of them around the overturned groaning figure with a white bandage stained with blood on his head.

“Lie down...” Morozka wheezed, tearing the horse’s lips with a bit.

Tucking his knees, trembling from tension, Mishka sank to the ground.

“It hurts, oh... it hurts!” the wounded man groaned as the orderly threw him over the saddle. The guy’s face was pale, mustacheless, clean, although smeared with blood.

“Be quiet, you bore!” Morozka whispered.

A few minutes later, lowering the reins, supporting the burden with both hands, he galloped around the hill - to the village where Levinson’s detachment was stationed.

- What? What?.. - Mechik was confused. – But these are the “maximalists”... Read it, comrade!

- Search!..

A few minutes later, Mechik - beaten and disarmed - stood in front of a man in a pointed badger hat, with black eyes burning to his heels.

“They didn’t understand...” said Mechik, sobbing nervously and stuttering. – After all, it says “maximalists”... Please pay attention...

- Well, give me the paper.

The man in the badger hat stared at the ticket. Under his gaze, the crumpled piece of paper seemed to be smoking. Then he turned his eyes to the sailor.

“Fool...” he said sternly. – Don’t you see: “maximalists”...

- Well, yes, there you go! – Mechik exclaimed joyfully. – After all, I said – maximalists! After all, this is completely different...

“It turns out they beat me in vain...” the sailor said disappointedly. - Miracles!

On the same day, Mechik became an equal member of the detachment.

The people around him did not at all resemble those created by his ardent imagination. These were dirtier, lousier, tougher and more spontaneous. They stole each other's cartridges, swore in irritated obscenities over every trifle, and fought until their blood bled over a piece of lard. They mocked Mechik for every reason - about his city jacket, about his correct speech, about the fact that he does not know how to clean a rifle, even about the fact that he eats less than a pound of bread at lunch.

But these were not bookish people, but real, living people.

Now, lying in a quiet taiga clearing, Mechik experienced everything again. He felt sorry for the good, naive, but sincere feeling with which he went to the detachment. With special, painful sensitivity, he now perceived the cares and love of those around him, the drowsy taiga silence.

The hospital stood at the junction of two springs. At the edge of the forest, where the woodpecker was tapping, the crimson Manchurian black maples whispered, and below, under the slope, the springs, wrapped in silver dust, sang tirelessly. There were few sick and wounded. There were two heavy ones: the Suchan partisan Frolov, wounded in the stomach, and Mechik.

Every morning, when they were taken out of the stuffy barracks, the light-bearded and quiet old man Pika approached Mechik. He was reminiscent of some very old, forgotten picture: in imperturbable silence, near an ancient, moss-covered hermitage, sitting above the lake, on the emerald shore, a bright and quiet old man in a skafe, fishing for fish. A quiet sky above the old man, quiet spruce trees in hot languor, a quiet lake overgrown with reeds. Peace, sleep, silence...

Is it this dream that Mechik’s soul yearns for?

- Yes... He comes before me. Of course, I’m sitting in the apiary. Well, we haven’t seen each other for a long time, we kissed – that’s understandable. I just see how crazy he is... “I’m leaving for Chita,” he says, “dad.” - “Why is this?..” - “Yes, Dad says, the Czechoslovaks have shown up there.” - “Well, what, I say, Czechoslovaks?.. Live here; look, I say, what kind of grace?..” And it’s true: in my apiary there is nothing but paradise: a birch tree, you know, a linden tree in bloom , bees... w-w-w... w-w-w...

Pika took off his soft black cap from his head and happily waved it around.

- And what do you say?.. I didn’t stay! He didn’t stay... He left... Now the Kolchak apiary has been destroyed, and his son is mute... That’s life!

Mechik loved to listen to him. I liked the old man’s quiet, melodious speech, his slow gesture coming from within.

But he loved even more when the “merciful sister” came. She sheathed and washed the entire infirmary. She felt a tremendous love for people, and she treated Mechik especially tenderly and caringly. Gradually recovering, he began to look at her with earthly eyes. She was slightly stooped and pale, and her hands were too large for a woman. But she walked with a special, slow, strong gait, and her voice always promised something.

And when she sat down next to her on the bed, Mechik could no longer lie still. (He would never admit this to a girl with blonde curls.)

“She’s a lascivious Varka,” Pika once said. - Morozka, her husband, is in the detachment, and she is fornicating...

Mechik looked in the direction where the old man was pointing, winking. The sister was washing clothes in the clearing, and paramedic Kharchenko was hovering around her. Every now and then he leaned towards her and said something cheerful, and she, increasingly looking up from her work, looked at him with a strange, smoky look. The word “whorish” aroused keen curiosity in Mechik.

- Why is she... like this? – he asked Piku, trying to hide his embarrassment.

“And the jester knows her, why she’s so affectionate.” He can’t refuse anyone - and that’s all...

Mechik remembered the first impression his sister made on him, and an incomprehensible resentment stirred in him.

From that moment on, he began to watch her more carefully. In fact, she hung around too much with men - with anyone who could manage even a little without someone else's help. But there were no more women in the hospital.

One morning, after dressing the bandage, she lingered, straightening Mechik’s bed.

“Sit with me...” he said, blushing.

She looked at him long and carefully, as she had looked at Kharchenko that day while washing clothes.

“Look...,” she said involuntarily with some surprise.

However, having straightened the bed, she sat down next to her.

– Do you like Kharchenko? - asked Mechik.

She didn’t hear the question - she answered with her own thoughts, attracting Mechik with her big smoky eyes: “But he’s so young...” And catching herself: “Kharchenko?.. Well, nothing.” All of you are on the same block...

The sword took out a small bundle in newsprint from under the pillow. A familiar girl's face looked at him from a faded photograph, but it did not seem as sweet to him as before - it looked with alien and artificial gaiety, and although Mechik was afraid to admit it, it became strange to him how he could think so much before about her. He still didn’t know why he was doing this and whether it was good when he handed his sister a portrait of a girl with blonde curls.

The sister looked at him - first close, then with her hand away, and suddenly, dropping the portrait, she screamed, jumped out of bed and quickly looked back.

- Good bitch! - said someone’s mocking, hoarse voice from behind the maple tree.

Mechik glanced in that direction and saw a strangely familiar face with a rusty, unruly forelock from under his cap and mocking green-brown eyes, which then had a different expression.

- Well, why were you afraid? – the hoarse voice continued calmly. - It’s not you, it’s the patret... I’ve changed a lot of women, but I don’t have any patrets. Maybe you can give it to me someday?..

Varya came to her senses and laughed.

“Well, I scared you...” she said in a melodious woman’s voice that was not her own. - Where did you come from, you devil... - And turning to Mechik: - This is Morozka, my husband. Something will always work out.

“Yes, we know him... a little,” said the orderly, tinging the word “troshki” with a grin.

Mechik lay dumbfounded, unable to find words from shame and resentment. Varya had already forgotten about the card and, while talking to her husband, stepped on it with her foot. Mechik was ashamed to even ask for the card to be raised.

And when they went into the taiga, he, gritting his teeth from the pain in his legs, himself took out the portrait pressed into the ground and tore it into shreds.

III. Sixth Sense

Morozka and Varya returned in the afternoon without looking at each other, tired and lazy.

Morozka went out into the clearing and, putting two fingers in his mouth, whistled three times with a piercing robber whistle. And when, as in a fairy tale, a curly-haired, ringing-hoofed stallion flew out of the thicket, Mechik remembered where he had seen both.

“Mikhryutka... son of a bitch... tired of waiting?..” the orderly grumbled affectionately.

Driving past Mechik, he looked at him with a sly grin.

Then, diving along the slopes in the shady green beams, Morozka remembered Mechik more than once. “And why are people like that coming before us?” he thought with annoyance and bewilderment. “When they started, there was no one, but now they’re coming to get ready...” It seemed to him that Mechik really came “to get ready,” although in reality In fact, a difficult way of the cross lay ahead. “Some kind of shpendrick will come - he’ll soften up, make a mess, and let us unwind... And what did my fool see in him?”

He also thought that life was becoming more cunning, the old Suchan paths were becoming overgrown, and he had to choose the Road himself.

In unusually heavy thoughts, Morozka did not notice how he drove out into the valley. There - in the fragrant wheatgrass, in the wild, curly clover, braids rang, a diligent worker of the day floated above the people. The people had curly beards like clover, sweaty shirts and long, knee-length shirts. They walked along the swaths with a measured, crouching step, and the grass lay noisily at their feet, fragrant and lazy.

Seeing an armed horseman, people slowly stopped working and, covering their eyes with tired palms, looked after him for a long time.

“Like a candle!..” they admired Morozkin’s position when, raised in the stirrups, leaning towards the pommel with his straightened body, he smoothly walked at a trot, trembling slightly as he walked, like a candle flame.

Beyond the bend of the river, near the towers of the village chairman Khoma Ryabets, Morozka reined in his horse. There was no feeling of a caring owner's eye over the chestnuts: when the owner is busy with public affairs, the towers are overgrown with grass, the grandfather's chicken rots, the pot-bellied melons ripen with difficulty in the fragrant wormwood, and the scarecrow above the towers looks like a dying bird.

Having looked around furtively, Morozka turned towards the rickety smoking area. He looked inside carefully. There was no one there. There were some rags lying around, a rusty piece of a scythe, dry peels of cucumbers and melons. Having untied the bag, Morozka jumped off his horse and, bending to the ground, crawled along the ridges. Feverishly tearing apart the lashes, he stuffed the melons into a bag, some of them he immediately ate, breaking them on his knee.

The bear, wagging its tail, looked at its owner with a sly, understanding look, when suddenly, hearing a rustling, it raised its shaggy ears and quickly turned its shaggy head towards the river. A long-bearded, big-boned old man in linen trousers and a brown felt hat crawled out of the willow tree onto the shore. He could hardly hold in his hands the shaking neret, where a huge flat-gilled taimen was in agony beating its death throb. From the neret, crimson blood diluted with water flowed down in cold streams onto his linen trousers and onto his strong bare feet.

In the tall figure of Khoma Yegorovich Ryabets, Mishka recognized the owner of a bay, wide-bottomed mare, with whom, separated by a plank partition, Mishka lived and dined in the same stable, languishing from constant lust. Then he spread his ears out in a welcoming manner and, throwing back his head, neighed stupidly and joyfully.

Morozka jumped up in fear and froze in a half-bent position, holding onto the bag with both hands.

- What are you... doing? – Ryabets said with resentment and trembling in his voice, looking at Morozka with an unbearably stern and mournful gaze. He did not let go of the tightly shuddering neret, and the fish beat at his feet, like a heart from unspoken, boiling words.

Morozka lowered the bag and, cowardly, burying his head in his shoulders, ran to the horse. Already in the saddle, he thought that he would need to shake out the melons and take the bag with him so that there would be no evidence left. But, realizing that now it didn’t matter, he spurred the stallion and rushed along the road through the dusty, crazy quarry.

“Wait, we’ll find justice for you... we’ll find it! robs his chestnuts, and even at a time when they are overgrown with grass because their owner is working for the world.

In Ryabets’s garden, having laid out a taped-up map in the shade on a round table, Levinson interrogated the intelligence officer who had just returned.

The scout - in a quilted peasant's suit and bast shoes - visited the very center of the Japanese location. His round, sun-burnt face glowed with the joyful excitement of the danger that had just passed.

According to the intelligence officer, the main Japanese headquarters was in Yakovlevka. Two companies from Spassk-Primorsk moved to Sandagou, but the Sviyaginskaya branch was cleared, and the scout rode a train to Shabanovsky Klyuch along with two armed partisans from Shaldyba’s detachment.

-Where did Shaldyba retreat?

- To the Korean farms... The scout tried to find them on the map, but it was not so easy, and he, not wanting to seem ignorant, vaguely pointed his finger at the neighboring district.

“They took a beating at Krylovka,” he continued briskly, sniffling. “Now half of the guys have scattered to the villages, and Shaldyba is sitting in the Korean winter hut and eating plague.” They say he drinks well. Completely crazy.

Levinson compared the new data with those reported yesterday by the Daubikha alcohol carrier Styrksha, and with those sent from the city. Something felt wrong. Levinson had a special sense of smell for this part - a sixth sense, like a bat.

Something was wrong was felt in the fact that the chairman of the cooperative, who had gone to Spasskoye, did not return home for the second week, and in the fact that on the third day several Sandagou peasants ran away from the detachment, suddenly feeling homesick, and in the fact that the lame Honghuz Li-fu, who was holding with the detachment the path to Uborka, for unknown reasons, turned to the upper reaches of Fujin.

Levinson began asking questions again and again and again lost himself in the map. He was unusually patient and persistent, like an old taiga wolf, who may no longer have teeth, but who powerfully leads the pack - with the invincible wisdom of many generations.

- Well, didn’t you feel anything special?

The scout looked without understanding.

“Sniff, sniff!..” explained Levinson, gathering his fingers into a pinch and quickly bringing them to his nose.

“I didn’t smell anything... It’s as it is...” the scout said guiltily. “Am I a dog, or what?” - he thought with offensive bewilderment, and his face immediately became red and stupid, like a merchant at the Sandagou bazaar.

“Well, go...” Levinson waved his hand, mockingly squinting his pool-blue eyes after him.

Alone, he walked thoughtfully through the garden, stopping at an apple tree, watched for a long time as a strong-headed, sand-colored bug was fiddling around in the bark, and in some unknown way suddenly came to the conclusion that the Japanese would soon disperse the detachment if they were not prepared for this in advance .

At the gate, Levinson collided with Ryabets and his assistant Baklanov - a stocky boy of about nineteen in a cloth protective tunic and with a vigilant Colt at his belt.

“What to do with Morozka?..” Baklanov blurted out from his seat, gathering tight folds of his eyebrows over the bridge of his nose and angrily throwing out from under them his eyes burning like coals. - I stole melons from Ryabets... here you go!..

With a bow, he moved his hands from the commander to Ryabets, as if he was inviting them to get to know each other. Levinson had not seen his assistant in such excitement for a long time.

“Don’t shout,” he said calmly and convincingly, “there’s no need to shout.” What's the matter?..

Ryabets held out the ill-fated bag with shaking hands.

- I ruined half my chest, comrade commander, the true truth! You know, I checked Nereta - for once I got ready - when I crawled out of the willow...

And he explained his grievance at length, especially emphasizing the fact that, while working for the world, he completely neglected the farm.

“My women, you know, instead of weeding out the bushes, as people do, they toil in the mowing.” How damned!..

Levinson, having listened to him carefully and patiently, sent for Morozka.

He appeared with his cap carelessly pinned to the back of his head and with an unapproachable, insolent expression, which he always put on when he felt wrong, but intended to lie and defend himself to the last extreme.

- Your bag? - asked the commander, immediately drawing Morozka into the orbit of his unclouding eyes.

- Baklanov, take his Smith...

- How can I take it?.. Did you give it to me?! – Morozka jumped to the side and unfastened his holster.

“Don’t spoil, don’t spoil...” Baklanov said with stern restraint, pulling the folds over the bridge of his nose tighter.

Left without a weapon, Morozka immediately softened.

- Well, how many of these melons did I take there?.. And what are you, Khoma Yegorych, really? Well, it’s a mere trifle... really!

Ryabets, with his head down expectantly, moved his bare toes on his dusty feet.

Levinson ordered that in the evening a village gathering together with the detachment should gather to discuss Morozkin’s act.

- Let everyone know...

“Iosif Abramych...” Morozka spoke in a dull, darkened voice. - Well, let them go - the squad... it doesn’t matter. Why men?

“Listen, dear,” Levinson said, turning to Ryabets and not noticing Morozka, “I have business with you... face to face.”

He took the chairman by the elbow and, taking him aside, asked him to collect grain from the village within two days and dry ten pounds of crackers.

- Just make sure that no one knows what the crackers are for and for whom.

Morozka realized that the conversation was over, and sadly trudged to the guardhouse.

Levinson, left alone with Baklanov, ordered him to increase the portion of oats for the horses starting tomorrow:

- Tell the nachkhoz to pour out a full measure.

IV. One

Morozka's arrival upset the mental balance that had been established in Mechik under the influence of the smooth, serene life in the hospital.

“Why did he look so disdainfully?” Mechik thought when the orderly left. “Even if he pulled me out of the fire, does that give me the right to mock?.. And that’s all, most importantly... everything...” He looked at his thin, emaciated his fingers and legs under the blanket, shackled with splints, and old, repressed grievances flared up in him with renewed vigor, and his soul shrank in confusion and pain.

From the very moment when the sharp-faced guy with prickly eyes like butts grabbed him hostilely and cruelly by the collar, everyone went to Mechik with ridicule, and not with help, no one wanted to understand his grievances. Even in the hospital, where the taiga silence breathed love and peace, people caressed him only because it was their duty. And the hardest, most bitter thing for Mechik was to feel alone after his blood remained somewhere in the barley field.

He was drawn to Pike, but the old man, having spread out his robe, was sleeping peacefully under a tree at the edge of the forest, with a soft cap under his head. From the round, shiny bald spot, transparent silver hairs radiated in all directions, like a radiance. Two guys - one with a bandaged hand, the other limping on his leg - came out of the taiga. Stopping near the old man, they winked at each other slyly. The lame man found a straw and, raising his eyebrows and wrinkling his face, as if he was about to sneeze, tickled it on Pikin’s nose. Pika grumbled sleepily, fidgeted with his nose, waved his hand several times, and finally sneezed loudly, to everyone’s delight. Both burst into laughter and, bending down to the ground, looking around like boys who had misbehaved, ran to the barracks - one carefully clasping his hand, the other stealthily falling on his leg.

- Hey you, assistant of death! - the first one shouted, seeing Kharchenko and Varya on the rubble. “Why are you groping our women?.. Well, well, let me hold on too...” he grumbled in an oily voice, sitting down next to him and hugging his sister with his good arm. - We love you - you are alone with us, and drive this black man - drive him to his mother, drive him, the bitch's son! .. - he tried to push Kharchenko with the same hand, but the paramedic was snuggling tightly from the other side and rocked even, they clicked. teeth yellowed from the Manchu.

- Should I take a seat? – the lame man said whiningly. “And what is this, and where is the truth, and who will respect a wounded person - how do you look at this, comrades, dear citizens?..,” he began frequently, like a clockwork, blinking his wet eyelids and stupidly waving his hands.

His companion kicked his leg intimidatingly, not letting him get close, and the paramedic laughed unnaturally loudly, imperceptibly crawling under Varya’s blouse. She looked at them obediently and tiredly, not even trying to push away Kharchenkov’s hand, and suddenly, catching Mechik’s confused gaze, she jumped up, quickly wrapping her blouse around her and pouring out her lips like a peony.

“They’re crawling like flies on honey, the ragged males!” she said in anger and, bowing her head low, ran into the barracks. She caught her skirt in the doorway and, angrily pulling it out, slammed the door again so that moss fell out of the cracks.

“Here’s your sister!” the lame man exclaimed melodiously. He grimaced, as if in front of a tobacco snuff, and giggled - quietly, petty and dirty.

And from under the maple tree, from the cot, from the height of four mattresses, looking up at the sky with his yellow face, exhausted by illness, the wounded partisan Frolov looked alienly and sternly. His gaze was dull and empty, like that of a dead man. Frolov’s wound was hopeless, and he himself knew this from the moment when, writhing from mortal pain in his stomach, he first saw the ethereal, overturned sky in his own eyes. Mechik felt his motionless gaze on him and, shuddering, looked away in fear.

“Guys... they’re being mischievous...” Frolov said hoarsely and moved his finger, as if he wanted to prove to someone that he was still alive.

Mechik pretended not to hear.

And although Frolov had long forgotten about him, he was afraid for a long time to look in his direction - it seemed that the wounded man was still looking, grinning in a bony, drawn-out smile.

Doctor Stashinsky came out of the barracks, awkwardly breaking in the doorway. He immediately straightened up like a long jackknife, and it became strange how he could bend when he got out. He walked up to the guys with long steps and, forgetting why they were needed, stopped in surprise, blinking one eye...

“It’s hot...” he finally muttered, folding his hand and running it over his cropped head against the hair. He came out to say that it is not good to bother a person who cannot replace everyone’s mother and wife.

– Is it boring to lie down? - he asked Mechik, approaching him and placing a dry, hot palm on his forehead. Mechik was touched by his unexpected participation.

“What do I need?.. I recovered and went,” Mechik perked up, “but what about you?” Forever in the forest.

- And if necessary?..

“What do you need?..” Mechik didn’t understand.

“Yes, I should be in the forest...” Stashinsky accepted the hand and for the first time, with human curiosity, looked Mechik straight into his eyes - shiny and black. They looked somehow from afar and sadly, as if they had absorbed all the wordless longing for people that, on long nights, gnaws at the taiga loners around the smoking Sikhote-Alin fires.

“I understand,” Mechik said sadly and smiled just as affably and sadly. “Wasn’t it possible to get a job in the village?.. That is, not just for you personally,” he intercepted the perplexed question, “but a hospital in the village?”

– It’s safer here... Where are you from?

- I'm from the city.

- For a long time?

- Yes, more than a month.

– Do you know Kreiselman? – Stashinsky perked up.

- I know a little...

- Well, how is he doing? Who else do you know? “The doctor blinked his eyes harder and suddenly sank onto a stump, as if he had been hit in the knees from behind.

“I know Vonsik, Efremova...” Mechik began to list, “Guriev, Frenkel - not the one with the glasses - I’m not familiar with that one - but the little one...”

– But these are all “maximalists”?! – Stashinsky was surprised. - How do you know them?

“So I’m more and more with them...” Mechik muttered uncertainly, for some reason timid.

“Ahh...” - I wanted to say as if Stashinsky hadn’t even said it.

“Good job,” he muttered dryly, in a strange voice, and stood up. “Well, well... get better...” he said without looking at Mechik. And, as if afraid that he would call him back, he quickly walked towards the barracks.

“I still know Vasyutin!..”, Mechik shouted after him, trying to grab onto something.

“Yes... yes...” Stashinsky repeated several times, half looking around and quickening his steps. Mechik realized that he had somehow displeased him - he shrank and blushed.

Suddenly all the experiences of the last month rushed at him at once - he once again tried to grab onto something and could not. His lips trembled, and he blinked quickly, quickly, holding back the tears, but they did not obey and flowed, large and frequent, spreading across his face. He covered his head with a blanket and, unable to hold back any longer, began to cry quietly, trying not to tremble or sob, so that no one would notice his weakness.

He cried long and inconsolably, and his thoughts, like tears, were salty and tart. Then, having calmed down, he remained lying motionless, with his head closed. Varya came up several times. He knew her strong gait well, as if until her death her sister had committed herself to pushing a loaded trailer in front of her. After standing hesitantly near the bed, she left again. Then Pika hobbled over.

-Are you sleeping? – asked clearly and affectionately.

The sword pretended to be asleep. Pika waited a little. You could hear the evening mosquitoes singing on the blanket.

- Well, sleep...

When it got dark, two people approached again - Varya and someone else. Carefully lifting the cot, they carried it into the barracks. It was hot and damp there.

“Go... go get Frolov... I’ll be right there,” Varya said. She stood over the bed for a few seconds and, carefully lifting the blanket from her head, asked:

- What are you doing, Pavlusha?.. Are you feeling bad?..

She called him Pavlusha for the first time.

Mechik could not see her in the darkness, but he felt her presence as well as the fact that it was just the two of them in the barracks.

“It’s bad...” he said gloomily and quietly.

- Legs ache?..

- No, so-so...

She quickly bent down and, pressing her large and soft breasts tightly against him, kissed him on the lips.

V. Men and the “coal tribe”

Wanting to check his assumptions, Levinson went to the meeting in advance - to rub around among the men to see if there were any rumors.

The gathering took place at the school. There were still a few people: a few people who had returned early from the field were hanging out on the porch at dusk. Through the open doors one could see Ryabets fiddling with a lamp in the room, adjusting the smoked glass.

“Osip Abramych,” the men bowed respectfully, one by one extending their dark fingers, stiff from work, to Levinson. He greeted everyone and modestly sat down on the step.

Across the river the girls sang in discordant voices; it smelled of hay, damp dust and fire smoke. Tired horses could be heard beating on the ferry. In the warm evening darkness, in the creaking of loaded carts, in the lingering lowing of well-fed, half-fed cows, the men's day was fading away.

“Something’s not enough,” said Ryabets, going out onto the porch. - Yes, you can’t gather many harvests, many spend the night in the mowing...

- What about the gathering on a weekday? Is it urgent?

“Yes, there is one little thing here...” the chairman hesitated. “One of theirs made a noise here, he lives with me.” It’s, as it were, a nonsense, but it turned out to be a complete mess... - He looked at Levinson embarrassedly and fell silent.

“And if it’s empty, there’s no way to collect it!..” the men began to roar at once. - Time is like this - every hour is precious to a man.

Levinson explained. Then they vying with each other began to lay out their peasant complaints, which revolved mainly around mowing and lack of goods.

“Would you, Osip Abramych, walk through the mowing fields one day and see what people are mowing with?” No one has whole braids, at least one for a laugh - they’re all patched. It's not work - it's toil.

- Semyon ruined what a fortune! He would do everything quickly, - a greedy man for business, - he walks along the swath, sniffles, like a machine, into a bump like... it starts to star!.. Now, no matter how much you fix it, it’s not the same.

– She was a good “Lithuanian”!..

“Mine, how are they?” Ryabets said thoughtfully. - You got it done, didn’t you? The grass is now rich - at least by Sunday the summer wedge would be removed. This war will cost us a pretty penny.

New figures in long dirty white shirts, some with knots, straight from work, fell from the darkness into the trembling strip of light. They brought with them noisy peasant talk, the smells of tar and sweat and freshly cut grass.

- Hello to your house...

- Ho-ho-ho!.. Ivan?.. Well, show your face to the light - did the bees bite you badly? I saw you running from them, shaking your ass...

- Why did you, infection, mow down my wedge?

- Like yours! Don’t make any mistakes!.. I’m right on the line, neck to neck. We can’t cheat someone else’s stuff – we have enough of our own...

- We know you... "That's enough!" You can’t drive your pigs out of the garden... Soon they’ll be pigging on my tower... “That’s enough!”

Someone, tall, stooped and tough, with one eye shining in the darkness, rose above the crowd and said:

– The Japanese arrived in Sundugu on the third day. The Chuguev guys screamed. He came, took over the school, and immediately started talking to the women: “Ruski lady, Ruska lady... so-so-so.” Ugh, God forgive me!.. - he interrupted with hatred, sharply jerking his hand back, as if cutting off.

- It will reach us, it’s like drinking...

- And where did this attack come from?

- The man has no peace...

- And it’s all on the man, and it’s all on him! At least one thing would come of it...

– The main thing is – there are no exits! One shot to the grave, one shot to the coffin - one distance!..

Levinson listened without interfering. They forgot about him. He was so small, unprepossessing in appearance - he consisted entirely of a hat, a red beard and ichigs above the knees. But, listening to the disheveled peasant voices, Levinson caught in them alarming notes that were intelligible to him alone.

“This is bad,” he thought intently, “very bad... We must write to Stashinsky tomorrow to put the wounded where possible... Freeze for a while, as if we weren’t even there... strengthen the guards...”

- Baklanov! – he called out to the assistant. - Come here for a minute... Here’s the thing... sit down closer. I think that one sentry at the cattle is not enough for us. We need a horse patrol all the way to Krylovka... especially at night... We have become painfully careless.

- And what? – Baklanov perked up. – Is it alarming?.. or what? “He turned his shaved head to Levinson, and his eyes, slanted and narrow, like a Tatar’s, looked wary, inquisitive.

“In war, my dear, it’s always alarming,” Levinson said affectionately and poisonously. “In war, dear, it’s not like with Marusya in the hayloft...” He suddenly laughed loudly and cheerfully and pinched Baklanov in the side.

“Look, how smart you are...” echoed Baklanov, grabbing Levinson’s hand and immediately turning into a pugnacious, cheerful and good-natured guy. “Don’t jerk, don’t jerk, you won’t break free anyway!” he grumbled affectionately through his teeth, twisting Levinson’s arm back and imperceptibly pressing him against the column of the porch.

“Go, go—Marusya is calling…” Levinson cunned. - Let it go, d-damn!.. it’s inconvenient at the meeting...

- It’s just inconvenient, otherwise I would have shown you...

- Go, go... there she is, Marusya... go!

- One watchman, I think? – Baklanov asked, standing up.

Levinson looked after him with a smile.

“You have a heroic assistant,” someone said. – He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, and the main thing is that he’s young. The third day he comes into the hut, to get hold of some money... “Well, I say, would you like a glass of pepper?” - “No, he says, I don’t drink. If, he says, you’re thinking of treating me, give me milk - milk, he says, I love it, that’s true.” And he drinks it, you know, just like a small child - from a bowl - and crumbles the bread... A fighting guy, one word!..

In the crowd, the gleaming muzzles of guns, the figures of partisans flashed more and more often. The guys arrived on time, amicably. The miners finally arrived, led by Timofey Dubov, a tall miner from Suchan, now a platoon commander. They merged into the crowd as a separate, friendly mass, without dissolving, only Morozka gloomily sat down at a distance on a rubble.

- A-ah... and you’re here? - Noticing Levinson, Dubov hummed with joy, as if he had not seen him for many years and had never expected to meet him here. “What is that little thing that we got there?” - he asked slowly and thickly, extending his large black hand to Levinson. “Teach me a lesson, teach me a lesson... so that others won’t be bothered!” he boomed again, without listening to Levinson’s explanation.

“It’s high time to pay attention to this Morozk - he’s putting a stain on the whole squad,” said a sweet-voiced guy, nicknamed Chizh, in a student’s cap and polished boots.

- They didn’t ask you! – without looking, Dubov cut off. The guy pursed his lips in a touchy and dignified manner, but, catching Levinson’s mocking gaze, he ducked into the crowd.

-Have you seen a goose? – the platoon commander asked gloomily. – Why are you keeping him?.. According to rumors, he himself was kicked out of the institute for theft.

“Don’t believe every rumor,” Levinson said.

“They should come in, or something!” Ryabets called from the porch, throwing up his hands in confusion, as if he did not expect that his overgrown chest would give rise to such a crowd of people. - Should we just start... comrade commander?.. We'll be hustling here until the roosters crow...

The room became hot and green with smoke. There weren't enough benches. Men and partisans alternately blocked the passages, crowded in the doorways, breathing down Levinson’s neck.

“Begin, Osip Abramych,” Ryabets said gloomily. He was dissatisfied with both himself and the commander - the whole story now seemed worthless and troublesome.

Morozka squeezed through the door and stood next to Dubov, gloomy and angry.

Levinson emphasized more that he would never have taken the men away from work if he had not believed that this was a common matter, both sides were affected, and besides, there were many locals in the detachment.

“As you decide, so it will be,” he finished gravely, imitating a man’s sedate demeanor. Slowly he sank onto the bench, leaned back and immediately became small and unnoticeable - he faded away like a wick, leaving the gathering in the darkness to decide the matter for themselves.

At first several people spoke vaguely and unsteadily, getting confused in little things, then others got involved. After a few minutes it was impossible to understand anything. The men did most of the talking; the partisans were silent and expectant.

“This is also not order,” grandfather Eustathius muttered sternly, gray-haired and frowning, like summer moss. “In the old days, under Mikolashka, people were taken around the village for such things. They hang them with stolen goods and lead them around to frying pan music!.. - He instructively shook a withered finger at someone.

“Don’t measure it in Mikolashkin’s way!” shouted the stooped and one-eyed man - the one who was talking about the Japanese. He wanted to wave his arms all the time, but it was too crowded, and that made him even angrier. - You could do with Mikolashka!.. Time has passed... By the way, you can’t turn it back!..

“Yes, Mikolashka is not Mikolashka, but this is not right,” the grandfather did not give up. “And that’s how we feed the whole gang.” And it’s also inconvenient for us to produce thieves.

– Who says – to produce fruit? Nobody cares about thieves! Maybe you’re breeding thieves yourself!.. – the one-eyed man hinted at his grandfather’s son, who disappeared without a trace ten years ago. - Only here you need your own measure! The guy may have been fighting for six years, so why not indulge in a melon?..

“And why was he doing harm?..,” one was perplexed. - Lord, it’s your will - it would be good if it’s good... Yes, come to me, I’d pour a full canister behind his eyes... Here, take it - we feed the pigs, don’t be sorry for the shit for a good person!..

Let them decide for themselves with the chairman!.. - someone shouted. “We don’t need to get involved in this matter.”

Levinson stood up again and knocked on the table.

Come on, comrades, take turns,” he said quietly, but clearly, so that everyone could hear. “If we talk at once, we won’t solve anything.” Where is Morozov?.. Well, come here...” he added, turning dark, and everyone glanced sideways to where the orderly stood.

I can see from here...” Morozka said dully.

Go, go...” Dubov pushed him.

Morozka hesitated. Levinson leaned forward and, immediately grabbing him like pincers, with an unblinking gaze, pulled him out of the crowd like a nail.

The orderly made his way to the table, bowing his head low, not looking at anyone. He was sweating heavily, his hands were shaking. Feeling hundreds of curious eyes on him, he tried to raise his head, but came across the stern face of Goncharenka, covered in hard felt. The demolition man looked sympathetically and sternly. Frost couldn’t stand it and, turning to the window, froze, staring at the void.

Now we’ll discuss it,” Levinson said, still surprisingly quietly, but audible to everyone, even behind the doors. - Who wants to talk? This is what you wanted, grandfather, it seems?..

“What can I say,” grandfather Eustathius became embarrassed, “we’re just doing this, among ourselves...

The conversation here is short, decide for yourself! - the men began to shout again.

Well, old man, give me your word... - Dubov suddenly said with dull and restrained strength, looking at grandfather Evstafiy, which is why he mistakenly called Levinson an old man. There was such a thing in Dubov’s voice that all heads, shuddering, turned to him.

He squeezed his way to the table and stood next to Morozka, blocking Levinson with his large and heavy figure.

Decide for yourself?.. Are you afraid?! - he rushed angrily and passionately, breaking the air with his chest. “We’ll decide for ourselves!” He quickly leaned towards Morozka and glared at him with burning eyes. - Ours, you say, Morozka... miner? - asked tensely and caustically. - Uh... unclean blood - Suchan ore!.. Don’t you want to be ours? are you fornicating? disgrace the coal tribe? Okay!.. - Dubov’s words fell in silence with a heavy copper roar, like echoing anthracite.

Morozka, pale as a sheet, looked into his eyes without looking away, and his heart sank in him, as if he had been knocked out.

Okay!..” Dubov repeated again. - Whore! Let's see how you can live without us!.. And we... need to kick him out!.. - he suddenly interrupted, turning sharply to Levinson.

Look - you're screwing! - one of the partisans shouted.

What?! - Dubov asked fearfully and stepped forward.

You're such a chick, oh my God...” a frightened old voice whined pitifully from the corner.

Levinson grabbed the platoon commander by the sleeve from behind.

Dubov... Dubov... - he said calmly. “Move a little, you’re blocking people.”

Dubov's charge immediately disappeared, the platoon commander stopped short, blinking in confusion.

Well, how do we kick him out, the fool? - Goncharenko spoke, raising his curly, singed head above the crowd. “I’m not in defense, because you can’t fight on both sides here,” the guy made a mischief, I myself bark with him every day... But the guy, let’s say, is a fighter, you can’t get rid of him. He and I went through the entire Ussuri Front, on the front lines. Your boyfriend won’t give you away, won’t sell you...

Yours...” Dubov interrupted bitterly. “And you think he’s not ours?.. They smoked in the same hole... We’ve been sleeping under the same overcoat for three months!.. And here are all these bastards,” he suddenly remembered the sweet-voiced Chizh, “will teach!” “That’s what I’m getting at,” Goncharenko continued, looking sideways at Dubov in bewilderment (he took his curse personally). “It’s impossible to abandon this matter without consequences, and there’s no reason to throw it away right away either—we’re throwing away.” My opinion is this: ask him yourself!.. - And he cut heavily with his palm, placing it on its edge, as if he separated everything alien and unnecessary from his own and right.

That’s right!.. Ask yourself!.. Let him say if he’s conscious!..

Dubov, who had begun to squeeze into his seat, stopped in the passage and stared inquisitively at Morozka. He looked, not understanding, nervously fiddling with his shirt with sweaty fingers.

Speak as you think!..

Morozka glanced sideways at Levinson.

But would I... - he began quietly and fell silent, unable to find words.

Speak, speak!.. - they shouted encouragingly.

But would I... do something like that... - He again couldn’t find the right word and nodded at Ryabets... - Well, these same melons... I would have done it if I had thought... out of malice or something ? Because we have this since childhood - everyone knows, so do I... And as Dubov said that I am all our guys... but is it really me, brothers!.. - suddenly burst out from within him, and all of him leaned forward, clutching his chest, and his eyes splashed with light, warm and moist... - Yes, I’ll give blood a vein for each, and it’s not like a shame or what!..

Extraneous sounds from the street pushed into the room: a dog was barking somewhere on the Snitkinsky kutku, girls were singing, something was knocking rhythmically and dully next to the priest, as if they were pounding in a mortar. “Start it up!” they shouted protractedly on the ferry.

Well, how can I punish myself?.. - Morozka continued with pain, but much firmer and less sincerely... - I can only give my word... a miner's... it will be true - I won’t get dirty. ..

What if you can’t hold back? - Levinson asked carefully.

I will restrain... - And Morozka wrinkled his face, ashamed in front of the men.

And if not?..

Then whatever you want... at least shoot...

And we'll shoot you! - Dubov said sternly, but his eyes shone without any anger, lovingly and mockingly.

So it's a Sabbath! Amba!.. - they shouted from the benches.

Well, that’s it for everyone...” the men began talking, rejoicing that the boring meeting was coming to an end. - It’s a trivial matter, but talk for a year...

Let's decide on this, shall we?.. Will there be any other proposals?..

Shut it up, damn it!.. - the partisans made noise, breaking through after the recent tension. - And I’m already tired of it... I’m hungry to eat, - the guts show the guts!..

No, wait,” Levinson said, raising his hand and squinting restrainedly. - This question is over, now another...

What else is there?!

Yes, I think, we need to adopt such a resolution... - he looked around... - but we didn’t even have a secretary!.. - he suddenly laughed shallowly and good-naturedly. - Go ahead, Chizh, write down... such a resolution to pass: so that in the time free from hostilities, not to chase dogs through the streets, but to help the owners, at least a little... - He said it so convincingly, as if he himself believed, that at least someone will help the owners.

“We don’t demand that!..” one of the men shouted. Levinson thought: “It took the bait...”

Tschshch, you-s...” the others interrupted the man. - Listen better. Let them really work - their hands won’t fall off!..

And we’ll give Ryabets a special treatment...

Why especially? - the men became worried. - What kind of a big deal is he?.. It’s not much work - anyone can be a chairman!..

Finish, finish!.. we agree!.. write it down!.. - The partisans jumped up from their seats and, no longer obeying the commander, rushed out of the room.

Eh... Vanya!.. - a shaggy, pointed-nosed guy jumped up to Morozka and, tapping his boots, dragged him to the exit. - My dear boy, my son, snotty nostril... Eh! - he trampled on the porch, dashingly wringing his cap and hugging Morozka with his other hand.

“Go away,” his orderly huffed without malice. Levinson and Baklanov quickly passed by.

Well, this Dubov is healthy,” said the assistant, excitedly splashing saliva and waving his arms. - Let’s pit them against Goncharenka! Who will win, do you think?

Levinson, busy with something else, did not listen to him. The damp dust felt shifting and soft underfoot.

Morozka imperceptibly lagged behind. The last men overtook him. They spoke now calmly, without haste, as if they were coming from work, and not from a meeting.

Friendly lights from the huts crawled up the hill, inviting us to dinner. The river rustled in the fog with hundreds of gurgling voices.

“I haven’t given the bear anything to drink yet...” Morozka perked up, gradually entering the usual measured circle.

In the stable, sensing the owner. The bear neighed quietly and displeasedly, as if asking: “Where are you hanging around?” Morozka felt the coarse mane in the darkness and pulled it out of the puny.

Look, he was delighted,” he pushed Mishka’s head away when he impudently buried his wet nostrils into his neck. - You only know how to fornicate, but take the rap - so I’m the only one...

VI. Levinson

Levinson's detachment had been on vacation for the fifth week - it was overgrown with household goods: clockwork horses, carts, kitchen boilers, around which ragged, compliant deserters from foreign detachments huddled - the people became lazy, slept more than they should, even on guard. Alarming news did not allow Levinson to move this entire cumbersome colossus: he was afraid to take a rash step - new facts either confirmed or ridiculed his fears. More than once he accused himself of being overly cautious - especially when it became known that the Japanese had left Krylovka and reconnaissance had not detected the enemy for many dozens of miles.

However, no one except Stashinsky knew about Levinson’s hesitations. And no one in the detachment knew that Levinson could hesitate at all: he did not share his thoughts and feelings with anyone, he presented ready-made “yes” or “no”. Therefore, he seemed to everyone - with the exception of people like Dubov, Stashinsky, Goncharenko, who knew his true worth - as a man of a special, correct breed. Each partisan, especially young Baklanov, who tried to be like the commander in everything, adopting even his external manners, thought something like this: “Of course, I, a sinful person, have many weaknesses; I don’t understand much, I don’t know how to overcome much in myself; at home I have a caring and warm wife or bride, whom I miss; I love sweet melons, or milk and bread, or polished boots to win over the girls at a party. But Levinson is completely different. You can’t suspect him of anything similar: he understands everything, does everything as it should be, he doesn’t go to girls like Baklanov, and doesn’t steal melons like Morozka; he knows only one thing - business. Therefore, you can’t help but trust and obey such a right person..."

From the moment Levinson was chosen as commander, no one could imagine him in any other place: it seemed to everyone that his most distinctive feature was precisely the fact that he commanded their detachment. If Levinson had told about how as a child he helped his father sell used furniture, how his father wanted to get rich all his life, but was afraid of mice and played the violin poorly, everyone would consider it an hardly appropriate joke. But Levinson never said such things. Not because he was secretive, but because he knew that they thought of him as a “special breed” of a person, he also knew many of his own weaknesses and the weaknesses of other people and thought that you can lead other people only by pointing out to them their weaknesses and suppressing them, hiding ours from them. Equally, he never tried to ridicule young Baklanov for his imitation. At his age, Levinson also imitated the people who taught him, and they seemed to him as correct as he seemed to Baklanov. Subsequently he became convinced that this was not so, and yet he was very grateful to them. After all, Baklanov adopted from him not only external manners, but also old life experience - skills of struggle, work, behavior. And Levinson knew that external manners would be eliminated over the years, and skills, replenished with personal experience, would be transferred to the new Levinsons and Baklanovs, and this is very important and necessary.

On a damp midnight in early August, an equestrian relay race arrived at the detachment. It was sent by old Sukhovey-Kovtun, the chief of staff of the partisan detachments. Old Sukhovey-Kovtun wrote about the Japanese attack on Anuchino, where the main partisan forces were concentrated, about the mortal battle near Izvestka, about hundreds of tortured people, about the fact that he himself was hiding in a hunting winter hut, wounded by nine bullets, and what, apparently, he doesn't have long to live...

Rumors of defeat spread through the valley with ominous speed, and yet the relay race overtook it. Every orderly felt that this was the most terrible relay race that had ever been carried since the beginning of the movement. The anxiety of the people was transmitted to the horses. The shaggy partisan horses, baring their teeth, galloped from village to village along gloomy, wet country roads, splashing clods of mud kicked up by their hooves...

Levinson received the baton at half past twelve in the morning, and half an hour later the horse platoon of the shepherd Metelitsa, having passed the Rat Trap, fanned out along the secret Sikhote-Alin paths, spreading alarming news to the detachments of the Sviyagino combat sector.

For four days Levinson collected scattered information from the detachments, his thought worked intensely and gropingly - as if listening. But he still calmly talked to people, mockingly squinted his blue, otherworldly eyes, and teased Baklanov for his pranks with the “raggedy Maruska.” And when Chizh, emboldened by fear, once asked why he was not doing anything, Levinson politely flicked him on the forehead and replied that this was “not a bird’s business.” With his whole appearance, Levinson seemed to show people that he perfectly understands why everything is happening and where it leads, that there is nothing unusual or terrible in this, and he, Levinson, has long had an accurate, unmistakable plan of salvation. In fact, not only did he not have any plan, but he generally felt confused, like a student who was forced to immediately solve a problem with many unknowns. He was still waiting for news from the city, where the partisan Kanunnikov had left a week before the alarming relay race.

He showed up on the fifth day after the relay race, covered in stubble, tired and hungry, but just as evasive and red-haired as before the trip - in this regard he was incorrigible.

There is a failure in the city, and Kreiselman is in prison... - said Kanunnikov, taking out a letter from an unknown sleeve with the dexterity of a card sharper, and smiled with only his lips: he was not at all amused, but he did not know how to speak without smiling. - In Vladimiro-Alexandrovsky and on Olga there was a Japanese landing... All of Suchan was destroyed. Well done!.. Light a cigarette...” and handed Levinson a gold-plated cigarette, so it was impossible to understand whether “light up” refers to a cigarette or to things that are bad, “like tobacco.”

Levinson took a quick look at the addresses - he hid one letter in his pocket, and printed out the other. It confirmed Kanunnikov’s words. Through the official lines, full of deliberate cheerfulness, the bitterness of defeat and powerlessness emerged all too clearly.

It’s bad, huh?..” Kanunnikov asked sympathetically.

Nothing... Who wrote the letter - Sedykh? Kanunnikov nodded affirmatively.

This is noticeable: he always has sections... - Levinson mockingly underlined “Section IV: Immediate tasks” with his fingernail and sniffed his cigarette. - It's bad tobacco, isn't it? Let me light a cigarette... Just don’t talk among the guys there... about the landing and other things... Did you buy me a pipe? - And, without listening to Kanunnikov’s explanations as to why he didn’t buy a pipe, he again buried his face in the paper.

The “Next tasks” section consisted of five points; Of these, four seemed impossible to Levinson. The fifth point read: “... The most important thing that is now required from the partisan command - which must be achieved at all costs - is to preserve at least small, but strong and disciplined combat units, around which subsequently.. "

Call Baklanov and the farm manager,” Levinson said quickly. He stuffed the letter into his field bag, never finishing reading what would later happen around the combat units. Somewhere out of many tasks, one emerged - “the most important”. Levinson threw out his extinguished cigarette and drummed on the table... “Save the combat units...” This thought was never given, it stood in his brain in the form of three words written with a chemical pencil on lined paper. Mechanically he felt for the second letter, looked at the envelope and remembered that it was from his wife. “That’s for later,” he thought and hid it again. “Save the fighting f------------.”

When the nachkhoz and Baklanov arrived, Levinson already knew what he and the people under his command would do: they would do everything to preserve the detachment as a fighting unit.

We’ll have to leave here soon,” Levinson said. - Is everything all right with us?.. The word is up to the farm...

Yes, behind the farm,” Baklanov echoed and tightened his belt with such a stern and decisive look, as if he knew in advance where all this was heading.

I don’t think it will be up to me, I’m always ready... But what to do with the oats... - And the farmer began to talk at great length about the soaked oats, about the torn packs, about the sick horses, about that “they can’t lift all the oats” - in a word, about such things that showed that he was not yet ready for anything and generally considered moving a harmful idea. He tried not to look at the commander, winced painfully, blinked and quacked, since he was already sure of his defeat.

Levinson took him by the button and said:

You're fooling...

No, really, Osip Abramych, it’s better for us to fortify ourselves here...

Fortify?.. here?.. - Levinson shook his head, as if sympathizing with the stupidity of the nachkhoz. - And there’s gray in my hair. What are you thinking, is it your head?

No talking! - Levinson intelligibly tugged at his button. - Be ready at any moment. Is it clear?.. Baklanov, you will see to it... - He let go of the button. - It’s a shame!.. Your baggage is nothing, nothing! “His eyes grew cold, and under their hard gaze the farm manager was finally convinced that the packs were definitely nothing.

Yes, of course... well, well, clearly... that’s not the point... - he muttered, now ready to even agree to carry the oats on his own back if the commander finds it necessary. -What can stop us? How long has it been here? Phew... even today - in no time.

Here, here... - Levinson laughed, - okay, okay, go! - And he gently pushed him in the back. - So at any moment.

“Cunning bitch,” thought the farm manager with annoyance and admiration as he left the room.

By evening, Levinson gathered a squad council and platoon commanders.

Levinson's news received different reactions. Dubov sat in silence all evening, plucking his thick, heavily hanging mustache. It was clear that he agreed with Levinson in advance. The commander of the 2nd platoon, Kubrak, especially objected to leaving. This was the oldest, most honored and most stupid commander in the entire district. No one supported him: Kubrak was from Krylovka, and everyone understood that it was Krylov’s arable land that spoke to him, and not the interests of the cause.

Lid! Stop!.. - the shepherd Metelitsa interrupted him. - It's time to forget about the woman's hem, Uncle Kubrak! - He, as always, suddenly flared up at his own words, hit the table with his fist, and his pockmarked face immediately began to sweat. “Here we are, like they’re smoking—stop, and the lid is on!” And he ran around the room, shuffling with his shaggy legs and throwing out stools with his whip.

“Be a little quieter, otherwise you’ll get tired soon,” Levinson advised. But secretly he admired the impetuous movements of his flexible body, tightly twisted like a belt whip. This man could not sit still for a minute - he was all fire and movement, and his predatory eyes always burned with an insatiable desire to catch up with someone and fight.

Metelitsa laid out his retreat plan, from which it was clear that his hot head was not afraid of large spaces and was not devoid of military acumen.

That's right!.. His pot is boiling! - Baklanov exclaimed, delighted and a little offended by Metelitsyna’s too bold flight of independent thought. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been grazing the horses, and in two years, look, he’ll command all of us...

Blizzard?.. Wow... but this is a treasure! Levinson confirmed. - Just be careful not to be arrogant...

However, taking advantage of the heated debate, where everyone considered themselves smarter than others and did not listen to anyone, Levinson replaced the Metelitsa plan with his own - simpler and more cautious. But he did it so skillfully and imperceptibly that his new proposal was voted on like Metelitsa’s proposal and was accepted by everyone.

In response letters to the city and Stashinsky, Levinson informed that the other day he was transferring a detachment to the village of Shibishi, in the upper reaches of Irokhedza, and ordered the hospital to remain in place until further orders. Levinson knew Stashinsky from the city, and this was the second alarming letter that he wrote to him.

He finished his work late at night, the kerosene was burning out in the lamp. The open window smelled of dampness and dust. You could hear cockroaches rustling behind the stove and Ryabets snoring in the neighboring hut. Levinson remembered his wife’s letter and, after refilling the lamp, re-read it. Nothing new or exciting. As before, they are not accepted for service anywhere, everything that is possible has been sold, they have to live at the expense of the Workers' Red Cross, and the children have scurvy and anemia. And through it all there is one endless concern for him. Levinson thoughtfully pinched his beard and began to write a response. At first he did not want to stir up the circle of thoughts connected with this side of his life, but gradually he became carried away, his face blossomed, he wrote two sheets of paper in small, illegible handwriting, and there were many words in them that no one would have thought that they are familiar to Levinson.

Then, stretching his stiff limbs, he went out into the yard. Horses were stepping around in the stables, crunching the grass richly. The orderly, hugging his rifle, was fast asleep under the canopy. Levinson thought: “What if the sentries sleep the same way?..” He stood for a while and, with difficulty overcoming the desire to go to bed himself, led the stallion out of the stable. Saddled. The orderly did not wake up. “You son of a bitch,” thought Levinson. He carefully took off his hat, hid it under the hay and, jumping into the saddle, rode off to check the guards.

Sticking to the bushes, he made his way to the cattle.

Who's there? - the sentry called out sternly, rattling the bolt.

Their...

Levinson? What is it that keeps you up at night?

Were there any lookouts?

About fifteen minutes later one left.

Nothing new?

It's calm for now... Do you have a cigarette?..

Levinson gave him “Manchurians” and, having forded the river, drove out into the field.

The half-blind moon looked, and pale bushes, drooping in the dew, stepped out of the darkness. The river rang clearly on the rapids - each stream hit the stone. Ahead, on a hillock, four mounted figures danced vaguely. Levinson turned into the bushes and hid. Voices were heard very close. Levinson recognized two: sentinels.

Well, wait,” he said, driving out onto the road. The horses snorted and bolted to the side. One recognized the stallion under Levinson and neighed quietly.

“That way you can scare people,” said the front one in an alarmed, cheerful voice. - Trrr, bitch!..

Who is this with you? - Levinson asked, driving up close.

Osokinsky intelligence... the Japanese in Maryanovka...

In Maryanovka? - Levinson perked up. -Where is Osokin and his squad?

“In Krylovka,” said one of the scouts. - We retreated: the battle was terrible, we could not resist. They sent it to you for communication. Tomorrow we are leaving for the Korean farms... - He leaned heavily on the saddle, as if the cruel burden of his own words was crushing him. - Everything has gone to waste. Forty people were lost. There was no such loss throughout the summer.

Are you filming early from Krylovka? asked Levinson. - Turn back - I'll go with you...

He returned to the detachment almost in the afternoon, thinner, with bloodshot eyes and a head heavy from insomnia.

The conversation with Osokin finally confirmed the correctness of Levinson’s decision - to leave in advance, covering his tracks. The appearance of the Osokinsky detachment itself spoke about this even more eloquently: it was falling apart at all the seams, like an old barrel with rotten rivets and rusty hoops, which had been hit hard with a butt. People stopped obeying the commander, wandered aimlessly around the courtyards, many were drunk. I especially remember one, shaggy and skinny - he sat in the square near the road, staring at the ground with dull eyes, and in blind despair he fired cartridge after cartridge into the whitish morning darkness.

Returning home, Levinson immediately sent his letters to their destinations, without telling anyone, however, that he planned to leave the village for the coming night.

VII. Enemies

In his first letter to Stashinsky, sent the very next day after the memorable peasant gathering, Levinson shared his concerns and proposed gradually unloading the infirmary so that there would not be an unnecessary burden later. The doctor re-read the letter several times, and because he blinked especially often, and the jaws were increasingly visible on his yellow face, everyone felt unwell and confused. It was as if from the small gray bag that Stashinsky held in his dry hands, a vague Levinsonian anxiety crawled out, hissing, and from every blade of grass, from every spiritual bottom, the comfortably stagnant silence was scared away.

Somehow, the clear weather suddenly broke, the sun alternated with rain, the Manchurian black maples sang sadly, feeling the breath of the near autumn before anyone else. The old black-billed woodpecker beat on the bark with unprecedented ferocity - Pika became bored, became silent and unkind. He wandered around the taiga all day long, arriving tired and dissatisfied. He took up sewing - the threads got tangled and torn, he sat down to play checkers - he lost; and he had the feeling that he was drawing rotten swamp water through a thin straw. And people were already leaving for the villages - they were rolling up joyless soldier's bundles - smiling sadly, they walked around each one "by the hand." The sister, having examined the bandages, kissed the “brothers” goodbye, and they walked, drowning their new little shoes in the moss, into the unknown distance and slush.

Varya was the last to see off the lame man.

“Goodbye, brother,” she said, kissing him on the lips. - You see, God loves you - he gave you a good day... Don’t forget us, the poor...

Where is he, God? - the lame man grinned. “There’s no God... no, no, you’re a nasty louse!..” He wanted to add something else, the usual cheerful and rich thing, but suddenly, his face trembling, he waved his hand and, turning away, hobbled along the path , terribly rattling the pot.

Now only Frolov and Mechik remained among the wounded, and also Pika, who, in fact, was not sick with anything, but did not want to leave. Mechik, in a new shagreen shirt sewn for him by his sister, sat half-sitting on the bed, propping up a pillow and Pikin’s robe. He was no longer wearing a bandage on his head, his hair had grown long and curled in thick yellowish rings, the scar at his temple made his whole face look more serious and older.

“You’ll get better and you’ll leave soon,” the sister said sadly.

Where will I go? - he asked uncertainly and was surprised himself. The question came up for the first time and gave rise to vague, but already familiar ideas - there was no joy in them. The little sword winced. “I have nowhere to go,” he said harshly.

So here you go!.. - Varya was surprised. - You will go to the detachment, to Levinson. Can you ride a horse? Our cavalry detachment... Never mind, you'll learn...

She sat down next to him on the bed and took his hand. Mechik did not look at her, and the thought that sooner or later he would have to leave seemed unnecessary to him now, bitter like poison.

“Don’t be afraid,” Varya said, as if understanding him. “So handsome and young, but timid... You’re timid,” she repeated tenderly and, looking around inconspicuously, kissed him on the forehead. There was something maternal in her affection. “... It’s Shaldyba’s there, but we have nothing...” she quickly whispered in her ear, without finishing the words. - He has villagers there, but we have more miners, our own guys - we can get along... You come to see me more often...

What about Morozka?

What about that one? On the card? - she answered with a question and laughed, retreating from Mechik, because Frolov turned his head.

Well... I forgot to even think... I tore the card,” he added hastily, “did you see the papers then?..”

Well, with Morozka it’s even less so - he’s probably used to it. Yes, he goes for walks himself... It’s okay, don’t be discouraged, the main thing is to come more often. And don’t give it to anyone... don’t give it to yourself. There is no need to be afraid of our guys - they are the ones who look evil: put your finger in your mouth and they will bite it off... But all this is not scary - it’s just appearance. You just need to show your teeth...

Are you showing it?

My business is a woman’s thing, maybe I don’t need this - I’ll take it for love. But a man can’t live without it... Only you can’t,” she added, after thinking. And again, leaning towards him, she whispered: “Maybe I love you for this... I don’t know...

“It’s true, I’m not brave at all,” thought Mechik, putting his hands under his head and staring at the sky with a motionless gaze. “But really I can’t? After all, it’s necessary somehow, others can do it...” In his thoughts, however, , there was no sadness now - melancholy and lonely. He could already look at everything from the outside - with different eyes.

This happened because there was a turning point in his illness, the wounds quickly healed, his body became stronger and plumper. And it came from the earth - the earth smelled of alcohol and ants - and even from Varya - her eyes were sensitive, like smoke, and she said everything out of good love - she wanted to believe.

“...And why should I really be despondent?” thought Mechik, and it really seemed to him now that there was no reason to be despondent. “I must immediately put myself on an equal footing: don’t let anyone down... don’t let yourself down.” "She said it very correctly. The people here are different, I need to change somehow... And I will do it," he thought with unprecedented determination, feeling almost filial gratitude to Varya, to her words, to her good love -... Everything will then go in a new way... And when I return to the city, no one will recognize me - I will be completely different..."

His thoughts were distracted far away - to bright, future days - and therefore they were light, melting by themselves, like pink-quiet clouds over a taiga clearing. He thought about how he and Varya would return to the city in a rocking carriage with the windows open, and the same pink-quiet clouds would float outside the window over the distant, dying ridges. And the two of them will sit by the window, clinging to each other: Varya says good words to him, and he strokes her hair, and her braids will be completely golden, like midday... And Varya in his dreams, too, did not look like the stooped hauler from mine No. 1, because everything Mechik was thinking about was not real, but the way he would like to see everything.

A few days later a second letter arrived from the detachment; Morozka brought it. He caused a big stir - he burst out of the taiga with a squeal and a boom, rearing his stallion and shouting something absurd. He did it out of excess vitality and... just “for fun.”

“He’s wearing you, the devil,” said the frightened Pika with a melodious reproach. “Here a man is dying,” he nodded at Frolov, “and you’re screaming...

Ahh... Father Seraphim! - Morozka greeted him. - Ours for you - forty-one with a tassel!..

I’m not your father, but my name is F-Fedor...” Pika became angry. Lately he had often been angry, becoming funny and pitiful.

It’s okay, Fedosei, don’t bubble, or your hair will fall out... Respect to your wife! - Morozka bowed to Varya, taking off his cap and putting it on Pikin’s head. - It’s okay, Fedosey, the cap suits you. Just pick up your pants, otherwise they hang like a scarecrow, very unintelligent!

Should we reel in the fishing rods soon? - Stashinsky asked, tearing open the envelope. “You’ll come into the barracks later for an answer,” he said, hiding the letter from Kharchenka, who was craning his neck over his shoulder at the risk of his life.

Varya stood in front of Morozka, fingering her apron and feeling awkward for the first time when meeting her husband.

Why haven't you been for a long time? - she finally asked with feigned indifference.

And you must have been bored? - he asked mockingly, feeling her incomprehensible aloofness. “Well, it’s okay, now you’ll be happy – let’s go into the forest...” He paused and added caustically: “To suffer...”

“It’s all your business,” she answered dryly, not looking at him and thinking about Mechik.

And you?.. - Morozka played with his whip expectantly.

And this is not the first time for me, some are not strangers...

So let’s go?..” he said carefully, without moving from his place. She lowered her apron and, throwing back her braids, walked forward along the path with a careless, deliberate gait, trying not to look back at Mechik. She knew that he was looking after her with a pitiful, confused look and would never understand, even then, that she was only performing a boring duty.

She expected Morozka to hug her from behind at any moment, but he did not come closer. They walked like this for quite a long time, keeping their distance and silently. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore and stopped, looking at him with surprise and expectation. He came closer, but did not take it.

You’re playing a trick, girl...” he said suddenly hoarsely and deliberately. - Already in trouble, or what?

What are you - demand? - She raised her head and looked at him point-blank - obstinately and boldly.

Morozka knew before that she walked in his absence the same way she walked with girls. He knew this from the first day of their life together, when he woke up on a drunken morning with a headache, in a pile of bodies on the floor, and saw that his young and legitimate wife was sleeping in an embrace with the red-haired Gerasim, a cutter from Mine No. 4. But— both then and throughout his subsequent life, he treated this with complete indifference. In fact, he never tasted true family life and never felt like a married man. But the thought that his wife’s lover could be a man like Mechik now seemed very offensive to him.

Who are you, I would like to know? - he asked deliberately politely, holding her gaze with a casual and calm grin: he did not want to show offense. - In this, my mother’s, or what?

And even if it’s my mother’s...

Yes, he’s fine - he’s clean,” Morozka agreed. - It will be sweeter. You use our handkerchiefs to wipe away his snot.

If necessary, I will do it in the morning... I will do it in the morning! do you hear? “She brought her face close and spoke quickly and excitedly: “Well, why are you being brave, what’s the use of your daring?” For three years you haven’t made a child - you’re just wagging your tongue, and then there’s... The tire hero!..

You’re going to get hurt, how can you, if there’s a whole platoon working here... Don’t shout,” he cut her off, “or else...

Well, what - “not that”?.. - she said defiantly. - Maybe you’ll hit me?.. Well, try it, I’ll see...

He raised the whip in surprise, as if this thought had come as an unexpected revelation to him, and lowered it again.

No, I won’t hit you...” he said hesitantly and with regret, as if he was still wondering whether he should really blow up. “It should have been, but I’m not used to beating your brother.” - There were notes in his voice that were unfamiliar to her.

Well, well, live. Maybe you'll be a lady... - He turned sharply and walked towards the barracks, knocking off the flower heads with his whip as he went.

Listen, wait!..” she shouted, suddenly filled with pity. -- Vania!..

“I don’t need the master’s scraps,” he said sharply. - Let them use mine...

She hesitated whether to run after him or not, and did not run. She waited until he disappeared around the bend, and then, licking her dry lips, she slowly followed.

Seeing Morozka, who returned too soon from the taiga (the orderly walked, waving his arms wildly, with a heavy, gloomy walk), Mechik realized that Morozka and Varya “didn’t work out” and the reason for this was he, Mechik. An awkward joy and a feeling of causeless guilt stirred in him unnecessarily, and he became afraid to meet Morozkin’s withering gaze...

Right next to the bed, a shaggy stallion was nibbling the grass with a crunch: it seemed that the orderly was walking towards him, in fact, a dark, distorted force was drawing him to Mechik, but Morozka hid this even from himself, full of insatiable pride and contempt. With each step, Mechik’s feeling of guilt grew, and his joy evaporated; he looked at Morozka with cowardly, inward-looking eyes and could not tear himself away. The orderly grabbed the stallion by the bridle, he pushed him away with his muzzle, turning towards Mechik as if on purpose, and Mechik was suddenly choked by a strange and heavy gaze, clouded with hatred. In that short second he felt so humiliated, so unbearably disgusting that he suddenly spoke with just his lips, without words - he had no words.

“Sit here in the rear,” Morozka said with hatred in time with his dark thoughts, not wanting to listen to Mechik’s silent explanations. - They put on shagreen shirts...

He felt offended that Mechik might think that his anger was caused by jealousy, but he himself was not aware of its true reasons and cursed long and badly.

Why are you swearing? - Mechik asked, flushing, feeling an incomprehensible relief after Morozka swore. “My legs are broken, not in the rear...” he said with an angry, proud trembling and bitterness. At that moment he believed himself that his legs were broken, and in general he felt as if it was not he, but Morozka who was wearing shagreen shirts. “We also know such front-line soldiers,” he added, blushing, “I would have told you too, if I weren’t obliged to you... to my misfortune...”

Yeah... stuck? - Morozka screamed, almost jumping, still not listening to him and not wanting to understand his nobility. “Have you forgotten how I pulled you out of the fire?.. We are dragging you on our head!..” he shouted so loudly, as if every day he was dragging the wounded “out of the fire” like chestnuts, “on his head!” .. here you are sitting with us!.. - And he hit himself on the neck with incredible ferocity.

Stashinsky and Kharchenko jumped out of the barracks. Frolov turned his head with painful surprise.

What are you shouting? asked Stashinsky, blinking one eye with eerie speed.

Where is my conscience?! - Morozka shouted in response to Mechik’s question where his conscience is. - Here it is, conscience - here, here! - he hacked furiously, making obscene gestures. From the taiga, from different directions, the sister and Pika were running, shouting something in rivalry. Morozka jumped on the stallion and pulled him hard with a whip, which happened to him only in moments of greatest excitement. The bear reared up and jumped to the side as if scalded.

Wait, you’ll grab the letter!.. Morozka!.. - Stashinsky shouted in confusion, but Morozka was no longer there. From the disturbed thicket came the frantic clatter of retreating hooves.

VIII. First move

The road ran towards him like an endless elastic ribbon, the branches painfully whipped Morozka in the face, and he kept driving and driving the crazy stallion, full of frantic anger, resentment, and revenge. Individual moments of the absurd conversation with Mechik - one more scathing than the other - were born again and again in his heated brain, and yet it seemed to Morozka that he had not expressed his contempt for such people strongly enough.

He could, for example, remind Mechik how he clung to him with greedy hands in the barley field, how the fear for his little life beat in his distraught eyes. He could cruelly ridicule Mechik's love for a curly-haired young lady, whose portrait, perhaps, is still kept in his jacket pocket, near his heart, and give this beautiful, clean young lady the most vile names... Then he remembered that Mechik was "confused" with his wife and is unlikely to be offended now for the clean young lady, and instead of malicious triumph over the humiliation of his enemy, Morozka again felt his irreparable offense.

The bear, completely offended by the owner’s injustice, ran until the bit became weak in his overworked lips; then he slowed down and, not hearing any new urgings, walked at an ostentatiously fast pace, just like a man who has been offended, but does not lose his dignity. He didn't even pay attention to the jays - they screamed too much that evening, but, as always, in vain, and seemed to him more fussy and stupid than usual.

The taiga parted with the evening birch fringe, and the sun beat through its red gaps, right in the face. It was cozy, transparent, fun here - so unlike the human bustle of the people here. Morozka's anger cooled. The offensive words that he said or wanted to say to Mechik had long ago lost their vindictively bright plumage and appeared in all their plucked ugliness: they were needlessly loud and frivolous. He already regretted that he got involved with Mechik - he did not “stick to the mark” to the end. He now felt that Varya was not at all as indifferent to him as it had seemed before, and at the same time he firmly knew that he would never return to her. And because Varya was the closest person who connected him with his former life at the mine, when he lived “like everyone else,” when everything seemed simple and clear to him - now, having parted with her, he experienced such a feeling as if this large and integral period of his life has ended, and a new one has not yet begun.

The sun looked under Morozka's visor - it still stood above the ridge with an impassive, unblinking eye, but the fields around were alarmingly deserted.

He saw unharvested sheaves of barley on half-harvested strips, a woman's apron forgotten in a hurry on the suslon (Suslon - sheaves compiled from stubble.), a rake stuck with the butt end into the boundary. On a crooked haystack, a crow sat sadly, orphan-like, and was silent. But all this floated past consciousness. Morozka stirred up the long-standing caked dust of memories and discovered that it was not at all cheerful, but a very joyless, damned burden. He felt abandoned and alone. It seemed as if he himself was floating over a huge deserted field, and the alarming emptiness of the latter only emphasized his loneliness more strongly.

He woke up from the sound of a horse tramping suddenly from behind a hillock. As soon as he raised his head - a slender figure of a watchman on a big-eyed horse in trouble, tied at the waist, appeared in front of him - from surprise she sat down on her hind legs.

Well, you, koblo, here's a koblo!.. - the patrolman cursed, catching his cap knocked off by a push in mid-flight. - Frost, or what? Get home quickly, get home: we have something like that there - if you don’t understand it, you won’t understand it, by God...

Yes, deserters passed here, they said a whole cartload, a whole cartload - the Japanese are supposed to be here any minute! Men from the field, women in a roar, women in a roar... They overtook the carts at the ferry, that's your market - fun!.. Few of the ferrymen were killed; ours drove away ten miles away - the Japanese were not even heard of, not heard of - nonsense. They came across, bitches!.. To shoot for such things is a pity for the cartridges, and a pity, by God... - The watchman splashed saliva, waved his whip and then took off and then put on his cap, dashingly shaking his curls, as if, in addition to everything else, I also wanted to say: “Look, dear, how the girls love me.”

Morozka remembered how two months ago this guy stole a tin mug from him, and then swore that he had it “from the German front.” He didn’t feel sorry for the mug now, but this memory - immediately, faster than the words of the patrolman, whom Morozka did not listen to, busy with his own business - pushed him into the usual rut of squad life. The urgent relay race, Kanunnikov's arrival, Osokin's retreat, the rumors that the detachment had been feeding on lately - all this washed over him in an alarming wave, washing away the black scum of the past day.

What deserters, why are you chattering? - he interrupted the watchman. He raised an eyebrow in surprise and froze with his cap raised, which he had just taken off and was about to put on again. - You just have to push the style, Zhenya with a pen! - Morozka said contemptuously; he angrily pulled the reins and a few minutes later he was already at the ferry.

The hairy ferryman, with his trouser leg rolled up, with a huge boil on his knee, was indeed exhausted, driving the overloaded ferry back and forth, and yet many were still crowded on this side. As soon as the ferry reached the shore, a whole avalanche of people, bags, carts, shouting children, cradles fell on it - everyone tried to be the first to catch up; all this was pushing, screaming, creaking, falling - the ferryman, having lost his voice, tore his throat in vain, trying to restore order. The snub-nosed woman, who had managed to personally talk to the deserters, tormented by an insoluble contradiction between the desire to get home quickly and tell her news to those remaining, was late for the ferry for the third time, pointed after her with a huge, larger than herself, bag of tops for pigs and then prayed: “Lord , Lord,” then she began to tell again, only to be late for the fourth time.

Morozka, having found himself in this confusion, wanted, out of old habit (“for fun”), to scare him even more, but for some reason he changed his mind and, jumping off his horse, began to calm him down.

And I want to lie to you, there are no Japanese there,” he interrupted the completely frantic woman, “he will also tell you: “They are letting the gases in...” What kind of gases are there? The Koreans may have burned the straw, but they gave her gas...

The men, forgetting about the woman, surrounded him - he suddenly felt like a big, responsible man and, rejoicing at his unusual role and even at the fact that he had suppressed the desire to “scare” - until then he refuted and ridiculed the stories of the deserters, until he finally chilled the crowd. When the next ferry arrived... there was no longer such a crush. Morozka himself directed the carts one by one, the men complained that they had left the field early, and, annoyed with themselves, scolded the horses. Even the snub-nosed woman with the sack finally ended up in someone's cart between two horses' muzzles and a man's wide butt.

Morozka, leaning over the railing, watched the white circles of foam running between the boats - none of them overtook the other - their natural order reminded him of how he himself had just organized the men; It was a nice reminder.

Near the cattle he met a patrol shift - five guys from Dubov's platoon. They greeted him with laughter and good-natured swearing, because they were always glad to see him, but they had nothing to talk about, and also because they were all healthy and strong guys, and the evening was coming cool, cheerful.

Roll like a sausage!.. - Morozka saw them off and looked after them with envy. He wanted to be with them, with their laughter and swearing - to rush together on patrol on a cool and cheerful evening.

The meeting with the partisans reminded Morozka that, when leaving the hospital, he did not take Stashinsky’s letters, and for this he could get caught. The picture of the meeting, when he almost flew out of the detachment, suddenly appeared before his eyes, and something immediately pinched. Morozka only now realized that this event was perhaps the most important for him in the last month - much more important than what happened in the hospital.

Mikhryutka,” he said to the stallion and took him by the withers. “I’m tired of everything, brother, up to the bully mother...” Mishka shook his head and snorted.

Approaching the headquarters, Morozka made a firm decision to “don’t give a damn about everything” and ask to join the guys in the platoon, relinquishing his duties as an orderly.

On the porch of the headquarters, Baklanov interrogated the deserters - they were unarmed and under guard. Baklanov, sitting on the step, wrote down the names.

Ivan Filimonov...” one babbled in a plaintive voice, stretching his neck with all his might.

How?..” Baklanov asked menacingly, turning his whole body towards him, as Levinson usually did. (Baklanov thought that Levinson was doing this, wanting to emphasize the special significance of his questions; in fact, Levinson turned this way because he had once been wounded in the neck and could not turn at all otherwise.)

Filimonov?.. Patronymic!..

Where is Levinson? - asked Morozka. They nodded to him at the door. He straightened his forelock and entered the hut.

Levinson was working at a table in the corner and did not notice him. Morozka played with the whip in indecision. Like everyone else in the detachment, the commander seemed to Morozka to be an unusually correct person. But since life experience told him that the right people did not exist, he tried to convince himself that Levinson, on the contrary, was the greatest swindler and “on his own.” Nevertheless, he was also sure that the commander “sees through everything” and it is almost impossible to deceive him: when he had to ask for something, Morozka experienced a strange malaise.

“And you’re still fiddling around with papers like a mouse,” he said finally. - I delivered the package in perfect condition.

No answer?

Nope...

OK. - Levinson put down the map and stood up.

Listen, Levinson... - Morozka began. - I have a request for you... If you fulfill it, you will be an eternal friend, really...

Eternal friend? - Levinson asked with a smile. - Well, tell me what the request is.

Let me join the platoon...

In the platoon?.. Why did you feel the need to do this?

Yes, it’s too long to tell - it’s too long for me, trust me in my conscience...

I’m definitely not a partisan, but so...” Morozka waved his hand and frowned so as not to curse and ruin things.

And who is the orderly?

Yes, Efimka can be adapted,” Morozka latched on. “Oh, and the rider, I’ll tell you, he won prizes in the old army!”

So, you say, an eternal friend? - Levinson asked again in such a tone, as if this consideration could be of decisive importance.

Don’t laugh, damn cholera!.. - Morozka couldn’t stand it. - Come to him with business, but he’s rude...

Don't get excited. It’s harmful to get excited... You tell Dubov to send Efimka, and... you can go.

This is a friend, this is a friend!.. - Morozka was delighted. “Here he put a stamp... Levinson... this n-number!..” He tore his cap off his head and slammed it on the floor.

Levinson raised his cap and said:

Morozka arrived at the platoon - it was already dark. He found about twelve people in the hut. Dubov, sitting astride a bench, disassembled the revolver by the light of a night lamp.

Ah, unclean blood... - he said in a deep voice from under his mustache. When he saw the package in Morozka’s hands, he was surprised. - What are you doing with all your personal belongings? Demoted, or what?

Sabbath! - Morozka shouted. - Resignation!.. A feather in the ass, without a pension... Equip Efimka - the commander orders...

Apparently you made friends? - Yefimka, a dry and bilious guy overgrown with lichen, asked caustically.

Get out, get out - we'll sort it out there... In a word - with a promotion, Efim Semenovich!.. Magarych is off you...

From the joy of being among the guys again, Morozka burst out with jokes, teased, pinched the hostess, and spun around the hut until he bumped into the platoon commander and knocked over some gun oil.

Cripple, unoiled twirl! - Dubov swore and slapped him on the back so that Morozka’s head was almost separated from his body.

And even though it was very painful. Morozno was not offended - he even liked the way Dubov swears, using his own, unknown words and expressions: he took everything here for granted.

Yes... it's time, it's time... - said Dubov. “It’s good that you joined us again.” Otherwise, he’s completely worn out - rusty, like a loose bolt, it’s a disgrace because of you...

Everyone agreed that this was good, but for a different reason: the majority liked exactly what Dubov didn’t like about Morozk.

Morozka tried not to remember the trip to the hospital. He was very afraid that someone would ask: “How is your wife doing?..”

Then, together with everyone else, he went to the river to water the horses... Owls screamed dully, fearlessly in the background, horse heads floated in the fog above the water, stretched out in silence, ears pricked; Near the shore dark-faced bushes shrank in the cold honeydew. “This is life...” thought Morozka and whistled affectionately to the stallion.

At home they repaired saddles and wiped down rifles; Dubov read letters from the mine aloud, and when he went to bed, he appointed Morozka as an orderly “on the occasion of his return to Timofeev’s bosom.”

All evening Morozka felt like a good soldier and a good, necessary person.

At night, Dubov woke up from a strong push in his side.

What? what?.. - asked scared and sat down. Before he had time to open his eyes to the dim night light, he heard, or rather felt, a distant shot, and after a while another.

Morozka stood by the bed, shouting:

Get up quickly! They are shooting across the river!.. Rare single shots followed one after another at almost regular intervals.

“Wake up the guys,” Dubov ordered, “cut all the huts now... Soon!..”

A few seconds later, in full combat gear, he jumped out into the yard. The sky parted - windless and cold. The stars ran in confusion along the hazy, untrodden paths of the Milky Way. Disheveled partisans jumped out of the dark hole in the hayloft, one after another, cursing, fastening their cartridge belts as they went, and leading out their horses. Chickens flew from their perches with frantic cackling, horses thrashed and neighed.

To the gun!.. to the horses! - Dubov commanded. - Mitriy, Senya!.. Run through the huts, wake up people... Soon!..

A dynamite rocket took off from the square near the headquarters and rolled across the sky with a smoky hiss. The sleepy woman leaned out the window and quickly dived back.

Stop it... - someone said in a falling, trembling voice. Yefimka, rushing from headquarters, shouted at the gate:

Alarm!.. Everyone is ready for the gathering place!.. - He threw his bared horse's mouth over the crown and, shouting something else incomprehensible, disappeared.

When the messengers returned, it turned out that more than half of the platoon did not spend the night at home: they had gone out for a party in the evening and, apparently, stayed with the girls. Confused, Dubov, not knowing whether to march with the available personnel or go to headquarters to find out for himself what was the matter, swearing at God and the Holy Synod, sent to all ends to look for one by one. Twice the orderlies came with the order to immediately arrive with the entire platoon, but he still could not find the people, rushed around the yard like a captured animal, was ready to shoot himself in the forehead in despair and, perhaps, would have done so if he had not felt all the time its heavy responsibility. Many that night suffered from his merciless fists.

Finally, admonished by the hysterical howl of a dog, the platoon rushed to the headquarters, filling the fear-ridden streets with the mad clatter of horses and the clanking of steel.

Dubov was very surprised to find the entire detachment in the square. Along the main road stretched a convoy ready to set off; many, having dismounted, sat near the horses and smoked. He looked for the small figure of Levinson, who was standing near the torch-lit logs and calmly talking to Metelitsa.

Why are you so late? - Baklanov attacked. - And you also say: “We-s... miners...” - He was beside himself, otherwise he would never have said such a phrase to Dubov. The platoon commander just waved his hand. The most offensive thing for him was the knowledge that this young guy Baklanov now has the legal right to blaspheme him in every possible way, but even that blasphemy would not be a worthy payment for his, Dubov’s, guilt. In addition, Baklanov stung him where it hurt most: in the depths of his soul, Dubov believed that the title of miner was the highest and most honorable that a person could bear on earth. Now he was sure that his platoon had disgraced itself, the Suchansky mine, and the entire mining tribe, at least to the seventh generation.

Having cursed to his heart's content, Baklanov left to remove patrols. From five guys who returned from across the river. Dubov learned that there was no enemy, and they were shooting “at the white light, like at a penny,” on Levinson’s orders. He realized then that Levinson wanted to test the combat readiness of the detachment, and he felt even more bitter from the realization that he had not lived up to the commander’s trust and had not become an example for others.

When the platoons lined up and took roll call, it was discovered that many were still missing. Kubrak had a particularly large number of deserters. Kubrak himself went during the day to say goodbye to his relatives and still hasn’t sobered up. Several times he addressed his platoon with a speech - “can they respect him if he is such a scoundrel and a pig” - and cried. And the whole detachment saw that Kubrak was drunk. Only Levinson did not seem to notice this, otherwise Kubrak would have had to be removed from his post, and there was no one to replace him.

Levinson drove through the formation and, returning to the middle, raised his hand. She hung coldly and sternly. Secret night noises began to be heard.

Comrades...” Levinson began, and his voice, quiet but distinct, was heard by everyone like the beating of his own heart. - We are leaving here... where - this is not worth saying now. The Japanese forces - although they should not be exaggerated - are still such that it is better for us to take cover for the time being. This does not mean that we are completely away from danger. No. It constantly hangs over us, and every partisan knows about it. Do we justify our partisan title?.. Today we didn’t justify it at all... We let ourselves go like girls!.. Well, what if there were actually Japanese?.. But they would have strangled us like chickens!.. Shame !.. - Levinson quickly leaned forward, and his last words immediately lashed out like an unfurled spring, so that everyone suddenly felt like they were taken by surprise by a chicken being strangled in the dark by inexorable iron fingers.

Even Kubrak, who did not understand anything, said with conviction:

Correct... Everything is... correct... - he turned his square head and hiccuped loudly.

Dubov expected from minute to minute that Levinson would say: “Here, for example. Dubov - he came today to a no-nonsense analysis, and yet I hoped for him more than anyone - shame!..” But Levinson did not mention anyone by name. In general, he spoke little, but stubbornly hit one place, as if he was hammering in a massive nail that would serve forever. Only after making sure that his words had reached their destination, he looked towards Dubov and suddenly said:

Dubov's platoon will go with the convoy... He's too fast... - he stretched out in his stirrups and, waving his whip, commanded: - Smi-i-irno... three on the right... a-a-arsh!..

Mouthpieces rattled in agreement, saddles creaked noisily, and, swaying in the night like a huge fish in a pool, a thick line of people swam to where

IX. Sword in the squad

Stashinsky learned about the performance from a nachkhoz assistant who arrived at the infirmary to stockpile food.

He, Levinson, is savvy,” said the assistant, exposing his faded, humpbacked back to the sun. - Without him, we would all be lost... So think about it here: no one knows the way to the infirmary, if something happens they will drive us - we will come here with the whole detachment!.. And remember what our names were... and only here and provisions and fodder are stored. A clever idea!.. - The assistant shook his head in admiration, and Stashinsky saw that he was praising Levinson not only because he was actually “savvy”, but also because of the pleasure that it gives the assistant to attribute to another person things that are unusual for him very good qualities.

On the same day, Mechik stood on his feet for the first time. Supported by his arms, he walked across the lawn, feeling the elastic turf under his feet with surprise and joy, and laughed for no reason. And then, lying on the bed, I felt a restless beating of my heart, either from fatigue or from this joyful feeling of the earth. My legs were still trembling from weakness, and a cheerful, jumping itch was wandering throughout my body.

While Mechik was walking, Frolov looked at him with envy, and Mechik could not overcome the feelings of some kind of guilt in front of him. Frolov had been ill for so long that he had exhausted all the compassion of those around him. In their indispensable affection and care, he heard the constant question: “When are you going to die?” - but he didn’t want to die. And the visible absurdity of his clinging to life crushed everyone like a tombstone.

Until the last day of Mechik’s stay in the hospital, a strange relationship stretched between him and Varya, similar to a game, where everyone knew what one wanted and was afraid of the other, but neither dared to make a bold, comprehensive move.

During her difficult and patient life, where there were so many men that it was impossible to distinguish them by the color of their eyes, hair, even by their names, Varya could not say to anyone: “desired, beloved.” Mechik was the first one to whom she had the right to say these words. It seemed to her that only he, so handsome, modest and gentle, was able to satisfy her longing for motherhood and that she fell in love with him precisely for this. In anxious silence, she called him at night, searched for him every day insatiably, greedily, trying to take him away from people in order to give him her late love, but for some reason she never dared to say this directly.

And although Mechik wanted the same thing with all the fervor and imagination of his newly matured youth, he stubbornly avoided being alone with her - he either dragged Pika along with him, or complained about his ill health. He was timid because he had never been intimate with a woman; it seemed to him that it would turn out differently for him than for other people, but that it would be very embarrassing. If he managed to overcome his timidity, the angry figure of Morozka suddenly stood in front of him, as if he were coming from the taiga, waving a whip, and Mechik then experienced a mixture of fear and awareness of his unpaid debt to this man.

In this game he lost weight and grew, but until the last minute he did not overcome his weakness. They left together with Pika, awkwardly saying goodbye to everyone, as if they were strangers. Varya caught up with them on the path.

Let’s at least say goodbye properly,” she said, blushing from running and embarrassment. “There I was somehow shy... this never happened, but here I was shy,” and guiltily thrust an embroidered pouch at him, as all the young girls at the mine did.

Her embarrassment and the gift did not fit in with her - Mechik felt sorry for her and ashamed in front of Pika, he barely touched her lips, and she looked at him with one last smoky look, and her lips were curled.

Look, come on!..” she shouted when they had already disappeared into the thicket. And, not hearing an answer, she immediately sank into the grass and began to cry.

Dear, having recovered from the sad memories, Mechik felt like a real partisan, he even rolled up his sleeves, wanting to tan: it seemed to him that this was very necessary in the new life that he began after a memorable conversation with his sister.

The mouth of Irokhedza was occupied by Japanese troops and Kolchak troops. Pika was cowardly, nervous, and complained all the way about non-existent pain. Mechik could not persuade him to go around the village through the valley. I had to climb along ridges, along unknown goat trails. They went down to the river on the second night along rocky cliffs, almost getting killed - Mechik still felt unsteady on his feet. Almost by morning we got to the Korean fanza; They greedily swallowed chumiza without salt, and, looking at the tormented, pitiful figure of Pika, Mechik could not restore the image of a quiet and bright old man over a quiet reed lake that had once captivated him. With his crushed appearance, Pika seemed to emphasize the fragility and deceit of this silence, in which there is no rest and salvation.

Then we walked through rare villages where no one had heard of the Japanese. To the question - did the detachment pass? - they were pointed to the upper reaches, asked for news, given honey kvass, the girls looked at Mechik. The woman's suffering has already begun. The roads were drowned in thick, eared wheat, empty cobwebs were dewy in the mornings, and the air was full of the pre-autumn plaintive hum of bees.

They arrived in Shibishi in the evening; the village stood under a wooded mountain, in a warm spot - the setting sun was beating from the opposite side. Near a decrepit chapel overgrown with mushrooms, a group of cheerful, loud-mouthed guys with red bows in full caps were playing gorodki. A little man in high boots and with a long red beard, looking like the kind of gnome they depict in children's fairy tales, has just struck, shamefully missing all the sticks. They laughed at him. The little man smiled embarrassedly, but in such a way that everyone could see that he was not at all embarrassed, but also very cheerful.

Here he is, Levinson,” said Pika.

Yes, there's the red one... - Abandoning the perplexed Mechik, Pika with unexpected, demonic agility trotted towards the little man.

Look, guys, Pika!..

Pika is...

He trudged along, the bald devil!..

The guys, having abandoned the game, surrounded the old man. Mechik remained on the sidelines, not knowing whether to approach or wait until they called.

Who is that with you? - Levinson finally asked.

And the guy is from the hospital...ha-a-nice guy!..

The wounded one is what Morozka brought,” someone inserted, recognizing Mechik. He, hearing what was being said about him, came closer.

The little man, who was so bad at playing gorodki, turned out to have large and dexterous eyes - they grabbed Mechik and, turning him inside out, held him there for several moments, as if they were weighing everything that was there.

“Here I come to join your detachment,” Mechik began, blushing at his rolled up sleeves, which he forgot to turn away. “I used to be with Shaldyba... before I was wounded,” he added for emphasis.

And since when did Shaldyba have it?

Since June - so, since the middle...

Levinson looked at him again with an inquisitive, studying gaze.

Can you shoot?

“I can…” Mechik said uncertainly.

Efimka... Bring the dragoon...

While they were running for the rifle, Mechik felt dozens of curious eyes probing him from all sides, whose silent persistence he began to mistake for hostility.

Well... What should you shoot at? - Levinson looked around.

To the cross! - someone suggested happily.

No, it’s not worth making a cross... Efimka, put the town on a pole, over there...

Mechik took the rifle and almost closed his eyes from the horror that took over him (not because he had to shoot, but because it seemed as if everyone wanted him to miss).

Take it closer with your left hand - it’s easier that way,” someone advised.

These words, spoken with obvious sympathy, helped Mechik a lot. Emboldened, he pulled the trigger and in the roar of the shot - here he finally closed his eyes - he managed to notice how the town flew off the pillar.

You know how...” Levinson laughed. — Did you have to handle the horse?

No,” admitted Mechik, ready to take upon himself even the sins of others after such success.

It’s a pity,” Levinson said. It was clear that he was truly sorry. - Baklanov, give him Zyuchikha. - He squinted slyly. - Take care of her, a harmless horse. The platoon commander will teach you how to take care... Which platoon will we send him to?

I think Kubrak has a shortage,” said Baklanov. - They will be together with Pika.

And then...” Levinson agreed. - Get out...

The very first glance at Zyuchikha made Mechik forget his luck and the boyishly proud hopes it evoked. She was a tearful, mournful mare, dirty white, with a caved-in back and a chaffy belly - a submissive peasant horse, who had plowed more than one tithe in her life. On top of that, she was a foal, and her strange nickname stuck to her like God’s blessing to a lisping old woman.

This is for me, right?.. - asked Mechik in a fallen voice.

The horse is unsightly,” said Kubrak, slapping it on the hindquarters. “Her hooves are weak - either, say, from upbringing, or from a painful attitude... However, you can ride...” He turned his square, gray-haired, crew-cut head to Mechik and repeated with dull conviction : - You can ride...

Don't you have others? - asked Mechik, immediately imbued with impotent hatred of Zyuchikha and the fact that she could be ridden.

Kubrak, without answering, began to boringly and monotonously tell what Mechik should do in the morning, at lunch and in the evening with this shabby mare in order to protect her from innumerable dangers and diseases.

Returned from a campaign - don’t unsaddle right away, - the platoon commander taught, - let him stand, cool down. And as soon as you unsaddle, wipe her back with your palm or some hay, and before you saddle, wipe it too...

Mechik, his lips trembling, looked somewhere over the horse and did not listen. He felt as if this offensive mare with sloppy hooves had been given to him on purpose to humiliate him from the very beginning. Lately, Mechik had been considering every action he took from the angle of the new life he was about to begin. And now it seemed to him that there could be no talk of any new life with this disgusting horse: no one would see that he was already a completely different, strong, self-confident person, but they would think that he was the same, funny Mechik, who cannot be trusted even with a good horse.

This mare, among other things, has foot and mouth disease...” the platoon commander said unconvincingly, not wanting to know how offended Mechik was and whether the words were reaching their destination. - He should be treated with vitriol, but we don’t have vitriol. We treat foot and mouth disease with chicken droppings - the remedy is also very sincere. You need to put it on a cloth and wrap it around the bit in front of the halter - it will help a lot...

“Am I a boy, or what?” thought Mechik, not listening to the platoon commander. “No, I’ll go and tell Levinson that I don’t want to ride such a horse... I’m not at all obliged to suffer for others (he’s pleased was to think that he became a victim for someone else). No, I’ll tell him everything straight out, don’t let him think..."

Only when the platoon commander finished and the horse was entrusted entirely to Mechik’s care did he regret that he had not listened to the explanations. Zyuchikha, with her head down, lazily moved her white lips, and Mechik realized that her whole life was now in his hands. But he still did not know how to manage the simple life of a horse. He couldn’t even properly tie this uncomplaining mare; she wandered around all the stables, poking into other people’s hay, irritating the horses and the orderlies.

Where is he, cholera, this new guy?.. Why doesn’t he mate his mare!.. - someone shouted in the barn. Furious blows of the whip were heard. - Let's go, let's go, bitch!.. Orderly, take the mare away, well...

Mechik, sweating from fast walking and internal heat, turning over the most evil expressions in his head, bumping into thorny bushes, walked along the dark, dormant streets, looking for headquarters. In one place I almost got into a party - the hoarse accordion emanated from the Saratov, cigarettes were puffed, sabers and spurs were clanking, the girls were screaming, the earth was shaking in a crazy dance. Mechik was embarrassed to ask them for directions and walked around. He would have been lost all night if a lone figure had not emerged from around the corner.

Comrade! Where to get to the headquarters? - Mechik called out, coming closer. And I recognized Morozka. “Hello...” he said with great embarrassment.

Morozka stopped in confusion, making some vague sound...

“Second courtyard to the right,” he finally answered, without thinking of anything more. His eyes flashed strangely and walked past without turning around...

“Morozka... yes... he’s here...” thought Mechik and, as in the old days, he felt alone, surrounded by dangers, in the form of Morozka, dark, unfamiliar streets, an uncomplaining mare, with whom no one knows how address.

When he approached the headquarters, his determination completely weakened; he no longer knew why he had come, what he would do and say.

About twenty partisans were lying around a fire lit in the middle of an empty courtyard as huge as a field. Levinson sat right next to the fire, his legs tucked in Korean style, bewitched by the smoky effervescent flame, and reminded Mechik even more of a gnome from a children's fairy tale. The sword approached and stood behind - no one looked back at him. The partisans took turns telling nasty tales, which invariably involved a slow-witted priest with a lascivious priest and a daring guy who walked easily on the ground, deftly inflating his priest because of the priest’s affectionate mercies. It seemed to Mechik that these things were being told not because they were actually funny, but because there was nothing more to tell; They laugh out of duty. However, Levinson listened with attention the entire time, laughing loudly and as if sincerely. When asked, he also told some funny stories. And since he was the most literate among those gathered, his stories turned out to be the most intricate and nasty. But Levinson, apparently, was not at all embarrassed, but spoke mockingly and calmly, and the bad words came as if not affecting him, like strangers.

Looking at him, Mechik involuntarily wanted to tell it himself - in essence, he loved to listen to such things, although he considered them shameful and tried to pretend that he was above them - but it seemed to him that everyone would look at him with surprise and it would turn out very awkward.

He left without joining, carrying in his heart frustration with himself and resentment towards everyone, especially Levinson. “Well, so be it,” thought Mechik, pursing his lips touchily, “I still won’t look after her, let her die. Let’s see what he sings, but I’m not afraid...”

In the following days, he really stopped paying attention to the horse, taking it only to horse training, and occasionally to watering. If he had gotten to a more caring commander, perhaps he would have been pulled up soon, but Kubrak was never interested in what was going on in the platoon, leaving everything to take its course. Zyuchika became overgrown with scabs, walked around hungry, without water, occasionally taking advantage of the pity of others, and Mechik earned everyone’s dislike as “a quitter and a problem.”

Of the entire platoon, only two people were more or less close to him - Pika and Chizh. But he got along with them not because they satisfied him, but because he didn’t know how to get along with anyone else. Chizh himself approached him, trying to gain his favor. Having seized the moment when Mechik, after a quarrel with the separated man over an uncleaned rifle, was lying alone under a canopy, staring blankly at the ceiling. Chizh approached him with a swaggering gait and said:

Are you angry?.. Stop it! Stupid, illiterate person, is it worth paying attention?

“I’m not angry,” Mechik said with a sigh.

So, are you bored? This is a different matter, I can understand that... - Chizh sat down on the removed front of the cart and pulled up his thickly greased boots with a familiar gesture. - Well, you know, I’m bored too - there are few intelligent people here. Unless Levinson, and he too... - Chizh waved his hand and looked meaningfully at his feet.

And what?.. - asked Mechik with curiosity.

Well, you know, he’s not such an educated person at all. Just cunning. The capitalist makes up his own capital on our backs. Don't believe me? - Chizh smiled bitterly. -- Well, yes! You, of course, think that he is a very brave, talented commander. - He pronounced the word “commander” with special gusto. - Come on!.. We made all this up ourselves. I assure you... Well, let’s take at least a specific case of our departure: instead of overthrowing the enemy with a swift blow, we went somewhere into a slum. From higher, you see, strategic considerations! There, perhaps, our comrades are dying, but we have strategic considerations... - Chizh, without noticing, took a pin out of the wheel and annoyedly put it back.

Mechik could not believe that Levinson was really what Chizh portrayed him to be, but it was interesting to listen: he had not heard such competent speech for a long time, and for some reason he wanted there to be some truth in it.

Is this really true? - he said, getting up. - And he seemed to me a very decent person.

Decent?! - Chizh was horrified. His voice had lost its usual sweetish notes, and the consciousness of his superiority now sounded in him. - What a misconception. Just look at the kind of people he selects!.. Well, what is Baklanov? Boy! He thinks a lot about himself, but what kind of assistant commander is he? Couldn't they have found others? Of course, I myself am a sick, wounded man - I was wounded by seven bullets and deafened by a shell - I am not at all chasing such a troublesome position, but, in any case, I would be no worse than him - I will say without boasting...

Maybe he didn’t know that you understand military affairs well?

Lord, I didn't know! Yes, everyone knows about this, ask anyone. Of course, many are envious and will say malicious things to you, but this is a fact!..

Gradually, Mechik also perked up and began to share his moods. They spent the whole day together. And although after several such meetings Chizh became simply unpleasant to Mechik, he still could not get rid of him. He even looked for him himself when he had not seen him for a long time. Chizh taught him to avoid being on duty, from the kitchen - all this had already lost the charm of its novelty and had become a tedious duty.

And from then on, the bustling life of the detachment passed by Mechik. He did not see the main springs of the detachment mechanism and did not feel the need for everything that was being done. In such alienation, all his dreams of a new, bold life were drowned, although he learned to snap back, not to be afraid of people, got tanned and sagged in clothes, outwardly equal to everyone else.

Summary of the novel "Destruction" by A.A. Fadeev chapter by chapter to prepare for the final essay, the Unified State Exam, for the reader's diary.

I. Morozka

The commander of the partisan detachment, Levinson, handed the package to his orderly Morozka and the order to take the package to the commander of another detachment, Shaldyba. Moroznaya doesn’t want to go. Levinson took the letter and ordered Morozka to “roll in all four directions. I don’t need troublemakers.” Morozka changed his mind, took the letter and left. Morozka is a second-generation miner, born in a miner’s barracks, and from the age of twelve he “rolled trolleys.” Even before the revolution, he was dismissed from the army and got married. “He did everything thoughtlessly: life seemed to him simple, unsophisticated, like a round Murom cucumber from the Suchan towers.”

In 1918, he left to defend the Soviets, but failed to defend power, and Morozka joined the partisans.

Hearing the shots, Morozka crawled to the top of the hill and saw that the whites were attacking Shaldyba’s fighters, and they were running. “The enraged Shaldyba lashed with a whip in all directions and could not restrain the people. Some could be seen stealthily tearing off red bows.” Among the retreating Morozka saw a limping guy. He fell, and the fighters ran on. Morozka put the wounded man on his horse and rode to Levinson’s detachment.

II. Mechik

Morozka did not like the rescued boy. “Morozka did not like clean people. In his practice, these were fickle, worthless people who could not be trusted.” Levinson ordered the guy to be taken to the infirmary. The guy was unconscious; in his pocket there were documents addressed to Pavel Mechik. When Mechik woke up, he saw doctor Stashinsky and sister Varya with golden-blond fluffy braids and gray eyes.

Three weeks ago Mechik walked through the taiga, heading to the partisan detachment. People who suddenly appeared from the bushes were suspicious of him at first, beat him, and then accepted him into the detachment. “The people around him did not at all resemble those created by his ardent imagination. These were dirtier, lousier, tougher and more spontaneous...” There were few wounded in the hospital, only two seriously: Frolov and Mechik. The “pretty sister” Varya looked after everyone in the hospital, but she treated Mechik especially “tenderly and caringly.” Old man Pika said that she was “fornicating”: “Morozka, her husband, is in the detachment, and she is fornicating.”

III. Sixth Sense

Morozka thought about Mechik: why do people like him go to the partisans “for anything ready”? Driving past the chestnut tree, Morozka got off his horse and began picking melons until his owner caught him. Khoma Yegorovich Ryabets threatened to find justice for Morozka.

The returning scout reported to Levinson that Shaldyba’s detachment had been battered by the Japanese and that the partisans were now holed up in the Korean winter quarters. Levinson felt that something was wrong.

Levinson’s deputy, Baklanov, brought Ryabets, who indignantly spoke about the theft of Moroznaya’s melons from him. Morozka, summoned for a conversation, did not deny anything, but did not want to surrender his weapon: he believed that this was too severe a punishment for stealing melons. Levinson convened a village meeting.

Levinson asked Ryabets to dry ten pounds of crackers, without explaining for whom. He ordered Baklanov: starting from tomorrow, increase the portion of oats for the horses.

IV. One

Morozka came to the hospital, which disturbed Mechik’s state of mind. Mechik did not understand Morozka’s disdain for him: saving Mechik’s life did not at all give Morozka the right not to respect him. Mechik remembered the events of the past month and burst into tears, covering his head with a blanket.

V. Men and the “coal tribe”

Levinson suspected something and went to the meeting early, hoping to hear the men’s conversations. The men were surprised that the gathering was held on a weekday, and even during the busy season of mowing. They didn’t pay attention to Levinson, they talked about their own things. “He was so small, unprepossessing in appearance - he consisted entirely of a hat, a red beard and ichigs above the knees.” Levinson, listening to the men, understood that he had to go into the taiga and hide, while in the meantime it was necessary to set up posts.

Gradually the miners arrived and enough people had gathered. Levinson greeted miner Dubov.

Ryabets asked Levinson to start the gathering. To him, the story of the theft of melons now seemed petty and troublesome. Levinson believed that this matter concerned everyone. The people were perplexed why they would steal, because if Morozka had asked, he would not have been refused. Dubov proposed to expel Morozka from the detachment. Goncharenko stood up for him: “He’s his own guy, he won’t betray him, he won’t sell him...”

Morozka said that he stole out of habit, and gave the miner his word not to repeat the offense. Levinson offered to help the peasants in his free time, they were happy.

VI. Levinson

For the fifth week, Levinson's detachment was on vacation. Deserters from other units appeared. The detachment was overgrown with things and people, and Levinson was afraid to move. For his subordinates, Levinson was always a support: he hid his doubts and fears, instilled confidence in people. Levinson knew both his own and other people’s weaknesses, he understood: “you can lead other people only by pointing out their weaknesses and suppressing, hiding yours from them.”

Chief of Staff Sukhovey-Kovtun sent Levinson a “terrible relay”: he wrote about the Japanese attack and the defeat of the main partisan forces. Levinson began to collect information, while remaining confident and knowledgeable on the outside: the main task was “to maintain at least small, but strong and disciplined units.”

Levinson warned Baklanov and the nachoz that the detachment was ready to move “at any moment.” That same night I decided to move out of the place.

VII. Enemies

Levinson sent a letter to Stashinsky: it is necessary to gradually unload the infirmary. People began to disperse to the villages. Frolov, Mechik and Pika remained in the infirmary. Pika took root at the hospital. Mechik was told that he would soon join Levinson’s detachment. Mechik dreamed of showing himself as a confident and efficient fighter, of changing.

VIII. First move

The deserters spread panic throughout the area, saying that large Japanese forces were coming. But reconnaissance did not find the Japanese. Morozka asked to join the platoon and recommended Efimka to Levinson as an orderly.

Having moved to the platoon, Morozka was happy. At night they got up on a false alarm - shots were heard across the river, Levinson decided to check the combat readiness of the detachment. Then Levinson announced his performance.

IX. Sword in the squad

Nachkhoz appeared at the hospital to stockpile food. Mechik was already on his feet, he was happy. Soon he and Pika joined the detachment; they were greeted kindly and assigned to Kubrak’s platoon. Mechik was almost offended by the sight of the nag that was given to him. He wanted to express his dissatisfaction, but he didn’t say anything to Levinson, he was timid. I decided to kill the mare without keeping an eye on her. Thus, he gained universal dislike as “a quitter and a troublemaker.” He only became friends with the worthless man Chizh and Pika. Chizh called Levinson “making capital for himself on someone else’s back.” Mechik Chizhu didn’t believe it, but listened to the competent speech with pleasure.

Soon Chizh became unpleasant to Mechik, but it was impossible to get rid of him. Mechik began to learn to defend his point of view, meanwhile the life of the detachment passed him by.

X. The beginning of the defeat

Levinson climbed into the wilderness and almost lost contact with other units. He learned that a train with weapons and uniforms would soon arrive. “Knowing that sooner or later the detachment would be opened anyway, and it was impossible to winter in the taiga without ammunition and warm clothes, Levinson decided to make his first foray.” Dubov's detachment attacked the freight train and returned to the parking lot without losing a single soldier. The partisans were given overcoats, weapons, and crackers. Baklanov decided to test Mechik in action and took him with him on reconnaissance. Mechik liked Baklanov, but the conversation did not work out: Baklanov did not understand Mechik’s abstruse reasoning. In the village, the scouts came across four Japanese soldiers, Baklanov killed two, Mechik killed one, and one ran away. Departing from the farm, the scouts saw the main forces of the Japanese.

The next morning the detachment was attacked by the Japanese. The forces were unequal, and the partisans retreated into the taiga. Mechik was scared, Pika, without raising his head, shot at the tree. Only in the taiga did Mechik come to his senses.

XI. Strada

After the battle, Levinson's squad took refuge in the forest. A reward was placed on Levinson's head and he had to retreat. There was not enough food, people stole from fields and gardens. In order not to drag the wounded Frolov along with him, Levinson decided to poison him. But Mechik overheard this plan and told Frolov. He understood Levinson and drank poison.

XII. Ways-roads

Morozna felt that people like Mechik were covering up their simple little feelings with beautiful words. Frolov was buried, and the detachment moved north. Pika escaped. Morozna remembers her life and is sad about Varya. Varya at this time thinks about Mechik, she sees her salvation in him, for the first time in her life she truly loved someone. Mechik treated her indifferently.

XIII. Cargo

The partisans talked about men and peasant character. Frosty doesn't like men. Dubov too. Goncharenko believes that peasant roots exist in everyone. The sword stands on guard. Levinson goes to inspect the patrols and runs into Mechik. Mechik tells him about his experiences, thoughts, his dislike for the squad, his lack of understanding of everything that is happening around him. Levinson convinces Mechik that there is nowhere to go: they will kill him, and “don’t consider your comrades worse than yourself.” Levinson thinks with regret about people like Mechik.

XIV. Exploration of Metelitsa

Levinson sent Metelitsa on reconnaissance and ordered him to return into the night. But the village turned out to be much further away. Only at night Metelitsa got out of the taiga; in the field he saw a shepherd’s fire. A boy was sitting by the fire. The boy said that the Cossacks killed his parents and brother and burned the house. And now there are Cossacks in the village, and a Cossack regiment in the neighboring village. Metelitsa left the horse to the shepherd and went to the village himself. The village was already asleep. Metelitsa knew from the boy that the squadron leader was stationed in the priest's house. Having crept up to the house of the white commander, Metelitsa eavesdropped, but did not hear anything interesting. A sentry noticed him, and Metelitsa was caught. At this time, everyone in the squad is worried about him and is waiting for his return. By morning, everyone in the detachment was alarmed; Levinson guessed that Metelitsa had fallen into the hands of the enemies.

XV. Three deaths

Waking up in a barn. Metelitsa tried to escape, but it was impossible. He began to prepare for a dignified death, intending to demonstrate to the killers that he “was not afraid and despised them.”

The next day, Metelitsa was taken for interrogation, but he said nothing. A public trial is held. The shepherd boy, with whom Metelitsa left his horse, did not give up Metelitsa. But the owner said that the boy returned from the night with someone else’s horse, to the saddle of which a holster was attached. The officer got angry and began to shake the boy. Metelitsa tried to kill the officer, but he dodged and shot at Metelitsa several times, after which the Cossacks set off along the road along which Metelitsa had arrived. Baklanov became increasingly worried about the delay of Metelitsa. The squad went to his rescue. Before they had time to leave the taiga, the detachment came across the Cossacks. Levinson ordered an attack on them. The man who handed Metelitsa over to the partisans was shot. Morozka’s horse was killed, which came as a shock to him: the horse was his friend.

XVI.Squag

Varya, who was walking to the village after the attack, saw Morozka’s horse killed. Having found Morozka drunk, she took him with her. The whites are attacking the detachment. Levinson decides to retreat into the taiga, into the swamps. The detachment quickly arranges a crossing through the swamps and, having crossed, blows it up. The detachment broke away from the pursuit of the whites, losing almost all its people. “The last to go through the road were Levinson and Goncharenko, and then they blew it up. Morning has come*.

XVII.Nineteen

Ahead, on the bridge, the Cossacks set up an ambush. Levinson realized that people automatically followed him, like a flock following a shepherd. Baklanov suggested sending a patrol ahead. Levinson saw Mechik riding ahead, followed by Morozna. Mechik stumbled upon the Cossacks, silently rolled off his horse and rushed down the slope. The Cossacks were chasing him. Morozna thought only about the upcoming vacation. When the Cossacks appeared in front of him, he realized that Mechik had escaped. Morozna felt pity for the people following him, pulled out a pistol and fired shots at the squad. Baklanov shouted: “For a breakthrough!” Mechik realized that there was no pursuit of him, and became hysterical from the betrayal committed out of cowardice. “And he suffered not so much because because of this act of his, dozens of people who trusted him died, but because the indelibly dirty, disgusting stain of this act contradicted everything that was good and pure that he found in himself.” Mechik took out a pistol, but realized that he could not kill himself. And he decided: “Now I’ll go to the city, I have no choice but to go there*. Eighteen fighters from Levinson's detachment remained alive. Baklanov was killed. Levinson cried for the first time, then “stopped crying; I had to live and fulfill my duties.”