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From CNN posts
... The experiment, which has caused so much controversy in the scientific and public circles, officially began this morning. A hundred prisoners were placed in a colony of the newest type.
... Millions of citizens clung to the screens, watching the global experiment. One hundred criminals of different sex, age and nationality were placed in an autonomous prison, which is completely self-sufficient.
... The main disputes of human rights defenders boil down to two nuances of the experiment: is it reasonable to establish the same term of imprisonment for all offenders and will at least one of a hundred be able to survive in the absence of protection or other management measures?
... Today the first death in the colony "Hundred" was officially announced. The broadcast was immediately interrupted, but a video of the brutal murder was leaked onto the network. A picket has begun at the White House building: people are in favor of closing the experiment.
5 years later.
At the appointed hour, all the prisoners gathered in the main hall in front of a huge screen. They stood in groups: those who were called enlightened people sat on the floor, sitting in a circle in Turkish style, the pacifists stood closely to each other, casting wary glances at the militarists. Another, the smallest group, consisted of individuals - those who did not like any of the proposed directions.
Do you think they will keep their word and let us out of here? asked Octavia, one of the last group. “Five years will expire in a few minutes.
I hope they will, ”Jake replied grimly. - I got tired of fighting every day just to survive.
Hey, bunnies, create silence, ”one of the militarists screamed mockingly, shaking with a homemade sharpener. - Because of your snot, we may not notice the start of the broadcast.
He was unnecessarily worried: as soon as the clock on the wall struck noon, the screen saver "The Hundreds" appeared on the screen, followed by the face of the chief jailer, whom all prisoners without exception called Teluserus.
Actually his name was Thelonius, but Thelooserus sounded better, and in the end this "Teluzeras" turned into an even more biting Teluser.
Greetings prisoners!
How tired they are over the past five years with this face! He got in touch five to seven times a day: he lectured, preached, urged to be kind to each other. His dark-skinned face, on which the seal of wisdom was always glued, infuriated everyone without exception. In the end, the militarists found a way out: in the second year of imprisonment, they covered the screen with sheets. Unfortunately, nothing could be done with the sound, but at least they never had to see that face again.
Today is a great day. Today you will be released as new people.
Get to the point! someone shouted. - I got sick with my sermons!
We decided to call today the Exodus, Teluser continued. - As you know, the roots of this word itself go far into the past, when the Israelites left Egypt by the will of God ...
Yes, how much you can!
Have heard a hundred times!
Let us out of here, condom! We have served our time, that's enough already! Open the doors!
A group of militarists rushed to the wall. There, like a mockery of them, for all five years there was a huge door with an engraved inscription: "An nescis, mi fili, quantilla prudentia mundus regatur" *?
What have they not tried to do with this door in the past five years. They tried to break through, set fire, invented more and more battering rams, but the door held tight and the inscription glared into the eyes with a mock every time someone passed by.
Dozens of hands pounded on the door, drowning out Teluser, who was still broadcasting from the screen. Octavia and Jake exchanged glances.
Why do I have a feeling that this will not end well? - he asked.
You are not alone.
And suddenly something happened. The screen went out, but no one noticed, because the door began to open under frantic blows.
He and Jake obediently stepped back, watching intently as the door opened, letting a streak of light into the bunker. Then the strip became wider, even wider, still, and when the gap became wide enough to let people outside, the militarist guys, pushing each other, began to break out. After them, screaming "The Exodus has begun," the enlightened men climbed.
A few minutes later, there was no one left in the hall except a few peacekeepers and individuals. They hesitated: each had their own reasons not to rush out, but a second passed and another appeared.
Screams were heard outside.
No, not even screams, but rather furious screams, partly belligerent, partly desperate.
What is happening there? Jake asked in horror.
Maybe they were met by government troops? Octavia suggested. - Maybe all this pardon is only fiction and they are shot there?
But no shots were heard, only the sounds of fighting and screams growing louder.
Well, I do not! - said Jake and took a step towards the exit. - We have not waited so long for that, just to stay here for how long! I'll go there and see what happens.
Jake, stop!
In several leaps he reached the slightly open door and jumped out. Octavia followed him, but did not have time: just a second later there was a heart-rending scream, and then Jake tumbled back into the bunker, not ceasing to scream for a second.
Lord, what happened there?
He fell to the floor and only then it became clear that blood was flowing from the numerous wounds on his body.
Be that as it may, one thing was clear: the exodus took place, but it did not bring anything good.
In the last days of May 1793, one of the Parisian battalions sent to Brittany under the command of Santerra, Santerre Antoine-Joseph (1752-1809) - leader of the French revolution, Jacobin, who enjoyed great popularity in the Saint-Antoine suburb, took an active part in the struggle against the Vendean rebels. conducted reconnaissance in the formidable Sodreisky forest near Astille. This detachment now numbered about three hundred people, more than half melted in the crucible of a severe war. That was after the battles at Argonne, Zhemap, Jemap is a Belgian city; at the Battle of Gemap on November 6, 1792, the French republican troops won a brilliant victory over the Austrian troops, which resulted in the occupation of all Belgium by the French troops. and Valmy Valmy is a French village; at the battle of Valmy on September 20, 1792, the Austro-Prussian troops, marching on Paris with the aim of strangling the revolution, were thrown back by the French revolutionary troops and were forced to retreat. The Battle of Valmy marked a turning point in the war between revolutionary France and a coalition of European monarchs. when in the first Parisian battalion of six hundred volunteers there were only twenty-seven people left, in the second - thirty-three and in the third - fifty-seven people. Commemorative year of heroic battles.
All the battalions sent from Paris to Vendée numbered nine hundred and twelve men. Each battalion was given three guns. They formed them in a hurry. April 25, when he was Goye Goye Louis-Jerome (1746-1830) - French politician and lawyer, member of the Legislative Assembly, member of the Directory government, after the coup of 18 Brumaire retired from political activity. Minister of Justice and Bushot Bouchotte Jean-Baptiste-Noel (1754-1840) - leader of the French Revolution, Jacobin, Minister of War in 1793-1794. He showed great energy in organizing the supply of food and ammunition to the revolutionary troops. the Minister of War, the Bon-Conseil section proposed to send several battalions of volunteers to the Vendee; a member of the commune Luben made a corresponding presentation; On May 1, Sunterre could dispatch twelve thousand soldiers, thirty field guns and a battalion of gunners to their destination. The formation of these battalions, which arose at lightning speed, turned out to be so reasonable that to this day it still serves as a model for determining the composition of line companies; it was then that the traditional ratio between the number of soldiers and the number of non-commissioned officers changed for the first time.
On April 28, the Commune of the city of Paris gave its volunteers a short instruction: "No mercy, no leniency!" By the end of May, of the twelve thousand people who left Paris, eight thousand had died in battle.
The battalion, deep into the Sodreisky Forest, was ready for any surprises. We moved forward slowly. Keenly looked around to the right and to the left, forward and backward; no wonder Kleber Kleber Jean-Baptiste (1753-1800) - French general, participant in the wars of the late 18th century; participated in the fight against the Vendéans. He was killed in Egypt during negotiations on the evacuation of French troops from there. said: "The soldier has eyes on the back of his head." They walked for a long time. How long could it be? Is it day or night? It is not known, for in such deaf thickets the evening haze reigns supreme and in the Sodreisky forest twilight is always poured.
The Sodrej forest gained tragic fame. Here, in the middle of the forest, in November 1792, the first atrocity of the civil war took place. From the ruinous wilderness of Sodrei came the fierce lame Musketon; the long list of murders committed in the local woods and copses causes involuntary shivers. There is no place in the whole world more terrible. Deeper into the thicket, the soldiers kept their guard. Everything around was in bloom; we had to wade through the quivering curtain of branches that poured out the sweet freshness of young foliage; the sun's rays struggled through the green mist; under the foot, a skewer, an iris, wild daffodils, spring saffron, nameless flowers - harbingers of warmth, as if they were embellishing a lush carpet of grasses with silk threads and embroidery, into which moss was woven in various patterns; here he scattered his stars, there he squirmed like green worms. The soldiers walked slowly in complete silence, cautiously pushing the bushes apart. Birds chirped over the tips of the bayonets.
In the midst of the Sodreisky forest, once, in times of peace, hunting for birds was arranged, now there was a hunt for people.
The walls were birches, elms and oaks; flat ground was spread under the foot; thick grass and moss absorbed the noise of human steps; no path, and if there was a random path, it immediately disappeared; thickets of holly, thorns, ferns, trellises of thorn bushes, and ten paces away it is impossible to see a person. A heron or a water hen, sometimes flying over the tent of branches, indicated the proximity of a swamp.
And the people kept walking. They walked towards the unknown, fearing and anxiously waiting for the appearance of the one they were looking for.
From time to time, traces of a halt came across - scorched earth, crushed grass, hastily knocked down from sticks, a pile of bloody branches. There they prepared supper, celebrated Mass, and bandaged the wounded there. But the people who have been here have disappeared without a trace. Where are they now? Maybe already far away? Maybe very close, lay in ambush with a gun in hand? The forest seemed to have died out. The battalion moved forward with redoubled circumspection. Lack of people is a sure sign of danger. If you see no one, the more reason to beware. It was not for nothing that there was a bad reputation about Sodreisky forest.
An ambush is always possible in such places.
Thirty grenadiers, dispatched to reconnaissance under the command of a sergeant, had gone far from the main body of the detachment. The battalion waitress went with them. The waitresses generally willingly follow the lead detachment. Let danger lie in wait at every step, but what can you not see enough ... Curiosity is one of the manifestations of female courage.
Suddenly, the soldiers of the small vanguard felt that familiar awe to the hunter, which warns him about the proximity of the animal lair. It was as if a faint breath swept through the branches of a bush, and something seemed to stir in the foliage. Those in front gave a sign to the others.
The officer has nothing to command the scout's actions, which combine tracking with searching; what needs to be done is done by itself.
In the blink of an eye, the suspicious place was surrounded and closed in a ring of uplifted rifles: the black depths of the thicket were targeted from all four sides, and the soldiers, holding their fingers on the trigger, without taking their eyes off the target, waited only for the sergeant's commands.
But the waitress bravely looked under the tent of branches, and when the sergeant was about to give the command: "Fire!", She shouted: "Stop!"
She threw herself into the bush. The soldiers followed her.
And there really was someone there.
In the thick of the bushes at the edge of the round pit, where the lumberjacks, as in a furnace, burn old rhizomes to coal, in the opening of the parted branches, as if in a green room, half-hidden, like an alcove, by a curtain of foliage, a woman sat on moss; a baby clung to her naked breast, and on her knees were the two blond heads of sleeping older children.
This was the ambush!
- What are you doing here? - exclaimed the waitress.
The woman silently raised her head.
“You’re obviously out of your mind that you got here! - added the waitress.
And she concluded:
- Another minute, and you would have been killed on the spot! ..
Turning to the soldiers, she explained:
- This is a woman!
- As if we ourselves do not see! - said one of the grenadiers.
- To go into the forest like that so that they would kill you right there, - the waitress did not calm down, - you have to come up with such stupidity!
The woman, numb with fear, with amazement, as if asleep, looked at the rifles, sabers, bayonets, at the terrible faces.
The children woke up and whimpered.
“I’m hungry,” said one.
“I'm scared,” said the second.
Only the baby continued to calmly suck on the mother's breast.
Looking at him, the waitress said:
- Only you are not at a loss.
The mother was numb with horror.
“Do not be afraid,” the sergeant shouted to her, “we are from the Red Hood battalion!
The woman trembled all over. She looked timidly at the sergeant and saw nothing on his weathered face except a thick mustache, bushy eyebrows and eyes glowing like coal.
“Former Red Cross battalion,” the waitress explained.
- Who are you, madam, will you?
The woman, frozen with horror, did not take her eyes off him. She was thin, pale, still young, in wretched rags; like all Breton peasant women, she threw a huge hood over her head, and a woolen blanket tied at the neck with a rope over her shoulders. With the indifference of a savage, she did not even bother to cover her bare chest. There were no stockings or shoes on their feet, battered in blood.
- A beggar, or what? The sergeant asked.
The waitress interrupted the conversation again:
- What is your name?
The question sounded roughly like a soldier, but there was a purely feminine softness in it.
The woman mumbled in reply:
- Michel Fleshard.
And the waitress, meanwhile, tenderly stroked the baby's head with a rough palm.
- How much time do we have? She asked.
The mother did not understand the question. The canteen repeated:
- I ask, how old is he?
“Ah,” replied the mother. - A year and a half.
“Look what kind of adults we are,” exclaimed the waitress. - It's a shame to suck such. Obviously, I'll have to wean him off his chest. We'll give him some soup.
The mother calmed down a little. The two older children, who in the meantime had already finally woken up, looked around with curiosity and did not seem to even be frightened. The plumes of the grenadiers were very magnificent.
- Ah, - the mother sighed, - they are quite hungry.
- I lost my milk.
“They’ll give them food now,” the sergeant shouted, “and you too. Not about that. Tell us, what are your political beliefs?
The woman stared at the sergeant in silence.
- Don't you hear, or what?
She muttered:
- I was sent to a monastery very young, and then I got married, I'm not a nun. The holy sisters taught me to speak French. Our village was burned. So we ran away in what we were, I didn't even have time to put on my shoes.
- I'm asking you, what are your political convictions?
- I do not know.
But the sergeant did not calm down:
- You must understand, now a lot of spies are divorced. And the spies, brother, are shot. Got it? Therefore, answer. Are you not a gypsy? Where is your homeland?
The woman looked at the sergeant as if she did not understand his words. The sergeant repeated:
- Where is your homeland?
“I don’t know,” the woman replied.
- How so you do not know! Do you know where you are from?
- Where was you born? I know.
- Well, tell me where you were born.
The woman replied:
- At the Siskuanyar farm in the Aze parish.
It was the sergeant's turn to be surprised. He thought for a moment. Then he asked again:
- How did you say?
- Siskunyar.
- So is your Siskuanyar homeland?
- Yes, this is my land.
She knitted her brows and said:
- Now I understand, sir. You are from France and I am from Brittany.
- So what?
- These are different regions.
“But we have only one homeland,” shouted the sergeant.
The woman stubbornly repeated:
- We are Siskuanyar.
- Well, okay, Siskuanyar so Siskuanyar! Is your family from there?
- What are your relatives doing?
- All died! I have nobody.
The sergeant, an eloquent man and a lover of talk, continued the interrogation:
- Everyone has family or were, damn it. Who are you? Come on, speak quickly.
The woman listened, numb, these shouts, similar more to an animal growl than to human speech.
The canteen realized that it was time to intervene again in the conversation. She stroked the head of the nursing infant and patted the two elders affectionately on the cheeks.
- What's the name of the baby? She asked. - In my opinion, she is our girl.
The mother replied:
- Georgette.
- And the eldest? This tomboy, you see, is a gentleman.
- Rene-Jean.
- And the younger one? After all, he is also a real man, look how chubby.
“Gro-Alain,” her mother replied.
- Pretty kids, - the waitress approved, - just look, just adults.
But the sergeant did not calm down:
- Answer me, madam. Do you have a house?
- There was a house.
- Where have you been?
- Why aren't you sitting at home?
- Because he was burned.
- Who burned it?
- I do not know. The war has burned.
- Where are you going from now?
- From there.
- Where are you going?
- I do not know.
- Speak plainly. Who are you?
- I do not know.
- Do you know who you are?
- Yes, we just run, we are saved.
- What party do you sympathize with?
- I do not know.
- Are you blue? White? With whom you are?
- With kids.
There was a silence. It was violated by the waitress.
“But I have no children,” she sighed. - Everything was once.
The sergeant resumed his interrogation.
- And your parents? Come on, madam, tell us about your parents. For example, my name is Radub, I myself am a sergeant, I am from Shersh-Midi street, I had a mother and father, I can tell who my parents are. And you tell about yours. Tell me who were your parents?
- Fleshars. Just Fleshars.
- Fleshars are Fleshars, and Radubs are Radubs. But a person not only has a surname. What did they do, your parents? What they were doing? What are they doing now? Why are they so faked your Fleshars?
- They are ploughmen. The father was crippled, he could not work, after the lord ordered to beat him with sticks; so commanded his lord, our lord; he, senor, we are kind, ordered to beat his father because his father shot a rabbit, and yet death is due for this, but our senor pardoned his father, he said: "Enough with him a hundred sticks", and my father since then and became a cripple.
- Well, what else?
- My grandfather was a Huguenot. Monsieur Curé sent him to the galleys. I was still quite small then.
- My father-in-law was engaged in smuggling - he sold salt. The king ordered to hang him.
- What did your husband do?
- He fought.
- For whom?
- For the king.
- And who else?
- Of course, for his lord.
- And who else?
- Of course, for Monsieur Curé.
- So that you all can be thunderstruck! One of the grenadiers suddenly yelled.
The woman jumped up in fear.
“You see, madam, we are Parisians,” the waitress explained graciously.
The woman folded her hands in fright and exclaimed:
- Oh Lord Jesus!
- Well, well, no superstition! Shouted the sergeant.
The canteen sank down next to the woman on the grass and made the older children sit on her lap, who willingly went to her. In a child, the transition from fear to complete trust occurs in the blink of an eye and for no apparent reason. Some kind of infallible instinct is at work here.
- My poor little thing, little Breton, your children are so cute, just lovely. Now I will tell you how old they are. The bigger one is four years old, and the youngest one three. And this girl, look how she sucks, you can see at once - a noble glutton. Oh, you monster! You eat your mother like that. That's what, madam, you fear nothing. Join our battalion. You will be like me. My name is Gusarsha. This is my nickname. But for me it's better to call the Hussars than Mamzel Two-Horned, like my mother. I’m a canteen, and our business’s business is like serving yourself water, let them shoot and kill all around. At least here everything in the world turn over. You and I have the same foot, I'll give you my shoes. On the tenth of August I was in Paris and served Westermann himself to drink. Westerman is a French general, a participant in the wars against the European coalition and the fight against the Vendée rebels. Well, let me tell you, there was a case! I saw with my own eyes how they guillotined Louis the Sixteenth, Louis Capet, he is now called that. Wow, he didn't want to die! Listen to me, damn it! Just think, chestnuts were roasted for him on the thirteenth of January, and he sat with his family and laughed! When he was forcibly laid “on the board,” as they say in Paris, he was without a frock coat and shoes, only in a shirt, in a pique waistcoat, in gray woolen pants and in gray silk stockings. I saw it with my own eyes ... The carriage in which he was being carried was painted green. Obey me, come with us. We have all nice guys in our battalion, if you will be number two, I’ll teach you the business. There is nothing easier - they will give you a large flask and a bell, and you pace yourself calmly, go into the very hell. Bullets fly, cannons hoot, the noise is hellish, but you know shout: "Well, sons, who wants to drink, well?" I tell you, it's no wonder. For example, I serve everyone to drink. Honestly, really. And blue and white, although I myself am blue. And the real blue. And I serve everyone to drink. After all, every wounded person wants to drink. Everyone dies, both blue and white, without distinction of beliefs. Before death, people should make peace. It's a ridiculous business to fight. Come with us. If they kill me, the case will come to you. You don’t look that I look like that, I’m not an evil woman, and I would be a good soldier. Don't be afraid of anything.
When the waitress finished her speech, the woman muttered:
“Our neighbor's name was Marie-Jeanne, and our servant's name was Marie-Claude.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Radoub berated the grenadier:
- You would be silent! You see, the lady was completely frightened. Can you swear in front of the ladies?
- Why, for an honest man to listen to such words - right in the heart, - the grenadier justified himself, - it's easier to die on the spot than to look at these same overseas monsters: the seigneur mutilated his father, the grandfather was exiled to the galleys because of the priest, the king hung his father-in-law, and they, foolish heads, are fighting, organizing mutinies, ready to let themselves be laid down for the sake of their lord, priest and king!
The sergeant commanded:
- Don't talk in the ranks!
“We don’t talk anyway, sergeant,” replied the grenadier, “but all the same, it’s hard to see how such a pretty woman climbs under the bullets to please some priest!
“Grenadier,” the sergeant cut him off, “we're not here at the Peak Section Club. Don't rant.
He turned to the woman again.
- And where is your husband, madam? What is he doing? What happened to him?
- Nothing happened because he was killed.
- Where did you kill?
- In the woods.
- When did you kill?
- The third day.
- Who killed?
- I do not know.
- Do you know who killed your husband?
- No, I do not know.
- Did the Blues kill? Have the whites killed?
- The gun killed.
- The day before yesterday, you say?
- Near Erne. My husband fell. That's all.
- And when your husband was killed, what did you do?
- I went with the children.
- Where the eyes look.
- Where do you sleep?
- On the ground.
- What are you eating?
- Nothing.
The sergeant made an indescribably ferocious grimace as he lifted his lush mustache to his very nose.
- Nothing at all?
- Blackberries were torn, last year's thorns, it has survived here and there in the bushes, they ate blueberries, fern shoots.
- Yes, it's like nothing.
The older boy, obviously realizing what it was about, repeated: "I want to eat."
The sergeant pulled out of his pocket a crust of bread — his daily allowance — and handed it to the woman. She broke the crumbs in half and gave them a piece to the older children. They eagerly began to devour the bread.
“I didn't leave it for myself,” the sergeant grumbled.
“Because I'm not hungry,” the soldier said.
“Because mother,” said the sergeant.
The boys stopped chewing.
- I am thirsty! - said one.
- I am thirsty! Said another.
The canteen woman took off the copper goblet that hung on her belt next to the bell, unscrewed the lid of the jug that she wore over her shoulder, squeezed a few drops, and brought the goblet to the child's lips.
The elder drank and grimaced.
The youngest drank and spat.
“But how delicious,” said the waitress.
- What have you given them, vodka, or what? The sergeant asked.
- And what, the best! Do the villagers really understand!
And she angrily wiped off the glass.
The sergeant got down to business again:
- So, madam, you are saving yourself?
- I had to.
- Are you running straight through the fields?
- At first I ran as much as I could, then I went, and then I fell.
“Oh, you poor thing,” sighed the waitress.
“People all fight,” the woman muttered. - All around, wherever you look, everywhere they shoot. And I don't know what anyone wants. Now my husband has been killed. I don’t understand anything.
The sergeant loudly hit the ground with the butt and shouted angrily:
“Damn her, this war!
- We slept in the hollow last night.
- All four?
- All four.
- Standing, then, asleep?
- Yes, - repeated the sergeant, - we slept while standing ...
And turned to the soldiers.
- Comrades, the local savages call such a big hollow tree a hollow tree, where a person can squeeze, as if in a sheath. Yes, what a demand from them. After all, not Parisians.
- Sleep in a hollow, - repeated the waitress, - and with three more children!
- Yes, - said the sergeant, - when the kids roared, the passers-by must have wondered, could not understand anything - there is a tree and shouts: "Dad, mom."
“Thank God it’s even summer now,” the woman said.
She lowered her submissive gaze, and her eyes reflected great surprise at the incomprehensible burden of troubles.
The soldiers stood silently around the waitress.
Unhappy widow, three little orphans, flight, confusion, loneliness, war, which surrounded the entire horizon with a terrible roar, hunger, thirst, the only food is grass, the only shelter is heaven!
The sergeant walked closer to the woman and looked at the girl, pressed against her mother's breast. The baby released a nipple from her mouth, turned her head, stared with beautiful blue eyes at the terrible furry face bending over her, and suddenly smiled.
The sergeant straightened up quickly, a large tear crawled down his cheek and hung like a pearl on the tip of his mustache.
“Comrades,” he said loudly, “from all of the above, it appears that the battalion cannot avoid becoming a father. How are we going to proceed? Let's take and adopt three kids.
- Long live the Republic! Shouted the grenadiers.
“Resolved,” the sergeant concluded.
And he stretched out both hands over mother and children.
“So,” he said, “from now on they are the children of the Red Hood battalion.
The canteen even jumped with joy.
“There are three heads under one cap,” she shouted.
- And the little one is already, you see, a minx!
- Long live the Republic! Shouted the grenadiers again.
The sergeant turned to his mother.
- Come on, citizen.
Eldar Safarov briefly worked as an instructor in the administrative department of the Communist Party under the USSR Ministry of Internal Affairs. The turbulent time of the early 90s carried the young native of Baku higher and higher up the career ladder. And now he is already being invited to work in the administration of the President of the USSR. Could the former investigator and successful lawyer have known that the last months of his ministry to the country he considered his homeland had arrived? For the ninety-first year, the skating rink will drive through it and millions of citizens of the USSR, making them wonder what happened in that August: a great blessing or a great crime?
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“The Rybnikovs were one of the first, they settled there in one thousand six hundred and ninety-one, thirty-three years before the events described, they were not even exiles, not fugitives - just, when the smell of fried, moved there, lived in a dugout, ate one fish ".
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Thousands of years ago, the Enemy destroyed the Earth. Most of the earthly colonies suffered the same fate. Tens, hundreds of billions perished ... But some people survived. Giant convoys went to distant stars, the Ark ships sank into the Abyss Portals, titanic catapults hurled steel planetoids with blocks of millions of frozen bodies to alien galaxies ... Not all were saved. The armada of the Enemy burned the convoys, the Arks disappeared into the darkness of time and space, the hibernation installations could not withstand the long journey ... Only a handful of human seeds sowed the galaxy. Two of them ...
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Two girls are killed in one day. Zhenya Koroleva - allegedly poisoned. Mila Aksalants - Presumably driven to suicide. The "guru for life" Yulik Gorsky and Anton, his Archie Goodwin, are investigating these two deaths, so different and yet mysteriously connected. "Like a Thousand Thunders" is a 1994 novel from Moscow. Rave culture, business in Russian. Fairy tale and reality, love story, friendship story. The first part of Sergei Kuznetsov's trilogy "The Nineties: A Tale".
Collected works in five volumes. Volume 5. ... Mikhail Zhvanetsky
The fifth, additional volume to the Collection of Works by Mikhail Zhvanetsky is not limited to one decade, as the four previous ones ("Sixties", "Seventies", "Eighties", "Nineties"), but claims to be more - "Twenty-first century". The claim is justified: with the new century, Zhvanetsky overcame the most difficult pass - his own incredible, almost folklore tape and television fame. His former texts, everything in spite of everything, are remembered by ear, asking to speak. Most of the monologues of the new century to the reader of Zhvanetsky ...
Life of Leonardo. Part one. Bruno Nardini
About the book "The Life of Leonardo" History has not preserved many facts from the life and work of Leonardo da Vinci, so it is difficult to create an accurate chronological story about him, although some, such as Anonymous Gaddiano, and then Vasari, tried to do this. But in the presentation of the first of them there are many gaps, and Vasari often filled in the gaps with assumptions, preceding them with such words as: "say", "like", etc. Apparently, Leonardo himself did not want to make a lot of fame. Most of his records have been lost, some fell into the hands of random people ...
Passion in an old estate. Book one by Margaret Way
Bronte McAlister is struggling to counter the efforts of young entrepreneur Stephen Randolph to turn her grandmother Gilly's lands into a modern tourist destination. Stephen insists that he is in love with Brontë, and she believes that all this is for a diversion. This is the storyline of the first part of this novel. In the second book, Passion in an Old Manor, which comes out under No. 1203 at the same time as the first (No. 1202), passions flare up to a truly detective level. Brontë has a rival, her brother is pursued by a maniac father, it comes ...
How to read books. The Great Reading Guide ... Mortimer Adler
Why do some find any book very deep, others - empty, still others - abstruse? Why, when you re-read the book, every time you discover something that you have not noticed before? Why does someone understand all the shades of meaning, sees what is hidden between the lines, hears the music of words, feels their taste, color and smell, while someone remains deaf to them? Why does someone perceive the content of a textbook from the first time, while someone needs to explain it many times? To tune in to the author's “wave” and to understand more requires the ability to read actively. That's why I wrote my ...
Daniil Galitsky. The first Russian king Natalia Pavlishcheva
He is raised on the shield by Ukrainian Nazis and glorified by the "Westernizers" who call DANIEL GALITSKY the only prince who did not submit to the Mongol invaders, and the first Russian king. He is cursed by the "patriots" who have declared Daniil Romanovich a European henchman and a traitor to his own people, who fled from the Batu invasion to the Ugrians and Liahams. Indeed, in the history of Ancient Russia it is difficult to find a more controversial, controversial and controversial figure. Daniel Galitsky accepted the crown from the Pope - but never became a Catholic. He is the first of ...
Reading Marshal Zhukov Pyotr Mezhiritsky
Hoaxer: Mezhiritsky's book, although called "Reading Marshal Zhukov", nevertheless does not concentrate only on the personality of the Marshal (and therefore it is in "Research", and not in "Biographies"). I do not agree with some of the author's conclusions, but I will make a reservation: I completely agree with only one author, his name is Hoaxer. Hoaxer (9.04.2002): The book is finally updated (the first publication, according to the author, needed additions). In my opinion, today's version can be considered already the 3rd edition, corrected, as they say, and supplemented. From the point of view of an offline publisher, ...
Tales of the Nineties by Henry Lawson
The publication includes stories by Henry Lawson: "Father's Comrade", "Bill and Arvy from the Grinder Brothers Factory", "The Wife of the Gurter", "On the Edge of the Plain", "Into the Drought", "Parcel", "Eucalyptus Chips" and many others. others, as well as the novel by Katharina Susanna Pritchard "The Nineties" (1944) - the first part of a trilogy about the West Australian gold mines, over which K.-S. Pritchard worked for ten years (from 1940 to 1950).
First sip of beer ... Philippe Delerme
A collection of stories by Philippe Delerme, one of the brightest contemporary writers in France. The author writes about the joy of being, about the happiness of recognizing the world in childhood, gives the reader the opportunity to feel the charm of the little things of life, recreates the taste, color, smell of France. One has only to look at the name of any of the miniatures - and you want to read it: "Apple Spirit", "Warm Croissant on the Street", "Almost Summer - You Could Eat in the Garden", "First Sip of Beer", "Lokum in an Arabian Shop" , "Sweater for Autumn", "News Heard on the Road" ... Such books would be good ...
Cyrus the Great. First monarch Harold Lamb
An original fictionalized biography of the most mysterious historical character, the first monarch on Earth, the founder of the Achaemenid empire. The book reflects all the main historical events of a distant era, masterfully recreated the atmosphere of the 6th century BC, when the mysterious Persian tribe, isolated in the highlands of southern Iran, reached superiority over the entire civilized world, spending a little more than 30 years on it.
Abarat: Clive Barker's First Book of Watch
Here the ordinary is intertwined with the unseen. Here words take on flesh, here time has its own laws, here in the depths of the waters ominous monsters await their time, here strange creatures live on equal terms with people. Here the waters of the Isabella Sea are washed by twenty-five islands, none of which is like the other. There are so many miracles here that even the locals do not know the answers to all the riddles. This is Abarat. This is a magical world, the fate of which depends on the young Candy Quokenbush from the boring town of Cyptown in Minnesota. To escape from your daily routine ...
Victory. Volume one Alexander Chakovsky
The new novel by the writer A. Chakovsky "Victory" ties together two great historical milestones - the summer of 1945, when a political battle was fought in Potsdam to ensure a lasting peace after the end of the war, and the summer of 1975, when the leaders of 33 European countries, as well as the United States, were in Helsinki and Canada signed the Final Act of the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe. The novel begins in Helsinki, where the Soviet journalist Voronov arrives; the basis of the first book is the story of the preparation for the meeting in Potsdam and its first ...
Olivia Goldsmith First Wives Club
The First Wives Club novel is Olivia Goldsmith's stunning literary debut. This sexy and at the same time funny book tells about three women who decided to take revenge on the men who abandoned them, about the sweetness of the tested revenge, about the new love they discovered. The sincerity and credibility of the author's manner give the novel a special appeal.
In the village of Churbash, we did not stay, the next morning we flew closer to the front line, to the airfield near Karagez.
Orange smoke spreads over the flat steppe covered with scarlet poppies. On the swampy shore of a small lake, two storks wander leisurely. Flabby, disheveled. Poor creatures! With some kind of birdlike mind, they understand that something terrible, cruel is happening in the world, they are waiting for all this to end. And they dream in their own way: silence will return to the earth, the desired peace will come, there will be a lot of food, there will be a native nest, there will be chicks and friendly, kind, well-known people.
How many forests burned down together with their inhabitants in the fire of war ... How many horses were killed on the fronts - among animals they have the most unfortunate fate, people forced them to participate in a bloody massacre.
There will not be a single nation on Earth that has not suffered from the war. Some are more, some are less, but everyone will suffer. Arms dealers, politicians, speculators who do not fight themselves will profit from someone else's grief. Compared to the victims, they are an insignificant minority. The peoples must figure out what's what. There will certainly be revolutions, new socialist countries will appear. Or will everything go in a new circle? Some country will begin to arm itself madly, neighbors, of course, too. Will there be a new weapon with an unprecedented lethal force and - the third world war? And again, some madmen will stare insatiable eyes at the largest country in the world, at our vast expanses, forests and plains, will draw arrows on maps, dream of world domination?
No, something will change on Earth, people cannot fail to grow wiser after such a lesson. They will understand even the simplest thing: it is impossible to defeat the Soviet Union, enslave the Soviet people.
They say storks bring happiness. This means that this airfield will be happy for us. If only so! After all, the Germans also saw these birds. Only Victory will bring happiness.
The sun goes down behind the wooded ridge of the Crimean mountains. The planes are in the ranks, proud, beautiful, ready to take off. We are waiting for the Po-2 messenger to deliver the next task to us from the division headquarters.
The girls scattered around the airfield in groups. Everyone is in high spirits: the offensive of our troops is developing rapidly. I admire my fellow soldiers: they are all so slender, young, elegant. Everyone has the same form, but each girl has her own become, her own unique charm. However, there is a difference in the form: the comforters are home-painted in different colors. Who likes what: pink, green, blue ... Dandies!
I loved these evening hours very much, they will never fade in my memory.
Everything is assembled, I embrace the whole regiment with my eyes, and it is impossible to imagine that one of us will not return from a combat mission.
By the morning the girls will look different: they will be deadly tired, thinner, blackened, smell through and through with gasoline, oil, tar, smoke, someone will have more gray hair, but now, this evening, I believe that they will all remain alive.
Yes, we have lost some of the crews, we will lose more, war is war, but not on this night ...
I go to my plane. My current navigator Khivaz Dospanova is already here. Having unfolded the navigator's map, he is studying it with concentration, memorizing landmarks, trying to guess the upcoming route.
Nina Altsybeeva and her constant navigator Mary Avidzba, the first of the Abkhaz girls to become a pilot, are sitting on the wing, engaging in conversation. Nina is probably telling what a smart, beautiful, extraordinary daughter she has ...
Our regiment can be called international; more than ten nationalities are represented in it.
Natasha Meklin, lithe, graceful, is leaning against the fuselage, reading a letter. From the father? "From the mother? Her parents are also at the front. Combat family.
Inseparable Tanya Makarova and Vera Velik bent over the map, spreading it on the tail of the plane. Something is being hotly discussed. Their map is special, one might say, unique: it shows the path of our regiment to Berlin itself. In the upper right corner it is written in clear handwriting: “I approve. M. Syrtlanov ". And their plane differs from others: it is blue, for which it received the nickname "blonde". This plane, as I said, was presented to the regiment by the workers of the PARM, and they themselves painted it.
Rachkevich came up, took my arm, and offered:
Let's hear what our regimental strategists are talking about.
It turned out that the girls determined the timing of the final defeat of the German troops in the Crimea.
Sevastopol will be taken on May 1! Makarova announced decisively.
The statement seems overly optimistic to me, but I don't want to argue. Seeing Rachkevich, the girls asked her to briefly tell about the events that took place in Crimea in 1941/42. Evdokia Yakovlevna's face became serious. With the blunt end of a pencil, she drew a line from Perekop to the south, to Sevastopol, and in an even voice, without haste, began to tell.
In October, 41st, the 11th German Army, reinforced by Romanian troops, under the command of Colonel-General Manstein, invaded the Crimea. This army consisted of twelve rifle, one cavalry and two motorized SS divisions "Adolf Hitler" and "Viking".
The Soviet troops in the Crimea were dismembered into two parts. One of them withdrew to the Kerch Peninsula and in mid-November crossed the strait to Taman.
The seaside army, which became famous for the defense of Odessa, withdrew to the south and united with the forces of the Black Sea Fleet. The Sevastopol defensive area was created. Manstein failed to take Sevastopol on the move. In November, the first assault on the city, carefully prepared by the Germans, was repulsed. In December - the second. Hitler was furious, demanded from Manstein to wipe out the main base of the Black Sea Fleet as soon as possible in order to use the 11th Army in other sectors of the Soviet-German front.
However, Hitler's calculations collapsed one after another. The headquarters of the Supreme Command in December 19.41 of the year developed an unprecedented Kerch-Feodosia landing operation.
Two armies of the Caucasian Front, together with the Black Sea Fleet and the Azov Military Flotilla, formed five large landing detachments, which landed on the Kerch Peninsula on the night of December 25. The coastal strip of the strait was covered with ice, a storm was raging, fascist aviation dominated the air. Due to the long distance, our fighters could stay in the air in the landing areas for no more than 10-15 minutes. But the paratroopers did what seemed impossible. Over 11 thousand soldiers landed on the Kerch Peninsula in four days. On December 30, the Sovinformburo reported:
"On December 29 and 30, a group of troops of the Caucasian Front, in cooperation with the naval forces of the Black Sea Fleet, landed troops on the Crimean peninsula and, after stubborn battles, occupied the city and fortress of Kerch and the city of Feodosia."
The editorial of Pravda for December 31, 1941 was titled "Our Victory in the Crimea." It said:
"The new victory of the Red Army is evidence of the greatest courage, exceptional heroism of Soviet soldiers, their all-crushing offensive impulse for the liberation of their native land from foreign oppressors."
A new Crimean Front appeared on the Kerch Peninsula. The Soviet people perceived the victory of the brave paratroopers as an invaluable New Year's gift. Manstein's army got stuck in the Crimea for a long time ...
The girls all came up. Rachkevich, noticing this, began to speak louder:
In May 1942, Manstein, leaving five divisions for the blockade of Sevastopol, threw his main forces into an offensive against the troops of the Crimean Front. The Nazis had double air superiority. The command of the Crimean Front failed to properly organize the defense, and then the withdrawal of troops. On May 15, the Nazis captured Kerch for the second time. Part of our troops, which failed to break through and cross over to the Taman Peninsula, took refuge in the catacombs and, together with the partisans, continued to fight.
The position of the Primorsky army defending Sevastopol deteriorated sharply.
The defeat was heavy, but the Germans also lost tens of thousands of soldiers and officers, more than 300 aircraft during the battles, and Manstein's shock tank division practically ceased to exist.
The main forces of the 11th German Army, after five days of artillery and aviation training on June 2, 1942, undertook another assault on Sevastopol. The forces of the city's defenders were dwindling, there was not enough ammunition.
In the evening of June 30, by order of the Headquarters, the evacuation of troops began, which, in extremely difficult conditions, continued until July 3. It was not possible to evacuate all the defenders of the city. Those who remained on the shore continued to fight. In some areas, the struggle continued until July 12. Part of the Sevastopol residents broke into the mountains, to the partisans.
Our regiment also took part in further events that unfolded on the Southern Front.
The day of the complete liberation of Crimea is not far off ...
Rachkevich fell silent ...
Tanya Makarova said with a smile:
We have everything calculated. We will meet the first of May in Sevastopol.
Let’s add, Comrade Lieutenant, ten days, ”Vera Velik said condescendingly. - The stock of bombs in the regiment is running out, suddenly they will not be delivered on time. And the weather ...
Ten days is a lot, - Tanya frowned stubbornly. - A week is enough.
The girls, obviously, believed that it was our regiment that would deliver the decisive blow to the two hundred thousandth Hitlerite army, and the actions of other military units would be of an auxiliary nature. Be that as it may, their military thought was again at its best: they were mistaken by only two days.
A liaison plane flew in, we lined up in a squadron and listened to the combat mission: to strike at the Yalta port, to divert the attention of the Germans from the important operation that the Crimean partisans and Black Sea sailors were supposed to carry out that night in the Simeiz area. The partisans operating in the area of \u200b\u200bMount Ai-Petri will deliver the wounded to the coast, ”our military boats will be waiting for them there.
The route is very difficult, the flights are designed for full fuel consumption. Only experienced crews will fly on the mission.
We approached the plane from Khivaz, she, looking at me with laughing eyes, said:
You know, I looked at our regiment in the ranks and remembered how we looked in Engels. The boots are stuffed with cotton wool and paper. The girls called them "cats". Because we looked like puss in boots in them! And the huge hats ... We will hear the command: "Equalize to the right!" - we turn our heads, but the hats do not want to be equal, they remain in the same position, like spacesuits.
As she spoke, she checked her navigational equipment. The flight map in the tablet, a metal wind turbine resembling a fan (a device for determining speed), a navigation ruler, a logbook - everything is in place.
Khivaz has about three hundred sorties, three government awards: the medal "For the Defense of the Caucasus", the Order of the Red Star and the Order of the Patriotic War of the second degree. She does not yet know that they are going to transfer her to staff work, to appoint the regiment's communications chief. This is a promotion, but Khivaz will certainly be upset. The regiment command, apparently, thought deeply about this "operation". Dospanova is an excellent navigator, but flights are not easy for her, although she very skillfully hides it. If there is a forced landing behind enemy lines, your sore legs will let you know. Our communications chief Mazdrina is leaving for Moscow for courses. “It's okay,” I mentally console Khivaz. "You will be able to fly, this is the main thing."
After waiting for our turn, we take off. I make a circle over the airfield, gain altitude and go to the set course. First - across the bay to Feodosia.
They took off at twenty-two ten, - reports Khivaz. - We fly fifteen minutes. The first checkpoint ...
The navigator has a lot of work: he measures the strength and direction of the wind, determines the drift angle, paves the way on the map, marks the time, follows the landmarks, the air, reports everything to the pilot. And the main work lies ahead: in any conditions, under fire, in the beams of searchlights, to find the target and hit it. The sighting device is very simple: two vertical metal rods on the side of the cockpit and a hole in the lower plane. At the time of aiming, the aircraft must go exactly, as if on a string, otherwise the bombs will fall in the wrong place.
We fly over the coastal strip between the sea and the Crimean mountains. The slopes are covered with evergreen forests. The full moon hangs in the sky like a giant SAB. Landmarks are viewed as during the day. A silver path stretches across the entire Black Sea to the very horizon. On both sides of it, large and small glare shimmer, flash and go out. Full sky of stars. Multi-colored lights flicker below. Cool - an altitude of three thousand meters.
The mountain range stretches along the southern coast of Crimea from Feodosia to Sevastopol. In the Yalta region, there are two highest peaks: Roman-Kosh, 1545 meters, and Ai-Petri, 1233 meters. You can't think of better landmarks, but there might be anti-aircraft batteries on their slopes.
We fly up to Alushta, - reported Khivaz. - I'm throwing flyers.
I'm going down. Against the background of the starry sky, bathed in moonlight, a stone block in the shape of a woman's head is clearly visible. The bizarre creation of nature, as is often the case, gave rise to a legend.
Once upon a time, an evil genie lived in these places, who kidnapped young men from the surrounding villages and turned them into his slaves. A beautiful, brave girl entered into combat with him. She defeated the genie, but she herself died, turned into a mountain. And it almost killed us: a large-caliber machine gun fired at us from the slope.
Leaflets dropped.
Hyundai hoh! shouts Khivaz and adds some strong language.
I give full throttle, climb again. In the moonlight, the blunt snouts of a hundred-kilogram bombs protruding from under the lower plane gleam menacingly. Let's give heat to the fascists today!
I would also like to believe in the power of "paper bombs". The text of the leaflets is laconic and convincing: German and Romanian troops in Crimea are doomed, resistance is pointless, the best way out is to surrender.
We fly up to Yalta, start planning at minimum speed. The city is surrounded by mountains. On the east and west sides, searchlights sweep in the sky; anti-aircraft guns fire randomly, but not a single Po-2 is visible. There are several fires in the port area. “The girls did a good job,” I think with satisfaction. - Let's look for a target in the bay ... "
Military boat! - shouted Khivaz. - At the pier!
I turn around and go to the combat course.
A little to the right, - Khivaz commands. Searchlights search the sky, the anti-aircraft guns are silent.
We are not yet heard or seen, we slipped between two "birch groves". The plane rocked - the bomb was separated. Almost at the same moment we got into some kind of air flow, I feel that there will be a failure.
She could drop both bombs at once, but she decided to save one, well done, because we haven’t been found yet, we’ll go in from the other side, we will fuck for the same target.
The antiaircraft guns rumble again, but they are not firing at us.
We fly over the sea. I continue planning for a minute, then I increase the speed, gain altitude and, turning around, I bank the plane abruptly. He is very obedient, instantly and accurately fulfills all my silent commands. Mentally I talk to him as to a living being: “Well done, clever. We are safe and sound, work calmly. Let's get it done and sparkle with our heels ... "
Machine-gun tracks are shining over the bay, at any moment a searchlight can grab us, but we again went to the target, and I am sure that this time Khivaz will not miss. Only a direct hit on the plane can interrupt our attack. So I thought and ... miscalculated.
The target was clearly visible, it was possible to bomb without an SAB. Height 600 meters, exactly according to the instructions. And suddenly the boat disappeared! Instead, a fireball. Some of ours got ahead of us.
We did not find any other boats.
Thirty-five degrees to the right! - shouted Khivaz. “There’s some kind of tower. I saw when they turned around.
I'm falling on a new combat course. I see a stone structure that resembles a truncated pyramid. Maybe a dilapidated lighthouse. What's inside - a warehouse, a headquarters, a canteen, machine gun nests? ..
It would be better, of course, to put this "weaving" in the boat.
In the soft, cooing roar of the engine, one can hear: "Don't be upset ... Go ahead ..."
I sharply give full throttle, and at the same instant a blindingly bright flash illuminated, as it seemed to me, the entire coast. A powerful blast wave threw the plane, I almost lost control. We fall to the moon.
Khivaz is silent, it doesn't look like her, what's wrong with her?
Are you alive? Silence.
I turn around - Khivaz is half leaning out of the plane, admiring the work of her own hands "
Could fall out, I grumble. - Buckle up.
How amazing! The fuel depot, and I thought ... The shells are bursting right along the course, the beam of a searchlight inexorably descends from above. I dive under it, the Germans opened fire from machine guns. I fly with a snake. Gone ...
Gurzuf is below us, - Khivaz reports cheerfully, - and the glow is still visible!
I glanced at the fuel consumption indicator and realized: we would not reach the airfield, the oncoming wind.
Heading to an alternate airfield, navigator.
Two degrees to the left ...
Sevastopol, Yalta, Gurzuf, Artek ... Before the war, behind these words, one saw white-stone palaces, health resorts "sunny land, where everything is sweet for the heart. The enemy came, destroyed, plundered, defiled. They say that near Yalta, in Livadia, the former royal estate, in the former all-Union health resort, Hitler handed Manstein a field marshal's baton. That evening, when they were feasting, we would receive a task for our regiment.
We must immediately, as soon as we liberate Crimea, to force the prisoners to restore everything that was destroyed. Generals, all officers, Hitler's fosterlings - for the most time-consuming work, sawing shell rock, kneading clay. Tell them: until you restore it, we won't let you go home.
We landed on a small, uneven ground when the fuel consumption needle was at zero.
A duty officer came up, armed with a rifle, an elderly, sleepy sergeant from the airfield service battalion.
Is there any fuel? - asked Khivaz, jumping out of the cab.
When will they give you a ride?
Is there anyone else here? I asked.
Nobody, I'm alone. A tent, three "bats" - all equipment. Can I go?
Why are you so sad? - Keeping a strict tone, asked Khivaz. - What, the foal kicked you?
“Last time we made an emergency landing with Valya,” I remembered, “and in our absence, Zhenya Rudneva and Pasha Prokofieva died.”
Why are you depressed? - Khivaz carefully looked at “me. - They will not worry about us: someone saw us bombed and left. There is a town nearby, Old Crimea, there must be a commandant's office. Should I go?
Sleep, navigator. The morning is wiser than the evening.
Yes, comrade commander! - Khivaz quickly climbed into the cab and curled up there like a kitten.
She's right, of course. Bershanskaya will have no reason to worry. Someone will fly to the rescue in the morning. But my soul is out of place. And Khivaz too, although it does not show it. Just tear yourself away from the regiment, and the devil knows what goes into your head.
I walked around the plane, leaned against the fuselage, closed my eyes. As in a silent movie - storks, funny girls in a blossoming valley, airplanes, and everything is flooded with unnaturally bright, painfully disturbing moonlight ...
Apparently, I dozed off and stood there for a very long time. When I woke up, it was already dawn. Directly in front of me, I saw a dilapidated white mosque that served as our reference point, and the motionless figure of a man sitting against the wall. The person on duty is not visible, he probably sleeps in a tent.
Taking out my pistol, I went up to the stranger. A thin, tanned, wrinkled face, smart, lively, brown eyes, black, gray hair, the same beard, dressed in rags, in his left hand a rosary made of shells.
Eyes half closed, not paying attention to me, he slowly fingered the rosary and barely audibly muttered:
Bismillah Irahim ... la yllahi il alla ...
“Local Tatar,” I thought. - Who is he - a friend or a traitor, a fascist lackey? How long has he been sitting here? Armed or not? If the enemy, why didn't he attack, why is he sitting in plain sight? Is it a distraction? "
I could hardly understand his muttering: may there be peace for all ... Accept, Allah, my prayer ...
Who are you? - I asked in Tatar.
I will be Temir Sheikh, - he answered importantly, looking into my eyes. - Holy man.
This is the first time I see a saint, ”I admitted. - What are you doing here?
I'm not doing anything. I pray you heard. Do you want to pray for you? Tell me what is the need?
Local dialect, I have already heard this. The speech of the Volga Tatars is softer. And some words are not ours, Crimean.
Well, - I smiled, - ask Allah so that I and my friends live as long as possible, and after death we go to heaven.
A shadow of discontent flickered in the eyes of the “holy man”.
“Maybe a partisan? - I thought. - No, I would open immediately. Mysterious person".
Do you need fuel? he asked unexpectedly.
It is necessary, - I answered without hesitation.
What else?
Nothing more.
I wanted to add that if Allah gives us fuel, we ourselves will find the way to paradise, but I didn't have time - Khivaz's voice rang behind us:
Comrade commander! Who is it? Hey duty officer!
I looked around, waved my hand to Khivaz: stay, they say, in place, out of the corner of my eye I saw the duty officer who came out from behind the tent, it turns out he was not sleeping. Again she turned to the stranger, but ... he was gone.
Who were you talking to? - asked Khivaz.
With a holy man. - I put the pistol in the holster.
If with a saint, why so disrespectful, with a pistol in his hand?
I found out what god she was praying to. Where has he gone, haven't you seen?
In my opinion, he went into the wall.
I expected it. It was a spirit, but I don't know, good or bad.
I recounted our strange conversation. Khivaz threw up her hands:
Why didn't you ask for bread, meat, wine, fruit, and even bold, rich suitors?
The duty officer came up, I described to him the appearance of Temir Sheikh, asked if he had met him.
None of the locals showed up here, ”the sergeant replied. - Only kids.
He sideways, with apprehension glanced at Khivaz and went to the tent.
Bring kebabs! - shouted after him Khivaz. - How long can you wait? And protect us better! Look at both! ..
Yes, with such a navigator you won't be lost.
The sun rose. Whole squadrons of fighters and bombers flew over the steppe, but Po-2 did not appear. The only consolation is not a single German aircraft.
An hour passed, then another. Even Khivaz was depressed. Gloomy thoughts persisted in my head.
Leila's plane appeared at about ten o'clock in the morning. We were ready to throw ourselves under his wheels. Even before getting out of the cab, she shouted cheerfully:
I brought fuel and a self-assembled tablecloth! What would you do without me?
All my fears vanished at once.
Layla jumped out of the plane, shook us, kissed us. Her quick speech sounded like nightingale singing:
All are safe and sound. The Germans skewer. The regiment at the new airfield, near Simferopol. Ours are already behind Bakhchisarai. And what else was there! I'll tell you - gasp. But first I will feed and drink.
While Khivaz and I were refueling the plane, Leila spread her self-assembled tablecloth on the grass - a piece of tarpaulin. Indeed, as in a fairy tale: milk, cottage cheese, feta cheese, sausage, rolls.
Leila-jan, you are a real witch! Witch! - Khivaz threw up her hands. - Where does all this come from? The duty officer - here! He wanted to starve us to death, but it didn't work. Sit down next to me!
Smiling, the sergeant joined our company.
Refuel, and I'll tell you, - Leila settled on the wing of the plane. - Today we flew to a new airfield just before light. The site was picked up from the air - a flat, emerald field. And they sat down, as they say, in a puddle. Sticky ground, impossible to take off. Bershanskaya's plane was rolled out onto the road, she flew to the headquarters. We sunbathe. We look - from behind the hill there are three. German officer, two Romanians. The German has a stick with a white rag in his hand. All with machine guns.
Amosova took out a pistol: "Stop!" The parliamentarians stopped. Seraphima says: “Nikulina, Danilova, with me. The rest take cover behind the wheels, prepare weapons. " Let's go. We stopped three steps from the parliamentarians. Amosova told them something through Nina Danilova, she knows German. The officer threw the submachine gun at Amosova's feet, and so did the Romanians.
Like in a movie, ”Khivaz interjected.
Exactly. Further more interesting. The German turned around and left. We jumped up. Seraphima waves his hand - do not approach! We look, the officer is leading out from behind the hill about twenty people. Three, wounded, are led by the arms. All overgrown, thin, ragged, like vagabonds. And our Amosova is like Pallas Athena, a helmet on the back of her head, curls of curls. Warriors come up to her, put machine guns and knives at her feet. Here is such a pile! - Leila held out her hand. - Unconditional surrender!
Seraphima called us, came up, looked with all eyes. The wounded lay down to one side, the rest huddled in a heap and sat down. Wary, pathetic. Our first prisoners. Own. Nina Khudyakova took an apple out of her pocket, carefully cut it into three pieces with a trophy knife, went up to the wounded, said: "Eat, get well." They murmured: “Rus madam, Rus madam ...” One began to eat an apple and began to cry. We have dry rations, bread and cheese, the canteen is behind. Everything was given to them. They immediately cheered up, ate everything in an instant. Seraphima says to Nina: "Tell them to help roll the planes onto the road." Rolled out. We think that she will continue to do with them. Send on airplanes to the rear? Waste time, fuel ... She ordered to line up in a column, pointed her hand in the direction of Kerch: march at a step. We got rid of it. Bershanskaya arrived and - to the new airfield.
We arrive, we can't believe our eyes. A whole village! As if the war had bypassed her. It is called Karlovka. All around are white mountains, blooming, also white gardens. Residents to us - with bread and salt. It turns out that the area was controlled by partisans. Shortly before our arrival, a large German convoy of food was captured. They took us home as the dearest guests.
We knew that you were here, without fuel, the headquarters reported. Rufa and I saw what kind of illumination you arranged in Yalta, congratulations!
Women are women, ”the attendant grumbled. - I mean that you are too compassionate. They are ready to give the last piece of bread to the captured German.
And what, to look how he is dying of hunger? I asked. - Or from wounds?
Why look? Who will feed and treat them now, if not us. But pitying them all indiscriminately is also not the case, you can feel sorry for them. They surrender in captivity in order to save their skin, and those inveterate fascists, beasts who did not fight at all, but mocked at the prisoners, drove our boys and girls to Germany like cattle, raped, grabbed and hanged unarmed people, children live in the ground they buried them, gassed them. One should not feel sorry for such, but punish mercilessly. And Hitler, the time will come, we will feed him with stew and heal him so that he does not die prematurely, before the verdict, before we throw the noose around his neck.
How can you tell them apart, these beasts? - asked Leila. “It’s not written on their foreheads. This means that all prisoners must be treated equally, humanly. Better to be overwhelmed than not sorry. And then the special commissions will figure out who is who, all war criminals will be exposed and punished. Let the ex-prisoners after the war tell their children and grandchildren how we treated them. And how the Germans mock our prisoners, the whole world knows, the peoples will never forget and will not forgive.
You are right in thinking, Comrade Captain, - agreed the duty officer. “It’s only for a reason that they say: no matter how you feed the wolf, it still looks into the forest. There will be such former prisoners among the former prisoners, and there will be many of them who will tell their heirs: we have burned and killed a little, we didn’t have enough strength to level Leningrad and Moscow, jump across the Volga, now it’s your turn, arm yourself to the teeth and drang nah osten!
Let them try! - Khivaz's eyes flashed angrily. - We will show them such a trip to the east!
Now we need to show, - the sergeant emphasized the word “show”.
And now we'll show you!
“The last word will still remain with her,” I thought proudly of Khivaz.
That's agreed. Thank you, beauties, for the treat.
To your health. For you kebabs, do not forget. Get a lamb, let me know ...
During the flight, Khivaz saw a convoy of our soldiers on the march, leaned over the side of the cabin and began to inspire them:
Guards greetings, infantry! Above your head! Sing along! A modest blue handkerchief ... Maguba-jan, turn off the engine, make a circle and shout together.
I didn't want to lag behind Leila.
Next time.
Well, swing your wings. I shook.
They are going to storm Sevastopol, - Khivaz said solemnly. - Soon the Crimea will become our rear.
“And Temir Sheikh, of course, is our scout,” I thought. - His "prayer" reached its destination. One of those who collects data about the enemy for us. Smart, careful. I would like to get to know this man better. I saw that the plane had landed at an unequipped airfield, guessed that we were returning from a mission, rushed to help, maybe he was guarding us. One of the front-line meetings that will be remembered for a lifetime. "
Below us is a narrow valley surrounded by low chalk mountains, adobe huts, buried in gardens. This is Karlovka, we are going to land.
Khivaz and I met our fellow soldiers, as if after a long separation. Hot water was already prepared for us in one of the huts. We washed ourselves, drank a cup of long-term Crimean wine. I don't remember how I got to bed.
SAB - lighting (glowing) bombs.
James Hines
Ninety nine
James Hynes PUBLISH AND PERISH Reprinted by permission of the author and the Donadio & Literature Agencies; Olson, Inc. and Andrew Nurnberg.
- Do you want to hear a purely American anecdote? - Martin asked. He and Gregory sat at a table in the smoky pub next to the BBC building. - Maybe it will come in handy.
He spoke British in a chant, which was typical for him at the end of any shooting day.
- Do you mind a beer?
- Well, if it becomes more fun for me ... - answered the American Gregory.
He lifted his pointed chin and pushed back his thick hair, carefully examining his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
- In general, the story has something to do with your current situation, - said Martin.
These words interested Gregory, and he turned a languid glance towards his producer. At the very beginning of work on the project, Martin tried to court Gregory, who, although not in the least offended by such attention, did not give much pleasure, and with the utmost politeness and tact he rejected the amorous claims of a colleague. Theoretically, I don't mind, he began, but ... Martin just shrugged his shoulders and said that if Gregory ever changes his mind, then ... And now he was smiling with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, which meant: "Well, I told you so!" He liked the anguish and pain that now shone through all of Gregory's behavior.
- Do you want to listen to him? - Martin asked. - My anecdote?
Now it was Gregory's turn to shrug. Martin still won't calm down until he tells.
- So that's it. - Martin leaned forward with folded hands. - A man jumps on the hatch cover. Jumping, shouts: "Ninety-eight, ninety-eight, ninety-eight ..."
And Martin began to raise and then lower his shoulders, imitating jumping.
- And then another guy comes up to him and says: "What the hell are you doing?" And the first person keeps jumping and saying: “Ninety-eight… oh! How wonderful! ... ninety-eight ... you should also try ... ninety-eight ... "Then the second person says," Really? And what is so wonderful about that? " And the first one replies: "Ninety-eight ... try and see ... ninety-eight ..." "Well, well, good," the second tells him, "step aside." And then the first person steps aside, and the second one stands on the hatch cover and starts jumping and shouting: "Ninety-eight, ninety-eight, ninety-eight ..."
- I caught the image, - interrupted his interlocutor Gregory. Martin had problems with a sense of proportion - a flaw that is characteristic of so many documentary producers.
- Of course I did, - Martin answered with a smile. - And then the first person says: "Jump higher." "Like this? - asks the second and shouts: - Ninety-eight, ninety-eight, ninety-eight, - and jumps higher and higher. And while the second one is jumping like this, the first one puts his hand under it and removes the cover from the hatch, and the second guy falls through the hatch. And the first one quickly closes the hatch with a lid and starts jumping up and down, up and down and says: "Ninety-nine, ninety-nine ..."
Martin burst out laughing, the hoarse laugh of a man suffering from shortness of breath. Gregory barely managed to force a miserable semblance of a smile. He brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and turned away. The anecdote made no impression on him. There was a feeling that he was told in some strange, unfamiliar language.
- And what does this story have to do with me?
“You Americans are sometimes so slow-witted! Martin raised his beer mug.
Gregory took a deep breath. When will they finally stop reminding him at every opportunity that he is a foreigner? They have known Martin for about a year, and still, in their relationship, there is always a difference between right-hand and left-hand traffic, between warm beer and cold beer, and a host of other things that traditionally divide Americans and arrogant Britons. For Gregory, this constant emphasis was extremely unpleasant. He tried to flatter himself that he might well pass for a representative of the European intellectual underground - at least from afar - in a worn leather jacket, wool trousers from Helmut Lang, with a goatee, which he had grown to soften the roughness of his facial features.
“Your teeth are giving you away,” Martin once told him, when Gregory complained again. - The harsh and pervasive dental hygiene typical of North Americans. Not to mention, ”he went on, still trying to win Gregory’s favor with compliments,“ your height, blue eyes and the smile of a charming elf.
- Let me explain everything to you in simple words, - said Martin, seeing the hopelessness of his hints. He put the mug on the table and licked his lips. “The guy who jumps on the manhole cover and counts his victims is Fiona.
- And I'm ninety-ninth?
- Quite right. Clever girl!
Gregory felt his usual unpleasant acidic fermentation in his stomach again. He could not understand what emotions it accompanies: anger, pain, or both. He gazed at Martin through the veil of cigarette smoke.
"Did you know that she was like that before?"
- Sure. A lot of guys fell into that very hole.
“But not you.
- W-well ... - drawled Martin, trying to hold back a smile. He had long been accustomed to the stupidity of heterosexual lovers. - I fell into others.
- Thanks for the warning.
Gregory raised his glass of beer and gave Martin a not very friendly look over it. An insane thought slipped through Gregory's mind: he allowed himself for a moment to suspect Martin of deliberately pushing him into Fiona's arms in order to avenge his failed courtship at the beginning of the program.
- Do not look at me so. - Martin folded his arms over his chest and looked at Gregory with a smile of clear superiority. - You said yourself that you were happy to get out of the States because of ...
- Yes, yes, yes, - Gregory blurted out sharply, cutting off Martin.
In another life, before he hosted a popular science program on the BBC, Gregory Eyck taught anthropology at the University of Hamilton Groves, Minnesota. He was from Holland, Michigan and was the ambitious son of an ambitious father, Gregory Sr., a highly successful preacher in the Dutch Reformed Church. The son turned out to be apostate. Gregory Jr.'s early years passed in brilliant demonstrations before