Portartur. 1940. Boris Trofimov
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Название: Portartur. 1940
Автор: Boris Trofimov
Издательство: Издательские решения
Жанр: Мифы. Легенды. Эпос
isbn: 9785449682581
isbn:
On November 13, recruits gathered in the great hall of the city duma. When checking it turned out that twenty-three people did not come to the draw. Then they will be found, punished and sent to serve, respectively, freeing those taken with high numbers. But sometime it will be, and today the mood of the youth has been lowered: few lucky numbers remained.
With the recruits came their relatives. They passionately discussed all sorts of opportunities to get rid of military service.
The bell rang. A minute later there was silence in the hall. The chairman of the draft board, a gray-haired man in pince-nez, smiling, invited the recruits to approach the urn and gave a sign to the clerk.
– Arkhipov! – rang out in the hall.
Everything is quiet. A blond guy came out of the thick of the crowd. His steps boomed loudly on the steps of the platform. He was breathing heavily. Sweat came out in large drops on his forehead. Rolling up his sleeve, the guy ran his hand to the bottom of the urn and took out the ticket rolled up. His hand shook.
“Raise the ticket higher and unroll it,” said the chairman.
Suddenly the guy’s face lit up, and he cheerfully, but still in a hoarse voice, shouted:
– Two hundred and eighty second!
– Well done! – the public roared to a friendly applause.
Podkovin worried. He did not like the behavior of Arkhipov. “In a firm step, calmly, in a clear voice,” Tikhon suggested to himself. The hall fell silent again.
“Tell me your number,” heard Podkovin and looked at the platform.
Near the urn stood a tall, curly guy in a new coat. The tassels of the belt with which the maroon woolen shirt was girded dangled at the tops of a varnished boot. The recruit’s lips were shaking, and he, choking on tears, babbled:
– The third st…
– Louder! – shouted those present.
“He has a third number,” said the chairman.
– In the guard of the young man!
The guy moved away from the platform.
– Podkovin!
“To rummage or not to rummage in an urn,” thought Tikhon, striding towards the platform. He took a ticket from the top layer and quickly turned it around.
– Thirteenth! – shouted Podkovin.
There was a loud, universal laugh.
Happy number! Well done! Do not be lost! By God, you will not perish, – said Podkovin, when he came down from the platform.
2
In the evening, in order not to hear the mother’s lamentations, Tikhon went to the Berezkins.
– Well? – in one voice asked him Varya and her mother. Podkovin stopped at the door and cried out:
– Happy!
– happy? – repeated Varya and, putting the work on the table – she was busy sewing, – got up.
Thirteenth, – answered Tikhon.
Brother Vari, Kostya, clutching at his sides, laughed loudly.
– What is sold, you fool? – Mother grumbled. – Tikhon – a frontal one, his number is his neighbor, he could not escape soldiery.
The old woman, Berezkina, turned to the stove and raised the corner of her apron to her eyes. Her hunched figure shuddered.
– Poor Evdokia Ilinichna… I will go to her.
“And I’m with you,” said Varya.
Mother Podkovina sat at a table with tear-stained eyes. Varya ran to her and put her arm around her shoulders.
– Nothing bad will happen. Tikhon will return from the service tselehonek.
Weasel girls reassured Podkovina. The old woman loved Varia more than her other friends. Still sobbing, she said:
– God will hear the prayers of the mother. Obviously, he will return… But the human heart is changeable. Forget each other not for long…
Varya flinched. The last words of Evdokia Ilinichna burned her, as it were. She wanted to shout: “No, no, this will not happen to me. I know the price of love.”
Chapter three
one
In the barracks twilight. Near the gray walls, especially in the corners, hung haze. It was cold. The lamp, suspended under the arch, lights dimly.
Podkovin woke up from a jab in the side.
“Get up, you have to clean your boots,” he heard his neighbor’s voice.
Throwing back the blanket, he sat down on his bed and looked at his neighbor. The rookie rubbed his boots, but the desired shine did not work.
– You put on your boots and walk. As soon as they get warm, rub with a brush.
It was about six in the morning. In the second half, the barracks were still asleep: there were old soldiers there, and taking care of the boots, apparently, did not bother them anymore.
“Let me write a letter to my homeland,” said his neighbor, Podkovin, when he was finished with his boots. – In the village, I signed for others, if the paper that came. I can read the written, but the letters do not add up. Missed, – the guy sighed heavily.
– Get up! – the command of the person on duty was distributed. – Come on verification!
The barracks boomed. The air was even more saturated with the smell of rotten cloth and horse sweat. The soldiers’ clothes smelled like horses. Each rider has two horses, which he cleans daily.
Recruits went to the middle of the barracks and lined up along it in one row. All the clothes were still homemade. The lamp sparsely lit their anxious faces. The soldiers’ large red hands hung awkwardly along their bodies. Uncle came.
– Motin, why did you not clean your boots?
Motin’s СКАЧАТЬ