Portartur. 1940. Boris Trofimov
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Название: Portartur. 1940
Автор: Boris Trofimov
Издательство: Издательские решения
Жанр: Мифы. Легенды. Эпос
isbn: 9785449682581
isbn:
Motin turned red and out of order. He squatted on his haunches, put his hands on his sides and, without raising his body, moved along the barracks, throwing out one or the other leg. Ten more people were sent for Motin. The punished returned to their seats with bloodshot eyes. They breathed heavily and, bending down, rubbed their knees.
After checking and prayers, young soldiers were seated in beds for practicing “literature”.
“Prikshaytis, read” Our Father, “heard Podkovin. Prikshaytis – Lithuanian. He has a small face with a sharp nose, and eyes with flushed eyelids.
“Father us,” said Prikshaytis, blinking, and stopped. His lips moved, the fingers of his outstretched hands convulsively clenched into fists, his ears reddened, but no words were heard.
– Farther! – shouted uncle.
“Who else is in heaven,” exclaimed the recruit, delighted.
– What-oh! Again, “weigh”? – yelled uncle. “I suffer for fifteen days, but you have not learned five words properly!”
Prikshaytis face was covered with white spots, he wrinkled and closed his eyes.
– Why are you blinking?
But Prikshaytis still stood with his eyes closed, he only stretched his neck more towards his teacher. – So asks for a slap in the face…
The teacher came close to him and backhand hit on the cheek. Prikshaytis reeled, but resisted. Tears streamed down the rookie’s face.
Tikhona smothered anger. He jumped up, but remembering the words from the military charter, the first pages of which he quickly ran through, “Complaints about the chief can be brought individually and only for himself,” he sank down helplessly on the bed and turned away from the unfortunate Lithuanian.
2
At ten o’clock in the morning, Captain Ali-Aga Mehmetinsky, a senior battery officer, came to the barracks. On the large oblong face of the captain, a hunchbacked nose was sticking up. His head is bald, his thick mustache lay magnificently, his eyebrows raised, his brown eyes this time reflecting a grin. Small hands with thin white fingers, the captain held behind his back. Greeting, Mehmetinsky shouted:
– Antonov Valentin Pavlovich.
“I,” one of the recruits said.
– Are you illiterate?
The soldier babbled something in response, and the captain summoned Morozov.
– You are also illiterate. What is it? From the big city, and the illiterate sent. Why didn’t you study?
Morozov blushed deeply.
Mehmetinsky walked along the line and, smiling tenderly, called new recruits by last name, first name and patronymic, although he did not have a list in his hands.
– And we waited for you and thought: Siberians will not let you down… The same illiteracy as in the Baltic provinces, and in central Russia. Not good. An artilleryman must be well-educated…
The captain’s face became serious. The buggies sagged slightly, but their eyes still gleamed. Talking to the recruits, he squinted them.
“Keep your head straight and lift your right shoulder,” said Captain Podkovin. – Have you worked in the court of justice for a long time? Two years? And before that, he worked somewhere?
– Was a clerk. And my main occupation is a fisherman.
– Do you have a good handwriting?
“I, your Honor, do not want a clerk.”
– We’ll see. Who do the clerk do? See for yourself. And the clerk needs… Abramovich Moses Iosifovich! Are you a craftsman, a mechanic?
“That memory is memory. I read the list once and remembers everyone, “thought Podkovin.
– Good locksmith we need. What can you do?
– I can repair sewing machines, I made new locks.
– By the cannon lock do you make new?
– With the tool – everything is possible.
– Do you make a new gun? – Wishing to cheer the soldiers, asked the captain.
– Give the tool and the room, I’ll make you a gun. Only one mess around unprofitable.
“This is fine,” the captain laughed. – We will send you to the arsenal. Verevkin Matvey Karpovich… Was a cab driver? Do you know horses? That’s what we need. Be your ride. Good horses will give you a pair. Illiterate?.. If you quickly embrace the teaching, then you will be the senior fireworker. And you will have a riding horse, and you will command a whole platoon… Y-yes… Your diploma is weak, guys.
Twenty recruits went to their beds. Today they are exempted from general studies. The day was clear and frosty… Through the large windows, icy below, the sun illuminated the inside of the barracks. In the middle of it, between cast-iron columns supporting the ceiling, there is a wide passage along the whole room. On the sides, by the walls, in several rows were bunks of gunners; in the corners, where it was more spacious, older and younger fireworks were placed. In the aisle, young soldiers marched in groups. There were stomping and squawking platoon.
Before lunch, after being freed from classes, his neighbor approached Podkovin.
– Write me a letter something. To Oryol Province…
– Okay, I’ll write. What is your last name?
– Konevyazov.
– We will agree with you like this: you do your job, and I will write.
– How can it be without me?
– Okay. Do not bother me. I’ll write, then we’ll talk.
Half an hour later, Podkovin called him.
– Here is the letter ready. Read it out loud.
At first he stammered, and then, rather briskly, Konevyazov read:
“My dear parents! In the first lines of this letter I ask for your blessing, which will be indestructible over the grave of my life, and I kiss you warmly, and I also bow deeply in love. I send my bow to grandparents, brothers and sisters, and my uncle with my aunt and my dear wife a hot kiss, and I will write her a separate letter. May he love you all and be your own daughter.
I tell СКАЧАТЬ