Time, no matter how slowly it drags, still cannot stand still. The first snow fell on the ninth of September, exactly three months after the last, which was believed to be in the spring, but in fact already in the summer—the third of June. Summer beckoned with the sun sometimes peeking out from under the low clouds, warmed up slightly at the end of August and by the first days of September had disappeared until spring.
Summer uniforms never became common; for three months the soldiers wore lightweight, cropped sweatshirts. During the night, the foot wraps not only did not have time to dry, but also picked up moisture, and the feet rotted in the most persistent way. And not only the legs, any wound turned into an abscess, which was very difficult to get rid of.
The new season was marked by the fact that the rain clouds gave way to snow clouds. The snow that fell disappeared the next day, leaving behind mud that invariably froze in the morning and thawed by lunchtime. And yet the consciousness recorded: snow means winter.
After the first smoke break, when the military construction workers got out of the trailer and sluggishly reached for their jobs, a company commander appeared at the construction site. He did not like to go to sites; he did this, as far as the rules allowed, rarely. But every visit Captain Lozhenko tried to cement in the memory of his subordinates with successes in labor performance. So this time I armed myself with the intention of breaking some kind of record.
His walkthrough began in the basement of a hockey rink under construction. Here he showed how to properly spread crushed stone. A little later, having gone up to the first floor, he taught the plasterers how to lay out the wall evenly, and on the second floor how best to do masonry. And just as I was getting ready to go onto the roof, I needed to teach the soldiers how to throw snow off it, when in the opening of the wall I saw the battalion commander’s UAZ driving up to the object.
This was a bad sign. If only because the battalion commander did not go to construction sites at all. Only once a year, and then only in exceptional cases. This didn’t happen today, but now he’s arrived...
While the lieutenant colonel's car, slowly rocking, made its way over the bumps of the construction site, the captain managed to give the command to form up, make sure that everyone refueled, combed their hair and tightened their belts. The last seconds before the car finally stopped, squeaking its brakes, were, apparently, the most painful for the company commander. On his face, it seemed, one could read a complete list of all possible reasons why the battalion commander decided to raid this particular object and right now. It is possible that the captain also calculated all possible questions that could be addressed to him.
The driver-sergeant, wearing a perfectly ironed PeSha tunic—a woolen uniform intended exclusively for officers—easily jumped out of the car and, going to the back door, opened it.
- All right, at attention! – the captain yelled at the top of his lungs and the drill troopers, as far as the uneven soil of the construction site allowed, walked towards the car. - Ta-arish Lieutenant Colonel, during your absence... from... suts...
An elderly, short woman stepped onto the ground from the open door of the battalion commander's UAZ. “Otsu... tst... viya...” the captain stalled, frantically looking for answers to at least two questions: who is this woman, and why is she driving around in the battalion commander’s car? Dressed in a simple coat and covered with an equally simple shawl, she did not give the impression of a person to whom a battalion commander could give up his car.
- Pr... about... excuse me, you... this... And where is the Lieutenant Colonel? – the company commander was unable to come up with anything else.
The battalion commander answered the question:
“Comrade captain, this is Private Sh.’s mother,” the sergeant explained. “She came on a date, but since this soldier cannot be discharged, the battalion commander ordered that they be provided with a trailer for rest and not be interfered with from communicating until the end of the working day. There are three visitors here - the soldier's mother, brother and sister.
“Mom...” Sergei couldn’t believe his eyes. - How, how did she end up here? Incredible! I don’t understand anything!..”
- Private! Well, are you standing? - Lozhenko finally came to his senses. - Out of order! Your relatives have come to see you. Mother. Here…
While he was speaking, the passengers got out of the UAZ. The captain hesitated:
– You... this... Please come into the trailer. Right here, please. It's warm and clean there. No one will disturb you until the end of the working day. Soldiers will be able to take a smoke break at work. Come on in, come on in... - and then to the soldiers: - Attention, platoon! Go to your workplaces!
– What kind of miracles are there, how did you end up in the battalion commander’s vehicle? – Sergei asked when the relatives, having cuddled to their heart’s content, retired to the construction trailer.
“Your boss and I had a very good talk,” my mother laid out all sorts of goodies on the table.
– What do you mean “had a good talk”? And how did this even become possible?
- Eat, son, eat. We also brought sweets for your soldiers. Eat, and in the meantime I’ll tell you everything,” Seryozha’s mother stroked Seryozha’s hand.
God! How small she is. Mom's hand. All covered in wrinkles, tanned, almost black. Summer, as always, of course, is in the garden. “Was it a hot summer?” – asked. “As always,” my mother replied, “up to 40 in the shade.” I remembered how I tore my hand out of hers, small, when saying goodbye. Now he threw the cookie, grabbed my mother’s palm, and began to kiss it. “What are you doing, my little soldier! You eat, eat, eat up..."
My mother decided to visit her son in the army due to increased anxiety: whether he would be able to return. My health has completely weakened, hypertensive crises are becoming more frequent, and there is less and less hope that I will see a soldier. Her older sister and younger brother could not let her go alone on such a long, difficult journey. So we arrived. From the station - straight to the unit.
At the checkpoint, the duty officer said that the personnel were at work and the soldiers would return only in the evening.
– Do you have any rules when close relatives come to visit someone? – asked Seryozha’s sister.
“Yes, of course, now I’ll call the duty officer,” answered the sergeant.
At headquarters, having heard the soldier’s name, they did not dare to take responsibility themselves—this is the competence of the battalion commander.
“Escort the warrior’s mother to me,” the lieutenant colonel ordered, “and my brother and sister will wait at the checkpoint.”
It was necessary to go through the entire parade ground. A few military men looked back with curiosity at the small, fragile woman walking accompanied by the unit duty officer. “My son is serving here,” she thought, barely keeping up with the officer. “He walks on this asphalt.” Every day. Barracks. Four floors. So many windows. I wonder which window is his?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Usenko,” the battalion commander politely introduced himself, “Ivan Nikolaevich.” Please come in and settle down. Excuse me, how are you? Vera Grigorievna? Great! Great, very nice to meet you. So you are the mother of our troubled soldier?
- Problematic?!
- Well, in a sense, of course. He doesn’t create problems, but we still have them,” the battalion commander smiled. - Would you like some tea? – the officer picked up the intercom: “Sergeant, two teas.” Yes, so, this is problematic for us, Vera Grigorievna, for us. After all, he is, how can I put it, an anti-adviser.
– He was never anti-Soviet. “And it’s unlikely that it ever will be,” the woman answered quietly. – Anti-Soviet people speak out against the Soviet government, hatch ideas... Seryozha has no trace of any of this. What kind of anti-adviser is he?
– You are right, of course. But only partly. Partly. After all, sabotage is, so to speak, a form of protest, although not active, but it causes harm to the Soviet state. Likewise, your son does not speak out openly, perhaps, but his actions, in particular, his refusal to take the oath, are a kind of sabotage. Isn't it?
“Not like that, dear Ivan Nikolayevich, not like that at all,” Serezha’s mother looked searchingly at the lieutenant colonel, as if she was wondering whether it was worth developing an off-protocol topic. Then, as if convinced of his integrity, she continued: “All my eight children...
- Whoa-eight?! – the battalion commander sat up in his chair.
- Yes, eight, but what?
- No, no, nothing. Sorry, I interrupted you.
– All my children were raised to respect the state. The Bible says, “All authority is from God.” And we believe it. It is not our right to decide whether it is correct or not. This is how we raised our children. They were successful in school, did not create problems for teachers, were neat and obedient students, learned trades, work in production, and our Seryozha worked at a tractor factory for a year before the army. We are people who don’t drink, we don’t skip work, we work conscientiously, I would even say, with our souls. Excuse me, but I will mention the Bible again. It is written that whatever we do, we must do from the heart, as for the Lord. What kind of sabotage are you talking about?
“Hmm, you’re a masterful conversationalist, Vera Grigorievna,” the lieutenant colonel couldn’t help but smile, “you would make an excellent agitator.” However, I'm not surprised. I'm not surprised. There, in your sect, they instruct you with sermons. Everything you say is the absolute truth, of course. And your son serves conscientiously, the best, one might say, in all respects, a reliable soldier. But you understand what the matter is, this is internal, or something... resistance, protest - not protest, inflexibility, maybe internal disagreement or something else... it is felt. Do you understand?
– Maybe it’s just inner freedom?!
“Where are you going?” the battalion commander took a sip of tea with pleasure and smiled, he did not hide the fact that he liked the conversation. - How did you, Vera Grigorievna, subtly trick us, inadvertently call us slaves? Well, why won’t your warrior take the oath of freedom?
“His decision also came as a surprise to me; my mother hardly drank tea, it was clear that she was worried and worried. – His elder brothers, my sons, all took the oath, served in the combat troops and remained faithful to the Lord; but we did not conduct any moralizing conversations with them and did not convince Seryozha. This is his decision, his relationship with God. Personal. That's why we didn't interfere.
– And yet you don’t love your Motherland...
– It depends what you mean by love.
- Well, what about... people, our... Soviet life.
– Power, did you mean? - Mom smiled.
The officer raised his eyebrows. After a short pause he said clearly:
- Yes, power! Ours, the Soviet, the people's!
“The government is of the people, but... you know,” the woman faltered again, “you know, I have a reason to be offended by the previous authorities.” My father was taken away in 1937, I was nine years old then, and I grew up as an orphan, raised by my stepmother. Despite this, we even cried, yes, cried, when Joseph Vissarionovich died. They sincerely cried and felt sorry for him. And Motherland? The homeland is in the birch trees, in our open spaces, in the Kazakh steppes, in the Siberian forests, in the people. How can you not love all this? So do the people. I love him, I love my neighbors, our townspeople... But sheer drunkenness, which affects everyone, that’s what I can’t love. Does this mean I don't love them? Does the fact that the authorities constantly present me as second or third class, attributing to me the notorious dislike for the Motherland, does all this mean that I really don’t love it?
- Well, the Soviet government takes care of you. You probably have an apartment like a large family?
– No, we have never received anything from the state. We bought the house without any help and we’re not complaining, we earned everything with our own hands, saved, saved. We live from the garden, with such a large family - there’s no other way. My husband has been driving since he was 18 years old. The best driver in the convoy, KAMAZ trucks had just begun to be produced, he was the first to be trusted - he went to the plant in the first batch. They know because: he won’t get drunk, won’t steal, won’t play hooky. And at the same time there are no prizes or awards. All because he is a Baptist. Of course, he doesn’t work for the sake of honor, but still... Love for the Motherland, it seems to me, means not going to parades and not shouting: “I swear!” Love is honest, conscientious work, obeying the laws and maintaining order where you live. To love means not to steal, not to do dirty tricks, not to deceive, and to help your neighbor. If we consider love for the Motherland in this way, then I love it very much. Our sons love her too...
The woman’s small, hard-working hands trembled. The lengthy, sublime speech made her emotional. She carefully touched the edges of a glass of tea with her thin fingers, which she almost never drank. The conversation was unusual for her; she was worried whether this military man would understand her. He was silent in thought.
– I understand you, Vera Grigorievna. And I respect your son, despite the existing problems. But you know, you have something to be proud of. To be honest, I myself would like to have such a son. To have a core, to be decent. And he remained faithful not for profit or badge, and not for fear, but, as they say, for conscience.
– Thank you, Ivan Nikolaevich! Will you let him go on leave?
- Dismissal? Hmm... I don't know. Actually, it’s not allowed,” the battalion commander thought for a second. – Do you know what? Come on, I’ll give you my car. With driver. Go to the site and communicate all day long. There is where. The carriages are warm. And then the driver asked you - where did you get a job? in a hotel? – then the driver will take you to the hotel, I’ll make the arrangements, and he’ll keep up with me. Go now.
The lieutenant colonel stood up, extended his hand and said quietly:
– Thank you, Vera Grigorievna, for the conversation...
There was no holding back time in the trailer. Here, very close, behind a thin wall, ten meters from him, the soldiers were toiling away with hated work and complaining about the terribly slowly passing minutes. For those sitting in the carriage, the hours flew faster than the speed of light.
Seryozha tried not to forget anything, he wanted to find out everything, ask about everyone. Like the nephews, they've grown up already, I suppose? How are the youth in the church? What's new in the city? So much news at once. Mom didn’t want to talk about her health; she answered questions evasively: everything is fine, son, everything is in the power of the Lord... How is dad?
Lozhenko knocked.
- I apologize, comrades, but it’s time for us to move into position. I hope you were able to have a good conversation and no one bothered you.
“Yes, thank you,” they answered in unison, “thank you for the opportunity.”
“Well, that’s nice, or, as you say, thank God,” the captain grinned.
“Yes, only glory to Him,” my mother did not notice the sarcasm.
Kombatovsky UAZ was already there, it was time to say goodbye. Seryozha hugged his mother. “How beautiful she is!” – I thought. “How strong and beautiful you are,” she said. My brother and I patted each other on the shoulder: come on, little brother, hold on! Thank you, sister, I know you organized everything.
We walked through the frozen mud to the car. Seryozha hugged his mother again, helped her climb onto the UAZ’s step, and said to the driver in his own way: “Thank you, Sergeant!” He smiled in response and barely noticeably shrugged his shoulders: what do I care, I follow orders. The car started moving, mom waved her hand through the window, and the soldier got into formation. Step march!..
