Gaidar Arkady Petrovich
A military secret
Arkady Gaidar
A military secret
And because of some misfortune, the train stood at the stop for two hours and arrived in Moscow only at three and a half. This upset Natka Shegalova, because the Sevastopol ambulance left exactly at five, and she did not have time to go to her uncle.
Then, on the machine, through the switchboard of the corps headquarters, she asked for the office of the chief - Shegalov.
Uncle,” cried the saddened Natka, “I’m in Moscow!.. Well, yes: I, Natka. Uncle, the train leaves at five, and I am very, very sorry that I will never be able to see you.
In response, Natka was obviously scolded, because she quickly rattled off her excuses. But then they told her something, which made her immediately happy and smile.
Having climbed out of the telephone booth, Komsomol member Natka straightened her blue scarf and threw a not very tight hiking bag over her shoulders.
She didn't have to wait long. Soon the whistle sounded, a car stopped at the entrance to the station, and a strong old man with an order opened the door for Natka.
And what is this fever? - he scolded Natka. - Well, I would go tomorrow. And then “uncle”, “sorry”... “train at five o’clock”...
Uncle,” Natka spoke guiltily and cheerfully, “it’s good for you – “tomorrow.” And I was already three days late. Either the city committee said: “tomorrow,” then suddenly the mother asked: “tomorrow.” And then there’s the train for two hours... You’ve already been to the Crimea and the Caucasus many times. You rode an armored train and flew an airplane. I once saw your portrait. You’re standing there, and Budyonny, and some other bosses. And I’m nowhere, on nothing, nowhere and not even once. How old are you? I'm already over fifty, and I'm eighteen. And you - “tomorrow” and “tomorrow”...
Oh, Natka! - Shegalov answered almost in fear, confused by her stupid, noisy onslaught. - Oh, Natka, how much you look like my Maruska!
And you’ve grown old, uncle,” Natka continued. - Do I still know you as I remember? In a black hat. At your side is a long, shiny saber. Spurs: bang, bang. Where did you come to us from? Your arm was shot. So one day you went to bed, and I and another girl - Verka - slowly pulled out your saber, hid behind the stove and examined it. And mother saw us and a twig. We roar. You woke up and asked your mother: “Why are the girls crying, Dasha?” - “Yes, the damned ones, they pulled out your saber. Look, they’ll break him.” And you laughed: “Eh, Dasha, I would have a bad saber if such girls could break it. Don’t touch them, let them watch.” Do you remember this, uncle?
No, I don’t remember, Natka,” Shegalov smiled. - That was a long time ago. Back in nineteen. I was coming from near Bessarabia then.
The car slowly moved along Myasnitskaya. It was an hour when people were returning from work. Trucks and trams thundered incessantly. But Natka liked all this - the stream of people, the dusty yellow buses, and the ringing trams, which either converged or scattered along their confused roads to some distant and unknown outskirts: to Dangauerovka, to Dorogomilovka, to Sokolniki, to Tyufeleva and Maryina Roshcha and somewhere else.
And when, turning from narrow Myasnitskaya towards Zemlyanoy Val, the driver increased the speed so that the car, with a light, elastic buzz, rushed along the asphalt pavement, wide and gray, like a tightly stretched cloth Blanket, Natka pulled off the blue scarf so that the wind would hit her face harder and ruffled his black hair as he pleased.
While waiting for the train, they sat on the shady terrace of the station buffet. From here one could see the railway tracks, bright signals and steep asphalt platforms along which people hurried to their country trains.
Here Shegalov ordered two lunches, a bottle of beer and ice cream.
“Uncle,” Natka said thoughtfully, “three years ago I told you that I wanted to be a pilot or captain of a sea steamer. But what happened was that they first sent me to a Soviet Party school - study, they say, in a Soviet Party school - and now they sent me to pioneer work: go, they say, and work.
Natka pushed the plate away, took a saucer with pink, quickly melting ice cream and looked at Shegalov as if she was expecting an answer to the question asked.
But Shegalov drank a glass of beer, wiped his rough mustache with his palm and waited for what she would say next.
And they sent me to pioneer work,” Natka stubbornly repeated. - Pilots fly their own ways. Steamships sail on their own seas. Verka - the same one with whom we pulled out your saber - will be an engineer in two years. And I’m sitting at pioneer work and I don’t know why.
Don't you like your job? - Shegalov asked carefully. - Don’t you love or can’t cope?
“I don’t like it,” Natka admitted. - I myself, uncle, know that I am necessary and important... I know all this myself. But I feel like I'm out of place. Do not understand? Well, for example: when the civil war broke out, they would have taken you and told you: don’t touch the rifle, Shegalov, leave the saber and go to such and such a school and teach the children grammar and arithmetic there. What would you do?
I would have turned out to be a bad grammarian then,” Shegalov, being wary, laughed it off. He paused, remembered and, smiling, said: “But one day they removed me from the detachment, recalled me from the front.” And for three whole months, in the heat of the moment, I counted wagons with oats and hay, sent sacks of flour, loaded barrels of cabbage. And my detachment has long been defeated. And ours have long since broken through. And ours have long been shunned back. And I keep walking, counting, hanging, sending, to be more precise, to be more, to be better. What do you think this is?
Shegalov looked into the face of the frowning Natka and asked good-naturedly:
Are you having trouble coping? So come on, daughter, learn, pull yourself up. I myself used to only slurp sauerkraut in soldiers’ cabbage soup with a spoon. And then cabbage, tobacco, and herring came in truckloads. Two echelons of half-dead cattle - and he saved them, fed them, and straightened them out. Receivers arrived from the front from the Sixteenth Army. They look - the cattle is even, smooth. “Lord,” they say, “has this really happened to us? And our shelves are sitting on nothing but potatoes, tired, emaciated.” I remember one restless commissar kept trying and trying to kiss me.
Here Shegalov stopped and looked seriously at Natka.
Of course, I didn’t kiss: my character doesn’t allow it. Eat, I say, comrades, for good health. Yes... Well, there you go. What am I talking about? So don’t be timid, Natka, then everything will be as it should be. - And, looking past the angry Natka, Shegalov leisurely greeted the commander passing by.
Natka looked at Shegalov incredulously. Did he not understand or did he do it on purpose?
How can I not cope? - she asked indignantly. - Who told you? You made this up yourself. That's who!
And, flushed and wounded, she threw him a dozen pieces of evidence that she was coping. And it copes well, it copes well. And that in the competition for the best preparation for summer camps they took first place. And that for this she received this very vacation package to the best pioneer camp, to Crimea.
Due to some misfortune, the train stood at a stop for two hours and arrived in Moscow only at three and a half.
This upset Natka Shegalova, because the Sevastopol ambulance left exactly at five and she did not have time to go to her uncle.
Then, on the machine, through the switchboard of the corps headquarters, she asked for the office of the chief - Shegalov.
Uncle,” the saddened Natka shouted, “I’m in Moscow!... Well, yes: I, Natka. Uncle, the train leaves at five, and I am very, very sorry that I will never be able to see you.
In response, Natka was obviously scolded, because she quickly rattled off her excuses. But then they told her something, which made her immediately happy and smile.
Having climbed out of the telephone booth, Komsomol member Natka straightened her blue scarf and threw a not very tight hiking bag over her shoulders.
She didn't have to wait long. Soon the whistle sounded, a car stopped at the entrance to the station, and a strong old man with an order opened the door for Natka.
And what is this fever? - he scolded Natka. - Well, I would go tomorrow. And then “uncle”, “sorry”... “train at five o’clock”...
Uncle,” Natka spoke guiltily and cheerfully, “it’s good for you – “tomorrow.” And I was already three days late. Either the city committee said: “tomorrow,” then suddenly the mother asked: “tomorrow.” And then there’s the train for two hours... You’ve already been to Crimea and the Caucasus many times. You rode an armored train and flew an airplane. I once saw your portrait. You’re standing there, and Budyonny, and some other bosses. And I’m nowhere, on nothing, nowhere and not even once. How old are you? I'm already over fifty, and I'm eighteen. And you - “tomorrow” and “tomorrow”...
Oh, Natka! - Shegalov answered almost in fear, confused by her stupid, noisy onslaught. - Oh, Natka, how much you look like my Maruska!
And you’ve grown old, uncle,” Natka continued. - Do I still know you as I remember? In a black hat. You have a long shiny saber at your side. Spurs: bang, bang. Where did you come to us from? Your arm was shot. So one day you went to bed, and I and another girl - Verka - slowly pulled out your saber, hid behind the stove and examined it. And mother saw us and a twig. We are roaring. You woke up and asked your mother: “Why are the girls crying, Dasha?” - “Yes, they, damned ones, pulled out your saber. Look at him, they’ll break him.” And you laughed: “Eh, Dasha, I would have a bad saber if such girls could break it. Don’t touch them, let them watch.” Do you remember this, uncle?
No, I don’t remember, Natka,” Shegalov smiled. - That was a long time ago. Back in nineteen. I was coming from near Bessarabia then.
The car slowly moved along Myasnitskaya. It was an hour when people were returning from work. Trucks and trams thundered incessantly. But Natka liked all this - the stream of people, the dusty yellow buses, and the ringing trams, which either converged or scattered along their confused roads to some distant and unknown outskirts: to Dangauerovka, to Dorogomilovka, to Sokolniki, to Tyufeleva and Maryina Roshcha and somewhere else.
And when, turning from narrow Myasnitskaya towards Zemlyanoy Val, the driver increased the speed so that the car, with a light, elastic buzz, rushed along the asphalt pavement, wide and gray, like a tightly stretched cloth blanket, Natka pulled off the blue scarf so that the wind would hit her face harder and ruffled his black hair as he pleased.
... While waiting for the train, they settled down on the shady terrace of the station buffet. From here one could see the railway tracks, bright signals and steep asphalt platforms along which people hurried to their country trains.
Here Shegalov ordered two lunches, a bottle of beer and ice cream.
“Uncle,” Natka said thoughtfully, “three years ago I told you that I wanted to be a pilot or captain of a sea steamer. But what happened was that they first sent me to a Soviet Party school - study, they say, in a Soviet Party school - and now they sent me to pioneer work: go, they say, and work.
Natka pushed the plate away, took a saucer with pink, quickly melting ice cream and looked at Shegalov as if she was expecting an answer to the question asked.
But Shegalov drank a glass of beer, wiped his rough mustache with his palm and waited for what she would say next.
And they sent me to pioneer work,” Natka stubbornly repeated. - Pilots fly their own ways. Steamships sail on their own seas. Verka - the same one with whom we pulled out your saber - will be an engineer in two years. And I’m sitting at pioneer work and I don’t know why.
Don't you like your job? - Shegalov asked carefully. - Don’t you love or can’t cope?
“I don’t like it,” Natka admitted. - I myself, uncle, know that I am necessary and important... I know all this myself. But it seems to me that I am out of place. Do not understand? Well, for example: when the civil war broke out, they would have taken you and said: don’t touch the rifle, Shegalov, leave the saber and go to such and such a school and teach the children grammar and arithmetic there. What would you do?
I would have turned out to be a bad grammarian then,” Shegalov, being wary, laughed it off. He paused, remembered and, smiling, said: “But one day they removed me from the detachment, recalled me from the front.” And for three whole months, in the heat of the moment, I counted wagons with oats and hay, sent sacks of flour, loaded barrels of cabbage. And my detachment has long been defeated. And ours have long since broken through. And ours have long been shunned back. And I keep walking around, counting, hanging, sending, to be more precise, to be more, to be better. What do you think this is?
Shegalov looked into the face of the frowning Natka and asked good-naturedly:
Are you having trouble coping? So come on, daughter, learn, pull yourself up. I myself used to only slurp sauerkraut in soldiers’ cabbage soup with a spoon. And then cabbage, tobacco, and herring came in truckloads. He saved two trains of half-dead cattle, fed them, and straightened them out. Receivers arrived from the front from the Sixteenth Army. They look - the cattle is even, smooth. “Lord,” they say, “has this really happened to us? And our shelves sit on nothing but potatoes, tired and emaciated.” I remember one restless commissar kept trying and trying to kiss me.
Here Shegalov stopped and looked seriously at Natka:
Of course, I didn’t kiss: my character doesn’t allow it. Eat, I say, comrades, for good health. Yes... Well, there you go. What am I talking about? So don’t be timid, Natka, then everything will be as it should be. - And, looking past the angry Natka, Shegalov leisurely greeted the commander passing by.
Natka looked at Shegalov incredulously. Did he not understand or did he do it on purpose?
How can I not cope? - she asked indignantly. - Who told you? You made this up yourself. That's who!
And, flushed and wounded, she threw him a dozen pieces of evidence that she was coping. And it copes well, it copes well. And that in the competition for the best preparation for summer camps they took first place. And that for this she received this very vacation package to the best pioneer camp, to Crimea.
Eh, Natka! - Shegalov shamed her. - You should be happy, but you... And I’ll look at you... well, how much you, Natka, look like my Maruska!... You were a pilot too! - he finished with a sad smile and, clanking his spurs, got up from his chair, because the bell rang and the horns shouted loudly that there was a landing on Sevastopol No. 2.
Through the tunnel they came out onto a platform.
If you go back, telegraph,” Shegalov told her goodbye. - When I have time, I’ll come to meet you, if not, I’ll send someone. You will stay for two or three days. Look at Shurka. You won't recognize her now. Well, goodbye!
He loved Natka so much because she strongly reminded him of his eldest daughter, who died at the front in those days when he rushed with his detachment along the borders of burning Bessarabia.
In the morning Natka went to the dining car. It was empty. A red-haired foreigner was sitting and reading a newspaper; two military men were playing chess.
Natka asked for boiled eggs and tea. While waiting for the tea to cool, she took out a magazine someone had forgotten from behind a flower. The magazine turned out to be from last year.
Decoration P. Petrova
The interior design of the book uses photographs of FORMAT TV CJSC, as well as: Emmanuel Evzerikhin, Alexey Kudenko, Arkady Shaikhet, Maask / RIA Novosti; RIA Novosti Archive Andrew Ostrovsky, alexluengo / Istockphoto / Thinkstock / Fotobank.ru
Preface
The Ebola virus does not look scary only under a microscope. Such an intricate squiggle, similar to a Chinese character. It’s another matter when you hold it in your hands and understand that this ampoule with a cloudy liquid is enough to destroy half of the Earth’s humanity.
...It was hot in the spacesuit; the glass fogged up all the time. Out of habit, it was difficult to breathe through the mouthpiece. Suddenly, a bright light came from somewhere above. Feeling the approach of the Apocalypse, the monkeys screamed heart-rendingly. “Ebola virus. Strain Zaire,” I read the inscription on the ampoule and handed it to the head of the group. With an everyday gesture, he twisted the head of the dangerous ampoule. The syringe sucked up the deadly contents without a trace...
Only a narrow circle of the country’s leaders and I, a simple captain who ended up in this laboratory due to a chain of strange and mysterious circumstances, knew that the biological special forces of the Russian Ministry of Defense were working with the most terrible virus in the history of mankind.
Outside the window stood an unremarkable 1994. The shots at the White House have already died down in Moscow, but the war in Chechnya has not yet begun. Saddam Hussein is still in power, but the sanctions that will lead him to the gallows have already been introduced. It’s no longer a secret to anyone that Yeltsin drinks, and Clinton walks. Although in Barvikha a glass in the morning is not yet prohibited, and the fatal dress of the White House intern has not even been purchased. It was an uninteresting, boring year. Perhaps there was only one thing that made him remarkable. A deadly virus of unknown origin has killed several thousand people in Africa in a matter of weeks. It spread like a cold from a simple sneeze. The man died in terrible agony within two weeks. But medicine was powerless against this mysterious virus. Like AIDS, it was hopelessly incurable.
And today, twenty years later, the Ebola virus is considered one of the most dangerous in human history.
But few people know that a life-saving cure for a deadly virus exists. And this sensational medicine was created in Russia. Twenty years ago.
If not for a coincidence, no one would probably have known about it. And it was like this. One day I found myself in the office of the head of the Radiation, Chemical and Biological Defense Troops of the Ministry of Defense of the Russian Federation, Colonel General Petrov. Drank tea. In the corner of the general's office the TV was talking to itself. There was news that in Africa they could not cope with the Ebola virus. That there is no vaccine, that world medicine is powerless.
In general, everything is bad... And then Stanislav Veniaminovich somehow casually says to me:
– Do you know, our fellows have just invented a drug against Ebola...
- Can't be! - I burst out.
- Maybe! – answered the Colonel General. – Clinical trials have already been carried out on monkeys. So we have a response to the Ebola virus!
I broke out in a sweat. I understood that now a real world sensation was just falling into my hands.
Then, almost in a whisper, so as not to frighten away the sudden happiness, I quietly tell him:
- Stanislav Veniaminovich! This is the greatest discovery in the history of mankind! The whole world should know about this immediately!
“What kind of “world” are you talking about,” the Colonel General wearily waved his hand. “Even the GRU doesn’t know about this.” The drug is top secret.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted honestly. – Your people have invented a drug that may save humanity from an incurable disease. This is the greatest discovery. And you are going to remain silent. Why?
“We developed the drug against the Ebola virus not to brag,” the Colonel General answered me softly, “but in case of biological war against our country.” Why do you think the Americans have made such a fuss about this Ebola? For civilian doctors, it is an incurable virus. And for the military - a great find. An ideal component for creating a new type of biological weapon. Load a shell with this virus - and consider the war over. It is for this case that we developed this drug,” said the Colonel General and turned off the TV with news from Africa. - Clear?
“I see,” I thought. – The world sensation is cancelled. It's a shame." And then I decided to take a desperate step.
“Sorry, Comrade Colonel General,” I went on the attack, “but your discovery, in my opinion, is not worth a damn!”
- Didn't understand? – the general seemed even at a loss from surprise. - Why isn’t it worth it?
“Yes,” I answered, “because in a month the CIA will find out about your top-secret drug.” After two months, they will receive a sample of your drug. They'll put the entire station in Russia on their ears, they'll be torn apart, but they'll get it. In three years they will make exactly the same one. And the next day, Reuters will tell about the world sensation. About how American scientists did not eat or drink - they came up with a vaccine against the Ebola virus. As a result, you will be left with a drug that no one will be interested in. Americans will turn out to be the saviors of the world. My friend from Reuters, Paul Simpson, will receive an award for journalistic success. And I'll stay with my nose. It's a shame, Comrade Colonel General...
I was waiting for the storm. But the general was silent. He was silent, and then suddenly asked:
- What do you suggest?
And then I realized that my calculation was correct.
...On that day, the General Staff corridor seemed especially long to me, and the clock in the reception room of the head of the Main Directorate of the General Staff was unspeakably slow...
Colonel General Petrov returned about twenty minutes later. He handed me the paper. I couldn't believe my eyes. This was a directive just signed personally by the Minister of Defense. According to this directive, I, Captain Prokopenko, received access to the territory of perhaps the most secret military facility in the world - the Virological Center of the Ministry of Defense.
The next day I was already putting on a spacesuit to go to the “third zone” - a laboratory where they work with the most dangerous viruses on the planet.
...It was hot, the glass of the spacesuit fogged up all the time. “Ebola virus. Strain Zaire,” I read the inscription on the ampoule, and the experiment began.
In the evening the phone rang at my house. This was the head of the Virology Center of the Ministry of Defense. I still remember what the most secret Russian scientist told me then. He said:
- Captain, you have no idea what you did! The President has just nominated employees of the Virology Center of the Ministry of Defense for the first time in history for the State Prize. And it was decided to transfer our drug against the Ebola virus to the World Health Organization.
It was 1994 outside the window...
Soon, news will come from the headquarters of this respected international organization that the drug against the Ebola virus, developed by Russian military scientists, has successfully passed clinical trials and has been sent to the epidemic zone.
In six months, the Chechen war will begin, and we will all no longer have time for Ebola. Five years later, having declassified all the materials from that memorable business trip, I will edit a documentary film - “Ebola Fever. The Mystery of the Death Virus,” for which I will receive the national television award “Tefi.”
Twenty years from now, a new Ebola epidemic will break out in Africa, and US President Barack Obama will call Ebola the second biggest threat to the world. The “honorable” first place was left to Russia.
The book you are holding in your hands is the result of many years of work by a large number of journalists from the Military Secrets program, who for eighteen years have been doing everything possible to ensure that the greatest military secrets of the twentieth century become public. Now we can get to know them together.
Part one
Familiar strangers
Chapter 1
Stalin and Zhukov
Marshal Zhukov and Comrade Stalin. One entered the textbooks as an outstanding commander, thanks to whom our country defeated Nazi Germany. The other will forever remain in history as a cunning and ruthless dictator, whose mistakes led to colossal casualties and an inglorious retreat at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War. But is it? Where do real facts end and historical misconceptions begin?
An analysis of declassified documents indicates that, firstly, the military leadership achievements of Marshal Zhukov are far from indisputable. And secondly, Stalin was not so stupid when he planned an offensive operation against Nazi Germany. So who really were Stalin and Zhukov?
Revolutionary fighters
The robbery that we are about to talk about is included in all history textbooks on criminology as the most daring and, perhaps, the most successful in the entire history of the 20th century. On one hot July day in 1908, a small group of policemen appeared at the Baku port.
Speaks Moses Becker, Doctor of Historical Sciences: “Here once was the pier of the Caucasus and Mercury society.” Steamships departed from here and went up the Volga.”
Under the guise of checking documents, law enforcement officers demanded that they be allowed onto the deck of the ship, which was about to depart on its voyage any minute. This was a very strange request. What kind of verification can there be when this ship, staffed with armed guards, carried a huge amount of money from the State Bank of Azerbaijan?
And then the incredible happened. In the blink of an eye, some of the guards of the secret cargo come under sudden fire. The rest are locked in the engine room. The arriving police turned out to be dressed as gangsters. Then everything is like in a Hollywood action movie. Two criminals break into the cabin where bank treasures are stored in an armored safe.
Tells Moses Becker: “On the lower deck there were safes in which jewelry was transported from the Bank of Azerbaijan to Nizhny Novgorod and Moscow.”
The famous Swiss safe cannot be opened. Time doesn't wait. The city police have already been alerted. But one of the raiders calmly gets to work. As it will later become known, this is the most skilled safecracker in all of Europe, nicknamed Ahmed. A few agonizing minutes - and the impregnable safe is open. In the hands of criminals - 1,200,000 rubles. This is an absolutely fantastic amount. In today's money - about 30 million dollars!
But opening the safe is half the battle. The port is already cordoned off. A ship captured by bandits is blocked. There seems to be no way out. And then another incredible event happens. Two criminals appear on deck with their hands raised. It seems it's all over for them. But, instead of giving up, in front of the amazed policemen, they jump overboard into a boat that appeared out of nowhere and leave with the loot straight into the open sea. It was never possible to catch up with them.
As declassified archives testify, the famous safecracker Ahmed would later become Chairman of the Supreme Council of the Azerbaijan Soviet Socialist Republic. And his partner, who was known to the police as the leader of a Caucasian criminal group nicknamed Ryaboy, in 10 years will be simply called Comrade Stalin.
Speaks Moses Becker: “This same boat has miraculously been preserved for history and for us. The boat on which Stalin, Kamo and Akhmed, together with their comrades, ran away from the police. Here were these valuables, this money, these diamonds, which were intended for the party.”
Strange as it may sound, such concepts as “roof”, “racketeering”, and “black cash” were invented not in the cheerful 90s of the 20th century, but at the dawn of the Russian revolution. Recently, historians, while sorting through the secret archives of the CPSU Central Committee in search of “party gold”, discovered interesting documents. For example, according to the official report, the entire budget of the Central Committee for 1907 amounted to a symbolic hundred rubles. However, about one hundred thousand were spent on leaflets alone. As a character in a famous movie said, “Where does this money come from?” It’s sad to realize, but the first state of workers and peasants was created with funds obtained, as the prosecutor would now say, by criminal means. And few people know that Stalin, before becoming the “father of nations” and “the best friend of athletes,” was a tough crime boss.
His criminal gang robbed banks and imposed tribute on businessmen, took oil oligarchs hostage and shot competitors. And the future comrade Stalin sent the loot to the party common fund. By the way, as party archives testify, only three knew about this: Lenin, Stalin himself and Simon Ter-Petrosyan, better known by his nickname Kamo, a repeat offender convicted of robbery and murder in Russia and Great Britain. It is curious that after the revolution he worked in the Ministry of Foreign Trade.
But all this will happen later. And then, in 1907, a criminal group that called itself the Bolsheviks and was preparing a violent change of power in Russia was solving a pressing question: where to get the money to organize protests? Foreign countries have already helped as much as they could. Back in 1905, Japanese intelligence paid for the purchase of weapons to organize unrest in St. Petersburg, which means they won’t give any more for now. London, by tradition, willingly provides political asylum to party leaders, but, as usual, it is tight on money. Berlin... Berlin will still help when it provides Lenin with a sealed carriage for his return to his homeland. This will happen in a few years. In the meantime... For now, in a narrow circle of party authorities, in the strictest secrecy, it was decided: only robbery will save the party!
Tells Dmitry GUTNOV, candidate of historical sciences: “During a secret meeting in Berlin between Lenin, Stalin and Kamo, a plan for a terrorist attack was finally developed – expropriation. The same act that took place in Tiflis.”
The daring raid on collectors, which Stalin organized in the capital of Georgia, brought the party coffers about one hundred million dollars in modern terms and very big problems.
From the very beginning, everything went wrong in this operation. At 11 o'clock in the morning, the collection phaeton, under heavy security, drove out to the central square. At that moment, an army crew turned out of the alley and crossed his path. In it are the raiders we are familiar with, this time dressed in military uniform. However, the guards, taught by bitter experience, open warning fire, and then the raiders, realizing that they could not take the guards by surprise, took extreme measures. Ter-Petrosyan in the uniform of an infantry captain shouting “Don’t shoot!” jumps out of the carriage and the next moment throws grenades with both hands.
Dmitry Gutnov: “The first bomb blew the crew to pieces and killed the cashier himself. Three bombs were thrown at the convoy, almost all the Cossacks were killed. About four more bombs were exploded, and the destruction was such that glass was blown out in all the houses and shops on Erivan Square.”
For a few minutes, the central square of the Georgian capital turns into a real combat zone. The raiders throw grenades at the cash-in-transit motorcade, finish off the guards and, grabbing bags of money, disappear into the alleys. The “Interception” plan, as they would say today, did not produce results. Russia has never known such a bloody robbery.
While the police were licking their wounds, the money had already been sent to Europe. Lenin, Stalin and Kamo could only exchange rubles for the currency that the party was so lacking. But this is precisely where the raiders got burned.
Judging by archival materials, this was the first international police operation in history. Russian detectives are sending numbers of stolen banknotes to all world banks. The police of Berlin, London and Paris have been raised to their feet. And the result was not long in coming. The first five-hundred-ruble notes that the raiders tried to exchange surfaced in France.
Dmitry GUTNOV: “As the documents of the French police and the correspondence between the French and English police, which I looked at in the archives of the Paris police, show, they were taken to the French border by Scotland Yard officers and handed over to their French colleagues in Calais. Having reached the North Station, Litvinov tried to change a 500-ruble bill at a bank branch and was immediately literally grabbed by the hand by French “flicks”(nickname for police officers in France. – Ed.) » .
Maxim Litvinov is not his real name, but a pseudonym for the famous smuggler Max Ballach. It was under this pseudonym that he would later become the first Soviet Minister of Foreign Affairs. In the meantime, during a search, 6,000 marked rubles are confiscated from him.
It was a failure. Arrests are sweeping across Europe. The press rejoices. As magnesium flashes from reporters, members of the famous gang of raiders are taken into custody in Paris, Stockholm and Geneva. The finale of the grandiose police operation was the arrest of Ter-Petrosyan himself. In Berlin, he is caught red-handed while trying to buy a large shipment of weapons.
That's what he says Dmitry Gutnov: “The foreign department of the Russian police received information about Kamo’s location. On behalf of the Russian police, the German police searched his apartment, and the same Mausers, a large number of weapons and supplies, and a double-bottomed suitcase with explosives were seized. And thus Kamo ended up behind bars.”
And what about Stalin? As soon as news of arrests in Europe reaches Russia, Stalin strangely finds himself in a Baku prison on some trivial matter. And there is nothing unusual about this. After all, as you know, prison for a seasoned authority is an ideal place where you can lay low for a while. By the way, that same prison still exists today.
It confirms Damir Bayramov, head of Baku pre-trial detention center No. 1: “Stalin sat in this building. In cell 39."
According to prison archives, Stalin was imprisoned at that time under the name Nizharadze. I sat, as they say, in the highest category: a bed by the window, royal conditions, respect from both fellow inmates and prison staff. By the way, his imprisonment turned out to be short-lived. As soon as the noise subsided, Stalin escaped - with money that one of his cellmates deliberately lost to him.
Let's first figure out what Baku was like at the beginning of the last century. And you don’t have to look far for comparisons: this city is like today’s Saudi Arabia. Or, at worst, our Khanty-Mansiysk. Oil! Black gold brings easy money. This is where world capital and financial adventurers flock. Baku oil is pumped by the Rothschilds. Alfred Nobel also made his first millions here. Few people know, but the Nobel Prize still has a distinct smell of Baku oil.
But Baku is famous not only for oil and easy money. It is even more famous for its bandits - “gochu”, local crime lords who protect the oil business of simpleton foreigners. The payment for the “roof” is calculated by today’s standards – millions of dollars.
It was here that young Stalin arrived in 1905 to organize unrest among oil field workers.
As the entire history of the protest movement teaches us, organizing a protest requires money. And then, in order to get it in a short time, Stalin puts together a criminal group that gets this money through robberies and racketeering. Later, the organizer of this whole story, Lenin, even came up with an intelligent word for this method of replenishing the party “common fund” - expropriation. Or briefly – ex.
Tells Moses Becker: “In Baku they knew and feared him. In Baku they knew that Stalin was famous for his exes, who did not interfere in any way. He carried out incredibly daring expropriations.”
Need I say that sooner or later the interests of the young crime boss nicknamed Ryaboy, aka Koba, were supposed to intersect with the interests of the local mafia?
And it happened. One fine day, the future comrade Stalin decides to impose a tribute, or, as they say now, racketeer, on the Nobel brothers. As foreign archives testify, the oil kings and future founders of the Nobel Prize, having already heard about the art of Ryaboy’s brigade, in a panic, hired a gangster “roof” - those same gochas. Of course, the needle gets clogged. The future comrade Stalin goes to the shootout with the coolest gochu alone, without weapons and without security. Alas, history has not preserved the transcript of this highly instructive conversation. But its result is not difficult to predict. Comrade Stalin knew how to explain better than anyone who was boss in the house.
Irada Bagirova, Doctor of Historical Sciences, assumes: “Within a few minutes, Koba carried out such undercover work with him that this man was forced to give him all the money and leave in shame, admit his defeat. He convinced him so much that he couldn’t even go back to Nobel after that.”
Arkady Gaidar
Due to some misfortune, the train stood at a stop for two hours and arrived in Moscow only at three and a half.
This upset Natka Shegalova, because the Sevastopol ambulance left exactly at five and she did not have time to go to her uncle.
Then, on the machine, through the switchboard of the corps headquarters, she asked for the office of the chief - Shegalov.
“Uncle,” cried the saddened Natka, “I’m in Moscow!.. Well, yes: I, Natka.” Uncle, the train leaves at five, and I am very, very sorry that I will never be able to see you.
In response, Natka was obviously scolded, because she quickly rattled off her excuses. But then they told her something, which made her immediately happy and smile.
Having climbed out of the telephone booth, Komsomol member Natka straightened her blue scarf and threw a not very tight hiking bag over her shoulders. She didn't have to wait long. Soon the whistle sounded, a car stopped at the entrance to the station, and a strong old man with an order opened the door for Natka.
- And what kind of fever? – he scolded Natka. - Well, I would go tomorrow. And then “uncle”, “sorry”... “train at five o’clock”...
“Uncle,” Natka said guiltily and cheerfully, “it’s good for you – “tomorrow.” And I was already three days late. Either the city committee said: “tomorrow,” then suddenly the mother asked: “tomorrow.” And then there’s the train for two hours... You’ve already been to the Crimea and the Caucasus many times. You rode an armored train and flew an airplane. I once saw your portrait. You’re standing there, and Budyonny, and some other bosses. And I’m nowhere, on nothing, nowhere and not even once. How old are you? I'm already over fifty, and I'm eighteen. And you – “tomorrow” and “tomorrow”...
- Oh, Natka! – Shegalov answered almost in fear, confused by her stupid, noisy onslaught. - Oh, Natka, how much you look like my Maruska!
“And you’ve grown old, uncle,” Natka continued. – Do I still know you as I remember? In a black hat. At your side is a long, shiny saber. Spurs: bang, bang. Where did you come to us from? Your arm was shot. So one day you went to bed, and I and another girl - Verka - slowly pulled out your saber, hid behind the stove and examined it. And mother saw us and a twig. We are roaring. You woke up and asked your mother: “Why are the girls crying, Dasha?” - “Yes, they, damned ones, pulled out your saber. Look at him, they’ll break him.” And you laughed: “Eh, Dasha, I would have a bad saber if such girls could break it. Don’t touch them, let them watch.” Do you remember this, uncle?
“No, I don’t remember, Natka,” Shegalov smiled. - That was a long time ago. Back in nineteen. I was coming from near Bessarabia then.
The car slowly moved along Myasnitskaya. It was an hour when people were returning from work. Trucks and trams thundered incessantly. But Natka liked all this - the stream of people, the dusty yellow buses, and the ringing trams, which either converged or scattered along their confused roads to some distant and unknown outskirts: to Dangauerovka, to Dorogomilovka, to Sokolniki, to Tyufeleva and Maryina Roshcham and somewhere else.
And when, turning from narrow Myasnitskaya towards Zemlyanoy Val, the driver increased the speed so that the car, with a light, elastic buzz, rushed along the asphalt pavement, wide and gray, like a tightly stretched cloth blanket, Natka pulled off the blue scarf so that the wind would hit her face harder and ruffled his black hair as he pleased.
While waiting for the train, they sat on the shady terrace of the station buffet. From here one could see the railway tracks, bright signals and steep asphalt platforms along which people hurried to their country trains.
Here Shegalov ordered two lunches, a bottle of beer and ice cream.
“Uncle,” Natka said thoughtfully, “three years ago I told you that I wanted to be a pilot or captain of a sea steamer.” But what happened was that they first sent me to a Soviet Party school - study, they say, in a Soviet Party school - and now they sent me to pioneer work: go, they say, and work.
Natka pushed the plate away, took a saucer with pink, quickly melting ice cream and looked at Shegalov as if she was expecting an answer to the question asked.
But Shegalov drank a glass of beer, wiped his rough mustache with his palm and waited for what she would say next.
“And they sent me to pioneer work,” Natka repeated stubbornly. - Pilots fly their own ways. Steamships sail on their own seas. Verka - the same one with whom we pulled out your saber - will be an engineer in two years. And I’m sitting at pioneer work and I don’t know why.
– Don’t you like your job? – Shegalov asked carefully. – Don’t you love or can’t cope?
“I don’t like it,” Natka admitted. “I myself, uncle, know that I am necessary and important... I know all this myself.” But I feel like I'm out of place. Do not understand? Well, for example: when the civil war broke out, they would have taken you and said: don’t touch the rifle, Shegalov, leave the saber and go to such and such a school and teach the children grammar and arithmetic there. What would you do?
“I would have turned out to be a bad grammarian then,” Shegalov joked, wary. He paused, remembered and, smiling, said: “But one day they removed me from the detachment, recalled me from the front.” And for three whole months, in the heat of the moment, I counted wagons with oats and hay, sent sacks of flour, loaded barrels of cabbage. And my detachment has long been defeated. And ours have long since broken through. And ours have long been shunned back. And I keep walking, counting, hanging, sending, to be more precise, to be more, to be better. What do you think this is?
Shegalov looked into the face of the frowning Natka and asked good-naturedly:
-Are you not coping? So come on, daughter, learn, pull yourself up. I myself used to only slurp sauerkraut in soldiers’ cabbage soup with a spoon. And then cabbage, tobacco, and herring came in truckloads. He saved two trains of half-dead cattle, fed them, and straightened them out. Receivers arrived from the front from the Sixteenth Army. They look - the cattle is even, smooth. “Lord,” they say, “has this really happened to us? And our shelves sit on nothing but potatoes, tired and emaciated.” I remember one restless commissar kept trying and trying to kiss me.
Here Shegalov stopped and looked seriously at Natka:
“Of course, I didn’t kiss: my character doesn’t allow it.” Eat, I say, comrades, for good health. Yes... Well, there you go. What am I talking about? So don’t be timid, Natka, then everything will be as it should be. - And, looking past the angry Natka, Shegalov leisurely greeted the passing commander.
Natka looked at Shegalov incredulously. Did he not understand or did he do it on purpose?
- How can I not cope? – she asked indignantly. - Who told you? You made this up yourself. That's who!
And, flushed and wounded, she threw him a dozen pieces of evidence that she was coping. And it copes well, it copes well. And that in the competition for the best preparation for summer camps they took first place. And that for this she received this very vacation package to the best pioneer camp, to Crimea.
- Eh, Natka! - Shegalov shamed her. - You should be happy, but you... And I’ll look at you... well, how much you, Natka, look like my Maruska!.. You were a pilot too! - he finished with a sad smile and, clinking his spurs, got up from his chair, because the bell rang and the horns shouted loudly that there was a landing on Sevastopol No. 2.
Through the tunnel they came out onto a platform.
“If you go back, telegraph,” Shegalov told her goodbye. - When there is time, I’ll come to meet you, if not, I’ll send someone. You will stay for two or three days. Look at Shurka. You won't recognize her now. Well, goodbye!
He loved Natka because she strongly reminded him of his eldest daughter, who died at the front in those days when he rushed with his detachment along the borders of burning Bessarabia.
In the morning Natka went to the dining car. It was empty. A red-haired foreigner was sitting and reading a newspaper; two military men were playing chess.
Natka asked for boiled eggs and tea. While waiting for the tea to cool, she took out a magazine someone had forgotten from behind a flower. The magazine turned out to be from last year.
“Well, yes... everything is old: “Shooting of a workers’ demonstration in Austria,” “Marseille dockers’ strike.” “She turned the page and squinted. “And this... This is also the past.”
In front of her lay a photograph, surrounded by a black mourning border: it was a Romanian, or rather Moldavian, Jewish Komsomol member Maritza Margulis. Sentenced to five years of hard labor, she escaped, but a year later she was recaptured and killed in the harsh towers of the Chisinau prison.
A dark face with soft, not very regular features. Thick, slightly disheveled braids and bright, calm eyes looking straight ahead.
This is probably how she stood; This is probably how she looked when they brought her for her first interrogation before the brilliant gendarmerie officers or the interrogators of the merciless Siguranza.
...Maritsa Margulis.
Natka closed the magazine and put it in its original place.
The weather was changing. The wind was blowing, and swift heavy clouds were approaching from the horizon. Natka watched for a long time as they converged, turned black, then moved together and at the same time seemed to slide one through the other, stubbornly gathering into thunderclouds.
Bad weather was approaching, and the waiters hastily closed the heavy, dusty windows.
...The train braked abruptly in front of a small station. Two more entered the carriage: a tall, gray-eyed man with a cross-shaped scar below his left temple, and with him a six-year-old blond boy, but with dark and cheerful eyes.
“This way,” said the boy, pointing to an empty table.
He quickly climbed onto a chair and, on his knees, moved the glass vase towards him.
“Dad...” he asked, pointing his finger at the big red apple.
“Okay, but later,” answered the father.
“Okay, later,” the boy agreed and, taking the apple, put it next to the plate.
The man took out a cigarette.
“Alka,” he asked, “I forgot the matches.” Go get it.
- Where? – the boy asked and quickly jumped out of the chair.
- In the compartment, on the table, and if not on the table, then in the pocket of the coat.
“It’s in your coat pocket,” the boy repeated and headed towards the open door of the carriage.
The man in the gray jacket opened the newspaper, and Natka, who had been listening with curiosity to this entire short conversation, looked at him sideways and disapprovingly.
But outside the window, giving a signal for departure, the conductor whistled.
The man in the jacket put down the newspaper and quickly left. The two of them returned together.
- Why did you come? “I would bring it myself,” the boy asked, again climbing onto the seat of the chair with his knees.
“I know that,” answered the father. “But I remembered that I forgot another newspaper.”
The train accelerated. He flew across the bridge with a roar, and Natka looked at the river, at the meadows, through which a thunderstorm was lashing. And suddenly Natka noticed that the boy, asking his father about something, was pointing his hand in her direction. The father nodded his head without turning around.
The boy, holding onto the backs of the chairs, walked towards her and smiled welcomingly.
“This is my book,” he said, pointing to the magazine sticking out from behind the flower.
- Why yours? – Natka asked.
- Because I forgot. Well, I forgot this morning,” he explained, suspecting that Natka didn’t want to give him the book.
“Well, take it if it’s yours,” Natka answered, noticing how his eyes sparkled and his barely noticeable eyebrows quickly moved together. - What is your name?
“Alka,” he said clearly and, grabbing the magazine, ran to his place.
Natka saw them again when she got off in Simferopol. Alka looked out the open window and said something to his father, pointing with his hand at the blue peaks of the nearby mountains.
In blue trousers and a T-shirt, with a towel in her hands, Natka Shegalova walked down winding paths to the beach.
When she came out onto the plane tree alley, she met newcomers climbing the mountain. They walked with bundles, trunks and baskets, cheerful, dusty and tired. They held hastily selected round stones and fragile shells. Many of them have already managed to fill their mouths with sour roadside grapes.
- Great, guys! Where? – Natka asked, drawing level with this noisy crowd.
“Leningraders!.. Murmansk residents!..” they eagerly shouted back to her.
“By car,” Natka asked, “or from the ship?”
- From the ship, from the ship! - As if delighted by the good word, the guys who had just arrived began to shout in unison.
- Well, go ahead, but don’t go along the alley, but turn left, up the path - it’s closer here.
When Natka had already descended onto the hot stones, to the very shore, she saw that on the road from Yalta, the senior counselor of the pioneer camp, Alyosha Nikolaev, was riding his bicycle at full speed.
“Natka,” he shouted from above, jumping off his bike, “have the Urals arrived?”
- I haven’t seen it, Alyosha. I just met about ten people from Leningrad this morning. It seems the Ukrainians are again.
“Well, that means they haven’t arrived yet... Natka,” he shouted again, jumping into the saddle of the bicycle, “if you’re taking a bath, come to me or to Fyodor Mikhailovich!” There is an important matter.
- What else is it? – Natka was surprised, but Alyosha waved his hand and rushed off down the hill.
The sea was calm; the water is light and warm.
After the always cold and fast river, in which Natka had been accustomed to swimming since childhood, swimming through the salty, calm waves seemed ridiculously easy to her. She swam far. And now from here, from the sea, these cypress parks, green vineyards, crooked paths and wide alleys - this whole camp, spread out on the slope of a mighty mountain, seemed bright and beautiful to her.
...On the way back, she remembered that Alyosha asked her to come in. “What business does he have with me, and even important?” – Natka thought and, turning onto a steep path, parting the branches, she headed in the direction where the camp headquarters stood.
Soon she found herself in a clearing, near a low booth with a water tap. She felt thirsty. The water was warm and tasteless. Recently, the pool, which was replenished by mountain springs, unexpectedly became shallow. The camp became alarmed, rushed to look for new sources and finally found a small clean lake that lay in the mountains. But the work progressed very slowly.
...Natka didn’t find Alyosha Nikolaev. She was told that he had just gone to the garage. It turns out that the Urals car broke down twelve kilometers from the camp and they sent messengers to ask for help.
The messengers - Tolka Shestakov and Vladik Dashevsky - were sitting right there on the bench, flushed and proud. However, this pride did not stop Tolka from filling his pockets with apples along the way, and Vladik from throwing a stub in the back of some fat, clumsy boy.
This little boy tossed and turned angrily for a long time and still could not understand who had hit him, because Tolka and Vladik sat imperturbable and calm.
- Where are you from? How many of you came? – Natka asked the clumsy and slow-witted boy.
- From near Tambov. “I came alone,” the boy answered in a deep and shy voice. - I'm from the collective farm. They sent me to the prize.
- How - for a bonus? – Natka didn’t quite understand.
- Barankin is my last name. Semyon Mikhailov Barankin,” the boy readily explained. “And they sent me a bonus because I invented the plant.”
- Which plant?
“Camping, filtering,” answered Barankin seriously, and, looking incredulously in the direction where the meek and crafty messengers were sitting, he added angrily: “And who is throwing himself in the back?” Here I’m already sweating, and they’re still throwing themselves.
Natka did not have time to ask Barankin in more detail, because a tall old man called out to her from the porch. This was the head of the camp, Fyodor Mikhailovich.
“Come in,” he said, letting Natka into the room. - Sit down. Here’s what, Nata,” he began in such a gentle voice that Natka immediately became alarmed, “in the upper sanatorium detachment, the counselor Korchaganov fell ill, and his assistant Nina Karashvili cut her leg on a stone. Well, of course, an abscess. And as you can see, we’re in a rush right now; good, you came at the right time.
“But I don’t understand anything about acceptance or fever,” Natka was frightened. – I’ve been here myself, Fyodor Mikhailovich, for the third day.
“You don’t even need to understand anything,” the assertive old man waved his long, bony hands. - There is a paramedic and nurses there. They will accept it themselves. What's your business? You will be a counselor. Well, break it down into links, outline the links; choose a squad council. What do you need to explain? You were a counselor!
“Two years,” Natka answered angrily. – How long, Fyodor Mikhailovich, will this Korchaganov be ill? Maybe he'll stay in bed for another two weeks?
- What are you, what are you! – the boss said, waving his hands and shaking his head. - Well, five, six days. And then walk there again as much as you want. It’s good that we quickly agreed. I like it fast. Well, now go, go. And then Nina was the only one completely confused.
- How many people are there in this detachment? – Natka asked in a sad voice.
...There were five units in the camp. For three days in the upper sanatorium, where Natka unexpectedly ended up as a counselor, an irrepressible bustle raged.
The last batch has just arrived - residents of the Middle Volga and Nizhny Novgorod. The girls had already washed themselves and fled to the wards, and the boys, dirty and dusty, impatiently crowded at the bathroom doors.
They entered the bathroom in groups of six. Having reached the water, they squealed, floundered, splashed and plugged the taps with their fingers so that the water splashed out into the wide open window, from under which several times the stern voice of the unskilled worker Geika was heard digging in the flower beds.
- He will, he will spoil you! – the barefoot, long-bearded Geika shouted out the window in a hoarse bass voice. - Just wait, I’ll pick nettles and nettles through the window. And what a spoiled nation!..
Several times the detachment's duty officer, the freckled pioneer Ioska Rosenzweig, ran into the bathroom several times and, burring desperately, shouted:
- What kind of disgrace? Stop this nonsense!
And the new guys, who didn’t yet know that Ioska himself was only on his third day at camp, and that he was even more mischievous than many of them, became quiet. Under Ioskina's menacing shouts, they embarrassedly jumped out of the water and, having somehow dried themselves, pulled on their panties.
They ran out of the bathroom in flocks. Clean, in blue shorts, in gray shirts with an elastic band, and, not yet having time to tie up their red ties, they raced to get in line at the hairdresser.
- Ioska! – Natka called out. - That's it, duty officer. Send everyone who comes from the hairdresser to the paramedic to vaccinate with smallpox... Otherwise, as for chasing around the site, then everyone is here, but as for vaccinating for smallpox, then there is no one. Come on, quickly!
- Smallpox! – running out onto the platform, small and big-headed Ioska shouted menacingly. – Those who haven’t been vaccinated, fly out quickly!
- Nina! – Natka called out, seeing her unlucky assistant on the terrace, who was quietly stepping, leaning on a bamboo stick. - Why are you going? You sit. How many Octobers do we have, Nina?
- We have ten people in October, just a link. Roza Kovaleva should join them as a leader. What about the Circassian Ingulov? He, Natka, doesn’t speak a word of Russian.
- Ingulova, Nina, we need to join the same unit as the Kuban Cossack.
- Lybatko?
- Well, yes, Lybatko. He speaks a little Circassian. And leave the Bashkir Emine with the October kids for now. They understand each other well even without language. This is how she wears it!
The duty officer, Ioska, quickly flew out from around the corner.
- Time for dinner! - out of breath, he shouted, puffing and jumping, as if someone had caught him by the leg with a lasso.
“Give a signal,” Natka answered, “I’ll come now.” “We need to make Ioska a part of the team,” Natka thought. “Small, funny, and agile guy.”
At half past eight they washed their faces and brushed their teeth. The nurse on duty for the night came with a whole stack of thermometers, and Natka went with a short report on the affairs of the previous day to the senior counselor of the entire camp. After that she was free.
The evening was hot, moonlit, and from the volleyball court where the Komsomol members were playing, shouts, ball hits and short referee whistles could be heard for a long time.
But Natka did not go to the site, but, going up the mountain, turned along the path to the foot of a lonely cliff. Unnoticed, she walked far, got tired and sat down on a block of stone under the trunk of a spreading oak tree. Beneath the cliff the calm sea was black. Somewhere a motor boat rumbled. It was only then that Natka saw that almost next to her, under the shadow of cypress trees, hiding near a cliff, under a rock, without light in the windows, stood a small house, like a toy one. Someone's footsteps were heard from around the bend, and Natka moved deeper into the black shadow of the foliage so as not to be noticed. Two people came out. The moon illuminated their faces. But even on the blackest night Natka would recognize them by their voices. It was that tall, blond man in a jacket, and little Alka walked next to him, holding his hand. Before approaching the tree in the shadow of which Natka was hiding, they apparently argued about something and walked several steps in silence. “What do you think,” the tall one asked, stopping, “should we, Alka, quarrel over such trifles?” “It’s not worth it,” the boy agreed and added angrily: “Folder, daddy, you should at least take me in your arms.” Otherwise we keep going and going, but there’s still no home. - Why not? Here we are! Well, look, here’s the house, and I’ve already taken out the key. They turned to the porch, and soon a light flashed in the outer window overlooking the sea. “They came through Sevastopol,” Natka guessed. “What are they doing here?”
...In the room of the nurse on duty, Natka was told that Tolka Shestakov, having crept up on all fours into the girls’ room, quietly grabbed the Bashkir woman Emine by the heel, which made this Bashkir woman scream terribly, and the fat red-haired Vostretsova laughed for a long time and disturbed the girls’ sleep. But in general, they settled down calmly. This pleased Natka, and she went around the corner to her room, which was right here, next to the wards. The night was stuffy. At night something thundered in the sea, but Natka slept soundly and by dawn had a good dream. Natka woke up around seven. Wrapping herself in a sheet, she went into the shower. Then she walked barefoot out onto the wide terrace. Far out to sea, warships heading towards the horizon smoked. From everywhere, from under the thick, wet greenery, loud chirping could be heard. Not far from the terrace, laborer Geika was chopping wood. - Fine! - Natka shouted quietly and laughed, hearing from somewhere under the rock a cry just like hers - a cheerful, clear echo. - Natka... what are you doing? – she heard a surprised voice behind her. “Ships, Nina...” Natka answered without ceasing to smile, pointing her hand to the distant sparkling horizon. “Did you hear, Natka, how they frolicked in the sea last night?” I woke up and heard: wow! wow! She got up and went to the wards. Nothing, everyone is asleep. Only Vladik Dashevsky woke up. I tell him: “Sleep.” He lay down. I am from the ward. And he balls onto the terrace. He climbed onto the railing, grabbed the post with his hands, and you couldn’t tear it off. And in the sea there are lights, explosions, searchlights. I’m interested myself. I tell him: “Go, Vladik, to sleep.” And she asked, and scolded, and promised to call him on the line. And he stands there, silent, clutching the pillar like a stone. Haven't you heard anything? “Nina,” Natka asked after a pause, “have you met two of these here?... One tall, in boots and a gray jacket, and with him a small, blond, dark-eyed boy.” “In a gray jacket...” Nina repeated. – No, Natka, I haven’t met a boy in a gray jacket. And who is it? – I don’t know myself. Such a funny little boy. “I saw a man in a jacket,” Nina did not immediately remember. “Only he was without the boy and was riding on horseback along a path to the mountains. His horse was tall and thin, and his boots were dirty.
“And a big scar on his face,” Natka prompted.
- Yes, a big scar on the face. Who is this, Natka? – Nina asked and looked at her friend with curiosity.
- I don’t know, Nina.
– I’m up, can I ring the wake-up call? – the duty officer said in a deep voice, moving out from behind the door.
“You can,” Natka said. - Call. - “What a lump!” - she thought, watching how, waving his short arms, Barankin confidently walked towards the bell.
This was the same pioneer of the Tambov collective farm, Barankin, who was sent “as a bonus” for organizing a field repair and filtration plant during the spring sowing.
All the equipment of this plant fit on a hand cart and consisted of two tubs, one sieve, three old bags, two scrapers and a pile of rags. And, going out into the field to pick up tractors, this childish plant filtered water for engines and cleaned dirt from tractors during stops.
Barankin walked up to the bell, tightly grasped the end of the shaggy string in his fist and struck it so hard that Nina and Natka, who turned around at the same time, shouted at him to ring it more quietly.
...In the middle of a pine park, on a sandy hillock, the guys, scattered in groups, settled down to rest.
Everyone did whatever they wanted. Some, having gathered near Natka, listened to what she read to them about the life of blacks, others wrote something down or drew something, others quietly played with pebbles, others whittled something, others simply did nothing, and, lying on their backs, counted the cones on the pine trees or quietly fooling around.
Vladik Dashevsky and Tolka Shestakov were accommodated very comfortably. If they turned on their right side, you could hear what Natka was reading about blacks. If to the left, they could hear what Ioska was reading about the polar travels of the icebreaker “Malygin”. If you crawled back a little, you could, from behind a bush, and very unnoticed, throw a fir cone at Kashin and Baranka’s back. And, finally, if you move a little forward, you could use the tip of the rod to tickle the heels of the Bashkir Emine, who was briskly beating three Russian girls and the October boy Karasikov who had wormed his way in with them.
So they did. We heard about blacks and about the icebreaker. They threw two cones at Barankin’s back, but did not dare to hit Emine’s heels with a rod, because they knew in advance that she would jump up with such a squeal, as if a dog had grabbed her leg.
“Only,” Vladik asked, “did you hear the boom tonight?” I’m sleeping, suddenly bang... bang... Like at the front. These were ships shooting at sea. They're having maneuvers or something. And I, Tolka, was born at the front.
- Lie! – Tolka answered indifferently. - You always come up with something.
– Don’t lie, my mother told me everything. They then lived near Brest-Litovsk. Do you know where Brest-Litovsk is in Poland? No? Well, I’ll show you on the map later. When the Reds came in 1920, my mother didn’t remember this. They came quietly. But when the Reds retreated, I remembered very well. The noise lasted for a day or two. There is a roar day and night. My mother hid my sister Yulka and my grandmother Yuzefa in the cellar. The candle in the cellar is burning, and the grandmother is still muttering and praying. As soon as it calms down a little, Yulka climbs out. As soon as it rumbled, she dived into the cellar again.
-Where is mother? – Tolka asked. - Tell me everything, in order.
- I’ll go in order. And the mother is still running upstairs: now she brings bread, now she gets a glass of milk, now she ties knots. Suddenly it became quiet towards night. Yulka is sitting. There is no one, it's quiet. She wanted to get out. She pushed, but the cellar lid was locked. This mother went somewhere, and put a box on top so that she wouldn’t climb out anywhere. Then the door slammed - it was mother. She opened the cellar. She was out of breath, disheveled. “Get out,” he says. Yulka got out, but grandma didn’t want to. Doesn't come out. They persuaded her by force. The father comes in with a rifle. "Ready? - asks. “Well, hurry up.” But the grandmother does not go and angrily swears at the father.
- Why was she swearing? – Tolka was surprised.
- How why? Yes, that’s why she cursed, why is her father a Pole, but he’s leaving with the Russian Reds.
- So you didn’t go?
- And she didn’t go. She doesn’t go herself and doesn’t let others in. As soon as her father sat her in the corner, she sat down. Our people went out into the yard and onto the cart. And everything around is on fire: the village is on fire, the church is on fire... It’s from shells. And then everything was confused for my mother: how they retreated, how they were surrounded, because here on the road I was born. Because of me, our people fought off the Reds and were captured by the Germans in East Prussia. We lived there for four or five years.
– Why did your father come with a rifle?
– And he, Tolka, was in the people’s militia. When the Reds came to Poland, we had a people's militia. They caught the landowners and all sorts of them... As soon as they were caught, so did the Revolutionary Committee.
“Father shouldn’t have stayed,” Tolka agreed. “We could probably hang them later.”
- Very simple. Our grandfather never worked anywhere, only as a messenger in the Revolutionary Committee, and then he was kept in prison for a year. And my sister, she’s already twenty-eight years old, and she’s still in prison. First they imprisoned her and she sat there for three years. Then they released me - she was free for three years. Now they've imprisoned me again. And he’s been in prison for four years now.
- Will they be released again soon?
- No, not soon yet. Another four years will pass, then they will be released. She is in Mokotov prison. They won't let you out of there any time soon.
– Is she a communist?
Vladik silently nodded his head, and both became silent, thinking about their conversation and listening to what Natka read about blacks.
- Only! – Vladik suddenly spoke quietly and animatedly. – What if you and I were scientists? Well, chemists, or something. And you and I would come up with an ointment or powder that if you rub yourself on it, no one will see you. I read a book like this somewhere. If only we could have such powder!
“And I read... But these are all lies, Vladik,” Tolka grinned.
- Well, let them lie! Well, what if?
- What if? – Tolka became interested. “Well, then you and I would have come up with something.”
-What can you come up with? You and I would buy tickets to go abroad.
- Why tickets? – Tolka was surprised. “After all, no one would have seen us anyway.”
- You're a weirdo! – Vladik grinned. - So we would have gone first without getting hurt. Why should we rub ourselves on the Soviet side? We would get to the border, and then we would go into the field and rub ourselves. Then they would cross the border. The gendarme is standing - we pass by, but he doesn’t see anything.
“You could come up from behind and hit him on the head with your fist,” Tolka suggested.
“It’s possible,” Vladik agreed. - He, just like Barankin, would keep looking around and looking around: where did he get this from?
“No, no,” Tolka objected. – In Barankina we do it on the sly, as a joke. And then they would pull so hard that you probably wouldn’t be able to turn around. OK! And then?
- And then... then we would go straight to the prison. They would kill one sentry, then further... They would kill another sentry. They would go to jail. They would kill the warden...
– They would have killed a lot of people, Vladik! – Tolka said, shuddering.
- Why feel sorry for them, dogs? – Vladik answered coldly. - Do they feel sorry for our people? Recently a friend came to visit his father. So when he began to tell his father about what was happening in prisons, my mother sent me outside from the room. Smart too! And I slowly sat down in the garden under the window and heard every word. Well, we would take the keys from the warden and open all the cells.
- And what would we say? – Tolka asked impatiently.
– They wouldn’t say anything. They would shout: “Run wherever you want!”
– What would they think? After all, we are rubbed, and we are not visible.
– Would they have time to think about it? They see that the cells are unlocked, the sentries have been beaten. You probably would have guessed it right away.
- They would be delighted, Vladik!
- Oddball! If you sit for four years and sit for another four years, of course, you will be happy... Well, then... then we would go to the richest confectionery shop and gorge ourselves on all kinds of cookies and cakes there. Once in Moscow I ate four of them. This is when the other sister, Yulka, got married.
“You can’t eat enough,” Tolka corrected seriously. – I read in this book that you can’t eat anything, because the cakes are not grated, you eat them, but they will show through in your stomach.
- But they really will! – Vladik agreed. And they both burst out laughing.
“These are all fairy tales,” Vladik himself admitted after a pause. - These are all fairy tales. Nonsense!
He turned away, lay down on his back and looked at the sky for a long time, so that Tolka thought he was listening to what Natka was reading.
But Vladik did not listen, but was thinking about something else.
“Fairy tales,” he repeated, turning to Tolka. – But in Austria there is only one communist. He used to be a soldier. Then he became a communist. So this one is invisible without any rubbing.
- How - invisible? - Tolya was wary.
- Yes. Since he escaped from prison, the police have been looking for him for three years and still cannot find him. And he will appear here, then there, with us. In Lvov, he spoke openly at a meeting of depot workers. Everyone gasped. By the time the police arrived, he had already talked for half an hour.
- Well, what about the police? Well, where did he go?
“But go and ask where,” Vladik answered proudly. – As soon as the police were at the door, suddenly there was a bang... the lights went out. And there are a lot of windows, and for some reason all the windows are open. The police rushed to the mechanic, and the mechanic was screaming and swearing. “Go,” he says, “to hell!” I already have a problem: it seems that the armature winding has burned out.”
- So he did it on purpose! – Tolka exclaimed with admiration.
“But go ahead and prove it, on purpose or not on purpose,” Vladik grinned and added condescendingly: “The workers hide it, that’s why it’s invisible.” What did you think? Powder, or what?
From afar came the sound of a bell - it was time for dinner, and the children, grabbing pillows, sheets and towels, jumped up from their seats with a squeal.
After lunch they were supposed to go to bed to rest. But in the third ward, carpenters had already been knocking out a new door to the terrace in the morning. The bunks were taken out, shavings and plaster lay on the floor, and the carpenters were late.
Therefore, the second link was allowed to relax in the park.
Vladik and Tolka climbed into the hazel tree. Onlyka soon dozed off, but Vladik could not sleep. He was expecting an important letter today, but for some reason the postman did not arrive by lunchtime.
Vladik turned from side to side and looked with envy at Tolka, who was calmly snoring. Soon he got tired of fidgeting, he stood up and tugged Tolka’s leg:
- Get up, Tolka! Why are you sleeping? You'll get some sleep at night.
But Tolka kicked his leg and turned his back to Vladik. Vladik got angry and pulled Tolka’s hand:
- Get up... get up, Tolya! Treason all around! Everyone is in captivity. The commander was killed... The assistant was shell-shocked. I was wounded four times, you three times. Hold the banner! Drop the bombs! Fuck-bang! Let's fight back!..
And, handing the stunned Tolka a towel instead of a banner and an old sandal instead of a bomb, Vladik dragged his comrade through the bushes down the hill.
“For such things you can get a slap in the neck...” an angry Tolka began.
- We got back! – Vladik solemnly declared. “For such heroic deeds, I present you to the order.” – And, plucking a prickly burdock, Vladik attached it to Tolka’s sleeveless vest. - Stop sulking, Tolya! There's a house under the mountain. There's some kind of tower over there behind the mountain. There, in the ravine, something is knocking. There is a crooked path under our feet. What kind of house? What kind of tower? Who's knocking? Where is the path? Gaida, Tolka! Everyone is asleep, no one is there, and we will scout everything out.
Only yawned, smiled and agreed.
Quickly, but carefully, so as not to catch the eye of anyone, they crossed the paths, dived into the thicket of bushes, climbed through thorny fences, crawled up, went down, leaving nothing on their way unnoticed.
So they came across a dilapidated gazebo, near which stood a green stone statue. Then they found a deep abandoned well. Then they found themselves in an orchard, from where they instantly rushed away, hearing the grumbling of an angry dog.
Having made their way through the thorny thickets of wild azhin, they found themselves in the backyard of a small camp hospital.
They carefully looked out the window and in one of the rooms they saw an unfamiliar boy who, bored, was lazily fiddling with a red apple.
They lightly knocked on the glass and waved their hands welcomingly to the boy. But the boy got angry and showed them his fist. They were offended and showed as many as four. Then the malicious boy suddenly screamed loudly, calling for the nanny. The frightened guys jumped over the fence at once and ran at random along the path.
Soon they found themselves high above the seashore. To the left were mountains rugged with gorges. To the right, in the midst of dense oak and linden trees, stood the remains of a low fortress.
The guys stopped. It was really hot.
A powerful chorus of invisible cicadas thundered solemnly from behind the dusty bushes.
The sea splashed below. And there’s not a soul around.
“This is an ancient fortress,” Vladik explained. “Come on, Tolka, let’s look, maybe we’ll come across something old.”
They searched for a long time. They found a faded cigarette box, a tin can, a worn out shoe and a red dog tail. But they did not come across any ancient swords, rusty armor, heavy chains, or human bones.
Then, frustrated, they went downstairs. Here, under the wall, between the thorny grass, they came across a dark hole that smelled of dampness.
They stopped, wondering what to do. But at this time, from afar, from the camp, like a mosquito squeak from here, a signal to rise was heard.
They had to leave, but they decided to come back here again, taking twine, a stick, a candle and matches.
They ran halfway in silence. Then they got tired and walked nearby.
“Vladik,” Tolka asked curiously, “you’re always inventing something.” Would you like to be a real old knight? With a sword, with a shield, with an eagle, in a shell?
“No,” Vladik answered. “I would like to be not the old one, with the shield and the eagle, but the modern one, with the star and the Mauser.” Like, for example, one person.
- Like who?
- Like Dzerzhinsky. You know, Tolka, he was also a Pole. We have a portrait of him hanging in our house, and under it my sister wrote in Polish: “Dear knight. A brave friend of the entire proletariat." And when he died, my sister cried in prison and in the evening during interrogation she spat in the face of some gendarmerie captain.
The mail ship was late, and so the fat postman, puffing heavily and leaning on an old gnarled stick, climbed up the mountain only for dinner.
Waving off the guys who surrounded him, he called them by their last names, and those he knew simply by their first names.
“Kolya,” he said in a deep voice and pulled the quietly standing boy by the sleeve, “come on, brother, sign.” Don't get in your way, mischievous people! Let the person sign. There is no letter for you, Mishakov. A letter for you, Barankin. And who writes you such thick letters?
“This is a brother from the collective farm writing to me,” Barankin answered loudly, pressing firmly with his shoulder and squeezing through the crowd of guys. - This is brother Vasily. I have two brothers. There is a brother Grigory - he is in the Red Army, in an armored detachment. And this is brother Vasily - he is the senior groom on our collective farm. Grigory was taken, but Vasily had already served. We have three brothers and three sisters. Two are literate, and one is still illiterate, a little girl.
- How many aunts do you have?
- Do you have a cow?
- Are there any chickens? Do you have a goat? – several people shouted to Barankin at once.
“I don’t have any aunts,” Barankin answered readily, holding out his hand for the rough package. “We have a cow, we slaughtered a pig, only the pig is left.” But we don’t keep goats in our village. A goat is of little use to us, it only damages the garden. And why are you laughing? – he turned around good-naturedly and in surprise, hearing friendly laughter around him. – They ask themselves, but they themselves laugh.
When most of the guys had already left, Vladik Dashevsky came up and asked if there was a letter for him. There was no letter. He suddenly shook his finger at the postman, then whistled indifferently and walked away, knocking off the tops of the roadside grass with his whip.
Natka Shegalova received a custom order from the Urals from a friend - from Vera.
Immediately after dinner, the entire sanatorium detachment went with Nina to the lower platform, where games were being played.
The spacious chambers and the wide lawn in front of the terrace became unusually quiet and empty.
Natka went to her room, opened the letter, from which fell out a worn photograph that for some reason smelled of kerosene.
Vera stood near a thick pillar covered with cast-iron bars, down on one knee and pulling the buckles of a crooked iron “cat”. Her black overalls were tied with a wide canvas belt, and a hammer, pliers, wire cutters and some other tools were fastened to the metal rings of the belt.
It was also clear that Verka was going to climb the pole and that she was in a hurry, because not far from her, either an engineer or an electrical engineer was looking at the wires, and next to him stood someone small, black-haired - probably a foreman or foreman. And this black-haired man’s face was worried and angry, as if he had just been strongly scolded. The day was sunny. In the distance one could see vague gray masses of unfinished buildings and wisps of thick, black smoke.
The letter was short. Verka wrote that she was alive and well. That the practice is ending soon. She received a bonus for her work on early installation of a step-down substation. What a short circuit she was reprimanded for. But in general, everything is fine - she’s tired, healthier, and before the start of classes she’ll definitely drive from the Urals to Moscow, and it would be nice to meet Natka there.
Natka thought about it. She looked with curiosity again at the black dusty overalls, at the heavy, thick boots, at the hasty grip with which Verka fastened the iron ten-pound crampons, and with annoyance she pushed the photograph away, because she was jealous of Verka.
Suddenly, both halves of the window curtain parted, and Barankin’s round head poked out.
“Barankin,” Natka was surprised and angry, “why aren’t you on the court?” The guys are playing, what are you doing?
Barankin's round head disappeared.
But a minute later his flushed face poked his head into the room again.
“I forgot,” he said calmly, seeing Natka’s dissatisfied face. – I walked past the site where Komsomol members play ball. They stopped her and punished her: run faster, and if Shegalova is free, let her go quickly. “I completely forgot,” he repeated and, smiling awkwardly, for some reason he remembered: “On our collective farm, one night the barn was set on fire.” There was no brother. I rushed into the barn to harness the horse - it was dark. And the saddle piece jumped off the nail and hit me right on the head. So all my memory was lost. I forced my way out into the yard. And the barn is burning, burning...
“Barankin,” Natka asked, placing her hand on his strong shoulder, “do you have a mother?”
- Eat. “My name is Alexandra,” Barankin answered willingly and joyfully. - Alexandra Timofeevna. She is a cowgirl on our collective farm. I lay there all this spring. Now it’s okay... I’m feeling better. The bull gored her in the chest. We have a good bull, a thoroughbred. In Morshansk last winter I bought a collective farm for six hundred rubles... I'm coming, I'm coming! - Barankin shouted, turning around at someone’s distant hoarse shout. “It’s Geika calling,” he explained. - We're friends.
When Natka descended to the site, the sun was already disappearing behind the sea. Gray evening swifts glided silently. The guard fires in the vineyards began to smoke. The green lights of the beacon came on. Night was approaching quickly, but the game was in full swing.
“Kartuzik gives good candles,” Natka thought, looking at how the tight ball soared loudly into the sky, hung for a moment above the sharp tops of old cypress trees and smoothly rushed to the ground along the same straight line. Natka jumped up, testing whether her sandals were tightly fastened, straightened her scarf and, no longer taking her eyes off the ball, ran up to the net and stood in the empty space to the left of Kartuzik.
“Pass,” repeated Kartuzik. - Calm down, Natka.
But here he is, a curved, tricky ball, darted straight to the third line. Hit with an oblique blow, the ball soared directly above the head of the jumping Kartuzik.
- Give! – Natka screamed to Kartusik.
- Take it! – answered Kartuzik.
- Cut! – Natka screamed, handing him a low candle.
- Eat! - he replied and furiously hit the ball down.
“One – zero,” the judge announced and, whistling, warned: “Shegalova, Kartuzik, don’t talk over each other, otherwise I’ll write down a penalty point.”
Natka laughed. The imperturbable Kartuzik smiled, and they looked at each other slyly and knowingly.
“Shegalova,” one of the guys shouted to her, “Alyosha Nikolaev is looking for you for some reason!”
- What else! – Natka waved it off. - What does he want at night? Nina remained there.
The darkness deepened. On the score one - zero the dawn burned out. At eight or five the stars lit up. And when the referee announced a set point, such a dazzlingly bright moon came out from behind the mountains that you could at least start the whole game over again.
- Setball! - the referee shouted, and almost immediately the black ball soared high above the middle of the net.
"Give!" – Natka asked Kartuzik with her eyes.
“Take it!” – he answered with a silent nod of his head.
“Cut!” – Natka shuddered, closing her eyes and, still in the dark, heard a dull blow and the ringing whistle of the referee.
– Shegalova and Kartuzik, don’t talk over each other! – the judge said good-naturedly. But not in the form of a remark, but as if warning.
Returning home, Natka met Geika; he dragged a whole pile of rattling and bouncing poles with him down the mountain. Recognizing Natka, he stopped.
“Fyodor Mikhailovich asked,” he gloomily told Natka. “He sent me to look for me, but I didn’t find him.” I don’t know why he really needed them.
"Something happened?" – Natka thought with alarm and turned sharply off the road to the left. Small stones fell with a rustling sound from under her feet. Quickly jumping from bush to bush, she descended along the stepped path onto the lawn.
Everything was quiet and calm. She stood there, wondering whether she should go to the camp headquarters or not, and, deciding that it was already late anyway and everyone was asleep, she quietly walked into the corridor. Before going to the duty officer and finding out what was the matter, she went into her room to shake out the sharp pebbles that had accumulated there from her sandals. Without lighting the fire, she sat down on the bed. One of the buckles wouldn’t open for some reason, and Natka reached for the switch. But suddenly she shuddered and became quiet: it seemed to her that she was not alone in the room.
Not daring to move, Natka listened and now, having clearly heard someone’s breathing, she realized that someone was hidden in the room. She quietly turned the switch.
End of introductory fragment.
Gaidar Arkady Petrovich
A military secret
Arkady Gaidar
A military secret
And because of some misfortune, the train stood at the stop for two hours and arrived in Moscow only at three and a half. This upset Natka Shegalova, because the Sevastopol ambulance left exactly at five, and she did not have time to go to her uncle.
Then, on the machine, through the switchboard of the corps headquarters, she asked for the office of the chief - Shegalov.
Uncle,” cried the saddened Natka, “I’m in Moscow!.. Well, yes: I, Natka. Uncle, the train leaves at five, and I am very, very sorry that I will never be able to see you.
In response, Natka was obviously scolded, because she quickly rattled off her excuses. But then they told her something, which made her immediately happy and smile.
Having climbed out of the telephone booth, Komsomol member Natka straightened her blue scarf and threw a not very tight hiking bag over her shoulders.
She didn't have to wait long. Soon the whistle sounded, a car stopped at the entrance to the station, and a strong old man with an order opened the door for Natka.
And what is this fever? - he scolded Natka. - Well, I would go tomorrow. And then “uncle”, “sorry”... “train at five o’clock”...
Uncle,” Natka spoke guiltily and cheerfully, “it’s good for you – “tomorrow.” And I was already three days late. Either the city committee said: “tomorrow,” then suddenly the mother asked: “tomorrow.” And then there’s the train for two hours... You’ve already been to the Crimea and the Caucasus many times. You rode an armored train and flew an airplane. I once saw your portrait. You’re standing there, and Budyonny, and some other bosses. And I’m nowhere, on nothing, nowhere and not even once. How old are you? I'm already over fifty, and I'm eighteen. And you - “tomorrow” and “tomorrow”...
Oh, Natka! - Shegalov answered almost in fear, confused by her stupid, noisy onslaught. - Oh, Natka, how much you look like my Maruska!
And you’ve grown old, uncle,” Natka continued. - Do I still know you as I remember? In a black hat. At your side is a long, shiny saber. Spurs: bang, bang. Where did you come to us from? Your arm was shot. So one day you went to bed, and I and another girl - Verka - slowly pulled out your saber, hid behind the stove and examined it. And mother saw us and a twig. We roar. You woke up and asked your mother: “Why are the girls crying, Dasha?” - “Yes, the damned ones, they pulled out your saber. Look, they’ll break him.” And you laughed: “Eh, Dasha, I would have a bad saber if such girls could break it. Don’t touch them, let them watch.” Do you remember this, uncle?
No, I don’t remember, Natka,” Shegalov smiled. - That was a long time ago. Back in nineteen. I was coming from near Bessarabia then.
The car slowly moved along Myasnitskaya. It was an hour when people were returning from work. Trucks and trams thundered incessantly. But Natka liked all this - the stream of people, the dusty yellow buses, and the ringing trams, which either converged or scattered along their confused roads to some distant and unknown outskirts: to Dangauerovka, to Dorogomilovka, to Sokolniki, to Tyufeleva and Maryina Roshcha and somewhere else.
And when, turning from narrow Myasnitskaya towards Zemlyanoy Val, the driver increased the speed so that the car, with a light, elastic buzz, rushed along the asphalt pavement, wide and gray, like a tightly stretched cloth Blanket, Natka pulled off the blue scarf so that the wind would hit her face harder and ruffled his black hair as he pleased.
While waiting for the train, they sat on the shady terrace of the station buffet. From here one could see the railway tracks, bright signals and steep asphalt platforms along which people hurried to their country trains.
Here Shegalov ordered two lunches, a bottle of beer and ice cream.
“Uncle,” Natka said thoughtfully, “three years ago I told you that I wanted to be a pilot or captain of a sea steamer. But what happened was that they first sent me to a Soviet Party school - study, they say, in a Soviet Party school - and now they sent me to pioneer work: go, they say, and work.
Natka pushed the plate away, took a saucer with pink, quickly melting ice cream and looked at Shegalov as if she was expecting an answer to the question asked.
But Shegalov drank a glass of beer, wiped his rough mustache with his palm and waited for what she would say next.
And they sent me to pioneer work,” Natka stubbornly repeated. - Pilots fly their own ways. Steamships sail on their own seas. Verka - the same one with whom we pulled out your saber - will be an engineer in two years. And I’m sitting at pioneer work and I don’t know why.
Don't you like your job? - Shegalov asked carefully. - Don’t you love or can’t cope?