(The story was written from the words of an eyewitness of the events. The remains of an unknown Red Army soldier were found by a search group in 1998 and reburied in the village of Smolenskaya, Krasnodar Territory)
The battle for the village subsided … The last groups of retreating Red Army men ran along its dusty streets, heavily stomping their boots, in faded tunics, black in places from streaks of sweat. The Soviet troops, drained of blood by the continuous battles of the last weeks, left the settlement, superior in strength, to the enemy.
On the outskirts of the village, single shots were still heard, interrupted by short bursts of automatic weapons, and grenade explosions sounded here and there, and German tanks roared with engines behind the church on the Maidan. But soon there came a kind of painful silence, imperceptibly ominous in its anticipation.
The walls of the surviving huts were bared with shingles, dotted with the marks of fragments of mines and shells. Caught by bullets, young apple trees drooped in the collective farm garden, bleeding juice from fresh wounds. From many parts of the village, black smoke rose from burning houses and tanks. Kicked up by the wind and mixed with dust, it settled around the surroundings in a suffocating blanket.
The once bustling, populous village seemed to have died out. The villagers, mostly old men and women with small children, who did not have time to evacuate, hid in the huts. Flying birds are not visible and the previously discordant din of domestic animals is not heard. Even the usual nonsense of the dogs guarding the Cossack farmsteads has long been cut short. And only somewhere else, on the outskirts, someone's half-milked cow continued to mourn piteously, calling for the missing mistress. But soon several shots were heard from the other side, and the unfortunate animal was quiet. The world around us is empty, submitting to silence, as if hiding in anticipation of an impending thunderstorm….
On the edge of the village, in one of the houses standing on a hill, with tightly closed shutters, the front door creaked barely audibly, and in the gap that had formed, someone's two watchful eyes sparkled curiously. Then the door creaked once more, releasing the fair-haired baby's head. A wobbly head with a freckled face and a nose peeled from the sun shot blue eyes around the sides, looking around apprehensively, and finally, having made up her mind, leaned forward. After her in the doorway appeared a slender little body of a boy about ten years old.
The little Cossack girl was called Vasilko. In the abandoned hut remained a worried mother with a one-year-old sister whimpering in her arms. Father Vasilko took him to the front last summer. Since then, he and his mother have received only one message from him: a crumpled triangle with a purple field post stamp. Mother, bending over the letter, cried for a long time, shedding large tears. And then she began to reread it, almost without peering at the sprawling letters on the damp paper, and already by heart she repeated the lines from the letter to the children.
Vasilko, tightly clinging to the warm mother's shoulder, was fascinated by the words of his father, which sounded in his mother's voice, and his little foolish sister crawled at their feet and muttered something in her incomprehensible language. From a short letter, the son first of all said that Batko was fighting in a cavalry unit and was beating the fascists with goodness, which an hour later all Vasilko's friends already knew, and which became the subject of his special pride. In what unit and where Batko served, he did not know, but believed that the letter was about the Kuban Cossack Corps, about whose heroic deeds Vasilko heard from a black radio plate that hung on the wall in their hut. It has not worked for a long time now, and as sometimes the lad did not try to fiddle with the wires going to him, trying to revive the incomprehensible apparatus, but still he was silent.
And the cannonade that once arose beyond the horizon, like an echo of a distant summer thunderstorm, began to gradually intensify, coming day after day closer and closer to the village. And the hour came when the soldiers, who had been assigned to them in the hut for a post, began to hastily gather at their courtyard, and began to run out into the street without saying goodbye. And Vasilko hoped so much to get to know one of the soldiers better, and to beg him for a single cartridge for himself. Then shells began to burst in the village, and one of them blew off the dome of the church, the golden reflection of which Vasilko was used to seeing every day, going out in the morning on the porch of his house.
The frightened mother, grabbing her daughter, forced him, pushing, to go down with them to the basement and tightly closed the entrance with a lid. And now for more than a day he has been sitting in a cold pit, saturated with the smell of sauerkraut and soaked apples, and looks at the faint light of a gurgling candle that his mother lights up from time to time. Vasilko languishes from inactivity, and it seems to him that he has spent an entire eternity in this unhappy confinement. Shuddering once again from the close squeak of a rustling mouse, Vasilko looks up to the ceiling and tensely listens to the echoes of the ongoing battle in the village, worrying that he cannot witness the exciting events taking place there. And imperceptibly for himself, he falls asleep again.
Vasilko woke up from an unusual silence. Next to him, his mother was breathing measuredly and his sister was serenely sniffing through her nose. The boy, trying not to wake the sleeping ones, got to his feet, quietly walked to the manhole of the underground and stepped onto the stairs. The wooden step leading upstairs creaked treacherously under Vasilko's foot, and he froze in fright, fearing that his mother would wake up and bring him back. But everything worked out, her even breathing did not go astray. Lifting the heavy lid of the basement with an effort, Vasilko held it and at the same instant slid out like a snake. And now he is already standing on the porch of his hut and looking at the world, not recognizing him as he remembered him. Much has changed now. In that old world that always surrounded him, there were no burning and crippled huts, ugly craters from shells, broken fruit trees and other traces of destruction, but the worst thing was that there was no such desertion that now surrounded Vasilko. Familiar faces and kind smiles are not visible, welcoming words are not heard anywhere. Everything has disappeared, there is only emptiness and an oppressive feeling of loneliness all around.
The little Cossack girl felt uneasy. He wanted to rush back and snuggle against the warm side of his mother, who would be able to protect and comfort him, as it always had. Vasilko had already opened the door to the hut, about to go back, but then his gaze caught on an object that was standing on a block of wood by a stack of firewood. "Wow, you!.. A real soldier's bowler hat …". And, forgetting about all his troubles, Vasilko rushed with all his might to the coveted find, in a hurry forgotten by one of yesterday's soldiers. The delighted boy grabbed the precious pot and began to twirl it in his hands, already thinking to himself: “Today I will show the lads. … No one has such a thing. … I will go fishing with him and cook soup. Or maybe I change with Fedka for his scooter brought by his brother from the city, or with Vanka for a penknife with two blades, or …”. Grandiose plans in Vasilko's head began to line up in a long line. The rounded metal bowler hat so captivated the attention of the Cossack girl that he did not immediately catch a vague movement away from him. And looking up, in surprise, he dropped the bowler hat to the ground. He fell with a knock, piteously tinkled the bow and rolled away …
On the other side of the street, directly opposite Vasilkova's hut, along the fence, leaning on a rifle and dragging his foot along the ground, a stranger was making his way to the neighbor's house. The boy squatted in fright, following him with a wary gaze. But it seems that the stranger did not notice him and did not hear the ringing of the fallen bowler hat. Having skirted the fence, the man limped to the porch of the house, falling heavily on his leg. Vasilko noticed with what difficulty each new step was given to him. "Mabut, wounded …" - thought the lad, watching the actions of a man who climbed onto the porch.
In a neighboring house lived Matryona's aunt, who once threatened to rip off his ears if he did not stop chasing her geese. Vasilko kept a grudge against her for a long time and forgave her when he learned that Aunt Matryona's husband was being taken to the front together with his father … A month ago, having taken three children, she went somewhere to stay with her distant relatives, asking Vasilko's mother to look after her house.
The door to Aunt Matryona's hut was closed. The stranger tugged at the handle several times, after which something cracked loudly there, and his figure disappeared into the opening of the wide-open door.
Vasilko sighed with relief, but, nevertheless, became thoughtful. “Telling your mother - will pull out that he ran away from her. It’s scary to go to see for yourself…”. The little boy looked around helplessly, as if looking for an answer to a difficult question from someone, but still there was not a soul around. And Vasilko made up his mind. Having crossed the deserted road, he ducked into the familiar hole of the neighbors' wattle fence and unnoticed crept to the house. A lingering groan coming from the window shattered by the blast wave almost turned the boy back. For a second, numb, listening to the sounds outside the window, Vasilko again moved forward, driving away the fear that had rolled into his heart. Having overcome the steps of the porch, the Cossack boy dashed through the open door with a mouse into the senses and there, hiding, froze.
Silence reigned in the hut, and Vasilko suddenly heard the frequent beating of his own heart, almost the same as that of a captured sparrow when you cover it with your palm. Inside Aunt Matryona's house, the boy felt more confident; here he was a frequent visitor: he was friends with the master's children.
Vasilko looked into the kitchen: "Nobody …". Only at the window, buzzing, was a fat nasty fly crawling on the surviving glass, gleaming with mica wings. From the entrance, a chain of splattered cherry drops stretched along the scrubbed white floor, which went further into the upper room.
Trying not to step barefoot on the suspicious marks, Vasilko stealthily crossed the kitchen and, reaching the door of the room, stopped breathing. Stretching his neck, he peered deep into the room….
The stranger was lying on the floor beside the bed, covered with a flowered blanket and fluffy pillows. Closing his eyes, he breathed hoarsely, lifting his chest heavily and shuddering with his protruding Adam's apple. On the pale face of the man with a high forehead, thin streaks of dried blood were streaming down his cheek under his short-cropped hair. On the light homespun mat, a wide dark spot was spreading at his feet. The wounded man was in military uniform, in the same one that Vasilko saw in the village in the Red Army. But the stranger's clothes were in a deplorable state: covered with a layer of dust, smeared with blood and torn in several places. A burnt-out cap with a red asterisk on it was tucked behind a waist belt with unbuttoned pouches that had strayed to one side.
"Our", - Vasilko has finally ceased to doubt, looking at the wounded Red Army soldier. The fighter's hand, limply thrown aside, continued to grip the rifle, as if out of fear of parting with it. The weapon lying next to the soldier immediately riveted the attention of the little Cossack, and Vasilko did not notice how the wounded man woke up. The boy shuddered at his groan and looked at the Red Army man. He lay without moving, but his eyes were wide open, and his unblinking gaze rested on some point on the ceiling.
"Uncle …", - Vasilko called softly, addressing him. The soldier heard a close, timid call and raised his head, peering intently towards the voice that had rang out. Recognizing the child as he entered, he sighed with relief and relaxed the body that was straining. Vasilko took an indecisive step towards the wounded man and glanced apprehensively at the rifle. The Red Army soldier, who did not take his eyes off him, caught the boy's fearful glance and, with a kind of tenderness in his voice, said: "Do not worry, lad … She is not loaded …" - and, curling his lips in a suffering smile, dropped his eyelids.
Vasilko, emboldened, approached the lying body of a soldier, squatted down beside him and tugged at his sleeve, trying not to look at the wounded man's bloody hair: "Uncle … Uncle, who are you?"
He again opened his sore eyes and, blindly looking into the face of the Cossack girl, asked:
- Where are the Germans?..
“Dumb, uncle,” Vasilko replied, kneeling on the floor with ripped knees beside the wounded man, bending over him and with difficulty making out his weak whisper. And then he added on his own - And ours are dumb."
The Red Army soldier, blindly fumbling across the floor with his hand and feeling the boy's sharp knee, grabbed it with his palm and squeezed it lightly:
- Boy, I would like to drink some water …
- I at once, uncle, - Vasilko immediately jumped to his feet.
Rushing into the kitchen, the Cossack boy looked for a vessel for water. But in vain: there were no jars, no mugs, no other overwhelming container. Surely, the zealous aunt Matryona, before leaving, grabbed everything she could before returning home. And then it dawned on Vasilko: he remembered the bowler hat he had left in his courtyard. Having run out of the hut, where the wounded soldier remained, the swift-footed boy rushed across the road. He picked up the bowler hat and, turning abruptly, was about to go back, but a close loud shot stopped his agility. The Kazachonok, rushing around the corner of his hut, disappeared behind him and looked out….
On the opposite side of the street, several people in unfamiliar gray-green uniforms walked leisurely in the direction of their homes. The approaching people were armed: partly with black machine guns in their hands, partly with rifles at the ready.
"Fascists!.." But he didn't leave. Having declared his fear - for himself, for his mother and sister, who remained in the underground, and the wounded Red Army man, abandoned in another hut, crawled into the boy's heart like a snake, forcing his forehead to become covered with cold sweat. Leaning against the wall of the hut and overpowering the tremor that was breaking through from within, Vasilko continued to follow the enemy.
The Germans, looking around, came closer, and Vasilko could already make out their faces. One of them - a lanky, with glasses, stopped, raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired somewhere to the side, into a target inaccessible to the sight of the Cossack girl. The deafening shot made the boy flinch. The lanky, lowering his weapon, clicked the bolt, which threw a shiny cartridge case into the roadside dust. Another German, almost a head shorter than the first, laughed and shouted something to the first, without aiming, slashed from the hip from a machine gun through the nearest bushes on the side of the road.
A rifle shot and a dry, short burst of an automatic machine alarmed in the hen house behind Vasilko's hut the last two layers he and his mother had left. The chickens, who had hitherto been silent, began to cackle in displeasure, and the Cossack boy looked back in annoyance, fearing that the noise might attract the attention of the Germans. Carried away … Those, as if nothing had happened, continued their leisurely march down the street.
After a while, reaching the outermost houses, the German soldiers crowded in the middle of the road and began to discuss something loudly, gesturing with their hands. Words from the abrupt, barking language in which the Germans spoke, clearly reached Vasilko's ears, but he did not understand their meaning. The distance separating the Cossack girl from the enemies allowed him to consider them in all details.
… Short, unbuttoned tunic with shiny buttons and sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Behind the shoulders - knapsacks, in the hands - weapons. Each flask in a case and a helmet-pot, suspended on a wide belt with a massive plaque, and on the side there is a metal box that looks like a cut piece of a large pipe. The Nazis stood on the road with their feet apart in dusty bell-bottomed boots with short voluminous tops. Some of them puffed on cigarettes, spitting on the ground in stringy saliva. Throwing back their heads, they drank water from flasks, twitching the Adam's apple around their neck, and then again entered into a lively conversation, and how the Cossack girl surrendered, they argued.
There were ten of them in total; and they were all enemies for Vasilko.
Then one of them, it seems, the boss, turning his face towards Vasilkova's hut, pointed a gnarled finger, as it seemed to the frightened boy, directly at him. The Cossack boy with all his might pressed himself into the adobe wall, trying to merge with it into one whole. But the seemingly all-seeing finger of the fascist, having unexpectedly described a semicircle, had already moved to the other side and was aiming at the neighbors' hut. Following the movement of the elder German's finger, others then nodded their heads in agreement and, having told him, as Vasilko sounded, something about oxen: - "Yavol … Yavol …" - the whole crowd burst into the courtyard of Aunt Matryona.
There they, having conferred again, divided. Two went to the barn and began to shoot down the lock hanging on it with their rifle butts. Two more, somewhere along the way, picked up an old basket, set off, whistling, to the climbing frame in the wattle fence that separated the house from the vegetable garden. A frail German at the end of the courtyard, glancing furtively, quickly dashed into the cellar, covered with reeds. Others scattered around the courtyard, inspecting the outbuildings. The senior German, accompanied by two submachine gunners, slowly climbed onto the porch and, letting his guards pass ahead of him, followed them into the house.
Vasilko shrank into a ball in anticipation of something terrible. The Germans stayed in the hut for a very short time, as it seemed to the Cossack girl, for whom the running of time had stopped. Soon the German chief appeared on the doorstep. Coming down the steps, he turned around and stood expectantly, crossing his arms over his stomach, supported by a strap with a drooping holster.
From the senses of the hut, pushed by machine guns, a Red Army soldier, familiar to Vasilko, staggered onto the porch. The Cossack's keen eyesight only now made out in the light, in spite of the pale blue of his face distorted by pain, how young he was. One of the submachine gunners stood behind the prisoner's back and held his rifle in his hand.
"Why didn't you drive them in, uncle?.." - the little Cossack thought in perplexity, seeing the weapon of the Red Army soldier in the hands of the fascist, completely forgetting about the unbuttoned, empty pouches and the unloaded gun.
Stopping, the wounded man straightened up and threw up his head, looking in front of him. But a strong blow that followed from behind threw him off the porch, and the Red Army soldier, rolling down the steps, hit his face on the ground and stretched out at the feet of the German commander. He disgustedly pushed aside the outstretched lifeless arm of the Red Army man with the toe of his dusty boot and ordered something to his subordinates. Jumping up to the recumbent, the Nazi soldiers tore him off the ground and tried to put him on his feet. But the Red Army soldier was unconscious, and his body, breaking down at the knees, strove to fall to the side. Then the German with the pistol took the flask from his belt and, unscrewing the cap, threw water in his face. Then the wounded man woke up and, opening his eyes, ran his tongue around his dry lips, trying to catch the elusive, torn drops. He uncertainly, but already independently stood on his own feet and, supporting him on the sides, the submachine gunners went to their boss and stood next to him.
The wounded Red Army soldier finally came to his senses. Running his hand over his wet face and leaving streaks of blood mixed with dirt on it, he wiped his hand on the hem of his tunic and looked at the Nazis standing in front of him. In response, one of them began to say something to him, as if proving something, and several times pointed with his hand in the direction from which the Germans had come. And then, as Vasilko saw, he waved dismissively in the direction in which the Soviet troops were retreating from the village.
The wounded Red Army soldier, sometimes swaying, kept his balance, trying not to lean on his wounded leg, and silently looked at the German with an expressionless look. When the fascist got tired of explaining himself to the prisoner in Russian, judging by some distorted words that the boy could make out, he switched to German language. Vasilko had no doubts that the German was swearing: he was screaming too loudly, opening his mouth wide and becoming crimson in his face. But the Red Army man still remained silent. The fascist, having finished swearing, began to wipe his red bald head with a handkerchief, which burned in the sun like a tomato in Vasilko's mother's garden. The German soldier, hiding the scarf in the breast pocket of his jacket, looked at the prisoner standing in front of him and asked something, as if repeating his previous question.
After the words of the nervous German, the young Red Army man somehow mockingly looked at him, as if he had seen him for the first time, and shook his head negatively. The angry Fritz began to swear again, waving his hands in front of the prisoner. But then our soldier raised his shoulders, sucking in more air into his chest, and at once exhaled it towards the Germans with one savory, well-aimed spit. And he burst into unrestrained sincere laughter, shining his teeth on his young face.
The shocked Nazis recoiled from the prisoner, probably suspecting in the first second that the Russian had simply gone mad. And our soldier continued to laugh; and there was so much bursting force in his fun, so much hatred for his enemies and such superiority over them that the Nazis could not stand it. The eldest of them shouted something evil, sharply raised and lowered his hand. At the same moment, on either side of him, the tracks of two bursts flashed and crossed on the chest of the Red Army soldier, swelling the cloth of his tunic with rags. He did not immediately fall: the vital juices were still strong in the young body. For a second, then he stood, and only then, when his eyes were fogged up, the soldier, stumbling, fell on his back, arms outstretched wide. And the eldest of the Germans was still blindly fumbling along his left side, frantically looking for a holster, and only then, pulling out the pistol, began to shoot the lifeless body …
Vasilko saw everything - until the very last second. The massacre of the Nazis over our wounded soldier shook him to the very core of his soul. Tears that filled his eyes streamed down his cheeks, leaving light streaks on his grimy face. He sobbed bitterly, not daring to cry into tears, and shook his thin body, pressed against the wall of the house. Then he heard the alarmed voice of his mother calling him from the doorway. In the hut, behind a closed door, clinging to the hem of her skirt, Vasilko, without ceasing to cry, began to talk. Mother sat on the bench: she listened, stroked his head and also cried …
On that day, the Germans also visited their hut. They did not touch an agitated woman with a small child and a boy who had crumpled on a bench.
Vasilko sat in the hut and watched from under his brows how their dishes beat, pillows ripped open and sheets torn. He heard the trampled glass of a fallen photograph crunching on the floor and how their layers were rushing in the hen house, flapping their wings. He saw everything, heard and … remembered. The Germans went further along the village, strewn the Cossack yard with chicken feather and goose down….
When dusk began to descend on the village, Vasilko and his mother, taking a shovel from the barn, left their courtyard. The sky in the east was beating with flashes of fire and muffled thunderclaps. It was quiet in the village, only drunken Germans were bawling from somewhere in the distance. Having passed the street, they entered the courtyard to see Aunt Matryona. The executed Red Army soldier lay near the porch and looked with open eyes at the darkening sky.
Vasilko and his mother took turns digging a hole in the garden for a long time, and then, exhausted, dragged the body of the murdered man along the ground trampled by other people's boots. Having laid him in the pit, his mother folded her arms over his chest and crossed herself. Vasilko took up the shovel, but his mother, bending over the soldier, pulled his cap out from behind the belt, took off the star and handed it to his son … The boy dropped it into his breast pocket - closer to his heart. Covering the soldier's face with a cap, they began to cover the grave with earth ….
Many years later
I sit in grandfather Vasily's yard and listen to his leisurely story about the war. Above us, an apple tree scattered branches, from where it flies, whirling, white color: lies on the shoulders, showered the table at which my grandfather and I are sitting. His gray head rises above the table. You cannot call him old in any way: there is so much strength in a lean body, so much energy in the movements of sinewy hands that it is impossible to establish the true age.
An unopened bottle of misted Georgievskaya flaunts on the festively set table, but we drink the strongest grandfather's pervach, and then we crunch delicious pickles. A black-eyed Cossack woman, grandfather's daughter-in-law, fusses around the yard and puts more and more food on the table, bursting with abundance. For the sake of the guest, the bakery owners are ready to exhibit everything that is so rich in the Kuban villages. And I, I must admit, got tired of denying the hospitable importunity of the owners, and silently nod my head when another bowl appears in front of me. I'm fed up, but just out of respect for them I continue to pick my plate with a fork and lift the glass, clinking glasses with my grandfather.
Grandfather Vasily's possessions are notable. On the site of the once adobe hut, a large brick house has now grown. The courtyard is asphalted and surrounded by a metal fence. Near the solid outbuildings, from where the incessant din of all living creatures can be heard, one can see the "foreign car" of the eldest son, shimmering with silvery metal.
Grandfather talks about the war, as if he himself fought there. Although, according to my calculations, at that time he was ten years old, no more. But in his words there is so much truth, and in the eyes from under bushy eyebrows - so much pain that I believe him in everything.
He remembers, worried, and I worry with him. The soldier about whom the grandfather spoke has long been resting with his comrades in arms at the Eternal Flame on the stanitsa square. After the war, his ashes were transferred there by the forces of the guys from the search group. And grandfather Vasily still often visits him as an old friend. And he goes not only there …
My grandfather pulls me along, and we get up from the table and, bypassing the gate, we find ourselves on a wide village street filled with people and cars. We cross the road, we turn into an alley, planted with trees, and then we go green gardens. Then we go around someone's yard and get to the place.
On the cleared sandy area, there is a small, freshly painted obelisk with a red star at the top. Brass plaque with a laconic inscription: "To the Unknown Soldier in 1942". At the foot of the obelisk is a fresh bunch of wildflowers.
The sly grandfather takes out a bottle he'd taken, a simple snack and three disposable cups from the bag. Pours vodka, and we drink without toast: "For him …". Then grandfather Vasily shakes off the empty glasses and hides them. There is only one left: full to the brim and with a piece of bread on top. There … Under the obelisk …
We stand side by side and are silent. From my grandfather's story, I know to whom the obelisk was erected … But I do not know him. A minute passes, then another … Grandfather reaches into his breast pocket and takes out a bundle of linen fabric. Carefully, without haste, he unfolds the corners of an ordinary handkerchief and holds out his hand to me. A small five-pointed star shone with a drop of blood on the palm of his hand….
This red star is one of millions scattered across arable fields and impenetrable swamps, dense forests and high mountains. One of many scattered in thousand-kilometer trenches and countless trenches.
One of the little things that have survived to this day.
This is the sister of those who were left lying under the gravestones; and those that shone triumphantly at the walls of the Reichstag.
