The village stood aside from the main road and was not destroyed by the fighting. Clouds, white with golden reflections, curled above him. The sun's fireball was half hidden behind the horizon, and the orange sunset was already fading beyond the outskirts. The ash-gray twilight of a quiet July evening was deepening. The village was filled with those special sounds and smells that the village lives in in summer.
I headed to the outer courtyard, surrounded by a dilapidated wooden fence. Hearing the conversation, I looked into a large hole in the fence. Near the barn, the hostess was milking a cow. Streams of milk sang loudly as they hit the sides of the milk pan. The hostess sat crookedly on an overturned purse and constantly nuked at the cattle:
- Well, stop, Manka! Wait, I guess you are.
And Manka must have been harassed by annoying flies, and she kept shaking her head, wagging her tail, striving to raise her hind leg to scratch under her belly. And then the hostess, having sternly shouted at her, grabbed the edge of the milk pan with one hand and continued to milk with the other.
A large black cat was hovering around the woman and meowing impatiently. A gray, shaggy dog with reddish markings on its sides looked at him curiously. But then he instantly turned his gaze to the opening of the open passage and wagged his tail. A bearded man peeped out of the entrance for a moment and immediately backed away from the door.
I opened the gate and went into the yard. The dog barked furiously, rattled the chain. Glittering with evil eyes, she wheezed with a gasp, the fur puffing up on the nape of her neck. Seeing me, the owner shouted at the dog:
- Shut up, Watchdog!
Tall, thin, with an elongated face, the woman looked at me warily. There was some confusion in her gaze. The dog stopped growling, lay down on the ground, not taking his eyes off me. Having greeted the hostess, I asked if it was possible to spend the night with her. It was clear from her frown that my presence in her hut was highly undesirable. She began to explain that she had unbearable stuffiness, and besides, fleas bite. I said that I didn’t want to go to the hut, I would willingly sleep in the hayloft. And the hostess agreed.
Feeling tired, I sat down on the deck. The dog, bristling, growled dully, walked in a semicircle in front of me, unable to reach. To pacify her, I took out some bread from the field bag and handed it to her. Watchdog ate everything and began to ingratiatingly look at me, expecting more handouts. It was beginning to get completely dark.
The light of dawn faded. The evening star shone in the west. The hostess left the hut with a row and a pillow in her hands, heading for the povet. She did not have time to get out of there, as she was called from the street.
- Maria Makovchuk! Come out for a minute. - Without saying a word to me, she went out the gate. There they pounded. The conversation could be heard, but the words could not be made out. Bewitched by the peaceful silence, I dozed off while sitting.
- Go to the hayloft, I made a bed for you, - the hostess woke me up.
A quiet July night fell over the village. Yellow twinkling stars poured out in the sky. There were so many stars that it seemed they were cramped in the firmament.
A cow lying in the middle of the yard was chewing gum and blowing noisily. Something distant and familiar smelled of me.
I got up from the deck. The dog froze for a moment, not daring to bark. Pulling on the chain, he came close to me. I gave him a lump of sugar and patted him on the neck. It was stifling as before a thunderstorm. I didn't want to sleep. The night is painfully good! And I went out into the garden
The path itself took me out onto the lawn to the river. He began to breathe deeply in the evening coolness, enjoying the peace of the village night.
Noticing a kopeck of hay, I sat down next to it and began to inhale the thick, dizzy, honey, heady aroma of herbs. Cicadas chirped loudly all around. Somewhere beyond the river in the thickets, a corncrake was singing its squeaky song. The murmur of water was heard on the roll. The memory instantly revived childhood and adolescence, which are so carefully preserved in the soul. As if on a screen, spring field work, haymaking, harvesting in the field appeared in front of me to the smallest detail. In the afternoon - work until you sweat, and in the evening, until dawn, - a party where we sang our favorite songs or danced to the sounds of a violin and a tambourine.
Restless quails echoed in the field: "Sweat-weed". For a long time the voices did not stop in the village. From time to time gates creaked, dogs barked. A rooster bawled asleep. Rustic idyll.
The time was approaching midnight, and I was not dreaming. I leaned back against a kopeck and then remembered a bearded man who did not even want to appear in my eyes. "Who is he? The hostess's husband or someone else?"
My thoughts were interrupted by steps. Two people walked. I became alert, unbuttoned the holster with the pistol.
- Let's sit down, Lesya, - a man's voice rang out.
“It's too late, Mikola,” the girl said unsteadily.
They nestled on the opposite side of the kopeck, rustling with hay.
- So you didn’t answer me: how can we be? - asked the guy about something, apparently not agreed.
- There are so many girls in the village, Mikola! And young, and overdone, and widows - marry anyone, - laughing, answered Lesya.
- And I do not need others. I chose you.
- Well, let's say so. But you are being drafted into the army!
- So what? The war is drawing to a close. We'll kill the parasites and come back.
The conversation of the young people was colored with a kind of sad intonation. They were quiet for a moment.
- Tell me, Mikola, how did you fight in the partisans?
- Yes, like everyone else. I went on reconnaissance. Derailed fascist trains. You dig under the rail, insert a mine there, and roll yourself downward, away from the road. And the train is on its way. How will it blow! Everything flies upside down. Lesya, and policeman Makovchuk never showed up in the village? - the former partisan translated the conversation.
- What is he - a fool? Had he been caught, he would have been torn to pieces. He annoyed people hard, you scoundrel.
- With the Germans, then he left. It's a pity. It was according to his denunciation that the Gestapo hanged teacher Bezruk. He was an underground member and helped us, partisans, very much.
Listening to them, I was lost in conjecture. “Makovchuk. Somewhere I have already heard this name? Remembered! So some woman from the street called the hostess. So, maybe this bearded man is that very Makovchuk? So it wasn't a ghost? Well, I could have imagined it, but the dog couldn't be mistaken?"
Morning came slowly. The corncrake continued to creak harshly across the river. The disturbed lapwing screamed and fell silent. The stars were already fading before dawn and extinguished one after another. In the east, a streak of dawn glowed. It was getting brighter. The village was waking up. The gates of the sheds creaked, the roar of cows was heard, the jingle of buckets at the well. From under the shock came my "neighbors" - a guy with a girl.
- Young people, can I detain you for a minute? - I called them.
Mikola and Lesya were confused when they saw me. Now I could see them. Mikola is a curly, black-browed, handsome guy in a blue shirt. Lesya is dark, looking like a gypsy.
- You spoke about the policeman Makovchuk. Who is he?
- From our village. There is his last hut,”Mikola pointed with his hand.
I told them about the bearded man hiding in the entryway.
- It's him! By golly, he is! We must grab him! the former partisan said excitedly.
The sun had not yet risen, but it was already quite light when we entered Makovchuk's yard. The watchdog, tied to a chain, barked at us. But, recognizing me, he barked twice for order and obsequiously wagged his tail.
- Lesya, you stay here and look after the yard, - ordered Mikola. Climbing the porch, he opened the door. I followed him. The hostess was sitting on a chair and peeling potatoes. She was wearing a dark skirt, a chintz jacket, and a kerchief was casually tied on her head. She looked at us from under her brows, warily, fearfully.
- Aunt Marya, where is your husband? Mikola asked her at once.
The hostess was effaced. With excitement, she did not immediately find an answer.
- Do I know the hiba, de vin? she muttered in confusion, looking down.
- Don't you know? Has he gone with the Germans or is he hiding in the forest? It cannot be that he does not come home for food.
The hostess was silent. Her hands were trembling, and she could no longer calmly peel potatoes. The knife slid first over the peel, then cut deeply into the potato.
- And what kind of man with a beard peeked out of the entrance? I asked.
Makovchuk staggered, fear froze in her eyes. The potato fell out of his hands and flopped into the pot of water. Completely lost, she sat neither alive nor dead. Children slept on the beds, arms and legs scattered. Mikola approached them, intending to wake them up and ask them about their father, but I advised them against. Mikola glanced at the stove, looked under the bed. Then he went out to the senses, climbed into the attic. I searched for a long time in the barn.
- You scared him off, left, you bastard! It's a pity that we didn't catch him,”the former partisan said angrily. - Or maybe he has a hole in the underground? We have to look.
We returned to the hut. The hostess was already standing by the stove and straightening the burning wood with a stag. Mikola walked around the room and peered at the floorboards. I remembered how my mother turned the baking oven into a chicken coop in winter, and nodded to the guy at the flap that tightly covered the hole.
Having understood me, Mikola took a hot stag from the hands of the hostess and began to examine the baking dish with it. Sensing something soft, he leaned down, and then a deafening shot rang out. The bullet shot Mikola in the calf of his right leg. I grabbed him by the arms and pulled him away from the stove.
The children woke up from the shot and looked at us in confusion. Lesya ran into the hut with a frightened face. She tore off the handkerchief from her head and bandaged the guy's leg.
Taking the pistol out of the holster and standing to the side of the hole, I said:
- Makovchuk, throw your pistol on the floor, or I'll shoot. I count to three. One … two …
A German Walter slammed to the floor.
- Now get out yourself.
- I won't get out! the policeman responded viciously.
“If you don’t get out, blame yourself,” I warned.
- Get out, traitor to the Motherland! - Mikola shouted passionately. - Lesya, run to the chairman of the Selrada. Tell them that Makovchuk was caught.
The girl rushed out of the hut.
The rumor about the capture of policeman Makovchuk quickly spread around the village. Men and women were already crowding in the courtyard and in the senets. The chairman of the village council, Litvinenko, came, a stout man of about forty-five. The left sleeve of his jacket was tucked into a pocket.
- Well, where is this bastard? - his voice sounded sternly.
“He hid under the stove, you bastard,” said Mikola angrily.
"Look what a place you've chosen for yourself," Litvinenko sarcastically dropped, grinning. - Well, get out and show yourself to people. Under the Nazis, he was brave, but then out of fear he climbed under the stove. Get out!
After some hesitation, Makovchuk climbed out from under the stove on all fours, and I saw a pop-eyed man with a shaggy head and a shaggy black beard. He looked wildly at the crowd of fellow villagers. I wanted to get up, but, meeting the contemptuous looks of people, I looked down and remained on my knees. The children - a thin boy of about ten and a girl of about eight - looked dejectedly at their father and it was difficult to understand what was happening in their children's souls.
The villagers looked at Makovchuk with a feeling of disgust, angrily throwing hateful words to him:
- I got through, a parasite! Damned geek!
- Have grown a beard, scum! Are you disguising your vile disguise?
“Why, you scoundrel, didn’t go away with your masters, German slut? Thrown like a bastard? - Asked the chairman of the village council Litvinenko.
The crowd hummed even more furiously, shouting angrily:
- The skin is for sale, you fascist bastard!
- Judge the traitor by all the people!
These words burned Makovchuk like blows of a whip. Staring down at the floor, the policeman was silent. He faithfully served the Nazis, was an inveterate scoundrel and, knowing that there would be no mercy for him, nevertheless decided to ask for leniency:
- Good people, forgive me, I was mistaken. I am guilty before you. I will expiate my grave guilt. I will do whatever you say, just do not punish. Comrade Chairman, everything depends on you.
- That's what language you spoke! Litvinenko interrupted. - And I remembered the Soviet power! And what did you get up to under the Nazis, you bastard! Did you think about the Soviet power then, about the Motherland?
With his sharp birdlike nose and trembling head, Makovchuk was disgusting.
- What to do with a traitor! To the gallows! - shouted from the crowd.
From these words, Makovchuk completely wilted. His face was twitching with nervous convulsions. Eyes filled with fear and malice did not look at anyone.
- Get up, Makovchuk. Stop pulling the bagpipes,”the chairman ordered sternly.
Makovchuk glanced dimly at Litvinenko, not understanding him.
- Get up, I say, let's go to the selrada.
It was clear to the traitor that he could not escape responsibility. He was only tormented by the question: what sentence awaits him. He got up and looked around the villagers with wolfish alertness. Angrily shouted out of rage and impotence:
- Arrange lynching over me ?!
“There will be no lynching, Makovchuk,” Litvinenko cut short. - The Soviet court will judge you as a traitor to the Motherland. For there is no forgiveness on Soviet soil for cowardice and betrayal!
Makovchuk gritted his teeth in impotent rage. His wife's wide eyes were filled with horror. She cried out pleadingly:
- Good people, do not ruin him. Have pity on the children.
“Marya, you should have thought about this earlier,” said the chairman, glancing briefly at the hushed boy and girl.
And then, feigning an epileptic illness, Makovchuk rolled his eyes, fell and thrashed convulsively, trembling with a small convulsive tremor.
- Makovchuk, stand up, don't act like an epileptic. You will not fool anyone with this, you will not pity anyone,”Litvinenko said.
Makovchuk gritted his teeth and yelled wildly:
- I'm not going anywhere from my hut! End here with children and wife. My kids, Petrus and Mariyka, come up to me, say goodbye to dad.
But neither Petrus nor Mariyka approached his father. Moreover, they seemed to have conspired and turned away from him. And the fact that his own children condemned his father was the most terrible sentence for Makovchuk. Perhaps much scarier than the one that expected him.
