Yuri German is my dear man. Book: My dear man - Yuri German. "Dear My Man"

Yuri German

Dear my man

I will not praise the timidly lurking virtue that shows itself in nothing and does not show signs of life, the virtue that never makes sorties to face the enemy, and which shamefully flees from the competition when the laurel wreath is won in the heat and dust .

John Milton

Whoever is rooting for a cause must be able to fight for it, otherwise he does not need to take on any business at all.

Johann Wolfgang Goethe

Chapter one

TRAIN GOING WEST

The international express started slowly, as befits trains of this highest category, and both foreign diplomats immediately, each in their own direction, ripped the silk breezebushes on the mirrored window of the dining car. Ustimenko narrowed his eyes and peered even more attentively at these athletic little, wiry, arrogant people - in black evening suits, glasses, with cigars, with rings on their fingers. They did not notice him, greedily looked at the silent, boundless expanse and peace there, in the steppes, over which the full moon floated in the black autumn sky. What did they hope to see when they crossed the border? Fires? War? German tanks?

In the kitchen, behind Volodya, the cooks were beating meat with choppers, there was a delicious smell of fried onions, the barmaid on a tray carried misted bottles of Russian Zhiguli beer. It was dinner time, at the next table a belly-bellied American journalist was peeling an orange with thick fingers, his military "forecasts" were respectfully listened to by bespectacled, slicked-haired diplomats who looked like twins.

Bastard! Volodya said.

What he says? asked Tod-Jin.

Bastard! Ustimenko repeated. - Fascist!

The diplomats nodded their heads and smiled. The famous American columnist-journalist joked. “This joke is already flying over the radiotelephone to my newspaper,” he explained to his interlocutors and threw an orange slice into his mouth - with a click. His mouth was as big as a frog's, from ear to ear. And all three of them had a lot of fun, but they became even more fun over cognac.

We must have peace of mind! said Tod-Jin, looking compassionately at Ustimenka. - You have to get yourself together, yes, yes.

Finally, a waiter came up and recommended to Volodya and Tod-Zhin "monastic sturgeon" or "mutton chops." Ustimenko leafed through the menu, the waiter, beaming parted, waited - the strict Tod-Jin with his motionless face seemed to the waiter an important and rich eastern foreigner.

A bottle of beer and beef stroganoff,” said Volodya.

Go to hell, Tod-Jin, - Ustimenko got angry. - I have a lot of money.

Tod-Jin repeated dryly:

Porridge and tea.

The waiter raised his eyebrows, made a mournful face and left. The American observer poured cognac into the narzan, rinsed his mouth with this mixture and filled his pipe with black tobacco. Another gentleman approached the three of them - as if he had crawled out not from the next carriage, but from the collected works of Charles Dickens, lop-eared, short-sighted, with a duck nose and a mouth like a chicken tail. It was to him - this plaid-striped one - that the journalist said that phrase, from which Volodya even went cold.

No need! asked Tod-Jin, and squeezed Volodino's wrist with his cold hand. - It doesn't help, so, yeah...

But Volodya did not hear Tod-Jin, or rather, he did, but he was not in the mood for prudence. And, rising at his table - tall, lithe, in an old black sweater - he barked at the whole car, piercing the journalist with furious eyes, barked in his terrifying, soul-chilling, self-learned English:

Hey reviewer! Yes, you, it is you, I tell you...

A look of bewilderment flashed across the journalist's flat, fat face, the diplomats instantly became politely arrogant, the Dickensian gentleman stepped back a little.

You enjoy the hospitality of my country! shouted Volodya. A country of which I have the high honor of being a citizen. And I do not allow you to make such disgusting, and so cynical, and so vile jokes about the great battle that our people are waging! Otherwise, I will throw you out of this wagon to hell ...

Approximately so Volodya imagined what he said. In fact, he said a phrase much more meaningless, but nevertheless the observer understood Volodya perfectly, this was evident from the way his jaw dropped for a moment and small, fish teeth in the frog's mouth were exposed. But immediately he was found - he was not so small as not to find a way out of any situation.

Yuri German is a classic of Russian literature, prose writer, playwright, screenwriter. Laureate of the Stalin Prize of the 2nd degree. The creative biography of the writer began with modernist prose, then the style of writing changed dramatically: Herman, one of the first Russian writers, presented readers with a family novel.

The literary heritage of the prose writer is extensive: for 40 years of his life in art, he created novels, short stories, stories, plays, scripts. And his main books were the novel “Young Russia” about the Peter the Great era, the trilogy “The Cause You Serve” and the story of the everyday life of the criminal investigation department, based on which his son made the brilliant film “My Friend Ivan Lapshin”.

Childhood and youth

A prose writer was born in the spring of 1910 in Riga in the family of a military man. Herman's mother - Nadezhda Ignatieva, daughter of a lieutenant of the Izborsky regiment - a teacher of the Russian language. The head of the family, Pavel German, was mobilized during the First World War. The second half went for the spouse, taking their 4-year-old son Yura. Nadezhda Konstantinovna got a job as a nurse in the field hospital of the artillery battalion.

Yuri German's childhood, as he later wrote, passed among soldiers, guns and horses. The boy spent a lot of time in the hospital. At the crossing over the Zbruch River, the life of the future classic almost ended. Soon Pavel German headed the division and finished his service with the rank of staff captain.

Yuri German called adolescence ordinary: after demobilization, his father worked as a financial inspector in Kursk and the cities of the region - Oboyan, Lgov, Dmitriev.

At school, Herman became interested in literature. The first lines written are rhymed, but the poetic experience ended with those few verses that appeared on the pages of Kurskaya Pravda. The desire to rhyme was “hacked to death” by the editor, advising the boy to compose essays and reports.

The first lessons of journalism, which were taught to the future winner of the Stalin Prize by the Kursk newspaper, Herman recalled with gratitude.

The creative biography of the writer continued with several stories published in the Lgov newspaper, but the emphasis shifted to dramaturgy. The young man became interested in the theater, at first he prompted, then led amateur performances and composed the first small plays for productions.

Shortly after graduating from school in Kursk, Yuri German went to Leningrad: a 19-year-old young man became a student at the College of Performing Arts.

Literature

Herman studied and worked at a machine-building plant, continuing to write. At the age of 17, he wrote the modernist novel Raphael from the Barbershop, but he felt like a professional writer at the age of 21, when a novel called Introduction came out, approved by .

In the formation of a prose writer, a magazine for young people "Young Proletarian", published in the city on the Neva, played a significant role. Herman's stories "Skin" and "Sivash" appeared on its pages.

On the instructions of the editors of the magazine, Yuri wrote essays about factory and factory workers. Meetings with people at work prompted the young writer to create a novel that opened the writer's name to a wide circle of Soviet readers. The title of the novel - "Introduction" - became prophetic.

The appearance of the “everyday”, family novel “Our Friends” became an event in Soviet literature, which had not previously known such examples. Prose writers of modern times wrote about production, construction sites of the century, labor collectives and large-scale figures. Yuri German was perhaps the first of his contemporaries to show how people are born and grow, who are destined for a great future.

The outbreak of the Great Patriotic War did not pass by for the writer: Yuri German served as a military commissar on the Karelian front, wrote for TASS and Sovinformburo, visited the Northern Fleet, where the journalist was seconded to the political department. Front-line readers greeted essays, articles and stories of military commander Herman with enthusiasm.

The idea of ​​a historical epic novel about the writer was inspired by military events. Reflecting on his experiences in the war, Yuri German worked on the chapters of "Young Russia", which readers saw in 1952.

In the post-war period, the prose writer had a desire to write about the hero of our time - a man of a special mindset, capable of thinking in universal, state categories. So in 1957-1964, the trilogy “The Cause You Serve” appeared about the doctor Vladimir Ustimenko.

The second book of the trilogy - "My Dear Man" - is about the heroism of sailors who had to serve in the harsh North during the Second World War. The episodes of the book are taken from the military experience of Yuri Pavlovich and friendly conversations with Arkhangelsk Pomor sailors. The final part of the novel in three parts, called "I am responsible for everything", the classic published in the mid-1960s, when a fatal illness reminded of itself every minute.

The prose writer wrote for both adults and children. Yuri German gave wonderful books to young readers such as “Tales about Dzerzhinsky”, “Secret and Service”, “Give me a paw, friend”. And the story of the besieged Leningrad "That's how it was" appeared after the death of the classic. Her manuscript was found while sorting through the archives of Yuri Pavlovich, his son and wife.

It seems that the writer considered the text, on which he worked in the late 1940s, unfinished and put it aside for later, but did not have time to return to it. The story was written under the impression of the stories of Leningraders who survived the blockade: Yuri German returned to the city on the Neva after demobilization. The events are described from the position of a 7-year-old boy Misha, a "blockade" child.

The writer gave a lot of strength and inspiration to cinema. In the mid-1930s, he collaborated with: together with the director, the prose writer worked on the script for the film The Seven Bold. Herman wrote scripts for the films "Doctor Kalyuzhny", "Pirogov", "The Rumyantsev Case", "Give me a paw, Friend!".

Personal life

The writer married three times. The first wife of Yuri Pavlovich was the niece of the People's Artist of the RSFSR Vladimir Khenkin - Sophia. They got married in 1928, but lived in marriage for only 2 years.

The couple divorced in 1930, and in the same year Herman married a second time. The wife of the prose writer was Lyudmila Reisler, who gave birth to her husband in 1933, the first child, Misha. The couple lived together for 6 years. Son Mikhail German became an art critic.

With his third wife, Tatyana Rittenberg, the novelist lived until his death. Tatyana Aleksandrovna gave birth to her husband's second son, Alexei, who became a director and screenwriter.

The writer did not see his grandson. German Jr. was born in 1976 and followed in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, becoming a director and screenwriter. In 2018, the premiere of the melodrama "Dovlatov" took place, which was directed by the director and grandson of Yuri German.

Death

From 1948 to 1967, Yuri German lived in a house on the Field of Mars. There he died. The writer prophesied and described his death: in the late 1940s, the book “Lieutenant Colonel of the Medical Service” was published. The hero of the novel was eaten by cancer, which killed him long and painfully.

The same disease was diagnosed to Yuri Pavlovich in the mid-1960s. Cancer was the cause of his death in January 1967. The classic left courageously, without complaints, without exhausting his relatives. After his death, the son found a note from his father, in which he read the words:

"How to die without flirting."

Yuri Pavlovich was buried at the Bogoslovsky cemetery in St. Petersburg.

Bibliography

• 1931 - "Raphael from the barbershop"
• 1931 - "Introduction"
• 1934 - "Poor Heinrich"
• 1936 - Our Friends
• 1939 - "Son of the people" (play)
• 1940 - "Sisters" (play)
• 1949 - "Lieutenant Colonel of the Medical Service"
• 1951 - "Dark autumn night" (play)
• 1952 - "Young Russia"
• 1957 - "Beyond the Prison Wall" (play)
• 1958 - "The Cause You Serve"
• 1960 - "One Year"
• 1962 - "My dear man"
• 1965 - "I'm in charge of everything"
• 1969 - "That's How It Was"

Yuri German

Dear my man

I will not praise the timidly lurking virtue that shows itself in nothing and does not show signs of life, the virtue that never makes sorties to face the enemy, and which shamefully flees from the competition when the laurel wreath is won in the heat and dust .

John Milton

Whoever is rooting for a cause must be able to fight for it, otherwise he does not need to take on any business at all.

Johann Wolfgang Goethe

Chapter one

TRAIN GOING WEST

The international express started slowly, as befits trains of this highest category, and both foreign diplomats immediately, each in their own direction, ripped the silk breezebushes on the mirrored window of the dining car. Ustimenko narrowed his eyes and peered even more attentively at these athletic little, wiry, arrogant people - in black evening suits, glasses, with cigars, with rings on their fingers. They did not notice him, greedily looked at the silent, boundless expanse and peace there, in the steppes, over which the full moon floated in the black autumn sky. What did they hope to see when they crossed the border? Fires? War? German tanks?

In the kitchen, behind Volodya, the cooks were beating meat with choppers, there was a delicious smell of fried onions, the barmaid on a tray carried misted bottles of Russian Zhiguli beer. It was dinner time, at the next table a belly-bellied American journalist was peeling an orange with thick fingers, his military "forecasts" were respectfully listened to by bespectacled, slicked-haired diplomats who looked like twins.

Bastard! Volodya said.

What he says? asked Tod-Jin.

Bastard! Ustimenko repeated. - Fascist!

The diplomats nodded their heads and smiled. The famous American columnist-journalist joked. “This joke is already flying over the radiotelephone to my newspaper,” he explained to his interlocutors and threw an orange slice into his mouth - with a click. His mouth was as big as a frog's, from ear to ear. And all three of them had a lot of fun, but they became even more fun over cognac.

We must have peace of mind! said Tod-Jin, looking compassionately at Ustimenka. - You have to get yourself together, yes, yes.

Finally, a waiter came up and recommended to Volodya and Tod-Zhin "monastic sturgeon" or "mutton chops." Ustimenko leafed through the menu, the waiter, beaming parted, waited - the strict Tod-Jin with his motionless face seemed to the waiter an important and rich eastern foreigner.

A bottle of beer and beef stroganoff,” said Volodya.

Go to hell, Tod-Jin, - Ustimenko got angry. - I have a lot of money.

Tod-Jin repeated dryly:

Porridge and tea.

The waiter raised his eyebrows, made a mournful face and left. The American observer poured cognac into the narzan, rinsed his mouth with this mixture and filled his pipe with black tobacco. Another gentleman approached the three of them - as if he had crawled out not from the next carriage, but from the collected works of Charles Dickens, lop-eared, short-sighted, with a duck nose and a mouth like a chicken tail. It was to him - this plaid-striped one - that the journalist said that phrase, from which Volodya even went cold.

No need! asked Tod-Jin, and squeezed Volodino's wrist with his cold hand. - It doesn't help, so, yeah...

But Volodya did not hear Tod-Jin, or rather, he did, but he was not in the mood for prudence. And, rising at his table - tall, lithe, in an old black sweater - he barked at the whole car, piercing the journalist with furious eyes, barked in his terrifying, soul-chilling, self-learned English:

Hey reviewer! Yes, you, it is you, I tell you...

A look of bewilderment flashed across the journalist's flat, fat face, the diplomats instantly became politely arrogant, the Dickensian gentleman stepped back a little.

You enjoy the hospitality of my country! shouted Volodya. A country of which I have the high honor of being a citizen. And I do not allow you to make such disgusting, and so cynical, and so vile jokes about the great battle that our people are waging! Otherwise, I will throw you out of this wagon to hell ...

Approximately so Volodya imagined what he said. In fact, he said a phrase much more meaningless, but nevertheless the observer understood Volodya perfectly, this was evident from the way his jaw dropped for a moment and small, fish teeth in the frog's mouth were exposed. But immediately he was found - he was not so small as not to find a way out of any situation.

Bravo! - he exclaimed and even portrayed something like applause. Bravo, my enthusiastic friend! I'm glad I awakened your feelings with my little provocation. We have not yet traveled a hundred kilometers from the border, and I have already received grateful material ... “Your old Pete was almost thrown out of the express train at full speed just for a little joke about the combat capability of the Russian people” - this is how my telegram will begin; does that suit you, my irascible friend?

What could he say, poor fellow?

To portray a dry mine and take on beef stroganoff?

So Volodya did. But the observer did not lag behind him: having moved to his table, he wished to know who Ustimenko was, what he did, where he was going, why he was returning to Russia. And as he wrote, he said:

Oh great. Missionary doctor, returns to fight under the banner...

Listen! exclaimed Ustimenko. - Missionaries are priests, and I ...

You can’t fool old Pete,” the journalist said, puffing on his pipe. Old Pete knows his reader. And show me your muscles, could you really throw me out of the car?

I had to show. Then old Pete showed his and wished to drink cognac with Volodya and his "friend - Eastern Byron". Tod-Jin finished his porridge, poured liquid tea into himself and left, and Volodya, feeling the mocking glances of the diplomats and the Dickensian striped man, suffered for a long time with old Pete, cursing himself in every possible way for the stupid scene.

What was there? Tod-Jin asked sternly when Volodya returned to their compartment. And after listening, he lit a cigarette and said sadly:

They are always smarter than us, so, yes, doctor. I was still small - like this ...

He showed with his palm what he was:

Like this one, and they, like this old Pete, like that, yes, they gave me candy. No, they didn't beat us, they gave us sweets. And my mother, she beat me, so, yes, because she could not live from her fatigue and illness. And I thought - I'll go to this old Pete, and he will always give me candy. And Pete also gave adults sweets - alcohol. And we brought him animal skins and gold, so, yes, and then death came ... Old Pete is very, very cunning ...

Volodya sighed.

It's been pretty stupid. And now he will write that I am either a priest or a monk ...

Hopping onto the top bunk, he stripped down to his underpants, lay down in crisp, cool, starched sheets, and turned on the radio. Soon they were to transmit a summary of the Sovinformburo. With his hands behind his head, Volodya lay motionless, waiting. Tod-Jin stood looking out the window - at the endless steppe under the moonlight. Finally, Moscow spoke: on this day, according to the announcer, Kyiv fell. Volodya turned to the wall, pulled a blanket over the sheet. For some reason, he imagined the face of the one who called himself old Pete, and he even closed his eyes in disgust.

Nothing, - Tod-Zhin said muffledly, - the USSR will win. It will still be very bad, but then it will be great. After the night comes the morning. I heard the radio - Adolf Hitler will surround Moscow so that not a single Russian leaves the city. And then he will flood Moscow with water, he has everything decided, so, yes, he wants, where Moscow used to be, the sea will become and there will forever be no capital of the country of communism. I heard and I thought: I studied in Moscow, I must be where they want to see the sea. From a gun I get into the eye of a kite, this is necessary in the war. I get in the eye of a sable too. In the Central Committee, I said the same as you, comrade doctor, now. I said they are the day, if they are not there, eternal night will come. For our people, absolutely - yes, yes. And I'm going back to Moscow, the second time I'm going. I’m not afraid of anything at all, no frost, and I can do everything in the war ...

After a pause, he asked:

I can't refuse, right?

You will not be refused, Tod-Jin, - Volodya answered quietly.

Then Ustimenko closed his eyes.

And suddenly I saw that the caravan had started moving. And grandfather Abatai ran next to Volodya's horse. The Orient Express thundered at the joints, sometimes the locomotive howled long and powerfully, and around Volodya the horses kicked up dust, and more and more people crowded around. For some reason, Varya was riding on a small maned horse, patting its withers with her wide palm, the dusty wind of Khara ruffled her tangled, soft hair, and the girl Tush was crying, stretching her thin arms towards Volodya. And familiar and semi-familiar people walked near Ustimenka and handed him sour cheese, which he loved.

Contrary to popular belief, Cannes, blinded by the brilliance of our only gold, was not discovered by Kalatozov by Batalov. The ability to play a tense, but hidden from prying eyes, inner life, mental, intellectual, professional - that is, which was the uniqueness of Batalov's acting talent, was really used by Kheifits for the first time, and the screenwriter of Kheifits Yuri German (since without the writer's intervention the actor , it seems, would forever be stuck in the role of a working boy). The script for the film “My Dear Man” was written by German specifically for Batalov and “on” Batalov, with inspiration and with great confidence in the actor, who was entrusted with the mission of humanizing the seemingly worked “on the knee”, strung on a living thread of the text. The result, obviously, exceeded the most daring writer's expectations: the image of the doctor Ustimenko was molded by Batalov so cleverly, voluminously, convincingly and at the same time with such genuine, such life-like reticence that the author himself felt ashamed and seriously intrigued. Herman's illustrious trilogy, which has become a reference book for all medical students, essentially grew out of this dissatisfaction of the screenwriter, who bypassed the actor in the subtleties of understanding the character. Herman in it only explored those depths of Vladimir Ustimenko's character that Batalov had already embodied on the screen - rationalizing, analyzing, tracking his origin, formation, development, and not caring in the least about his original screenplay material, focusing more on the plot (oddly enough, this sounds) on subsequent characters of the same Batalov (physicist Gusev from Nine Days of One Year, Dr. Berezkin from Day of Happiness ...)

And then to say: the charm and mystery of the "generation of whales" ("they are too tough - all teeth are soft, they are not for soups - pots are too small"), carried by Batalov through his entire filmography (up to the complete fraying of the type, almost self-parody in the form of an intellectual locksmith Gosha), already in “My Dear Man” by Kheifits, they clearly crush the strained (if not stilted) scenario under themselves in places. until the days of the last bottom "thanks to Batalov, it undergoes a radical revision in the novel. A brilliant scene of an operation in military conditions, under the roar of shrapnel, in the wrong light of an oil lamp - a white cap, a white respiratory bandage, Olympian calm of all features, all muscles, a sweating forehead and furry Batalov eyes , extremely intensively living during these minutes a whole life - a scene similar to a chaste, unconscious ritual by the participants - anticipated one of the Germanic formulas included in the anthologies: one must serve one's cause, not incense

There, under the oil lamp, in military infirmary routine and routine, half-hidden by a bandage from indiscreet eyes, Batalov-Ustimenko at once pours out on the viewer all the radiance that the character carried in himself throughout the film - carefully and gently, afraid to spill it in everyday bustle. In this scene - an explanation and justification of his restraint (ill-wishers said: freezing) in all other human manifestations: love, grief, indignation. Devoted to one completely, undividedly, uncompromisingly, he cannot be otherwise. No "Odysseys in the darkness of steamship offices, Agamemnons between tavern markers" with their in vain and in vain burning eyes. Ustimenko Batalova is a man at work, to whom all his strength is given, he has no time to waste himself outside.

The coldness and detachment of the title character is more than compensated by the supporting cast, which seems to compete in the brightness and expressive capacity of the instantaneous (but not fleeting) flashes of feelings unwittingly exposed by them. The mighty stooped shoulders of the hero Usovnichenko, who was disappointed in the object of love, timid, belated (“Ah, Lyuba, Lyuba. Love! ... Nikolaevna.”); the burning look of the black eyes of Dr. Veresova (Bella Vinogradova), the cruel female resentment in her short attack ( "For whom am I painting? - For you!"); the ferocious growl of Captain Kozyrev (performed by Pereverzev) in response to the attempts of orderly Zhilin to switch his attention from sergeant Stepanova to a pretty nurse - all these momentary, poignantly recognizable situations unfold themselves in the audience's perception in a life-long story. Against this background rich in talents, even the magnificent Inna Makarova is a little bored - very picturesque and femininely attractive in the role of Varya, but who did not say anything new in this film, in fact, once again playing the "home" part of the role of Lyubka Shevtsova (after all, the dramatic turn - from "Girls" to "Women" - the actress is still ahead). It seems that Herman was not impressed with her game either, for the novel he borrowed from Varka only a figurine “like a turnip” ... However, isn’t tactful self-elimination the main virtue (and special happiness) of a woman who loves the one who has gone headlong into her own, big, a man? The one that "barely walks, barely breathes - if only he would be healthy"? Didn't Inna Makarova deliberately dim the colors of her individuality so as not to push her dear person into the shadows - exactly the way her heroine learned to do?

Yuri German

Dear my man

I will not praise the timidly lurking virtue that shows itself in nothing and does not show signs of life, the virtue that never makes sorties to face the enemy, and which shamefully flees from the competition when the laurel wreath is won in the heat and dust .

John Milton

Whoever is rooting for a cause must be able to fight for it, otherwise he does not need to take on any business at all.

Johann Wolfgang Goethe

Chapter one

TRAIN GOING WEST

The international express started slowly, as befits trains of this highest category, and both foreign diplomats immediately, each in their own direction, ripped the silk breezebushes on the mirrored window of the dining car. Ustimenko narrowed his eyes and peered even more attentively at these athletic little, wiry, arrogant people - in black evening suits, glasses, with cigars, with rings on their fingers. They did not notice him, greedily looked at the silent, boundless expanse and peace there, in the steppes, over which the full moon floated in the black autumn sky. What did they hope to see when they crossed the border? Fires? War? German tanks?

In the kitchen, behind Volodya, the cooks were beating meat with choppers, there was a delicious smell of fried onions, the barmaid on a tray carried misted bottles of Russian Zhiguli beer. It was dinner time, at the next table a belly-bellied American journalist was peeling an orange with thick fingers, his military "forecasts" were respectfully listened to by bespectacled, slicked-haired diplomats who looked like twins.

- Bastard! Volodya said.

- What he says? Tod-Jin asked.

- Bastard! Ustimenko repeated. - Fascist!

The diplomats nodded their heads and smiled. The famous American columnist-journalist joked. “This joke is already flying over the radiotelephone to my newspaper,” he explained to his interlocutors and threw an orange slice into his mouth with a click. His mouth was as big as a frog's, from ear to ear. And all three of them had a lot of fun, but they became even more fun over cognac.

- We must have peace of mind! Tod-Jin said, looking compassionately at Ustimenka. “You have to take matters into your own hands, yes.

Finally, a waiter came up and recommended to Volodya and Tod-Zhin "monastic sturgeon" or "mutton chops." Ustimenko leafed through the menu, the waiter, beaming parted, waited - the strict Tod-Jin with his motionless face seemed to the waiter an important and rich eastern foreigner.

“A bottle of beer and beef stroganoff,” Volodya said.

“Go to hell, Tod-Jin,” Ustimenko got angry. - I have a lot of money.

Tod-Jin repeated dryly:

- Porridge and tea.

The waiter raised his eyebrows, made a mournful face and left. The American observer poured cognac into the narzan, rinsed his mouth with this mixture and filled his pipe with black tobacco. Another gentleman approached the three of them - as if he got out not from the next car, but from the collected works of Charles Dickens, lop-eared, short-sighted, with a duck nose and a mouth like a chicken tail. It was to him - this checkered-striped one - that the journalist said that phrase, from which Volodya even went cold.

- No need! asked Tod-Jin, and squeezed Volodino's wrist with his cold hand. - It doesn't help, so, yes ...

But Volodya did not hear Tod-Jin, or rather, he did, but he was not in the mood for prudence. And, rising at his table - tall, lithe, in an old black sweater - he barked at the whole carriage, glaring at the journalist with furious eyes, barked in his terrifying, soul-chilling, self-learned English:

- Hey, reviewer! Yes, you, it is you, I tell you...

A look of bewilderment flashed across the journalist's flat, fat face, the diplomats instantly became politely arrogant, the Dickensian gentleman stepped back a little.

“You enjoy the hospitality of my country!” shouted Volodya. A country of which I have the high honor of being a citizen. And I do not allow you to make such disgusting, and so cynical, and so vile jokes about the great battle that our people are waging! Otherwise, I will throw you out of this wagon to hell ...

Approximately so Volodya imagined what he said. In fact, he said a phrase much more meaningless, but nevertheless the observer understood Volodya perfectly, this was evident from the way his jaw dropped for a moment and small, fish teeth in the frog's mouth were exposed. But immediately he was found - he was not so small as not to find a way out of any situation.

– Bravo! he exclaimed, and even mimicked something like applause. Bravo, my enthusiastic friend! I'm glad I awakened your feelings with my little provocation. We have not yet traveled a hundred kilometers from the border, and I have already received grateful material ... “Your old Pete was almost thrown out of the express train at full speed just for a little joke about the combat capability of the Russian people” - this is how my telegram will begin; does that suit you, my irascible friend?

What could he say, poor fellow?

To portray a dry mine and take on beef stroganoff?

So Volodya did. But the observer did not lag behind him: having moved to his table, he wished to know who Ustimenko was, what he did, where he was going, why he was returning to Russia. And as he wrote, he said:

- Oh great. Missionary doctor, returns to fight under the banner...

– Listen! exclaimed Ustimenko. - Missionaries are priests, and I ...

“You can’t fool Old Pete,” the journalist said, puffing on his pipe. Old Pete knows his reader. And show me your muscles, could you really throw me out of the car?

I had to show. Then old Pete showed his and wished to drink cognac with Volodya and his "friend - Eastern Byron". Tod-Jin finished his porridge, poured liquid tea into himself and left, and Volodya, feeling the mocking glances of the diplomats and the Dickensian striped man, suffered for a long time with old Pete, cursing himself in every possible way for the stupid scene.

- What was there? Tod-Jin asked sternly when Volodya returned to their compartment. And after listening, he lit a cigarette and said sadly:

“They are always smarter than us, yes, doctor. I was still small - like this ...

He showed with his palm what he was:

“Like this one, and they, like this old Pete, like that, yes, they gave me candy. No, they didn't beat us, they gave us sweets. And my mother, she beat me, so, yes, because she could not live from her fatigue and illness. And I thought - I'll go to this old Pete, and he will always give me candy. And Pete also gave adults sweets - alcohol. And we brought him animal skins and gold, so, yes, and then death came ... Old Pete is very, very cunning ...

Volodya sighed.

- It's pretty stupid. And now he will write that I am either a priest or a monk ...

Hopping onto the top bunk, he stripped down to his underpants, lay down in crisp, cool, starched sheets, and turned on the radio. Soon they were to transmit a summary of the Sovinformburo. With his hands behind his head, Volodya lay motionless, waiting. Tod-Jin stood looking out the window - at the endless steppe under the moonlight. Finally, Moscow spoke: on this day, according to the announcer, Kyiv fell. Volodya turned to the wall, pulled a blanket over the sheet. For some reason, he imagined the face of the one who called himself old Pete, and he even closed his eyes in disgust.

“Nothing,” Tod-Jin said muffledly, “the USSR will win.” It will still be very bad, but then it will be great. After the night comes the morning. I heard the radio - Adolf Hitler will surround Moscow so that not a single Russian leaves the city. And then he will flood Moscow with water, he has everything decided, so, yes, he wants, where Moscow used to be, the sea will become and there will forever be no capital of the country of communism. I heard and I thought: I studied in Moscow, I must be where they want to see the sea. From a gun I get into the eye of a kite, this is necessary in the war. I get in the eye of a sable too. In the Central Committee, I said the same as you, comrade doctor, now. I said they are the day, if they are not there, eternal night will come. For our people, absolutely - yes, yes. And I'm going back to Moscow, the second time I'm going. I’m not afraid of anything at all, no frost, and I can do everything in the war ...