— So you knew it all. You knew it and you didn't say anything.
— Everyone is silent, who knows it… We have to keep quiet. — Sergei looked at Misha with a very direct and somewhat sad look. — You have to, Misha.
— And how many are there? How many plagues are there in general, and how many other people are at war with us?
— lot. A lot of people, Mish. Much more than chums… We call them "Hiwi".
— Heavey, fuck… Hooey!
— You want the huevos. No one will obviously mind… But there are a lot more of these hivies than there are chums…..
Koshkina
Pechenezhskoye reservoir. Old Saltov. New camp of detachment 14.
The seventh sanitary department, where Natasha Koshkina served, was located in a nine-story concrete house, situated right by the shore. From the window you could see the whole reservoir and especially well — the moon track that had disappeared five hours ago.
They spent the whole night dealing with some soldier. He was drunk and had broken his leg in some unknown way, and it was an open fracture. He was screaming like he wasn't being treated, he was being tortured. And blood all over the place, and screamed in his ears. And you'd never know how he was in so much pain, being so intoxicated.
Then, of course, the administration came in with a SWAT team. They started yelling at him — they recognized that he was from Ranierov's department. That didn't seem enough: for some reason they summoned Ranierov, not to his room, but directly to the hospital. He, too, turned out to be drunk; though not so much and not with a broken leg. They yelled at him. When that wasn't enough, they sent for help. Dr. Schwarzenberg realized that "all the saints had already been taken out" and chased away the administration, the special forces, and then the "help". No one wanted to question him — such a doctor is always the boss in his place. He treats everyone: vagrants and kings alike.
— Go on, Natash, get some sleep. — said Schwarzenberg when it was almost dawn. — I can manage on my own. How he was able to stand on his feet after a 30-kilometer crossing, a whole day and this night, in which "all aspects of life were covered", remained incomprehensible, but for Schwarzenberg himself it was nothing special.
Outside stood and, instead of dispersing, the nurses, quite young, no older than eighteen, were socializing.
Natasha, smiling slightly, waved at them and walked toward her house. All night, while everyone was arguing around her, she had been thinking about Misha, and now she wanted to come home, sleep, and be awakened by him.
Nothing else was of interest.
But no.
It took these girls to yell all over the street about something they were interested in. The morning after a night of dealing with the drinking episode and where they got it from… And they had the energy to talk about it.
They were discussing guys, of course. But not their qualities, like "doesn't react to this", "cold to that", "doesn't understand this". No, it wasn't that at all, it was who was prettier. Not only that, it was a selection criterion for not just dating, but living together. They didn't really understand what it was like to live together? "Beautiful" — is it good to live together? Or to be together at all? And what's behind it, i.e. most of the time spent together, is somehow not implied. Maybe he'll go out somewhere on the side in his free time, saying at home that he has no free time. Maybe he'll fight about anything that comes up and make her look guilty. Might never be supportive when needed, if not push her off the right path altogether. Does it help in any way that he's "handsome"?
They did not mention these issues at all. And the understanding of love and relationships itself did not slip in. As if the feelings of love, respect and help do not play a role in the relationship between a girl and a young man. It's as if everyone meets each other according to the measure of beauty — whoever can pull off the points.
Natasha spit on all their attitude nonsense and would have forgotten, but no. It concerned her, because five years ago she'd thought the same thing. She had seduced so many people with her beauty that she couldn't even count now. Now she was offended, and most importantly ashamed of it. For that self of hers back then.
— I should have been such a fool too. — Natasha thought, moving away from the hospital, not hearing and forgetting about those nurses, but thinking only about her past. — Fucking everyone she liked… Not even thinking about relationships. Not even thinking about stopping. Just trying everyone. It's so stupid. And useless! This youthful promiscuity… After all, someone could love her, not just desire her. Why couldn't God make it so that we wouldn't do these stupid things, so that we wouldn't have this dirt on our backs when you remember yourself and feel like some bitch who didn't think about the consequences of what she did?
Natasha raised her eyes to the sky: the clouds, cumulus and different every time you looked at them; the heavens, a bulky bluish firmament, mighty and omnipotent.
— It's beautiful. — the cloud spoke from on high.
— And you're beautiful. — said the inner voice to the girl.
— Immaculate. — the cloud continued.
But no one inside has spoken — inside they only say what they are sure of.
Natasha stopped, her head lowered. The braid, black as a moonless night, was now just the tips of her hair falling around her neck, curving just a little higher. Elastic and strong hair, it was beautiful, but there was something missing.
The cloud said, but in Old Slavonic: "A girl ruins her beauty by fornication, and her husband ruins his honor by tatboy".
— I know all this already! — Natasha shouted at them. — If you've all known it for centuries, why don't you tell me at once!!!.. Why should everyone know it too late!
***
When Natasha returned to her house, she found that she didn't have to wait a bit — Misha was back. He was asleep without even taking off his boots, and his breathing was so heavy that it seemed to grip all the air walking around the room.
Natasha sat down next to me. And it felt so good. He was there, alive. What was there to think about?
He's alive!
And I hate to lose him! What if he can't even look her in the eye after hearing all this? What if he doesn't understand at all? Losing him over something so stupid?!
She lay down beside him, pressed herself against him. And closed her eyes.
So much fatigue had accumulated that sleep came almost immediately.
Thunder and lightning. Rain everywhere. And a forest so dormant that neither drips hardly drip nor even sparkles from Heaven.
And it is even incomprehensible how she can walk through the foliage, not seeing the road and not seeing the end of the way. And not knowing what will be there at the end of the road. Another forest like this? Or another storm like this? Only slumbering and darker.
Somewhere deep down inside is the desire to go. It doesn't matter where, it doesn't matter how, it matters how. And her feet carry her either forward or backward. Past the trees, without stumbling or stopping for a single step.
And time passes. And it begins to seem that it is not a forest at all, but a thousand, "darkness" warriors, frozen at some point. And the thunder is the battle that rattles in their souls and is so strong that you can hear it only after it reverberates from the heavens. And it becomes frightening what you might hear in the next moment, because you know what you will hear has already happened, and what you can't see now is too dark.
And this fear grips Natasha, telling her that she will always be in the past, that she will always hear only what has already passed. But it doesn't stop her, she strives to go on — only to move; you get up and you won't move, because fear will take hold of you.