Rita

  The children of the military generation are...

1

- Look at that," Ermec shouted to his wife, picking up a broken branch from the grass, "these thieves were carrying pears again. It's not enough.

- Hey, Aina, they're gonna starve. Father's at the front. Mother's out, not working. The children ask for alms – I saw myself in the bazaar this morning.

Rita pressed herself against the tree, hoping that her owners would not notice her among the thick summer foliage. With one hand, she held on to the trunk, the other – clutched the ends of a shirt with pears assembled by a knot. A thick furry caterpillar crawled down the fingers. Rita felt the warm softness of her folded body and clasped in disgust, but did not shake off - for fear of being discovered. From above she saw her sister hiding in the bushes of a cockpit; a cock walked over her head and pecked shiny black berries. Rita knew that their brown-red flesh was absolutely tasteless and did not quench hunger at all, but only gave nausea.

This is the one she's experiencing now, lying motionless on a hospital bed after surgery. I should've agreed earlier, but she was dragging everything out, saving herself with injections and pills. And now, at seventy, it is hard and humiliating to endure one’s own helplessness – perhaps more difficult than pain, and it is so frightening to think about what will happen if the operation does not give the desired results. Will she be able to move around and take care of herself? And what, then, is it to hire someone else’s woman who, grinding her teeth, will do what she is asked to do, and then wash her hands for a long time, trying to put on her face a tortured friendly smile? Or call your son every time he needs help?

Ermek finally came into the house. As she looked around and shuddered, Zlata came out of the bushes: Get down! Only if you fall - not on the stomach, or you will crush pears. Rita began to slid down hastily, clinging with one hand to the branches, with her legs to the rough trunk. And of course she did. Back. The pears crumbled, and while her sister was picking them up, crawling through the hen-poisoned grass, Rita tried to get up.

- Come on, why do you lie down, hissed Zlat frightenedly, want them to take away the pears?

- I can't. It hurts.

- You're lucky. If the owner catches, it'll be worse.

Smearing tears, Rita limped to the fence. Zlata held the nailed board.

- Well, relieved, she exhaled, now give me your pants.

- They're not yours, they're mom's, Rita said, still unable to straighten up.

- Today it is my turn to wear them, so it is mine. And I only gave them to you for pears. So that whoever looks down from below doesn't die of laughter.

My back was sick for a long time, and who knows, maybe the fall was the beginning of problems with the spine. Perhaps if she had fallen otherwise, she would not be lying here now, sitting in a white ceiling.

- The snow was white and clean in their first Kyrgyz winter. And when she, five-year-old, forty-second-size galoshes were laying traces on him. One kalosha will lose - he will return, jumping, and then scroll. The tracks turned out like swirling lines - it is unclear whether the person passed or dragged what. And when the three of them lay in the snow, half dead, and from the doors of the removable cabin poured translucent smelly smoke. That snow was dazzlingly white, sparkling, pristine - just matchsticks of bird marks on her face.

It was their third home. The first is a room with cloths, where they huddled together five. But soon the grandmother, and behind her uncle, mother’s brother, died of typhus, and it became more spacious, more comfortable to sleep. And then the hostess evicted them in a dilapidated kibbitka opposite, because she decided to breed silkworms on those crates. Kibitka was a draw, nobody needed. There was only a corner in it. One wall did not exist at all, and everyone could see their miserable life – and how they slept on the earthen floor, three of them on a feather brought from Kiev, and how they played with their sister, carving out of hastily captured photos of faces and figures of the living and the dead. Here is my mother, dressed elegantly, next to my father - tall, strong. Here's an uncle on a horse, you have to cut it in the outline so that nothing spoils the picture. Here's Grandpa, tailor. He looks so important at the door of his own four-story house, as if he is sure that he has settled in it forever. And he died at some station during the bombing - for boiling water came out. The house should also be cut off and forgotten like a dream, because that life is not and will not be. And there is – here is this intricate feather, pillows with traces of crushed lice and a shabby suitcase, where their neighbor threw the first things that came to hand under the helpless lamentations of mother and grandmother.

- And you, Vasya, as a Russian and a communist, must understand that the Germans are a cultured people.

And he, without listening, walked around the apartment and threw into the suitcase that lay on top. I took the photo album, but I didn't. That's how they left where they were. The last train, on an open platform, passed the whole country. Vasya, who saved their lives, was shot by the Germans a couple of days later.

When the rainy season began, the feathers became damp, and Rita tried to sleep on her back, so as not to choke on the sour smell of mold. But after a week, it smelled like it all, because the rainwater didn't have time to soak into the ground floor. And he and his sister jumped like frogs, so the splashes flew on cracked, green clay walls. But no one scolded them, because my grandmother had already died, and my mother was rarely home, although she did not work anywhere. With the first snow, they were moved to a kibbitka near the bazaar. And when her mother first flooded the stove, and they warmed up on a narrow iron bed covered with a feather, Rita imagined that she would sleep in this warmth for a long, long time, and when she woke up, the war would end, her father would return, and they would all go home together, to Kiev, where her toys, shoes and rubber pants, which she hated, were left, and now she would wear without taking off.

And so they fell asleep, with a jack: she and her mother head to the window, and her sister to the stove. Rita was thirsty at night. The mother got up, brought a bucket - they had no mugs - and, swaying, either swaying, or because she burned, fell - a bucket on the bed. Rita jumped up, burned with ice water, and Zlata did not move. They dragged her by her legs into the yard, and everyone lay in the snow until they came to their senses.

In the morning, Ermek, the owner, took pity, moved to another cabin - a former chicken coop. There hung rickety bunks with grooves for water and stood a strong hidden spirit, from which it always rang in the throat. But in winter it was warm, and in summer it was cool. The only thing that did not change was the constant feeling of hunger In the summer it was easier to beat the colic and pulling, sucking pains that disappeared only for a short time and were especially painful at night. Barely waiting for the morning, he and Zlata raced to the market. Went, staring at the ground - suddenly you get a dropped vingradina, or a half-coupled peach bone - there between the convolutions the flesh stuck. When the wagon with fruit came in, Zlata walked on one side, Rita on the other, looking under the wheels to catch a rolled pear or apple. Once lucky, an orange melon split right at his feet, and the angry Kyrgyz, although he shouted in his own way, did not take the melon away.

They brought food, toast and jelly. She ate through the force, not to the garbage. Here in America, they throw away everything, even untouched pieces of bread. It's like you're sure of tomorrow. She would rather eat, even if she didn’t want to.

Know that food will be in the trash.

Mother brought a block of black, half-raw bread and divided it into several parts. And then each piece has three more pieces. So they suppered, skipping breakfast and lunch: a few crumbs of bread - a sip of water, still pinched - drank. Sometimes Rita did not finish her sucked piece, but gave it to her sister in exchange for a toy. The usual subjects of her games were pebbles, sticks, or dried plum pits. And here's the doll. Zlata made it herself: stuffed a colored cloth with dry grass, pulled a rope in three places - and here's a navel with a small head and a large belly. Rita would have done the same thing herself, but the rag was one, and Zlata used it. “What a cunning girl, you want everything for nothing. No way! You give me bread, I give you a doll to play with. Rita went to bed hungry, but the doll lay on the pillow.

For some reason, that childish resentment doesn't go away. Maybe because old age is remembered more clearly, or maybe - for the whole life resentment has accumulated. She always felt that only her father, whom she hardly remembers, really loved her, that only he needed her. Zlata also felt this, otherwise one day she did not shout in her face: “If Dad had not saved you, a gluttonous fool, then he would not have to share with you now!”

It was in Kiev before the war. Rita was two years old, and about what happened, her grandmother told her – on a shaking platform, on the way to the evacuation. Rita was poking around the backyard in the sandbox. Starving and became this sand, written down by cats, trampled with feet, put into the mouth. And swallow. However, it only later became known when she became ill at home, when vomiting began non-stop and the mercury in the thermometer went off scale. However, my mother was always stupid and irresponsible - otherwise she would not have left one in the yard, and even unfed. But they never had a regime, even in good, satisfying years. They will be hungry, they will run, they will intercept something, they will want to sleep, they will lie down, but not at the table or somewhere else they will fall asleep. It turned out that the child was left to himself. One of the neighbors saw, but did not stop. Already when they found out that Rita was dying, they told their parents so that doctors would not be lost in guesses. But she was getting worse, and her stomach wasn't holding water. She was lying in her crib, according to her neighbor, "yak a corpse." Then someone told my dad about a doctor who was probably a hundred years old. He barely walked. Dad followed him in a taxi, brought him, and raised him to the third floor. Grandmother stretched out her arms: So, Ritochka, I went into the apartment with him, like a small child, and put him on a chair next to you. He at first only broke his hands helplessly. Get ready to bury. And then I looked at my dad and said, here's a recipe. There's nothing to lose. And he commanded to pour green walnuts into flour, dilute them with fresh pomegranate juice and drop them. I don't know where your dad got that juice, but he didn't walk away from you, drinking drops of silver spoon before you opened your eyes. And then I recovered quickly. So if it weren't for your folder, you wouldn't be with us.

And every night, going to bed, Rita imagined - here he appears in the courtyard, chest in orders, like one-armed Adam, who lived with his wife and daughter Evochka in a kibbitka on the other end of the courtyard. And she runs to her father, hugs him, and he's still wondering how he grew up. But he did not return, he was killed in the forty-second near Leningrad.

2

            Now Rita was almost twice as old as her father, who died at thirty-eight. And all these years her soul did not cease to yearn and grieve, forever marked by that loss.

- His father was sent to the front from Poltava, where he served time. For fraud. He had no education, for example, a couple of classes in a rural school, so he took on any job that provided an opportunity to feed his family. He was a loader, then a worker at the factory, worked somewhere, and they lived well, in prosperity. But I wanted better. Especially since my mother never worked in her life – both because she did not want to, and because she could not do anything. Not a wife, not a mistress, not a mother. Naturally, when a friend came to his father and offered his place as head of the shoe warehouse - they say, I have already scored mine, it's time and honor to know, and a stranger is sorry to give - he agreed. My mother didn't say no. Why? There will be money, and she will find a man to replace him, and he will not be bored there, in Poltava, either. Mom never really worried about anyone – whether from a small mind, or a temper was – indifferent, fenced off from real life.

My friend didn't lie, he left a profitable place. And most importantly, it turned out that the amount of money directly depends on personal qualities – the ability to share and get along with people. You won't be offended, they won't turn you in. He found a common language with everyone. The owner, a lonely young woman, rented a room from whom he rented. Maybe that was between them, but he did not give any promises and did not intend to abandon his family. Until the kids grow up, so I can tell them, loosely He got married and got divorced. This is what he said to his mother during their quarrels and scandals. And the hostess decided to punish. And when, alerted to a sudden warehouse check, her father hid dozens of boxes of illegal, unpatched shoes in the house, she told her where to go. Three years. The prison assessed his previous experience and appointed the head of the food warehouse. This position not only guaranteed a full life, but also gave the opportunity to support the family, and also provided certain privileges and freedoms inaccessible to ordinary convicts. My mother told me how he called her by telegram and for some reason ordered her to take a suitcase and a bag. She was admitted to prison and taken to her husband's cell, where a festive dinner was held. The cellmates, political prisoners, questioned their mother, a man of will, about what was happening in the country. And she had no idea. According to her, always with a laugh in this place: "I knew about the politics and freedoms of their like ballet!" Therefore, she only listened to clever conversations in which her father easily participated, ate and wondered how such delicacies were fed in prison. Then her father took her to the train station, even if he was allowed to, and put her on the train. Under the shelf he put a suitcase full of money - there is nowhere, they say, Manya, to store all this. He threw a bag of food on the mezzanine. Sit down at the table, asking me to watch the kids. And my mom couldn't figure out why she'd go back to prison if she could take the same train. Why not take the opportunity?

- Shura, you are dressed so beautifully - no one will suspect anything.

Her father looked at her with pity, a stupid woman. Why run when you can? still earn money.

But it was not possible to make money because the war began. The father remained in prison, where, before being sent to the penal service, he sent them to the evacuation what he considered valuable, which could be sold or exchanged for food and clothing. That father's gray Christmas tree sweater, for many years they wore alternately instead of a coat, and the new, sparkling boots mother took to the market. Rita went with her to pick up shoes or sandals. Then the sultry Kyrgyz summer will not be a jump, but normal. walkwithout burning his heels. She found an unoccupied piece of shadow and sat down on the ground, tuned in for a long wait. But just a minute later, a well-dressed gypsy came to my mother. black shirt with rolled sleeves, gray, tucked in creaking boots, pants and a torch over the shoulder. Rita thought, why would he need more boots if they weren't worn? For decency bargaining, he put his father's boots in the tube, rummaged through his pockets, then put a bag of boots at his mother's feet and said: "You, mistress, guard them, do not sell them to anyone." I'm going for the money. - And he was in a hurry, chicking with annoyance that there was such luck, and he forgot the money at home. Mom stayed waiting. Rita, jumping on the scorching, trampled by people and donkeys sand dust, went to look after the shoes. But when I returned to see my mother standing in the same position, I realized that grief was a step away from her. She froze on the run, hesitating to take this step, but the hot sand burned. Together they untied a torch, in which were worn, without sweeps, boots. Together they came home, where Zlata sat by the crooked box they used to eat.

- I finished the bread," she began cheerfully, but seeing her mother's detached face and Rita's weeping face, she finished quietly, "you promised that you would bring plenty of food.           

            Nothing else came from my father, because there was a penalty, because it was useless to shoot one rifle for three from death.

3

From the bed by the window, a restrained cough was heard, accompanied by intermittent sighs.

- Neighbor, are you awake? That's good. Although you can relieve not only the bladder, but also the soul. Everyone's in a hurry. These nurses run around like they got turpentine, you know where. I remember that in Odessa, by the way, the treatment was good, but the staff had time to talk to you, to pay attention not only during the enema, but also between the procedures. Speaking of which, the last one. Did you notice that nurse's fingernails, Jessica's or Jennifer's, long, monkey-like, crimson-colored nails with glitter on them? And with nails like that, she was gonna give me an enema! Of course I refused, but I still have. there There was no injury. Do you agree with me?

- Of course, Rita confirmed. But the departure, I think, is still better than in Odessa.

- That's where to look. It's just that the problems in our years are more serious, so the care of another is required. Here’s the conclusion I made during sleepless nights: First, the sores used to come and go. Now, if one sticks, it grows into a chronic one. And if the doctor does not know where it came from and what to do with it, then he calls it a syndrome and calms down. And secondly, any trifle like a banal cold is much more difficult to tolerate. Sneezing, and it brings a lot of inconvenience. God forbid, a cough or sneeze will take you by surprise, everything - you need to change your cowards. What if in public? And in general, it's stretched, it's omitted, it doesn't pass, it goes too fast. What's left to do?

- Die, Rita did not have time to answer. The neighbor's.

- My dear, your daughter called us a week ago and told us what happened! Then go find someone to give you a ride. How can you be so careless? Have you talked to a lawyer yet? You fell in the store, so what's your loss from talking? In short, here is a real, not from a jar, broth, but in a bowl - homemade cottage cheese ...

When her grandmother was taken to the hospital, she and Zlata decided to bring her something to eat. Mother left some money and went to a friend in the hairdresser, where she out of pity tried to teach her at least some skills of shaving, to give the opportunity to earn something. The girls walked for a long time until they saw an old Kyrgyz woman. Her brass face was so wrinkled that even her eyes seemed oblique blinking wrinkles.

- What is it? asked Zlat, pointing to the cannon.

- Kefir. Home-a-yi. Very flat. She shook the cannon, shook the remains of a yellowish liquid. - Do you have any money?

Then she straightened the piece of paper stretched by Zlata, and happily nodded - just enough for five spoons. - You'll see, a lot of health.

They took turns carrying a bowl of kefir, took turns dipping their fingers and licking the sour mass, jealously watching - suddenly who would dip deeper. They were not allowed to go to the hospital - the cleaner told them what window to stand under. Behind the muddy glass, you could barely see her grandmother's face, but Rita knew she was crying. I cried too. Zlata was sobbing nearby. Then Grandma started making some signs, screaming. But from the third floor, through the closed windows, nothing could be heard. And only when she lowered her head and saw an empty, tilted bowl over a jelly-shaped puddle, she understood., what she tried warn me. When she got home, Rita put her dress in her suitcase, and the shawl under her pillow, because she knew.

Grandma won't need it anymore and she won't come back.

- I brought gauze with me. And rightly did - there is no gauze normal on sale, holes are too large, how will cottage cheese thicken?

- Oh, how you like it. That Jessica Jennifer is here again. All right, girls, go. And wish me success.

Rita closed her eyes. The operation was two days ago, but it did not leave sudden bouts of dizziness: either the walls were spinning, or she spiraled, as then at recess at school, inside the white canvas that served as her skirt.

She went to school late and didn’t go long. No clothes, no shoes. The one they brought with them grew, and they did not buy a new one. My mother never worked, she could not even master bravado, and she did not want to do anything else. For example, like Evochkina mother, wash the floors to also buy a chicken with a cockerel and collect warm, down testicles in the morning. One - Evochka, and the rest - to exchange for worn, worn, but shoes or skirt. Don't walk like Rita in a cotton shirt with no underwear. But their mother was different. I didn’t know what to say about children. Evochkina’s mother would never let her six-year-old daughter wash her shirt bloodied from menstruation, and Rita did it every month. Not very well turned out, even if one stone straps to the shore to nail, and others to wipe – the spot only blurred. But her mom was happy - it doesn't matter, she has less work.

And it didn’t seem wild to Rita, like lice, for months uncoated braids, bark on the body and a constant stench – from themselves and from their lives.

This is Evochkin's mother, Basya, or Armor, some Polish name she had, sewed Rita slippers. She encircled her feet in pieces of cloth, cut her feet, pulled her curved sides, sewed her hair on. Rita brought home slippers in her hands - it was a pity to immediately get dirty and wear out. My mother waited until night, but she never showed up. In the morning, Rita took out a bundle of white canvas from the suitcase, from which her grandmother was going to sew pillowcases, but her hands did not reach, she wound fabric in layers on herself - from the armpit to the knees, she fixed the free end behind her belt and went to school. She told the teacher that her mother would come back later and write it down. And everything was fine until recess while sitting. And then they were driven into the corridor, and she could not run with everyone - she was afraid of the skirt untied. So she stood under the wall, and she was embarrassed and anxious. Awkward, because suddenly I saw myself from the outside, unwashed, half-dressed, distinguished by her pathetic neglect even against the background of then universal poverty. Worrying - from dirty grins and glances, under which I wanted to shrink and become invisible. She expected a trick, but still lost when one of the boys jumped up and, snatching the tucked end of the fabric, began to unwind it. Others helped, rejoiced at the unexpected fun, and she became dizzy, freed from the white cocoon, clutching at the elusive matter from under her fingers, until she was left standing in one shirt among the numb children she saw. Hiding behind her hands, Rita rushed to the classroom door locked from the inside, banging her fists, numbing with horror and shame, until the teacher let her inside, shielding her from the belated children's laughter.

And the mother, when she found out, cheered up - children, what you take from them! Today they are above you, tomorrow you are above them. Life is like that. Every piece of shit eats.

4

- Rita-a-oh, well, Rit-a-a-oh, so as a child in the morning her sister woke up, and by this viscous tone she already knew that Zlata needed something from her. She opened her eyes. Zlata was sitting on a chair.

- I'm sorry I woke you up, but you'll still have time to sleep here, and I've got things to do. You have to go to the store, then go to your daughter, and you know she's in business trouble. They will not leave everything alone - they dig, check, nerves rattle.

My daughter in our father and you succeeded - all looking for adventures in one place. Well, I see you're feeling better. So I'll run. I'd like to sit for a while, but it stinks. Just like someone did.

- Oh, dear mother, came out of bed by the window, look at this princess. You came to the hospital, madam, not to sniff at the acacia park. There's recumbent patients here. If the smell does not suit you, carry perfume with you and spray into your large, sensitive nose.

- Seeing off her sister, Rita suddenly realized that she had not smelled any smells for a long time – neither pleasant nor smelly. None. I'm probably used to not paying attention. The body's defense response.

After sunset, when the summer heat subsided a little and the owners drove the cattle from the pastures, Rita settled behind the wandering animals and picked up what they left on the dusty road. At first, it was disgusting not only to touch, but also to smell a slap in front of her legs. She was drawn to vomit, and every time she bent down, she gained more air. Then, on inhalation, she took soft, warm tortillas or balls with her hands - depending on who passed - cows, rams, or goats - and folded them into an aluminum pan. When it was filled, mixed the contents with sluggish grass, sculpted patties and threw it on the clay fence with a sweep, in order to bring the dried-up kitten home in a couple of days and store it until the cold. In winter, he burned without residue, filling their room with warmth and a tart, nauseating smell.

However, they drowned with kzyak everywhere - in the kibbitkas and in the orphanage, where they were determined in the spring and where they lived for two years, longing for their mother, who for all the time did not even visit them.

Winter never ended that year. The apple tree had already blossomed, but again it wilted, and the snow covered with pink petals. And then it warmed sharply, but Rita did not even have the strength to go out into the yard. My mom hasn't been home in over a week. We ran out of bread and potatoes, as well as kzyak stocks. The girls were lying on their beds, hardly talking. Because I didn't have the strength to do that either. Falling into sleep, they stopped noticing the change of day and night, and hardly understood what happened when strangers entered the room, began to slow down, ask questions. And they didn't want to wake up just to wriggle in hungry cramps again. Through heavy sleep, as through cotton candy, to Rita reached the individual words of Evochkina mom and Nyura, another neighbor: “...I see, the children have long been out in the yard, ... and this one is completely gone, ... how not dead.” The crooked, narrow-eyed policeman shoved them a piece of saccharin, and then they shaking endlessly on the cart, covered with a bunch of rags and goat skins, until they drove into a spacious yard planted with trees. Rita lifted her head, and only then, looking at the sticky, tender leaves, realized that spring had come. But the green color for some reason changed to gray and, smiling pointlessly, she fainted hungry.

For lunch, they gave a brown grind, and with each sip of hot boil, the shriveled stomach convulsively compressed from sharp pain.

- “Eat slowly,” said a tall, flat-breasted woman with a coke of whipped hair on her head, “or else you’ll have to drive to the hospital.” But the burnt stomach had already lost its sensitivity, and they continued to eat greedily, ignoring the rest of the girls sitting at the same long, slit table. Rita didn't remember the faces or the names of those children. Perhaps because they all looked the same in orphan-colored washed dresses, with eyes only alive at the sight of food.

In the summer, everyone worked in the field. With mugs in hand, ran to a huge barrel of water, watered the planting of beets, peas, onions, cucumbers. But when the vegetables began to ripen, the harvest was harvested not by them, but by people from the locals, and sold to the side. Detsdomovsky was transferred to a wheat field to drive away birds. And they ran around waving their arms until the sun, merging with yellow ears, turned red. Then they bowed the prickly ears with a hut and lay down, putting their hands under their heads, dreaming that their childhood would end soon.

And it stretched endlessly, and even the change of seasons did not change a series of monotonous, colorless days with rare and therefore especially bright spots of colors. Grey snow, on which she wove in black galoshes and a white rabbit coat from pre-war life, worn on a naked body, because it was not her turn to wear underwear. A black, rain-wet truck, on which they returned home after escaping from the orphanage, to their mother, who was unexpected and not particularly happy with their return. Grandma's a gray shawl. A bunch of amber grapes on a quivered table - my mother once brought in the morning. Dark yellow corn brewed in a pot of cow shit. Red wild apples on scorched grass. A dark green watermelon crust trampled into the mud with bloody flesh down. Gray rocky ground underfoot and inhospitable black mountains with snow-covered peaks in the distance.

The neighbor by the window got out of bed, carefully straightened up and stepped uncertainly.

- Maybe you should wait for the nurse. - I don't think so.

- Oh, please. If He wants me to walk, I will walk and even run. And if not, three Jessicas won't help either.

Smelling a flirty pink robe and painting her lips, the woman shackled to the doors, pushing a walker in front of her.

- She must be older than me, Rita thought. He wears pink and paints his lips brightly. It's like someone's trying to like you here. It seems that life was different – not just from grievances. That's why I want to live.

The woman suddenly turned her head and said, You remind me very much of a girl from my childhood. I doubted the world could be so small. But your sister called you Rita. My mom made your slippers for you. Remember? Rita gasped: "The sheep ... How is that? How did you know?

- You haven't changed much. I mean, the face, of course. Same blue eyes, thick eyebrows, dark hair. And the look on your face, like when you were a kid, is alert, like you're expecting trouble.

Evechka, asked Rita, not trying to hold back her tears, sit down, tell about yourself, about your parents. Are they still alive?

- About sitting down, my hip is a problem, the neighbor chuckled. I am like a horse now, standing or lying down. My parents died right after you left. Dad was arrested on a denunciation. Ermek, the owner, complained that he stole chicken food at night. My mother ran somewhere, wrote letters, but we never learned anything about him. I don't know where I'm buried. Then my mother got sick, something with her stomach. She's recovered, but she's been injected through an IV, mixed up. I came for her, brought her clothes, and she died an hour before. I was sent to the orphanage where you and your sister were. Then the director and his mistress, you know, that lanky herring, they put him in jail. It turns out that they managed to break their estates for the war. And we were all transported to Odessa. That's where I stayed. And then, as usual - husband, family, daughter, grandchildren. Meetings, losses, anniversaries, sores. Anyway, you feel like you're alive. How are you? I remember you were very poor even at that time. Mom felt sorry for you, but she didn't like it when you came in - she was afraid that I would pick up lice. And you smelled awful. She kept wondering how you could survive with such a mother.

- She died four years ago and I still can’t forgive her, Rita said.

- Well, you're in vain. War. Everyone has something to remember and someone to be offended.

- The war had nothing to do with it," Rita replied, "we lived in the same poverty and dirt after that, already in Kiev. And she did not think about us, that she was looking for men who were hungry, unwashed, illiterate. I did. I lived a long life because my heart didn’t hurt. I can’t help but think that if I had another mother, my life would have been different. Happy.

- Maybe. Maybe not. In any case, we, with our filthy childhood, are happier than those who lie in Babi Yar. Evechka, grunting, lay down on the bed. Who would tell me how to lose weight! Chew, chew, hang the lock on the refrigerator. You know what I'm gonna tell you, girlfriend? Two things. First, unforgiving people have high blood pressure. Because resentment comes from within. You have to either say it or forgive it. It's too late to say. Unless you meet him in the next world. And if so, then what, and there are insults? Well, she wasn't what you wanted, but it's better with her than at the orphanage. I remember sitting under the door, waiting for her, crying - they were afraid that they would return to the orphanage. And second of all, are you sinless? I'm sure someone's upset with you, too. Believers say you will forgive and be forgiven.

- Forget how?

- Well, forget it, it's only if Alzheimer's done, don't talk about us. I already have sores for every square centimeter more than enough.

Here comes the doctor! she exclaimed, whipping the dyed henna hair on the back of her head. So, how are we?

“You,” he asked Evochka, “will be discharged tomorrow.” And you, looking at Rita, can stand up. And in a week's time, home too.

- Doctor, Evka smiled coquettishly, remember, you promised to give some new remedy for constipation and weight loss.

- From constipation I will write, already from the corridor the doctor answered - and about weight loss - this is to a nutritionist.

- Well, what I said, Evochka was upset, there are doctors there. so We didn't talk. They realized that patients are more important than drugs.

- He is a Russian, Rita smiled.

- His surname is Russian, and his soul is already American, - Evochka stated and opened a bowl of cottage cheese.

It got dark outside. By night, the pain had increased. In hospital lighting, the nurse's white robe appeared bluish, as did the syringe. The burning sensation in the hand spread in a hot wave - the pain went away resisting, pushing.

- How strange it is when two parallel fates come into contact at the beginning and at the end, Rita thought, looking at the sleeping Evka, her awkwardly tilted head, and her hand clutching the lace pink collar of her robe. - Why? To see yourself through someone else's eyes? To regret the time spent on unspoken grievances and start living? How unfortunate, on the operated leg, she lies.

Why doesn't anyone notice?

The nurse's bluish shadow was still spellbinding the drip, and Rita seemed to have told her about Evochka before falling into a long-awaited dreamless dream.

She left without saying goodbye. Carefully made bed, as if there was no one, as if dreamed this strange, almost incredible meeting. Perhaps Evka did not want to wake her and left a note on the nightstand or on the chair. But on the leather upholstery there was a translucent pink plastic bag, and on the nightstand there was a bowl with uneaten cottage cheese and three pink, poured pears, exactly the same as in the garden near Hermec.

- Shall we get up? smiled Jessica, who entered the room and moved the walker.

- Where is she? Rita nodded to the next bed.

- Didn't they tell you? Dead. At night. In my sleep. Cardiac arrest. So sad – so much effort was spent on surgery, on care. I felt great the day before. We make our plans, and everything is already built for us.

The paramedic washed the floor and opened the blinds. The autumn sun penetrating the room painted the walls with light stripes. They shifted and stood in place when Rita took the first step.

- We will go to the window and rest, said Jessica. Look at the park view! I love autumn - bright, colorful.

- Autumn is a winter to survive. But since childhood I have learned to do this – to live from spring to spring, Rita said, turning away from the nightstand, on which pears began to rot.

Zoe Master.