"And I still love to fight"

The nurse of the 140th Siberian Order-bearing Rifle Division, the student of the Historical Facility of Moscow State University Irina Daiden from 1941 to 1945 spun the entire Soviet Union with sanitary trains. She listened to the Leningrad Symphony Orchestra in Novosibirsk, interrogated the captive German, not knowing the language, and found love at the front. Taiga.info publishes excerpts of a military diary of a brave girl.

June 28, 1941. Moscow. Fists are clenched from anger and indignation! The war began with frenzied German fascism. These animals attacked us. Having stained almost all of Europe with blood, Hitler decided to abandon his hordes at the Soviet Union. Monstrous! But does the Soviet man tremble in front of the Hitler geek? No, never to be like that! Everyone has one thing in thought and deeds - the desire for victory. The war rumbles throughout the western border. People die. The fighters are fighting. Somewhere there Igor and many other familiar guys. And how regret that we were not allowed to fly, that we could not finish his studies in the flying club. I would immediately go to aviation and asked for battle. Our people will win! Be sure, be sure!

I almost have no idea what it means to fight. I understand that this is difficult, scary that it threatens a person with death. But we did not attack, but Hitler attacked our country. And he does not avoid retaliation! We will protect our homeland with our blood and life and gain happiness and freedom to the future generation.

I am writing these lines, and I am listening to the radio, trying to imagine what is being done at the front. And the heart is shrinking in pain ...

Now, so as not to forget, I will try to fix the initial day of the war in my memory. Sitting at home. I was preparing for the exam. I studied the "Middle Ages"! Tired. I lay down to rest. Dozed off. It seemed not even a minute had passed, as a long rattling call of the phone rang out. Even cursed with annoyance. But the alarmed voice of Garric returned to reality:

- Now turn on the radio!

- What happened? - I ask.

But in response only short beeps: Garrick hung up.

I run to the receiver. I turn on. And I hear the words that cut through my heart about the attack of fascist Germany on the USSR: “This is an unheard of attack on our country is unprecedented in the history of civilized peoples by treachery ...” Molotov’s speech overwhelmed.

I listen and I can’t believe, to comprehend what happened ... War! Blood is already pouring, there are victims ... but it seemed to be constrained. Complete numbness of arms, legs, thoughts ...

In anxiety and confusion, for some reason I grab the brush and begin to feverishly, mechanically clean the apartment. It seems that there will be no more opportunity to do this again. And thoughts run, run ... I remember dad, mom, sister who left for the country. The heart is squeezed even more.

July 5, 1941. Dad received an order along with their institution to leave Moscow. The other day, he and his mother and Tanyushka go to Novosibirsk. Everything you need is laid in the chest. Plus suitcases, some bales. It is not known how many years they will have to live away from the house with this "good"?!

I stay in Moscow. Mom is crying. No need to cry, dear, do not. And do not ask me to leave with you. I can't leave - understand it. It's hard for me, but we must leave. Dad understands that separation is inevitable. There is no son in the family who would go to the front. I will replace him, I will become a soldier. Honestly, I will become.

July 9, 1941. A long commodity train. On the platform there are a lot of people - children, old people, women. We sit with mom on some boards and talk about trifles-unnecessary, worthless, just to distract from bitter thoughts. What will it be for them there, without a home, in a difficult military season ...

I am left alone. And then the excerpt changes. And I roar, in the present way, I roar, like a child, and I also smear my tears on my cheeks ... I try to calm myself: "Stop whining, dureha ... gather strength, show the character." I hardly pick up a medical reference book. Tomorrow, classes at the school of nurses and you need to prepare: anatomy, surgery, pharmacology ... Think only about it! It became a little calmer on the soul. And this is not without the help and participation of my friend - a diary, as if I transfer my experiences to him.

September 10, 1941. Event! Graduated from school nurses. On September 3, they issued a certificate (I have No. 000327), which says that she studied at the courses of the sisters of the Red Cross and the Red Crescent with a margin from production at Moscow State University. In general, we were awarded the title of nurses of reserve with the right to work in military medical institutions in wartime.

I suffer terribly from the lack of a real case and I hope that something should change in my fate. I would love to run away from here and left somewhere to hell with a nurse

I thought that they would immediately be sent to the front. However, it was not there. In the meantime, we received an appointment in the suburbs of a landscaped hospital in Khovrin, which will operate on the basis of the closing hospital. We have already been there. Wonderful park, very good working conditions. I ran around the instances again. I decided to make another attempt to go to aviation: I went to various aviation institutions, I was in an aero club, in the Osoaviahim department, to the Komsomol Central Committee. But everywhere there is only one result - a flying road for girls is still closed.

Now, if she had already been a trained pilot ... I wanted to get a job at least a technician or even a nurse at the airfield. But it seems that nothing will work out. We'll have to start with the hospital, i.e. Work where they send. Then I will look for other ways. Nevertheless, I write in full conviction that sooner or later I will be at the front.

October 2, 1941. We work together with Ksuru by civilians in Evaccopal Party No. 4466, which has not yet opened. We are now preparing to receive the wounded. I suffer terribly from the lack of a real case and I hope that something should change in my fate. I would love to run away from here and left somewhere a nurse. But I don’t know what holds me: is friendship, unwillingness to upset my mother, who wanted me to work in the hospital and pass exams at the university? Or maybe I'm just a coward? Fear sometimes really creeps into the soul, and you think about how suddenly I will be alone, without friends, without acquaintances, in a new environment, etc. etc. This feeling needs to be overcome, you need to educate masculinity in yourself, accustom nothing to be afraid. It is difficult, but obviously achievable.

... I again caught myself thinking that it would be good to consult with the person you love. In these war months, I often think about Peter again. Now there is more than ever, he is not enough ... It may now be difficult for him - after all, the war is with the Germans. It’s hard now to all the Germans-antifashists, his father, and they have a big work ... For almost a year I know nothing about Peter.

November 2, 1941. Our hospital is nevertheless sent to the east. The last days have been busy collecting hospital property and their hits - you need to take the necessary wearing things with you. Tomorrow loading and, possibly, departure. In my situation, I did not have to think - they ordered, although we are not liable for military service. So, soon on the road. But so far, unfortunately, not to the west, but to the east ...

December 5, 1941. On the way. We drove almost all of Central Asia, saw the Aral Sea. Desert places continued from Aktobinsk - I must say the places of unpleasant, naked places. How wide and diverse the union is: the key to Chelyabinsk, the more slow, as it seemed to me, Orenburg (Chkalov) and, finally, completely lifeless steppes ...

December 13, 1941. A significant event - finally we arrived. The location of the evacuation hospital - Ridder (Leninogorsk) is an industrial city located on the spurs of the Altai mountains. It seems to be in simple everyday troubles, concerns about the hospital property, the attendants passed one and a half long ,omatic months of the journey almost through the whole country. Behind Gorky, Chelyabinsk, Chkalov, Aktobinsk, Aral Sea, Chelkar, Arys, Central Asia, Barnaul. They saw and survived a lot ... Now - again for work. We must get settled in a new place.

I just graduated from reading the book of the modern French writer Margerite "Babylon." It is necessary for great courage to loudly, without hiding his protest, talk about the nitrogen of the League of Nations, about the void and worthlessness of the conference on disarmament, about the power of the Soviet people. He loudly announced the ways leading the world to war, the horrors and wildness of the war. Here are certain conclusions of the book: “War is the bankruptcy of the heart, scientific knowledge and conscience. This is a severity of brutality and hatred ”; “War is a denial of all right. She is the assertion of the most shameless and stupid in the world of blind violence ”; “War is not a school of mercy, but a lesson in courage”; "The more destructive the war will be, the sooner it eliminates itself."

February 1, 1942. Well, today is the day appointed to open the hospital, but there are no wounded. And until it is expected. I firmly decided to escape from here as soon as the opportunity was presented. Everything surrounded became nasty. Especially outraged by the authorities. All our hospital existence is held on bribery, on booze with local, Ridder managers. Everything is continuous fraud. Today, the commissioner of the hospital came with military ranks from Leninogorsk. Everyone got drunk. Disgusting.

They say that as if we were still leaving here closer to the front, possibly to Moscow. It seems to be ready to walk on my head! This is the greatest happiness that can be represented in our position!

February 24, 1942. We are going for sure! Perhaps in five days - as soon as they give wagons. Hooray!!! Already began to develop intensively. Let's go to the West by rapidly. So we will stand in the cities. So, obviously, it will not be possible to meet with relatives when traveling through Novosibirsk, and this is the last opportunity to see them, because separation can stretch for an indefinite time, possibly before the end of the war. This will be a big blow to her mother, who was so hoping at least for a short meeting ...

August 2, 1942. Kizlyar. Such an incomprehensible life depresses terribly. Although it is warm and quite satisfying, and it is. But did I break up with my relatives, with the university to wander from city to city and still not at the front (almost a year and a half)? Even in Novosibirsk, then, obviously, there would be more benefits from my work. Mom writes that there are also hospitals there and you can completely apply her strength with benefit.

August 7, 1942. finally leave from Kizlyar. The soul is joyful, since in the hands of a certificate of dismissal from the hospital. Still, she achieved her: the military commissar issued a letter allowing a trip to Tbilisi for admission to a military flight school. Morally I'm already free! Now I would somehow get to those parts! But this is very difficult. So far, my path and path of the hospital are closely connected - again along the forest Caucasian roads to the unknown.

War is the bankruptcy of the heart, scientific knowledge and conscience. This is a severity of brutality and hatred. War is a denial of all right, the affirmation of the most shameless and stupid in the world of blind violence

September 5, 1942. I was lying in the Baku hospital named after Semashko. Today, the temperature is almost normal, so I can at least take a pencil in my hands. It turns out that the terrible thing is malaria! They brought here almost without memory at the ambulance from the first -aid post of the Baku railway station, where she fainted. Already almost ten days (from August 28) I'm here. Here, too, she lost consciousness-she was weakened, obviously, and now I’m still barely walking ...

September 12, 1942. Something is not lucky for me. I don’t even know what to do. This morning, having been discharged from the hospital, she went to the Comsomol Central Committee of Azerbaijan and the Republican Osawahahim - with a request to send to the aviation school. But really no one really began to talk. <...> We must rather get to the relatives in Novosibirsk. After all, they do not know anything about the wanderings of their daughter ...

I can’t even imagine how long this path will last. When I come to myself near their warm parental wing-again something will have to be invented: after all, there is hardly enough strength to sit in such a deep rear ...

October 11, 1942. Novosibirsk. I've been at home for a week. What happiness it is - to be among relatives and loved ones! My heart thawed after bitter tears spilled together ... Mommy is thin scary, my head began to shake (God, what war does!), But she is only 42 years old. The papule, also haggard, refuses himself in everything, but works a lot (and on public affairs), returns home late in the evening, with heart pain. Tatyanka stretched out, became completely "a global." This five -year -old broke tortured not only all domestic, but also neighbors, especially the wonderful neighboring red Siberian cat. At first he resisted, but now he was screaming, if only not to fall into her tenacious “paws”, he even lost weight, poor, because Nobody used to go on it before (in the full sense of the word) ... Here is Aunt Shura and Nastya. In general, the whole family assembled. It is even strange that everyone was prescribed, because now extreme difficulties in connection with overload in the city. And we, six, live in a small but bright room on the ground floor of a large new house on Stalin Avenue. The room has a water supply system, sewage, in the basement of a hot shower - so almost “comfort”.

October is cold. And upon arrival I did not even have a stocking. Good neighbors on the train gave a couple of old ones, and rags for their garter. And, putting the tunic in the skirt, and his hands in the sleeves of the tunic, appeared the “prodigal daughter” in the so -called “father’s house” - a small room of the apartment of “compacted” teimans of the distant Siberian city. I appeared, as from the "very world" - my parents were already desperate, not receiving letters from me for a long time ...

And when they came to their senses, it was urgent to put me on. Mom has preserved my blue Moscow dress. Dad ordered boots and coats somewhere, and received all the little things from my mother’s meager “wardrobe”. So soon I will also be a person and it will be possible to leave the house. I must say, dad and this time showed great energy. As I had noticed before, he always succeeds easily and naturally, as if it was necessary - to sew boots and coats in the war. Moreover, he never in his life used the "workaround" ...

I even began to go about my business. Yesterday, she still made her way to the head of the Novosibirsk aero club. But this did not give anything. On the contrary, at my certificate from the hospital with the permission of the Kizlyar district, another resolution fell: “Further reception of cadets was terminated in the aero clubs. Training is carried out only by parachutists and planning from among men. ” So another fiasco.

The “civilian” rear life is already sucking. I am happy to go to the Philharmonic. Music leads away from reality. I begin to gradually forget the moans of the wounded, bombing, destroyed cities, burning stations ... Cinema, concerts, theater, the theater becomes the usual norm of life for me.

November 26, 1942. I lived quite a bit with a normal human life (if you can generally consider life normal in the war), as anxiety and confusion are again introduced into the soul. In her district committee of Komsomol, she learned that in Novosibirsk a call to the volunteers of the Komsomol girls in the rifle divisions formed here was announced. Girls are needed for staff work - mainly drivers.

December 28, 1942. Krasnoufimsk. For about a month now, I left the house and work at the headquarters of the Siberian Rifle Division.

The last night in Novosibirsk is still in front of my eyes. When the family went to bed, I, as once in childhood, climbed to my mother in bed and in the dark, whisper, caressing, told her about her decision. Mom first numb, could not utter a word. Then a nervous trembling began to beat her. Tears, of course. Almost tantrum. And I said everything, spoke, convinced, comforted. It is generally physically not of strong, but for a year and a half of the war-general dystrophy, nervous exhaustion ... And yet, despite physical weakness, this little sick woman is in difficult times strong. And this time also. After bitter tears - composure, concentration, help in simple fees.

By the evening of the next day, she spent me to the division headquarters. We wandered silently along the snowy streets. Not reaching the place where the headquarters was located, they stopped. Then I do not allow her to go. We kiss with tears. And I run alone with a duffel bag behind the shoulders to those who will now replace my relatives and friends ...

This procedure itself is not pleasant, when they are mercilessly cut, the human body is shredded ... Gradually you need to get used to it, I even agreed with the doctor to open it next time

October 22, 1943. Belarus. With Dr. Goncharov, we open the corpses of the dead in the SMEs after wounds to fix the cause of death.

Here in front of me lies an old man with a wound on his chest. Only yesterday, trembling with excitement and thirst, greedy sips, almost burning, drank tea from my hands in our tent. Now he is dead ... or more - a young guy of my age, remarkable addition, directly Apollonian beauty ... And he is dead! The wound, the actual saying, was not even fatal, the guy died, obviously due to shock. And yesterday we talked with him ...

This procedure itself is not pleasant, when they are mercilessly cut, the human body is shredded ... Gradually you need to get used to it. I even agreed with the doctor to open it next time. In general, I try, as always, to penetrate in different directions of life and the work of the medical battalion. "Sorting", frankly, tired. For example, I would like to work with a nurse on a sanitary aircraft ...

October 23, 1943. All the time I am terribly worried about Peter. Here, in a notebook, I do not write about it, because I just can’t express my feelings of fear for his fate and life.

Where is he? How is he? What is he? Мысль гнетущая, не дающая мне покоя ни днем, ни ночью, не выходит из головы. Она прерывает песнь мою, если пою, она обрывает смех, даже если весело. Стараюсь представить его работу там, далеко, но не могу. Тысячи всевозможных «картин» этой деятельности возникают, но все они беспочвенны. Дорогой, мой любимый, родной мой друг, где ты и когда настанет тот день, та минута, когда мы снова будем вместе? Я стараюсь мечтать, представляю нашу встречу, и мне от этого становится только горше. Несчастные мы с тобой, ведь уже чуть не три года разлуки, а нам всего по двадцать два года…

26 ноября, 1943. А «воевать» я все-таки люблю. Я, пожалуй, даже не смогла бы сейчас быть в тылу. Нет, не смогла бы. Мне нравится все, во всем я нахожу или стараюсь находить романтику. Так интереснее жить. Но мне все не хватает чего-то, еще хочется чего-то большего и значительного. Я, видно, никогда и ничем в своей жизни не удовлетворюсь... Ведь как ни говори, а я все-таки историк. Пока что историк-наблюдатель, свидетель войны. Но чтобы осмыслить происходящее, надо больше увидеть самой, больше испытать. Смогу ли сделать это хоть когда-то?

3 января, 1944. Сегодня уже третий день нового года. Все мы перед знаменательной датой награждения дивизии находимся в приятном ожидании празднества. В новый год надеемся на изменение судьбы, на что-то хорошее. Но... Мечты, как правило, не осуществляются, ожидания не сбываются. Становится даже обидно...

Так и нынче. С первых же дней нового года — снова сборы, снова в путь. И я опять одна. Опять сомнения, опять терзания, опять мечты, а жизнь немилосердна…

Когда выдается свободный час, я захожу в редакцию дивизионной газеты. Правда, там почти всегда народ занят, все что-то пишут, суетятся. Но бывает, что и «раздобрятся» — разрешат послушать радио. Над приемником они прямо дрожат, боятся, что батареи «сядут» и тогда нельзя будет принимать оперативные сводки. Поэтому, в основном, «угощают» слушанием радиопередач только военкоров из полков. Вот и я сошла за военкора... А тут как-то даже редактор разговорился.

Какое-то странное чувство испытываю при разговоре с ним. До крайности непонятный он человек, противоречивый. Острый ум, режущая прямота и вместе с тем наивная душа, большое истерзанное сердце... Просто так, как говорю с другими, с ним не могу общаться. Вообще вместе мы бываем очень редко, но в разговорах касаемся всегда самого задушевного. Понемногу мы узнаем друг друга…

У редактора Дмитрия сложная судьба. Сам он сын рабочего-шахтера. Рано ушел из дома. Учительствовал. В юные годы участвовал в коллективизации, в раскулачивании. Хотели его убить, даже покушались. Потом — приобщение к журналистике, служба в армии, где тоже работал в газете. Пишет стихи, кое-что уже показывал мне... А главное — страдает по погибшей при родах в оккупации жене…

«Родная! Я никогда не посмею оскорбить твое чувство к другому. Я люблю тебя, люблю до боли. Я скрывал это, как самое затаенное»

13 января, 1944. Действующая армия. Как я понимаю — завязывается у нас с Дмитрием «роман», и это меня не радует, очень осложняет привычную жизнь. Но так как не могу полностью отвергнуть Дмитрия, то решительных действий не предпринимаю. Даже незамедлительно ответила на его «крик сердца». Тоже была откровенна. Удивилась, конечно, странным проявлениям чувств и даже усомнилась в его «любви». Просила не идеализировать меня и в экстазе своих чувств не ревновать меня к моим друзьям, которые только друзья и ничего более... Хотя Дмитрий и знал, но я еще раз напомнила и рассказала о своей любви к Петру, о наших планах совместной жизни, но не утаила и о своих раздумьях в связи с долгой разлукой...

Наш «роман в письмах» все время развивается. Ежедневные излияния друг другу своих чувств и мыслей подспудно делают свое дело — капля точит камень. Доброе это дело или нет — пока не знаю. Мне импонирует, что Дмитрий очень деликатно относится к нашим отношениям с Петром, к чувству, возникшему в ранней юности. «Родная! Я никогда не посмею оскорбить твое чувство к другому. Я люблю тебя, люблю до боли. Я скрывал это, как самое затаенное. Я не хочу навязывать тебе свое чувство — нет. Я буду хранить его в себе. Но знай — я не выдумал его, выносил в сердце. И оно созрело. Это не ветер, что подует и затихнет. Это не вспышка, что блеснет и погаснет. Это не песня, что как бы ни была приятна, в конце концов надоедает. Это — вся моя жизнь, какая есть. Это всё, чем я живу сейчас...»

10 февраля, 1944. с. Непедовка. С тяжелым сердцем сажусь писать. Почему болит сердце и стонет душа? Опять же первопричина — Дмитрий. Неужели вечно буду сомневаться во всем, вечно терзаться, не верить. Зачем я такая? И себе страдания и другим горе.

Я хочу любить Дмитрия, и я, кажется, люблю его. Мне очень трудно произнести это слово, по отношению к кому-либо, кроме Петра. И я не хотела бы этого. Но жизнь остается жизнью. Она неумолима, немилосердна. То, что есть в жизни, заглушает мечты. Но, сказав Дмитрию «люблю», я на всем прошлом поставлю крест. Это значит, я свяжу с ним свою жизнь, отдам себя ему навсегда, отдам такой, какая я есть. Будет ли он счастлив? Сейчас он говорит, что это будет высшим счастьем в его жизни. То ли он скажет потом, когда узнает, привыкнет?..

Однажды, взяв мою голову в свои руки, он спросил — правда ли, что я не знала еще личной жизни? Сказать, что это правда, почему-то было стыдно — ведь я не «девушка в платьице белом» и мне уже двадцать второй год. А ведь это правда. Поэтому я хочу полной любви, самой искренней и чистой. И если любовь Дмитрия та, о которой можно мечтать, то я согласна быть его женой, подругой, спутницей нашей вечно, очевидно, неспокойной жизни.

Особенно меня поразила молодая женщина-сифилитичка: заболев на фронте от какого-то хлыща, обозленная на жизнь, она мстила всем мужчинам своей воинской части

11 марта, 1944. Иванчаны. В эту ночь я дежурила в госпитальном взводе у постели умирающего партизана, грузина из Тбилиси. Он не выжил: часа в два ночи умер. На меня напало ужасное чувство угнетения, одиночества, даже немножко страха перед самым непостигаемым из таинств. Накинув шинель, выбежала на улицу. Ночь светлая-светлая, спокойная такая, мягкая, хорошая. Бродила по селу. Набрела на дом редакции, где на заборе вырисовано его имя. Standed. В хате темно. Только собака, учуявшая приближение чужого человека, отчаянно залаяла. Ушла все-таки. Долго еще сидела, пыталась читать страшные рассказы Эдгара По, но из головы не выходила эта смерть. Вот жил человек — и его нет. И все для него кончилось и нет этому объяснения.

12 марта, 1944. Этот день особый. Memorable. Я, наконец, сказала Дмитрию — «Да!» И забылось все: и то, что война, что будущее полно неясностей. Но к этому будущему пойдем теперь не в одиночку, а вместе. Hand in hand...

2 мая, 1945. С 15 апреля и почти до конца месяца болела. Лежала, как говорится, плашмя с очень сильными болями внизу живота. Оказалось, что это что-то по женской части. Даже не представляла, что подобное бывает, когда женщина превращается в «развалюху». Особенно это тяжело здесь, на фронте, где о женских болезнях, кажется, вообще забыли.

В женском отделении фронтового госпиталя собраны самые подонки представителей нашего пола, в основном венерические больные (я среди них — белая ворона). Практически на всех — налет «отпетости», которой они бравируют, стараясь перещеголять друг друга в пошлости и вульгарности. Я была потрясена отборнейшим матом, который редко услышишь даже среди солдат. Страшно вспоминать об их циничных, отвратительнейших рассказах о собственных «похождениях»...

Особенно меня поразила молодая женщина-сифилитичка (в госпитале она была единственной в этом плане). Заболев на фронте от какого-то хлыща, обозленная на жизнь, она хотела «насолить» другим. Мстила всем мужчинам своей воинской части, щедро «раздавая» вместе со своим телом и свою болезнь. Даже здесь, в госпитале, она хотела передать эту ужасную хворь — подсовывая другим свою посуду, подменивая полотенца, белье и т.д. Как рассказывали — ужасной была и ответная реакция. Мужчины подразделения, где она служила, чуть не убили ее. А здесь женщины избили почти до полусмерти (с них, мол, хватит и «собственной» гонореи). Жалко было только одну — тихую, смирную, совсем молодую девчушку. Она ходила отрешенно-помешанная, готовая наложить на себя руки, т. к. была потрясена предательством парня, которого полюбила на фронте, полюбила впервые в жизни. А он обманул: зная, что болен, решил специально заразить и ее!

31 декабря, 1945. Ставрополь. Война давно закончилась, и я уже три месяца нахожусь вместе с Дмитрием и годовалой дочуркой на Ставрополье, куда передислоцировали их соединение. Работаю вместе с Дмитрием в армейской газете. В отделе культуры пишу о новинках литературы и искусства. Нынешний Новый год мы встречаем своей семьей.

Prepared by Margarita Loginova
В материале использованы фото Российского государственного архива кинофотодокументов, сайтов «Победа. 1941–1945» и peeep.us.

Полностью дневник Ирины Дажиной опубликован в электронном корпусе дневников «Прожито» (по изданию: Дажина И.М. Далекое близкое: по страницам дневников и писем сороковых годов ХХ века. М.: Новый хронограф, 2013).