"Echelon for Samarkand"

A passage from the new novel Guzel Yakhina - especially for readers of "New"

Relatives, Chekists, Cossacks, small tramps with their language, psychology, superstition and hopes-the characters of the new novel Guzel Yakhina, "Echelon on Samarkand". This is an exciting journey, a kind of “red torte”. 1923. Five hundred street children are evacuated from Kazan to Samarkand. Fascinating and terrible adventures occur on their long journey, and their bright fates and characters take the reader captured until the end of the book. She comes out in March at the AST publishing house, "Elena Shubina editors."

"New" publishes one of the most heartbreaking episodes of the book.

In three weeks we got to Shopran. From here, the train went further east, and the wagon of the children's commissar remained in the sump: after the expedition to Chuvashia, the wagon was hoped to cling to the passing compositions and thus transfer the route to another from one point of the route.

At the station, Belaya entered the department - report to Moscow on arrival at the planned point. The direct wire, however, was busy: the young man reported an exhausted look - either in Cheboksary, not where in the center - endless numbers: he muttered in a thin voice, my finger was my finger on the crumpled sheet and many times patiently repeating the same thing - it is evident that the connection was badly and at the other end of the line was constantly asked. White did not immediately understand what was at stake.

- ... one hundred and eight. Yes, on the Tarkhanov volost-one hundred and eight. No, one hundred and seven are Muratovskaya. So, according to Tarkhanovskaya - one hundred and eight dead. I repeat: one hundred and eight dead ... Next. Khormalinsky volost. Starving - nine hundred and forty. Nine, four, zero - nine hundred and forty ...

Swollen - two hundred ninety. Not a hundred, but two hundred ninety. I repeat by syllables: two de-svy-and -o-old! It’s swollen, yes, yes, everything is true ... It died-sixty exactly. Yes, six dozens of dead-dead bodies, which means ... further. Shemorshinsky volost. Starving - one thousand thirty.

Not just thirty, but one thousand thirty ... swollen ... Hear me? Fine. So we move on. Swollen ...

The Koshelevsky volost followed Shemorshinskaya.

Then - Shamkinskaya, Yadrinskaya and Chebaevskaya. Ugovskaya and Baldaevskaya. Toysinskaya and Torayevskaya ...

Belaya could not wait until the young man finished dictating, - scorched several lines on a sheet of the tablet and ordered the telephone operator to send dispatches to the All -Russian Central Executive Committee.

At the porch of the station building, the secretary of the local detentee Yashkin and the Red Army Exception, whose name Belaya never recognized, were already waiting. The sledges were also ready on the road: it was agreed in advance that they would move immediately to the hinterland - through the villages and villages - without wasting time to examine the Shuran, where the proximity of the railway provided some well -being. I immediately plunged - let's go.

By noon, we drove into the village. I understood this white, discovering on the sides of the road large, in two human heights, snowdrifts - under them hid houses. There was no roofs, no foundations, no walls - there was snow; Only the windows stared from under the ice growths hanging from the cornice-like eyes from under a scarf. It was quiet here, as in the field. And it did not smell in anything, like in the field: neither smoke, nor manure, nor cooking, nor other human spirit.

Yashkina suggested finding a village council, but white - according to a long -developed habit of starting a bypass without bosses - jumped with a sleigh and headed to the first oncoming courtyard. As soon as she opened the icy door of the gate - she drowned in a snowdrift and scored snow into boots, but all in vain: hut was empty. And the next hut. And the next.

- But where did you bring me? - I could not stand it at last. - Maybe this is abandoned?

Without raising her eyes, Yashkin shook her head. Then she pointed to the dilapidated gates across the road - a chain of traces led to them.

In this courtyard, the presence of a person was really felt: a transparent cloud trembled above the chip - not smoke, or just warmth; The roof was cleaned of snow, but somehow strange-in places, on the bottom of the slope. Stepping closer, White realized: they cleaned it for a reason - they removed straw.

Belaya found the straw itself inside the hut: finely chopped, she was lying on the table with heaps. Immediately stood a hand mill - two stone millstones laid on the other - obviously, the chopped straw was chopped into flour. And there was a cast iron full of some kind of slurry-branches and thorns stuck out of it. The cast iron was warm. These branches with thorns - cooked?

White looked at the room. The gray logs of the log house laid Pacley. Furniture of a non -heated tree. Small windows, scheduled by hoarfrost so much that they barely pass the light. In the corner is a light huge furnace. And from the stove they look at the white for a few pairs of eyes - they look indifferently and without stirring, without blinking.

Children. Four or five, White can probably count. And the age cannot understand: three or four years or eight to ten years?

Without a single thread of clothing, they lie on the floors with a dense lump of skinny arms and legs, bloated stomachs with protruding navels, half -open mouths and tangled hair.

The following Yashkin’s followed, he asks for something in a whim-dirty faces shudder to the beat, eyes simultaneously turn to her, but the lips do not move to answer.

- Where are your parents? - White approaches the stove and reaches out to the human lump - very slowly, opened with a palm forward, so as not to frighten. - And the clothes - where? Are you hungry?

Shaggy heads sway on long necks - follow the approaching five. From a lump, a paw stretches towards-a tiny, pale yellow, similar to a chickety-and draws someone else's hand by the wrist, pulls to itself.

And suddenly one mouth opens wide and hugs the thumb of white with his lips - begins to suck like a nipple.

Other mouths are immediately revealed - they are attached to the remaining fingers. Dry rough tongues, small teeth - on each finger of white: five goals, pushing with bony cheekbones, suck her hand. Eyes are covered, the nostrils are tense, breathing quickens and whistles - it is only audible in the house.

She manages not to scream. Also slowly white pulls the hand back to itself - the children dutifully unclench their jaws, let go. Lips smack softly, a couple of threads of saliva stretches from them, hangs in the air - finally breaks.

- They need to be fed. - White wipes wet fingers on the overcoat. - And put on. Be sure to.

“Yes, yes,” Yashkin shooks his head, looking at the floor. - Let's say in the village council.

In other huts, they only have traces of people.

In one there is a pile of burnt beef bones on the table, the order of the gnawed. In the other, there are three dog heads in a boiler, flooded with water, obviously prepared for cooking a jail.

-And where did people go? - Belaya cannot understand in any way.

“So in the village council and ask,” Yashkin shrugs.

All the way she retains such a sluggish and impassive expression on her face that she sometimes wants to hit her, whipped her cheeks from the heart. Only this is unlikely to help: apparently, Yashkina is naturally characterized by mental stupidity, she will even be beaten from the authorities with the same humility and indifference.

White stubbornly walks further, forward - to a long house without a fence and a front garden, with a high porch and large windows. At the door is trampled in order, the ice is knocked down from the roof - there are signs of life. Indeed, through the windows covered with hoarfrost only half, White notices people, many people: a whole class of children sits at their desks and diligently leads feathers in notebooks, and the teacher at the board explains something, waving the pointer. This peaceful picture looks strange in the middle of an extinct village, half -covered with snow, that white, unable to tear himself away, falls face to window glass - stand for a couple of minutes, observe the sweet and familiar.

But why is it so dark at school? The spacious room is lit only with the beach - in the upcoming twilight of light, there is barely enough to make out the faces. How do children write in the twilight? Why don't feathers model the inknings? Why is the teacher not standing in front of the class, as expected, but sits on a chair, and even leaning the back of the head against the wall? Why are the eyes closed? Why is the pointer knocking on a board on which nothing is written?

White enters the classroom. Faces turn to her-and wide unusually, with swollen eyelids and swollen cheeks, because of which the eyes are barely visible, and very narrow, with embossed skin with cheekbones and huge holes of eye sockets. Everyone’s views are tired and sleepy before dull.

Schoolchildren are dressed in sheepskin coats and fur coats, some in hats. The teacher is in the ridiculous coat of canary color, it seems to be a ladies.

“You arrived,” he says in a whisper in a whisper in Russian, and his face swollen ugly is illuminated by joy. “I told the children, I promised - and you arrived.” What a blessing ...

“Hello,” says Belaya. - I'm from Moscow, from the children's office.

- Can you open it right today? - leaning on the pointer, the teacher gets up from the chair and, sniffing heavily, waddles to the white (and his felt boots with cut his legs, so that swollen legs fit). - Right now - can you?

We are engaged every day - until dark, you yourself saw. And there is no strength to wait ...

- What to open? Where?

- Dining room. You came to open the dining room? Canteen at school? - The teacher is trying to fasten the buttons of an antediluvian coat stretched over several sweaters and sweaters, but the fingers do not obey.

“No,” the white head shakes. - I'm just with the inspection.

- Do not joke like that! - From the excitement of the forces, the teacher is added, and the fingers finally cope with the last button at the throat. - I was informed in Kono, and it is quite officially that the first canteens will always be at schools - but only with the current ones. Otherwise, why are we sitting here - all autumn and winter?

“Sorry,” says Belaya. - There will be no dining room yet. Go home.

The teacher looks at her for a long time, shaking a puffy physiognomy and stooping over every second, as if decreasing in his eyes in his eyes. Its coat is crushed into transverse folds - it is folded with a large yellow accordion.

“And you go home, children!” - Belaya turns to schoolchildren.

Those still sit, obviously, not understanding a word in Russian; In the mouths, small clouds of steam blossom and disappear and disappear. Some have already been silent - faces, having lost all meaningfulness, hung on the chest, their eyes were covered.

- Tell them to go home! - White turns to the teacher.

But he is already pushed back to his chair, like an old chicken for a nest. A fastened coat squeezes his swollen neck, and he again unfastens the gate. Then he suddenly pounds with a screech with a pointer somewhere back and up-he lugs without looking, but aptly falls into the very center of the board: from a sonorous slap, the students were delightedly jerking their heads, puffing empty eyes.

- Go away. - The teacher leans against the wall and covers the eyelids. - Do not interfere with the lesson.

White glances at the desks: instead of notebooks in front of the students - shots of newspapers. Some in their hands are not clamped - knots. Inklits on desks - not a single one.

White nods excusingly and goes out, gently shut the door.

“Good,” she says Yashkina, waiting outside. - Let's go to the village council.

They find the Council House quickly: it stands on the hillock, on the main street of the village, and the snow around is trampled abundantly - with human legs, horse hooves and sleshic skids. Hut - okay; The surrounding fence is tall and covered with a visor: it is evident that a considerable utility farm is hiding in the courtyard. From the street, only a windmill of a home mill is visible: huge wings hang over the courtyard, like a black cross. The windows of the advice are dark, but the darkness moved, lively: the curtain will flinch there, some shadow flickens here-true, inside the kerosene or candles, without lighting until night.

In the house itself there is a strong human spirit: it smells later, with the breath of many mouths and unwashed hair. Human speech cannot be heard, but by the stirring of air around, according to the weak waves of warmth, the white understands: people! Sometimes the sounds of the human presence are heard from the darkness: either a sigh, then a rash, then a hoarse cough-a bubbling, from somewhere from the depths of the abdomen. Vision soon gets used to the darkness that reigning inside - the eyes begin to distinguish between what is happening, and finally see the inhabitants of the village. How many are around!

For some reason, they are all blinded in clusters-five, eight, or even a dozen bodies: no one sits and does not lie separately, on its own, but only together. Closely - as in a bunch - they sit on women’s shops, hugging each other and frozen babies on the knees. The men are bent on the floor: they fell apart under the windows, by the table, in the agitation corner - the body, and the swollen ugly, and dried up to the bones, lie in the bone, like the logs in the wood. The old people stuck over the stove: they glued with cheeks, shoulders and backs to the bleached side, laid out white beards on it, imprinted with wrinkled hands on top - not to see the stove itself, not a heel, nor half, but only that covers its old flesh. Everyone is silent. All - breathe, consuming strength not on an empty conversation or bodily bustle, but only to heat the hut.

Occasionally, someone is separated from their group and, sluggishly moving the extremities, drags to a bucket of water; Having drunk, returns and sticks back.

Why did they all get down here, in the Council? Is this a meeting?

The answer is given by the chairman of the village council: it is discovered a little later - enters, hanging his legs, shuffling gait of swollen. It takes a kerosene lamp out of the locked key to the chest - it lights up. From the underground closed to the barn castle, he takes out a couple of logs - throws it into the furnace. If kerosene with firewood is not hidden, explains, they will melt home in an instant, for nothing that they are queen. At first, the capital's guests are alive and looks with hope, but, having learned in them only the inspection, immediately loses all its joy and revival.

Yes, explains: we live together, the whole world, for a month now. Yes, many firewood have ended, but there is no strength to prepare forces - so the people are drawn to the Council, to the heat. After all, the winter clothes have few who have few, because not everyone goes to the cold. There is no food for a long time - no one. The cattle and birds were scored in the fall, dogs with cats, too, shifted mice with lizards. What do people eat? They eat all sorts of rubbish: they dig grass from under the snow, push and boil branches. The needles are collected, cones, moss. The acorns are still chasing and boiled in seven waters. Those who are more free - those already swallow the stones, boil a stew of sand. They tried to grieve a tree, but could not eat. One, however, stopped and ate oak kvashnya for dough - it smelled of bread. We are waiting for spring, we are waiting for heat and fresh herbs. And more than spring we are waiting for goods from the center. We do not hope for bread, but maybe the peas will be lifted or sunflower. Do not know if the goods will be this year?

Belaya recalls hundreds of wagons with food, frozen on the railway in anticipation of steam locomotives. He shakes his head: I don't know.

Yes, the chairman nods knowingly. After all, we do not need a lot of children.

Who else is in the cradle - they quickly die, do not suffer. But who got on his feet is more difficult for them. They gnaw their fingers, gnaw to the bones.

They reach for chewing whatever - belts, ropes, old bast shoes - and suffocate, not knowing how to swallow. They are sick of different ones: typhoids, scurvy, worms in the mouth. Who has ulcers all over the body. After all, there is an infirmary in the village, but to no avail: the children do not recover in hunger. And adults do not recover. Maybe close this infirmary until the summer, not to spend in vain firewood?

White shakes his head again: I don't know.

And I do not know, the chairman agrees. Firewood is now worth its weight in gold. In addition to the village council and the infirmary, we also drown the stable on the outskirts - there we keep the sleeping people. From hunger, the people quickly lose their minds. In the morning there was still a man with reasoning, and in the evening, looking - already a fool: howls, he rushes at the neighbors, to eat their children threatens. We lock these separately so that the madness of others is not infected. Maybe not give them any more firewood? Take care for the infirmary?

Thank you for the conversation, says Belaya, rising and nodding with a nod, Yashkin, which had opened in the warmth of the warmth. We will go, we’ll get to the next village to the night.

Yes, the chairman of the head is willing to be readily. Drive immediately, it is dangerous to shaking at night. Maybe take the arrested with you? All one go to Tsivilsk, hand over to the police there. We have nowhere to keep it: in the infirmary or village council-scary, still a criminal, and he himself is afraid in a stable with his sleeping people. We ourselves are not lucky - for the sake of him we will not drive a convoy. And from the provisions, only you happened this month.

No, Belaya says, already sitting down in a sled. We will not take the criminal.

He is not even evil at all, the chairman convinces, on the contrary, a person with a heart. He could not feed two daughters of the minors - he strangled them with feather bed so that they would not be tormented.

And before that, he dug the grave, and the homemade coffin prepared, one for two. Brown - and from the cemetery came straight to give up. That's what a person!

Let's go more likely, commands a white driver. Let's go!

Well!

And they go-through the streets covered with blue twilight, past black houses, gloomyly looking from under the snow. The cloudy-red lights of the village council on a hill with a millstone crossed to them can be seen for a long time-even from the edge of the village.

When the outskirts pass, a roar is heard from the dark structure standing on the outflow: two voices are howl, low and scary, almost in unison. Khove with the Sleepers, understands Belaya. Soon the third joins their voices: this one does not howl - weeps and repeats the same thing, in all ways.

- What is he screaming? - Belaya asks Yashkina. That explains sleepily:

- Beat an alarm.

Leave into the field. Black snow extends around, from the horizon to the horizon. A white hole in the sky gaps the moon. Two light stripes - a barely crossed dignity path - lead to the next village.

- Beat an alarm! - the voice is torn. - Beat! Beat! Бейте!

Белой хочется немедленно лечь на дно саней — залезть под овчинные подстилки, зарыться в сено, зажмуриться и заткнуть уши, — но пересиливает себя, даже не ежится.

— В наба-а-а-а-а-а-ат! — несется над пустынными полями. — А-а-а-а-а-а-а!..