"Strong people are always simple"
Dedicated to Olga Nikolaevna Mavridi
Autumn ... Rain drops are monotonously and dully on the window. Probably on the street damp, chilly and uncomfortable. She feels and knows this, feeling the autumn bad weather with every cell of her already feeble old body.
The woman covers her blind eyes, as if they can see this dampness and uncomfortableness of the autumn day.
How long the day will be again and the night is long! Now day and night merged into one for her for a long time.
Small hands quietly go through the folds of the blanket, stroking and straightening each fold. Dumas, thoughts overcome a woman. They then float in some kind of endless succession, now blurred in a misty spot in her memory, but, strangely enough, it seems that none of them are colorful and vivid as those military events she witnessed and participated in.
A strange black and white front-line movie of her life. The color was only that which was associated in her mind with such a desirable and native word “peace”. Peaceful prewar and postwar time. The feeling of happiness and peace ... White cherry blossoms in the gardens of the city, where she met with her Karl. Olenka, as her friends called her in her youth, was beautiful, slim, light, and he was tall, intelligent, and also impermissibly handsome ... A couple that passersby certainly looked at. From them came something radiant, warm and at the same time imperceptibly tart, as from numerous cherries in gardens and along roads.
A woman holds her hand over her face, brushing away a vision. It was so close and at the same time strange far, somewhere in the depths of her memory and soul. And his heart squeezed sweetly.
But most often, the old woman had disturbing dreams, and she shivered again and again from the shrieking squeals of fragments, machine gun bursts, the rattle of German guns crawling on tanks, husky teams and terrible hooting shells.
Blind eyes now saw her then only a swinging light bulb under the ceiling of a hospital tent and blood, blood, blood of wounded soldiers ... How many of them, young, maimed, unconsciously rushing there, into the expansive field, passed through her hands, the hands of a young doctor who had treated the war full population of his native city.
The war has no female face. She had already heard this expression somewhere and was completely in agreement with him, because she herself had experienced the burden of military everyday life. Sometimes I wanted to fall asleep and not wake up, not to see anything around, but there were so many who expected help from her ...
She marched through the whole country in a military tunic and heavy soldier's boots to march along the destroyed Bulgarian streets with a victorious march.
Her Carl carried his heavy cross of the Germans repressed by the Stalin regime in the rear, in hospitals beyond the Urals. His golden hands of a surgeon saved the lives of more than one of our soldiers.
How they dreamed of victory, that great Victory that had been suffered by the people, which allowed the survivors to return to their homes, to their families, to their loved ones!
For Olga, all roads led to the south - first to the Crimea, to their relatives, then to the small Kazakh city of Dzhambul.
I brought home from the fronts of Russia
Cheerful contempt for rags.
I wore a mink coat
Burnt his overcoat.
(Yu. Drunin)
White-pink haze. A huge cherry sea ... And two - she is in a military tunic and her Karl is in a shabby overcoat. Greek and German soldiers of their multinational homeland. Love and unspent tenderness filled the whole space around them. And they generously shared these life-affirming feelings with everyone who surrounded them.
Olga Nikolaevna and her husband worked for many years after the war in the medical institutions of our city, continuing to do good, lifting almost hopelessly ill people to their feet. Olga, “our dear doctor”, knew and loved not only her patients. The whole city, as they say, lay at her feet, for the Almighty gave this woman not only beauty, but also a rare talent to heal numerous sores and human souls.
For a long time there is no loved one next to her. Gray hair bleached, and blindness plunged into thick, oily darkness.
A small gray-haired woman sits alone by the window, immersed in her thoughts. She listens to something that lives inside her and smiles at her memories.
It can be argued that now she sees a white cherry riot on the streets of the post-war city, where almost her whole life has passed. Even if there is a nasty boring rain outside the window, an old archa chilling into its filthy green branches, “and silence that doesn’t bother to think about the essence of life and death, friends and brother-soldiers who have gone into oblivion and not thinking about fame.
From the portrait on the wall looks a wonderful girl in a tunic with orders - Olga Nikolaevna Mavridi, who passed by the roads of war, loved and continues to love the world she once saved, gave up her work, always lived for the sake of life on earth.
A little lonely woman among us, indifferent, always in a hurry and terribly busy, not knowing war. Forgive us, soldier! Kowtow to you from all of us living under the light of your memories.
Ah war, war ...
To hurt us with it - do not get sick,
Recall - do not re-remember.
V. Astafev.
To hurt us with it - do not get sick,
Recall - do not re-remember.
V. Astafev.
Autumn ... Rain drops are monotonously and dully on the window. Probably on the street damp, chilly and uncomfortable. She feels and knows this, feeling the autumn bad weather with every cell of her already feeble old body.
The woman covers her blind eyes, as if they can see this dampness and uncomfortableness of the autumn day.
How long the day will be again and the night is long! Now day and night merged into one for her for a long time.
Small hands quietly go through the folds of the blanket, stroking and straightening each fold. Dumas, thoughts overcome a woman. They then float in some kind of endless succession, now blurred in a misty spot in her memory, but, strangely enough, it seems that none of them are colorful and vivid as those military events she witnessed and participated in.
A strange black and white front-line movie of her life. The color was only that which was associated in her mind with such a desirable and native word “peace”. Peaceful prewar and postwar time. The feeling of happiness and peace ... White cherry blossoms in the gardens of the city, where she met with her Karl. Olenka, as her friends called her in her youth, was beautiful, slim, light, and he was tall, intelligent, and also impermissibly handsome ... A couple that passersby certainly looked at. From them came something radiant, warm and at the same time imperceptibly tart, as from numerous cherries in gardens and along roads.
A woman holds her hand over her face, brushing away a vision. It was so close and at the same time strange far, somewhere in the depths of her memory and soul. And his heart squeezed sweetly.
But most often, the old woman had disturbing dreams, and she shivered again and again from the shrieking squeals of fragments, machine gun bursts, the rattle of German guns crawling on tanks, husky teams and terrible hooting shells.
Blind eyes now saw her then only a swinging light bulb under the ceiling of a hospital tent and blood, blood, blood of wounded soldiers ... How many of them, young, maimed, unconsciously rushing there, into the expansive field, passed through her hands, the hands of a young doctor who had treated the war full population of his native city.
The war has no female face. She had already heard this expression somewhere and was completely in agreement with him, because she herself had experienced the burden of military everyday life. Sometimes I wanted to fall asleep and not wake up, not to see anything around, but there were so many who expected help from her ...
She marched through the whole country in a military tunic and heavy soldier's boots to march along the destroyed Bulgarian streets with a victorious march.
Her Carl carried his heavy cross of the Germans repressed by the Stalin regime in the rear, in hospitals beyond the Urals. His golden hands of a surgeon saved the lives of more than one of our soldiers.
How they dreamed of victory, that great Victory that had been suffered by the people, which allowed the survivors to return to their homes, to their families, to their loved ones!
For Olga, all roads led to the south - first to the Crimea, to their relatives, then to the small Kazakh city of Dzhambul.
I brought home from the fronts of Russia
Cheerful contempt for rags.
I wore a mink coat
Burnt his overcoat.
(Yu. Drunin)
White-pink haze. A huge cherry sea ... And two - she is in a military tunic and her Karl is in a shabby overcoat. Greek and German soldiers of their multinational homeland. Love and unspent tenderness filled the whole space around them. And they generously shared these life-affirming feelings with everyone who surrounded them.
Olga Nikolaevna and her husband worked for many years after the war in the medical institutions of our city, continuing to do good, lifting almost hopelessly ill people to their feet. Olga, “our dear doctor”, knew and loved not only her patients. The whole city, as they say, lay at her feet, for the Almighty gave this woman not only beauty, but also a rare talent to heal numerous sores and human souls.
For a long time there is no loved one next to her. Gray hair bleached, and blindness plunged into thick, oily darkness.
A small gray-haired woman sits alone by the window, immersed in her thoughts. She listens to something that lives inside her and smiles at her memories.
It can be argued that now she sees a white cherry riot on the streets of the post-war city, where almost her whole life has passed. Even if there is a nasty boring rain outside the window, an old archa chilling into its filthy green branches, “and silence that doesn’t bother to think about the essence of life and death, friends and brother-soldiers who have gone into oblivion and not thinking about fame.
From the portrait on the wall looks a wonderful girl in a tunic with orders - Olga Nikolaevna Mavridi, who passed by the roads of war, loved and continues to love the world she once saved, gave up her work, always lived for the sake of life on earth.
A little lonely woman among us, indifferent, always in a hurry and terribly busy, not knowing war. Forgive us, soldier! Kowtow to you from all of us living under the light of your memories.
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