On the Day of Victory.
With sadness...
My father was during the war on duty at the station, then deputy chief of the station, served as an engineer-captain. After the war, he was assigned a major and placed in a colonel's position, leading a large sorting station. Her mother was a lieutenant of the steam service and also worked in a steam deck.
Naturally, to sit with me and my sister, a housewife was hired – a miserable village girl who fled to the city from the Kursk village destroyed during the war from the village hunger. We lived in a communal house with our neighbors, and our housewife lived in the former bathroom.
There were no spouses of her age - almost all died on the front, although over the weekend she met with some soldiers from the nearby HQ. She didn't really like our bathroom and as soon as the opportunity came, she went to the brick factory, where they gave a dormitory. She worked there until her retirement, and on a brick for a woman - forced labor.
Sometimes she came to talk to my mother. He never married, not for whom. But she was pleased that she went to the city, here the factory gave her a one-bedroom apartment, and in the village her friends lived in the ruins, somehow rebuilt after the war.
These are the same rural grandmothers who fed the country that forgot about them, and which the country didn’t care about, and about which the city’s puppies spoke with contempt – the village!

“Oh, the war, what have you done, fucking...”