One of my friends decided to take account of his life. It appears at the beginning of November. And he told me today how he tried to implement it and changed his mind. His name is Anton. I haven’t seen him for six months. The story is short and sad. When the damned virus began to fucking our poor economy into all the cracks, his modest business in Peter broke up. Projects did not agree, potential customers jumped one after another, and already existing ones froze and did not pay for contracts. And all this humiliation hit Antoh at once, gradually driving him into a state of apathy, and then plunging him into a heavy autumn depression. They say if you look at the fire for a long time and do nothing, you will be expelled from the Emergency Service. Each week, Antosha watched his affair sink and did not do the exact nichuya for his own salvation. Thirty-year-old unloaded by the family, a non-drinking man, decided not to turn to anyone for help, but simply to get rid of life in the arms of the grey Neva. At eight o’clock Antonha walked from Ladoga to the bridge of Alexander Nevsky, taking the time to think about the road. To think of a good nihui did not work out, and the autumn Peter's Sky in no way contributes to optimism. In short, he reached the middle of the bridge and crossed the fence to do everything quickly and without thinking. Nihua quickly failed, for five minutes he stopped, and then a sharp sound of a braking car was heard behind his back. Antonha turned around and saw a toyota, from which a large body-built man jumped to him, shouting, "do not think, fool." The man turned out to be quick and strong enough to pull out and take the deceased Antonh to the car.

“Sell, dumb, fast,” he commanded and forcefully struck the suicide in the car.

After the bridge in the car was warm and comfortable. The driver was quietly driving along the coastline, and Antosha melted from the thought that human love and elementary co-participation had still remained in the people, and guessed what the mysterious savior would offer him until they arrived at the Grenadier Bridge.

The car stopped and the man finally spoke.

In short, if you want to fuck up, jump here, let the Petrograd department be responsible for you. I’ll see you again on that bridge, I’ll eat off, so that my mother won’t know. I understood? Go to Nashville.

In short, after this incident, Antocha gathered forces and thoughts, and things seemed to go to the mountain. It turned out that customers were pleased to deal with a person who was energetic and self-owned, rather than a depressed man.

The foolish peoples, covering up their foolishness, fight with their neighbors.
Absolutely stupid nations are fighting all over the world.

Karma

Petersky, the institute companion, often dragged me to the country. We helped his grandfather in the farm. Some rotten boards were ripped away from the house, and in their place others, just as rotten, were grabbed. Grandfather – Pavel Alekseevich, strictly controlled the process, screaming at us and we tried. My grandfather fed us well. Salo, home eggs, a bottomless barrel of fermented cabbage. For the hungry nineties, it is not bad at all.
One winter evening, my grandfather was lying on a tap, and my friend and I were throwing wood into the stove and my grandfather spoke:

I was summoned at the very end of the forty-first, brought to Leningrad, there accelerated training, such as the course of a young fighter before the front.
So, I made friends there with one guy, he himself from under Vologda, named Sasha Stepanov. I remembered the name all my life.
Service in the school we were not brought, lords, as I remember, until I don't believe that he was alive. It was even harder than it was on the front. We were feeding worse dogs, apparently stealing a lot. We didn’t complain, the Leningrad civilians lived even worse.
During the day class on combat training, at night in the warehouse the boxes were tapped, or the mountains of bricks after the bombings were dismantled.
I didn’t sleep every night. Many people were sick, almost everyone. I suffered pneumonia on my legs. Some died of hunger. Apparently, a healthy guy, blood with milk, and you look, in some two months, it's all. So what did you think? If you are almost not fed at all, but only to give hard work, and even in the barracks sometimes the water freezes, you knock your teeth in your sleep.
There was no hospital for us. I recovered – well, no – sorry.
We had a rotting boss, now I can’t remember the name. I once knew. After a slight injury, he reached us, had time to fight. He was a bad man, a bad man. We were all very afraid of him.
Imagine a company of about 150 people and almost every morning one of us didn’t wake up.
The senior approached, saw that the student died and ordered him to be thrown into the yard.
That is, naturally, they opened a window in the barracks and dropped the poor man from the second floor right into the yard. So fast that you do not drag the stairs and circles around the building. People get used to everything, we were not surprised by anything.
And here one day my friend Stepanov Sasha was seriously ill, Maybe a cold, maybe from hunger, and most likely, all at once. He was getting worse and worse every day, and was afraid to confess to the senior, could easily be shot, as a sabotage and deserter. There were cases. I helped him as I could, even from my bread.
In the morning, the chief cries: Race up!
Everyone jumped, and Stepanov lies, silent, can’t even move, but he breathes hard.
The senior saw, approached, bended and commanded us: - Open the window, take, take out!
Well, then he was picked up, pulled, and I grabbed Stepanov in the shirt, I don't let it go, I pulled back, I began to beg the senior, say how-so, Stepanov is still breathing, alive yet. Maybe wait until he dies first. The senior was angry, of course, hit me in the chest, began to scream about the failure to execute the order in wartime. I was lucky, only with a broken rib. Sasha Stepanova was thrown into the yard. Yet another living. None of us did anything more to the senior. Even though I was dropped...
How sorry I was for the guy, still in nightmares. not let go.

Grandfather silenced and began to sneak in the dark. One minute later, he continued unexpectedly:

But that is not the whole story yet.
Fifty years, I don’t remember, ten years after the war. I lived at the time in my village near Tossno, I’m digging in the garden, there are two men: one younger, the other older, 60 years old.
They say goodbye, they say, are you like that? Yes, I say, I. The older one shows me a photo and asks – who is he?
I looked and immediately found out, I answer – this is my combat companion, Stepanov Alexander.
The older one says, “All right, Pavel Alekseevich is Sasha, my son, and this is his older brother. We have never been able to get from the military committee how he died and where he was buried? They say that in the training unit, and how and what, it is not known. Some archives have disappeared. There was only one letter from him, and here it is. Here Sasha writes that he has a friend — it’s you.

I could, of course, “tell them” that their son and brother fell to the death of the brave defenders... but I couldn’t. Who am I to hide the truth from them? He also told me about the boss as well.
We drank all night for the memory of the soul of Alexander. The guests stayed with me, and after light, said goodbye and left.

Maybe two years later, maybe it was the 60th. Again, the father of Alexander Stepanov came to me, at that time he was alone, greeted and began without preface: - Pavel Alekseevich, I could not write to you about this, but you also have the right to know it. Here, specifically, I came to tell you: - Everything you told us then, the chief confirmed. Confirmed and repented before death.

Grandfather was still breathing in the dark, then told us to close the inflatable in the oven and go to bed.

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