Chapter 7 Part Two 11-13

11 The political commissar passed away on May 1. It happened suddenly.In the morning he also washed his face well, combed his hair, and asked the barber who shaved him in detail about the weather and the festive atmosphere in Moscow.He was glad that the barricades were starting to come down from the streets, but regretted that there could not be a parade on such a beautiful spring day, and made fun of Kravtia Mikhailovna's new heroic deed during the festivities—painting Covered the freckles on the face.It seemed that his condition was gradually improving, and everyone hoped that maybe he would recover slowly.

Long ago, ever since he couldn't read a newspaper, he had a radio set plugged into his earphones beside his bed.Gvozdev, who knew a little about radio technology, fiddled with it for a while, so that the whole ward could hear its barking and singing.Beginning at nine o'clock, the announcer broadcasts the orders of the Chairman of the National Defense Commission of the People's Republic of China.In those days, the whole world listened to his voice and was familiar with his voice.Everyone listened intently, afraid to miss a word, stretched their heads towards the two black discs hanging on the wall, until "Under the banner of the great and invincible Lenin - march to victory! "After the slogan was uttered, the ward was still shrouded in a tense and solemn atmosphere.

"Comrade Commissar of the Regiment, explain this to me!" Kukushkin began, and then he yelled in horror: "Comrade Commissar!" When everyone looked back, the political commissar was standing upright, with a dignified face, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and a solemn and peaceful expression on his thin and pale face. "He's dead!" Kukushkin threw himself on his bed and knelt down, yelling, "He's dead!" The assistant nurse hurried in and out, the nurse whirled around, the attending doctor ran and buttoned his buttons, and Lieutenant Konstantin Kukushkin, the troublesome misfit, acted desperately, like a child. He buried his face in the quilt, and wept bitterly on the body of the dead, sobbing that his shoulders and whole body were shaking.

That night another new wounded patient was brought into the bleak No. 42 ward.He was a fighter pilot, Major Pavel Ivanovich Struchkov, from the Capital Air Defense Division.On the holiday, the Germans decided to launch a massive air raid on Moscow.They marched in several groups and were intercepted by our army. After a fierce air battle, they were defeated in the Podsolnich Nenaya area. Only one "Junkers" bomber escaped from the encirclement.It rose to a high altitude and continued to fly towards the capital. The pilots of the enemy plane desperately wanted to complete their mission and pour a gloomy color on the festival in the capital.Struchkov had set his sights on it early in the melee in the air, and now he was in hot pursuit.He flew a high-powered Soviet fighter jet, a new model then used to re-equip the Air Force.He caught up with the enemy plane at an altitude of 6,000 meters above the summer resort on the outskirts of Moscow.He quietly and cleverly approached the tail of the enemy plane, aimed at the enemy plane, and pulled the trigger... Then he froze: he didn't hear the familiar click.The trigger mechanism is damaged.

The Germans are close at hand.Struchkov clung to the enemy plane and kept within the blind spot of the enemy plane's shooting: he kept hiding behind the tail of the enemy bomber plane, avoiding the attack of the two self-defense machine guns at the rear of the enemy plane.In the light of a clear May morning, the horizon showed clusters of huge gray buildings shrouded in mist, vaguely outlining the outline of Moscow.Struchkov was overwhelmed.He unbuckled his seat belt, pushed open the hatch, his muscles tensed, as if he was about to jump on the Germans.He accurately adjusted the speed of the plane to the speed of the bomber, and followed closely.In an instant, the two planes hung side by side in the air, one behind the other, as if tied together by an invisible thread.Through the transparent cabin of the "Junkers", Struchhoff clearly saw the eyes of the shooter on the turret of the enemy plane. Those eyes were watching his every move, waiting for him to fly out of the shooting blind spot accidentally. open fire.He saw the German tear off his flying cap excitedly, and even saw the color of the German's hair: brown and long, like icicles on his forehead.The pair of large-caliber machine guns stared at Struchkov with their gaping black mouths, wriggling like living creatures, waiting for an opportunity.For a moment Struchkov felt himself a defenseless man, being pressed by thieves at gunpoint.Then he did all that a brave unarmed man can do on such occasions: he threw himself at the enemy, but not with his fists—that is the way of fighting on the ground.He aimed the propeller with a flashing halo at the tail of the enemy plane, and the plane rushed forward.

Before he even heard the explosion, he was instantly thrown into the air by the terrible shock.He felt himself somersaulting in the air.The green, shining earth swung over his head, then roared toward him.At this point he deployed his parachute, hung on the lines, and lost consciousness.But before he lost consciousness, he still saw out of the corner of his eye that the fuselage of the "Junkers" with its tail blown up was like a lit cigar, chasing after him, falling, spinning like a maple leaf blown by the autumn wind .After a feeble float on the umbrella, Struchkov slammed into the roof and fell unconscious into the festive streets of Moscow's suburbs.The inhabitants there saw his magnificent impact on the ground.They lifted him and carried him into a nearby house.Immediately the crowds in the nearby streets were packed, and the summoned doctor had difficulty making his way up the steps.The pilot's kneecap was bruised on the roof.

Major Struchkov's heroic deeds were soon broadcast on the radio special "Breaking News".The chairman of the Moscow Soviet personally sent him to the best hospital in the capital.As Struchkov was ushered into the ward, hygienists then walked in with bouquets of flowers, bags of fruit, boxes of sweets: gifts from grateful Moscow residents. This is a pleasant, approachable guy.He asked the patient almost as soon as he entered the ward: How is the food in the hospital?Is the system strict?Is the nurse cute?While bandaging him, he told Kravtia Mikhailovna a corny joke about the military supply station, and lavishly praised her appearance.After the nurse left, Struchkov winked at her back.

"It's cute. Is she good? I'm afraid you'll be scared to call mom and dad! It's okay, don't be timid and overwhelmed, haven't you learned tactics? There is no woman who can't be conquered, just like there is no woman who can't be conquered." Like a fortress." And he burst out laughing. He behaved like an old patient in the hospital, as if he had been here for a whole year.Before long he was using "you" to refer to everyone in the ward.Sometimes, when he had to blow his nose, he would unceremoniously take from Milesyev's bedside table the handkerchief made of parachute cloth, finely embroidered with the words "Sergeant of Meteorology".

"Did it come from your girlfriend?" He winked at Alexei, and then stuffed it under his pillow, "My friend, you have enough. If it's not enough, my girlfriend will still embroider it. What's wrong with her?" It’s just what you ask for.” Although his dark cheeks were flushed, he was not young anymore.There are deep and fine wrinkles on the temples and around the corners of the eyes. All signs indicate that he is a veteran, a veteran who is used to home wherever there is a backpack, soap and toothbrush.He brought a lot of good laughs to the ward, and did so in such a way that no one was mad at him for it, and everyone felt that they had known each other for a long time.The new companions were very much to everyone's liking, except for Milesyev who disliked the major's penchant for women.The major made no secret of this, and talked nonsense with relish.

The next day a funeral was held for the political commissar. Milesyev, Kukushkin, and Gvozdev were sitting on the windowsill facing the courtyard, and they saw a group of struggling horses dragging the cannon carriage into the courtyard.The military band had assembled, the trumpets were shining in the sun, and a troop of soldiers entered.Kravtia Mikhailovna entered the ward and drove the sick man off the windowsill.She was quiet and energetic as usual, but Milesyev noticed that her voice had changed, became trembling and impulsive.She's here to take the temperature of new patients.Just then the funeral march was played in the courtyard.The nurse's face turned pale in an instant, the thermometer slipped from her hand, and glistening mercury rolled on the parquet floor.Kravchia covered her face with her hands and ran out.

"What's the matter with her? Is it her sweetheart?" said Struchkov, nodding his head toward the window, where mournful music was coming. No one answered him. Everyone leaned over the window sill and looked into the street. A red coffin was slowly walking up the street from the gate of the courtyard on a cannon mount.The political commissar's body was lying on his back among the flowers and grass, and there were medals on the pillow, one, two, three...a total of eight.Several generals walked with their heads bowed.Among them was Vasily Vasilyevich, also wearing a general's overcoat, but without a cap for some reason.A little farther behind the generals came Kravtia Mikhailovna, and finally a procession of soldiers walking slowly and neatly.Kravtia Mikhailovna was walking staggeringly in her white coat and hatless.They put a coat on her.As she walked, the coat slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor.When the soldiers walked by, the middle of the line automatically separated and bypassed the coat. "Who's the funeral for, brother?" asked the major. He tried to climb to the window, but a splint and plaster cast on his leg hindered his movement, so he couldn't climb up. The funeral procession has gone.The tragic music floats faintly along the river from a distance and echoes on the walls of the houses.The lame female janitor came from the gate and closed the metal gate with a bang, but the patients in Ward 42 were still standing by the window to mourn the political commissar. "Hey, who are you burying for? Why are you all like logs?" The major asked impatiently, while continuing to climb up the window sill. At last Konstantin Kukushkin replied in a soft, muffled, trembling, choking voice: "A real man was buried... a Bolshevik." Milesyev remembered these four words: real people.This is a veritable title for a political commissar.So Alexey also desperately longed to become a real person, just like the one who was dying at this moment. 12 With the death of the political commissar, all the order of life in Ward 42 also changed. Whenever everyone suddenly fell into worry and depression at the same time, no one opened their hearts to dispel the gloom and silence in the ward.No one cheered up the depressed Gvozdev with jokes, no one advised Milesyev, no one tactfully and inoffensively stopped Kukushkin's whining.There is no backbone that unites these disparate individuals into one, united body. It's really less necessary these days.The treatment is continuing, time is passing, and everyone's health is recovering rapidly.They seldom think about their own pain when they think that they will be discharged from the hospital soon.They dreamed of the world outside the ward, how their company would welcome them back, and what kind of work awaited them.Thinking of this, these people who are accustomed to life in the military are all gearing up, all wanting to catch up with the new round of attacks as soon as possible.Although this new round of offensive has not yet appeared in the newspapers and broadcasts, it can be predicted from the current atmosphere that the storm is coming, and the attack can be guessed from the sudden silence of the front line. For soldiers, returning to combat duty from the hospital is a common occurrence.However, it is only a problem for Alexei Milesyev. Can he use technical training to make up for the defects of his broken legs?Can you sit in the cabin of a fighter jet again?He is more and more tenaciously striving towards the goal he has drawn up, and gradually increases the training time, increasing the leg training and general gymnastics to two hours each morning and evening.Even so, he still felt that it was not enough.So gymnastics was added after lunch.Major Struchkov squinted at him with cheerful, mocking eyes, and each time he declared: "Citizens, now you will see a mystery of nature. From the forests of Siberia, the unique and great wizard Alexey Milesyev was doing gymnastics with such tenaciousness and madness that he Like a wizard doing witchcraft." Watching him swing endlessly, twist rhythmically, do neck and hand exercises paranoidly, swinging at a constant speed like a pendulum, everyone couldn't bear it.His active companion now went to the corridor, while Major Struchkov, who was confined to the bed, covered his head with the quilt and tried to get some sleep.Naturally, no one in the ward believed that he could fly without feet. However, everyone admired the tenacious perseverance of this companion, even to the point of prostration, but they hid this admiration in a joke. Major Struchkov's knee injury was much more severe than initially thought, recovery was slow, and his leg was kept in a splint.It would heal, no doubt, but the major was incessantly swearing in various accents at the "damned knee" which had given him so much trouble.His nagging gradually turned into yelling and cursing, because he would get angry and yell at patients and nurses because of trivial things.At this moment, if someone came to dissuade him, he would almost beat him up.Everyone reached a tacit agreement and simply ignored him and let him go.He vented, and waited until his optimism had overcome his rage and war-worn nerves before speaking. As for his growing tantrums, Struchkov explained that it was because he had no chance to smoke in the toilet and meet the little redheaded nurse in the operating room in the corridor. There is no reason.He appeared to have bid farewell to the nurse when he was carried off to change the bandages.But Milesyev found that when Struchkov saw the planes flying over Moscow from the window, or learned about the exploits of the pilots he knew from the radio and newspaper reports about the air battle, his anger It exploded suddenly.All this once made Milesyev fall into a state of turmoil, but now he can remain calm.Compared with Struchkov, he couldn't help feeling a little smug.He thought that he had taken a small step towards the image of a "real man". Struchkov still went his own way: he ate a lot, laughed at little things; he liked to talk about women.At this time, he always seemed to love women and hate women at the same time, especially the women in the rear for some reason. Milesyev could not bear these remarks of Struchkov.Listening to Struchkov's words, he couldn't help but see the past between him and Olya or that ridiculous female soldier at the weather station.The girl, according to people in the regiment, used the butt of a pistol to drive out of her cabin a sergeant of the airfield service battalion who was desperately pursuing her, and nearly shot him.So Alexei thought that Struchkov was slandering them.Once, the major delivered a cliché, ending with the catchphrase: "Women are all like this." He said that he had sex with whomever he wanted but "with a little effort."After listening gloomyly, Milesyev could bear it no longer. "Any one?" he asked, his teeth were clenched, and he was almost white with anger. "Yes." The major replied without hesitation. At that moment Kravtia Mikhailovna entered.She was taken aback because she saw the nervousness on the faces of the patients. "What's the matter?" she asked, unconsciously tucking a lock of hair into the kerchief. "We were talking about life. Nurse, we are like a group of old people, just chatting." The major blushed and smiled at her. "Is it the same as this one?" Milesyev asked viciously after the nurse had gone out. "Why, she is different from others, isn't she!" "Don't talk about Kravtia Mikhailovna," said Gvozdev sharply. "One of our old men called her an angel of the Soviets." "Who dares to bet, how?" "Bet?" Milesyev yelled, his gypsy eyes flashed fiercely, "What is the bet?" "Whatever you want, you can bet on your life, just like the officers in the past: if you win, you shoot me; if I win, I shoot you." Struchkov smiled , trying to turn these into jokes. "This bet: if you win, you will spit in my face. Don't change, you are the Soviet commander." Alexei gave Struchkov a hard look, "But, be careful Come on, don't say I spit on you!" "If you don't gamble, don't gamble. Forget it. Why are you getting angry. Look at you! Young man, if you don't gamble, I will prove it to you. It is not worth losing your temper for her." From that day on, Struchhov began to care about Kravtia Mikhailovna in every way, and to cheer her up with jokes—he was a master of jokes.There is an unwritten rule among pilots that no one is willing to tell others about their past.But Struchkov violated this rule.He told her all kinds of vivid and interesting stories of his life, and even sighed, hinting at some kind of misfortune in his family, hinting at his painful loneliness.Everyone in the ward knew that he was still a bachelor, and there was no particular family misfortune to speak of. Kravtia Mihailovna really did not want to treat him differently, and sometimes sat by his bed.Hear his stories about flying through the air.He seemed to be out of his mind, and he held her hand unconsciously, but she didn't shrink back.Milesyev was furious.The whole ward was angry with Struchkov.And Struchkov did not budge, and seemed to have really bet on them.Struchkov was solemnly warned to abandon this dishonorable game.Just when the whole room decided to prepare for this incident, the incident suddenly took a turn for the worse. One evening Kravtia Mikhailovna was on duty.With nothing to do, she came to Ward No. 42, just wanting to chat with everyone.Her wounded were especially fond of her for this.The major made up a story, and she sat down beside his bed.How it happened is unknown.Everyone only heard a noise, and looked back to see her jumping up suddenly.Her black brows were furrowed, her cheeks flushed, and she looked angrily at the embarrassed and even panicked Struchkov: "Comrade Major, if you're not a patient and I'm not a nurse, I really want to slap you in the face." "What's the matter with you, Kravtia Mihailovna, I don't want to... Besides, think about it, what does it matter..." "Hmph, what's the matter!" She looked at him with contempt instead of anger, "Now in front of these comrades, I ask you not to trouble me, unless you have something, unless you need Treatment. Good night, comrades." So she walked away with a different plod than usual, as if trying to keep her composure. There was a moment of silence in the ward, and then Alexei's gloating laughter was heard.Everyone blamed the major. "Well, who are you spit on?" Milesyev's eyes glowed, and he tried politely: "Comrade Major, allow me to spit now, or... wait?" Struchkov sat despondently, and, not conceding defeat, said in a tone of uncertainty: "Well, the attack was repelled. It's okay. You can come again." He lay silent until late at night, whistling softly, sometimes aloud to himself: "Hmm..." Not long after this incident, Konstantin Kukushkin was discharged from the hospital.He left the hospital feeling nothing, saying goodbye by declaring that the hospital had bored him.He said goodbye to people casually, but repeatedly told Milesyev and the nurse that if there was a letter from his mother, please forward it to his team and keep it safe so that it would not be lost. "Write to me and tell me about you and how they welcome you," Milesyev said at parting. "Why should I write to you? What have you to do with me? I won't write, the paper department is a mess—you won't answer anyhow." "Well, it's up to you." Kukushkin probably did not hear this last sentence.He walked out of the ward without looking back, walked out of the gate of the hospital without looking back, walked across the embankment, and disappeared behind the corner.Although he knew very well that at this time, according to the established rules in the hospital, all the people in the ward had to stand at the window to see off the patients, but he never looked back. Nevertheless, he wrote to Alexei, and as soon as possible.The letter was written in a dull, businesslike way.He just reported his situation and said that the people in the regiment were very happy to see him.However, he also revealed that the recent battles have suffered heavy losses, so everyone with more or less experience is welcome here.He made a list of his dead and wounded comrades, and wrote that everyone still remembers him.The head of the regiment, who is now a lieutenant colonel, heard about Alexei's gymnastics training and his ambition to return to the Air Force, and announced: "Milesiev will definitely come back. Since he has decided—he will It can be done.” But the chief of staff said that it was an unreasonable idea and impossible.The head of the regiment also asserted that there was nothing impossible for a man like Milesyev, and to Alexei's surprise he wrote a few lines about the "Sergeant Meteorology".He said that the sergeant was always asking this and that, so that Kukushkin had to give her the order to turn left and walk away... The letter also said that since returning to the army, he has flown into the sky twice, with legs It has been completely restored; he also said that a batch of "La-5" new aircraft will be equipped in the regiment recently, and they will be shipped in soon.Andrei Teggarenko, who went to lead the flight, said that compared with it, all German aircrafts are a pile of scrap metal. 13 Early summer is here.It was still overlooking Ward Forty-two from the branch of the poplar.The leaves on the branches grew firm and shiny, rustling and whispering, and in the evening the dust of the street obscured them.The soft and beautiful tidbits on the branches have long turned into strings of green and shining beads.Now these small beads are fully blooming, and fluffy catkins are spit out from them.At the hottest time of noon, the fluffy catkins are flying all over the streets of Moscow.They flew to the open window of the sick room, and were blown by the warm draft to the door and behind the corner, where they lay like soft crimson sofa cushions. One cool, golden, bright summer morning, Kravtia Mikhailovna solemnly ushered an elderly man into the ward.The man wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a new, starched white coat, but none of this concealed the fact that he was an old craftsman.He brought a package wrapped in inner cloth, put it on the floor in front of Milesyev's bed, and unwrapped the package cautiously and reservedly like a magician.The leather creaked in his hands, and the ward immediately exuded a refreshing, slightly sour smell of tannic acid. The old man's package turned out to be a brand-new pair of yellow squeaky prosthetic feet, which were exquisitely made and the size was just right.I'm afraid this is something the craftsman is proud of.The prosthetic was slipped into the brand new, yellow shoe so seamlessly that it felt like a real foot had been inserted into the shoe. "Put on these shoes, and you can go to get married," said the old cobbler, admiring his handicraft through the top of his glasses, "Vassily Vasilyevich himself told me: Zhuev, you are going to make a pair of beauties. A real foot and a real fake one. Now, please, Zhuev has made it. It can be used by the Tsar!" At the sight of his prosthetic limb, Milesyev's heart clenched in sorrow.No matter how sad or desolate, but the desire to try the artificial foot as soon as possible, to walk, to walk independently, immediately overcame everything.He stretched out his stump from under the bed and urged the old man to give him a sample.Then this old craftsman—according to his own words—an old craftsman who had made prosthetic limbs for a "grand duke" who suffered a fracture from a fall from a horse in "peaceful times", was unwilling to rush to sample.He takes great pride in his handiwork and wants to satisfy as much of that feeling as possible before delivering it. He wiped the prosthesis with his sleeve, scraped off a small spot on the skin with his nails, breathed again, wiped it with the hem of his snow-white coat, and finally put the prosthesis on the floor without haste. Roll up the package and stuff it in your pocket. "Hey, Dad, come on." Milesyev sat on the bed and urged. At this moment, he took a look at the naked stump as a bystander, and he was very satisfied.The legs became firm and powerful, without the fat that had accumulated due to inactivity.Hard muscles squirmed under the light brown skin, it seemed that this was not a stump, but a pair of fully functional legs that had been walking fast for a long time. "What's the rush, what's the rush! Haste makes waste," the old man muttered, and Vasily Vasilyevich said to me: Zhuev, this time you have to show your strength.A captain who lost his feet but still wanted to fly relied on this prosthetic.As for me, this is done.Look, take it!Putting on this pair of prosthetics let alone walking, you can even go sledding, dance polka with the ladies... well done! " He stuffed Alexei's right leg into the soft leather prosthesis, fastened it tightly with the strap fixed on the prosthesis, then stepped back a few steps, admired it for a while, and smacked his lips. "Awesome shoes! Didn't it frighten you? Zhuev is the best craftsman in Moscow. Zhuev has dexterous hands!" The old man quickly put on the second prosthetic limb for him.As soon as he put on the belt, Milesyev suddenly jumped from the bed to the floor, knocking on the floor loudly.He yelped in pain, and fell down hard and straight on the side of the bed. The old craftsman pushed his glasses to his forehead in astonishment, he didn't expect his client to act so swiftly.Milesyev lay on the floor, his shoed legs wide apart, helpless and astonished.His eyes were full of bewilderment, annoyance and fear.Will he be disappointed? Kravtia Mikhailovna clapped her hands in surprise, and ran to him.Together with the old craftsman, she helped Alexei to the bed.Alexei looked depressed and listless, with a look of sadness on his face. "Hey, hey, hey, my dear, it's not like that, it's definitely not like that," the craftsman babbled, "Hey! He's still dancing, he must have pretended to be a pair of real feet! Don't be dejected. , my dear friend, now your task is - to start from scratch. Now you have to forget that you are a fighter. You are now a little baby, you have to learn to walk step by step, first on crutches, then on the wall You can't eat a fat man in one bite, you have to take your time. But you, you want to reach the sky in one step! The feet are good, but they are no longer your own. No one can make the feet that your parents gave you. of!" That failed jump made the leg ache with slices.array.Ding is that the Milesyevs want to try prosthetics again.They brought him a pair of light aluminum crutches.He propped his crutches on the floor, and with soft pads under his armpits, he slid off the bed gently and carefully, and stood up on his fat.Sure enough, he really looked like a little doll now, like a little doll who couldn't walk, but subconsciously guessed that he could walk, but was afraid of breaking away from the walls that helped and supported him.Milesyev, supported by Kravtia Mikhailovna and the old craftsman, was laboriously supported on both sides, like a little baby being led out by a mother or grandmother with a towel and learning to walk for the first time.Milesyev stood there for a while, feeling a sharp pain at the joint between the prosthetic limb and the leg because he could not adapt, he moved one crutch unsurely, and then moved the other... He Put your weight on the crutches and start dragging one leg, then the other.The leather of the prosthetic was stretched so tight that it made a crisp creaking sound, and there were two heavy thuds on the floor: boom, boom. "Hey, I wish you success, I wish you success." The old craftsman murmured. Milesyev took a few more cautious steps.These few steps, the first few steps with the prosthesis, made him feel so difficult.In the few steps to the door and back to the bed, he felt as if he had moved a piano to the fifth floor.When he got to the bed, he threw himself on the bed, his whole body was drenched with sweat, and he didn't even have the strength to turn over. "Hey, how about prosthetics? You have to thank God, there is such a skilled craftsman Zhuyev in the world," the craftsman smugly said in an old man's tone, he carefully untied the belt, and let go of Alexei's hand, which was slightly uncomfortable due to discomfort. Red and swollen legs, "Put on this pair of prosthetics, not to mention flying, even flying to God. It's great!" "Thank you, thank you, old man, it is an excellent handicraft." Alexei murmured. The craftsman hesitates, as if hesitating to speak, or, on the contrary, he waits to ask a question. "Well then, goodbye. I hope you dress comfortably," he said, sighing again with a bit of frustration, and walked slowly towards the door. "Hey, old craftsman," Struchkov called to him, "take it, have a drink, for the 'tsar-like' prosthesis." banknote. "Yes, thank you, thank you," the old man became active, "how can you not have a drink on this occasion." He solemnly put the money into his inner pocket.He rolled up his blouse in a very special way, as if he was rolling up a craftsman's suit, "Thank you, I want to have a drink, from the bottom of my heart, the prosthesis is really great." Vasily Vasilyevich said to me : Zhuev, this is a special item, and there is no room for carelessness. You see, Zhuev is naturally not careless. When you have the opportunity, tell him, Vasily Vasilyevich, and say that you are right. The work is satisfying." The old man bowed and muttered, and backed out.Milesyev lay down, looking at his new feet beside the bed.The more he looked at the prosthetic, the more he liked its delicate structure, exquisite craftsmanship and lightness. It could indeed sled, jump polka, and fly to the sky in a plane. "I'll do it! I'll do it! I'll be able to do it!" he thought. On this day he sent Olya a detailed and cheerful letter.In the letter, he said: His job of receiving the plane is coming to an end, and he hopes that the chief can face up to his job, maybe in autumn, or at the latest in winter, he will be transferred from the annoying rear post to the front, so that he will not forget him. And look forward to his returning team.This was the first cheerful letter since his catastrophe, the first in which he expressed his thoughts and thoughts to his fiancée.Naturally, this love affair was written evasively: he said that if they met again after the war, if she did not change her original intention, then they would live together.He read the letter over several times, then, with a sigh, carefully blotted out the last few lines. But a cheerful letter was sent to the "Sergeant of Meteorology", describing the event in vivid detail, describing the prosthetic limbs that the Emperor himself had never used, and describing how Milesyev put them on. , took the first few steps, and narrated the garrulous old craftsman and his hopes of both sledding and polka dancing and flying to the Big Side. "So from now on, please wait for me in the regiment, and don't forget to tell the commander to give me a place in the new camp." Milesyev wrote, squinting at the floor below. .The prosthesis lay there like a hidden person lying on a bed, with a pair of brand new yellow leather shoes spread wide apart.Alexei looked around, sure no one was paying attention to him, and stroked the cool, squeaky leather. Elsewhere, among the third-year students of the Moscow Medical Academy, there was rapid talk of the "emperor's prosthesis" in Ward 42.At the time of the debate, the overwhelming majority of girls in this grade were well-informed about Ward 42.Anyuta is very proud of her correspondent.No, the letter from Lieutenant Gvozdev, which was not intended to be read, was excerpted in large sections and read aloud.有时是整段整段地念，除了特别隐秘的地方，顺便插一句，随着相互间通讯越来越频繁，这种隐秘也就越来越多了。 以安组塔为首的医科大学三年级的学生都很同情英勇的葛里沙?葛沃兹捷夫；不喜欢吵吵嚷嚷的库库什金；发现苏联狙击手斯捷璠?伊万诺维奇有点像托尔斯泰笔下的普拉东?卡拉达耶夫；敬佩密列西耶夫百折不挠的勇气；对政委的死充满敬意，犹如自己的不幸，尤其是经过葛沃兹捷夫的郑重介绍之后，大家更加敬爱他了。当读到这个开朗的大块头突然谢世时，许多人禁不住热泪盈眶。 医院和医科大学之间的信件往来愈来愈勤。年轻人不能满足邮局的速度：那些日子邮递太慢。有一次葛沃兹捷夫在信中谈到政委时，有感而发，说道如今的信件到达收件人手里，就像是从遥远的星球上发射的光。写信的人也许都咽气了，可是他写的信还在长途跋涉，向收信人叙述着一位早已死去的人的生活。活跃而又能干的安组培于是汗始寻找更加理想的联系方人，居然找到一位中年护士：她有两个职位，既在医科大学的附属医院里工作，又在瓦西里?瓦西里耶维奇的医院里工作。 从那时起，第二天，最多是第三天，医科大学就能得知四十：号病房里所发生的一切，并且随即对此作出反响。围绕着“沙皇的假肢”在饭厅里就展开了争论：密列西耶夫能否重新飞行？争论是血气方刚的，热烈的。争论中双方都很同情飞行员的处境。悲观派在分析了歼击机复杂繁琐的操作程序之后，一口咬定：不可能。而乐观派则认为：对于一个从森林里爬行了半个月，天晓得爬了多少公里的人，没有什么不可能办到的事。为了争论，乐观派还从书本和历史上援引了证据。 安纽塔没有参加这类争论。对她来说知之甚少的飞行员的假肢不是太占据她的心灵。难得闲暇时她开始考虑自己和葛里沙?葛沃兹捷夫的关系。这种关系，她觉得越来越复杂化了。起初当她知道有这么一位有着一段悲惨经历的英雄指挥员，只是出于无私的愿望想减轻他的痛苦，于是给他写了一封信。后来，随着这种通讯联系的加强，一位卫国战争的抽象的英雄形象让位给了一位真正的、活生生的青年，并且让她越发地对他发生兴趣。她发现，每当她没有收到他的来信，就担心和思恋他。这种新的感受既让她兴奋又让她不安。what is this?是爱情吗？ ，难道仅仅通通信，不见其人，不闻其声，就能爱上一个人？坦克手的信里越来越多的地方不能再念给同学们听了。直到有一次葛沃兹捷夫本人向她承认，有种感情，按他的表述是一种“未曾相见的爱情”摄住了他，自那以后，安纽塔确信她开始恋爱了，个过个是像中学生那样恋爱，而是真正地堕入了爱河。她感到，如果如今中断了她朝思暮想的这些信件，那么生活对于她就失去了意义。 就这样，他们虽说没有相互见面，却恋爱起来。此后葛沃兹捷夫开始经历了一种古怪的情绪，他的来信写得不安，犹豫，欲言又止。不久他鼓足勇气给她写道，他们没有相互见面就恋爱，这样可不好，还说她大概很难想象他的伤疤有多么丑陋，他完全不像他给她寄的那张旧照片上的模样了。他不敢欺骗她，请求她在亲眼见到与什么样的人恋爱之前中断在信中表白情愫。 姑娘起初大为恼怒，接着又担心害怕起来。她从口袋里掏出照片来。照片上是一个清秀的小青年：固执的颧骨、挺直而美丽的鼻子以及小巧的胡子和秀气的嘴唇。“现在呢？你现在会是怎样呢？我亲爱的人儿，痛苦吗？”她端详着照片轻轻地说道。作为一名医学院的学生，她知道烧伤的创伤愈合后，会遗留下深深的，无法痊愈的疤痕。蓦地她的脑海中晃现出一具她在解剖陈列馆里看到的患狼疮后的人的标本：脸上好似耕犁出的垄沟和凸畦；嘴唇参差不平，像是被侵蚀了似的；眉毛一撮一撮的，眼睑通红通红的，没有睫毛。如果是这样怎么办呢？姑娘害怕起来，脸色部吓得发白。然而她又立即责骂自己……要是那样，又有什么关系！他是在热腾腾的坦克里同敌人作战负的伤，他捍卫了她的自由，她上学的权力，她的荣誉和生命。他是个英雄，战争中多少次冒着生命危险，如今又要重返前线，重新投入战斗，再次冒着生命危险。而她呢？她为战争做过什么？挖过战壕，在房顶上值过班，在后方医院工作，难道这能与他的所作所为相提并论吗？“就这些顾虑而言，我自己就不配他！”她责骂自己，下意识地驱散了那幅布满疤痕的丑脸的可怕幻影。 她给他写了一封他们通信以来最温柔甜蜜，也是最长的信。关于她的那些矛盾牛争，葛沃兹捷夫自然一无所知。他收到的是一封对自己的担心作热情回覆的信。他久久地、反复地阅读着，甚至告诉了斯特鲁契柯夫。斯特鲁契柯夫关心地听罢此事，答道： “别胆小怕事，坦克手，'喝水喝不到脸面，过日子不管俊丑'，老弟，这叮是古训呢！是这样的，如今呀，老弟，男人们可金贵了。” 这番坦诚之言显然未能安慰葛沃兹捷夫。出院的期限临近了，他照镜子的次数也越来越多，一会儿从远处用所谓粗略的浮光掠影似的目光端详自己，一会儿又将自己残缺畸形的脸贴近镜于，一连好几小时地抚摸着凹凸的疤痕。 根据他的请求，克拉夫奇雅?米哈依洛夫娜替他买了扑粉和面霜。可是他立即就确信不疑，他的残缺是任何化妆品也掩饰不住的。然而一到夜里，当大家都睡着的时候，他就悄悄走进厕所里，在那里长久地按摩红色的疤痕，扑上面粉，再重新按摩，然后满怀希望地照镜子。远处看，无论哪一部位都精神十足：宽宽的肩膀，窄窄的臀部，笔直而肌肉发达的双腿。可是往近一看，面颊上和下巴上的红色疤痕以及紧绷的皮肤一下子让他堕入绝望之中。他恐惧地想到：她将如何看他？会忽地惊吓起来，会忽地打量他一眼，转身就走，耸耸肩。或许还有比这更糟的情景：她会出于礼貌与他谈上一两个钟头，然后说上一套冠冕堂皇的冷冰冰的话——就再见啦。葛沃兹捷夫激动起来，恼怒得脸色苍白，似乎这一切已经发生了。 那时他又从长衫兜里掏出一张照片，审视着这个胖姑娘：高高的额头，一头柔软而并不浓密的蓬松的秀发往后梳理着，小小的鼻子微微上翘——是地地道道的俄罗斯人的，嘴唇温柔，稚气未脱。嘴上面有一颗几乎不为人觉察的黑色胎痣。这个诚实而可爱的姑娘用那双微凸的灰色的或许是蓝色的眼睛坦然而真诚地望着他。 “你究竟会怎样呢？喂，说呀：你不会担惊受怕吧，不会逃走吧？你能有巨大的胸怀无视我的丑陋？”他审视着她，好像在询问她。 就在这时，走廊里传来了拐杖的咚咚声和假肢的吱吱声，上尉密列西耶夫经过他的身旁来回有节奏的、不知疲倦地走动着，一趟、两趟、十趟、十五趟、二十趟。每当早晨和晚上他都按照自己拟定的计划散步，逼迫自己完成作业并且逐日增长路程。 “棒小子！”葛沃兹捷夫琢磨道，“真有毅力，真有股蛮劲！一个人居然有这般意志力！一个星期他就学会了用拐杖又快又灵活地行走，这在别人可得学上好几个月呢。昨天他就拒不上担架，自己沿着楼梯走向治疗室，终于走到目的地，回来时又登楼梯，累得一脸泪水，可是他还是往上登。卫生员想助他一臂之力，竟被他骂了一通。当他独立地攀登到上面的楼梯口时，他是多么地容光焕发呀！似乎他登上了艾尔布鲁斯山峰①。” ①高加索最高山峰，海拔五千六百三十米。 葛沃兹捷夫离开镜子，注视着密列西耶夫用拐杖和腿快速行走的背影，瞧呀，走得真快！他的脸色多么好看，多么漂亮呀！眉宇间的一块小疤痕，丝毫没有破坏美，反而倒增添了某种含义。他葛沃兹捷夫现在要是有这副脸多好啊！腿算什么呢，腿又看不见，。至于走路和飞行，他当然能学会。可是脸呢，这副明明白白、像夜间有醉鬼在它上面敲过豌豆似的脸，以后往哪儿搁呢？ ……阿列克谢?密列西耶夫沿着走廊走完晚间规定的运动量的第二十三趟时，浑身精疲力竭，像散了架似的。他感到大腿那么肿胀、发热，被拐杖抵得发麻的肩膀又是那么地酸痛。走过葛沃兹捷夫身旁时，他斜睨了立于墙镜前的坦克手一眼，想道：怪物，他何必折腾自己那可冷的脸呢！现在他自然当不成电影明星了，可是当坦克手是绰绰有余的。最大的不幸是这张脸，不过他还有脑袋，有手、有腿呀。是的，是的，有一双腿，一双真正的腿，而不是这双又痛又热的半截子残肢。这假肢似乎个是皮革做成的，而是由热滚滚的铁水制作的。 咚、咚，吱、吱，咚、咚，吱、吱。 上尉密列西耶夫咬住双唇，忍住剧痛刺激出的泪水，艰难地完成了沿着走廊的第二十几趟路程，结束了一天的任务。