Ch. T. Aitmatov
She was the third year of the war. There were no adult healthy men in the village, and therefore the wife of my elder brother Sadyk (he was also at the front), Jamil, the brigadier sent to a purely male job – to transport grain to the station. And so that the elders did not worry about the bride, he sent me, a teenager, with her. He also said: I will send Daniyar with them.
Jamila was pretty – slender, stately, with blue-black almond-shaped eyes, tireless, dexterous. She knew how to get along with neighbors, but if she was hurt, she did not yield to anyone in abuse. I loved Jamil dearly. And she loved me. It seems to me that my mother secretly dreamed of making her the mistress of our family, who lived in harmony and prosperity.
And Jamila, so it was, was either laughing at him, or not at all paying attention to him. Not everyone would tolerate its antics, but Daniyar looked at Jamil laughing with gloomy admiration.
However, our tricks with Dzhamily ended sadly one day. Among the bags was one huge, seven poods, and we were ruled with him alone. And somehow the current, we dumped this bag in the partner’s shirt. At the station, Daniyar was anxiously looking at the monstrous load, but noticing how Jamil grinned, put the bag on his back and went. Jamila caught up with him: “Throw a bag, I’m joking!” “Go away!” – he said firmly and went down the ladder, more and more falling on his wounded leg… There was a dead silence around. “Throw it!” shouted the people. “No, he will not give up!” someone whispered confidently.