Pekashinsky muzhik Stepan Andreyevitch Stavrov cut down the house on the slope of the mountain, in the cool twilight of a huge larch. Yes, not a house – a two-story house with a small side shelter in addition.
There was a war. In Pekashino there were old people, children and women. Without a look in their eyes, the buildings collapsed and fell apart. But Stavrov’s house is strong, solid, for all time. The old man was knocked down by the funeral of his son. He remained with the old woman and grandson of Egorsha.
Did not pass the trouble and the family of Anna Pryaslina: his husband Ivan died, the only breadwinner. And Anna’s children are small small less – Mishka, Lizka, twins Petya with Grishka, Fedyushka and Tatyanka. In the village the woman was called Anna-doll. She was small and thin, with a good face, but no female worker. Two days have passed since the funeral was received and the elder sat down at the father’s place at the table, Mishka.
Mother brushed the tear from her face and nodded her head in silence.
She herself could not pull the guys out. She and so to fulfill the norm, stayed up till the night on the plowed field. One day, when they worked with their wives, they saw a stranger. A hand in a sling. It turned out he was from the front. I sat and talked to the women about the collective farm life, and I was asked to call him how to call him, and from what village he was. “Lukashin,” he answered, “Ivan Dmitrievich.” I have been sent to the sowing post for you from the District Committee. “
The sowing was oh and difficult. There are not many people, but from the district committee it is ordered to increase the area under crops: the front needs bread. Unexpectedly for everyone, the irreplaceable worker was Mishka Pryaslin. Something I did not do in my fourteen years. In the collective farm he worked for an adult man, and even for a family. His sister, a twelve-year-old Lizka, was also full of trouble and trouble. Stove the furnace, cope with the cow, feed the children, clean it in the hut, wash the belish…
sowing – mowing, then harvesting… Chairman of the collective farm Anfisa Minina returned to her empty hut late at night and, without undressing, fell on the bed. And a little light, she is already on her feet – milking a cow, and she herself with fear thinks that the kolkhoz pantry ends with bread. And all the same – happy. Because I remember how I spoke to Ivan Dmitrievich on the board.
Autumn is not far off. The boys will go to school soon, and Mishka Pryaslin – to logging. We must pull the family. Dyunyasha Inyahina decided to study at the technical school. Gave Misha a farewell to a lace handkerchief.
The reports from the front are more and more alarming. The Germans have already reached the Volga. And in the district committee, finally, responded to the urgent request of Lukashin – they let go of the war. He wanted to finally explain with Anfisa, but it did not work out. In the morning, she purposely left for the haypole, and Varvara Inyahina came there to her. She swore to all, that she had nothing with Lukashin. Anfisa rushed to the translation, at the very water jumped from her horse to the wet sand. On that shore the figure of Lukashin flashed and melted.