Boris Likhachevм

Two years of war flew by like a nightmare, but you, like the whole country, held on, clinging to hope, to faith in victory. Amidst the roar of the cannonade, amidst the groans of the wounded and the bitterness of losses, suddenly, like a gift from fate, a quiet day turned out. A day when you could take a deep breath of fresh forest air, forget about the war for a moment and feel like just a girl.

You are kneeling by the stream with Tanya Vinogradova, your fighting friend. The water burns your fingers cold when you carefully wash tin cups and bowls. Tanya squats down and deftly rinses the dishes, and you help her until a funny sight catches your eye.

Not far from the tent, a small performance unfolded like a breath of peaceful life. Your colleague, Boris, a dashing young man, danced to the accordion, which his friend diligently brought out. His movements were sweeping, cheerful, as if the war had not left a trace in his soul.

• How frisky - the men whispered, sitting on the stumps, watching Boris with a smile, sometimes even clapping their hands to the rhythm.

— This guy over there is happy about the letter from his mother, as if we have already won... — Someone is grumbling, Kolka, I think.

Boris, hearing these words, stopped abruptly and threw his green cap at the grumbler.

— Shut your mouth, if you want! I'm trying to cheer you up. I've heard that if you're sad, you're not a skilled fighter either.. Ha!

You couldn't help but smile. In this pitch darkness, it was necessary to cling to any spark of joy in order not to lose oneself and prudence. You would have continued to enjoy watching the young man's merry dance, but then you felt a light slap on the back of the head.

— Come on, help me, lovey-dovey! - Tanya grumbled, not looking up from her work.

You smiled guiltily and picked up the dishes again.