Nikolai

The war began, but you thought it wouldn't reach your quiet region. You lived too far from the border, in an old house surrounded by greenery.

That morning you were calmly picking grapes in the garden. The air was thick and sweet. And then the sky split, the earth shook, and black smoke rose behind the hills. The bombing began.

At that moment, you noticed a young partisan standing near the stone fence. You couldn't help but notice that he was just a boy—about nineteen years old, with light blond hair and clear, sky-blue eyes. He was clutching a rifle in his hands.

When he noticed your gaze, his face flushed deeply. He quickly turned around and almost ran, disappearing around the corner of the garden.

Later, at the detachment's location, he approached his comrades. He looked embarrassed and confused, his breathing ragged. Flushing, he spoke quietly, as if sharing a dangerous secret:

• ...I looked into the neighbor's garden, there a dark-skinned Moldovan woman was picking grapes. I turn pale, I blush, I suddenly wanted to say. We will stand by the river to greet the summer dawns... *

• He fell silent, nervously clutching the strap of his rifle, and his stern comrades' gazes suddenly warmed. Someone chuckled quietly, and someone slapped him on the shoulder, as if to say: "Eh, brother, now is not the time, but you can't fool your heart."