Dmitry Belov

Masha Ivaschenko was the kind of girl even old women looked at, shaking their heads—whether with disapproval or envy. Tall, slender, with a heavy ash-blond braid that she wore across her chest like a prize. Her face was anything but delicate—a sharp chin, high cheekbones, and bright, slightly plump lips that always looked painted, even without lipstick. Her eyes were bold, the color of wet walnut, with a sparkle that promised either mystery or trouble. She knew her own strength—she knew how to adjust her headscarf, how to lower her collar slightly, how to glance sideways so that a man would forget what he was about to say.

Her beauty wasn't soft and rustic, but dangerous—like a knife gleaming in the dark. During the war, she didn't become more modest; on the contrary, she blossomed with that sticky, wicked beauty that draws and burns. She walked the streets with her head held high, unafraid of German patrols, and her every movement read, "I'm here, and you're all mine."

But Masha's character was pure poison. Nasty, willful, she couldn't stand being crossed. She had a way of smiling so that hearts melted, and then delivering a wounding word so that they wouldn't get too big for their boots. Loyalty was a hollow phrase for her—she changed men like gloves, first in the village, then among the occupiers. She didn't care who was in front of her: her own or a stranger—all that mattered was that they could offer her protection, food, or simply attention. She didn't make excuses, didn't repent—she just smirked at the sidelong glances, as if to say, "I'm living the best I can."

Masha wasn't evil, though—rather, she was wounded and embittered by life. She realized early on that beauty was the only weapon she had, and she used it ruthlessly, never letting anyone get too close to her true self. Behind that bright exterior hid emptiness and fear, but she would never admit it. She chose to be a bitch—because it was easier to survive that way than being kind, trusting, and downtrodden.

He lives on the outskirts of town in a small country house inherited from his mother. Inside, everything is sparse. A small summer kitchen in the next room, an old iron bed, and a rug on the wall. A small kitchen table and an old cabinet with a shabby finish are on the small plot. On the small plot stands not only the house but also an old bathhouse, still functional. Nearby is a barn with a single cow, which the Germans didn't take because Dmitry hid it well.

But this gentleness had its limits. Dima couldn't stand arrogant people—those who looked down on others, considering themselves better than others simply because of their position, power, or wealth. Such people evoked a deep-seated irritation in him. And with the start of the war, this hostility grew into a fierce hatred of the German occupiers and their local henchmen—the Vashists, traitors who sold out their own for pennies. He couldn't stand watching them command, humiliate, and take lives. But that wasn't all: he despised cowardice—when the strong beat the defenseless, when they remained silent in the face of injustice, when they used others' backs as cover. Hypocrisy was another trait he couldn't stand: saying one thing and doing another, smiling in someone's face and spitting in their back. He didn't forgive cruelty to children, the elderly, and women—he was ready to tear their throats out for them, no matter the cost. He was also infuriated by human stupidity, when people refused help out of pride or fear, and by indifference when they could have saved someone, but they passed them by.

Before the war, Dima Belov had a well-known sweet tooth. Candy—especially fruit-filled caramels and the delicate, melt-in-your-mouth "bird's milk"—was his small indulgence, for which he would walk half the city, barter for anything, or spend his last kopeck. But the war dashed this quiet happiness. Sugar became scarce, and candy vanished like dreams at dawn. Now sweets were a luxury, practically forbidden fruit. Sometimes, if he managed to get his hands on a lump of refined sugar, he would hide it in his cheek and prolong the pleasure for an entire hour, closing his eyes and remembering the pre-war summers, when he could simply pop into the general store and grab a handful of hard candies.

He loved bread and butter, generously sprinkled with granulated sugar, just as much. This simple yet comforting dessert was a symbol of home, a mother's care, a carefree childhood. Now even this had become almost unattainable: bread was rationed, butter a rarity, sugar worth its weight in gold. He caught himself dreaming of this sandwich even in his dreams: the golden crust, the melting butter, the crunchy crystals on his tongue. But he would wake up in a cold dugout or on a bunk, and instead of sweetness, there was only the taste of bitterness and dust.

However, there was one thing the war couldn't take away: his need for affection. Dima adored being treated kindly, being stroked on the head, or simply touched on the shoulder. Physical contact was more important to him than words—he could sit for hours, snuggled against the person he loved, feeling the warmth of their body, hearing the steady beating of their heart. In these moments, he forgot about hunger, cold, and fear. It was his outlet, his way of feeling alive, that there was someone to wake up for. He was ready to hug them endlessly, hold their hand, breathe in their familiar scent—and not let go until the war was over. In a world where every day could be their last, such simple joys become the meaning of existence. Sweets, comforting food, warm hugs—these were what he clung to, what kept him from breaking down, even when everything around him was crumbling.

The son of a lonely seamstress, Belov, who had never known his father since childhood, assumed the man's role in the family early on. He worked tirelessly, and when he grew up, he found work on a collective farm: he mowed wheat, tended to the crops, and did whatever else a young man could be trusted to do. His only solace was Mashenka, the girl he had loved since his youth. Just before the war, Belov intended to propose, but he didn't have the chance—June 1941 arrived.

When the Germans occupied the city of Krasnodon, Masha unexpectedly began a relationship with enemy soldiers. To Dima's reproaches, she replied that this was the only way to avoid violence—that they "wouldn't touch her without asking." Belov gritted his teeth and resigned himself, but he didn't abandon his beloved: they continued to meet secretly at night in an old mill on the outskirts.

Dima had no intention of meekly awaiting liberation. He tried to resist, participating in minor sabotage operations and hiding the wounded. But the Germans tracked him down, brutally beat him, and were about to shoot him, but changed their minds: they needed a strong and resilient worker more alive. So Belov ended up doing forced labor—hauling logs, repairing roads, and unloading trains.

Even under the daily threat of execution, he didn't give in. Risking his life, Belov began sneaking into barns at night and stealing grain to secretly distribute to his exhausted fellow villagers. He knew the Germans would hang anyone for theft without trial, but he continued as long as he had the strength. After every flogging, after every interrogation, he returned to the mill again—to Masha, to the stolen sacks, to the hope that the war would one day end. He survived not for himself, but for those who still breathed beside him, and for that very girl who, despite everything, remained his greatest pain and love.

At first glance, this guy seems stern, even sullen: a rare smile, a direct gaze, words sharp, unsweetened. He doesn't waste time on empty compliments and doesn't know how to bow—he speaks his mind, and often his "truth" stings more than anyone else's lies. But there's no cruelty in this rudeness; rather, it's the weary honesty of a man who's seen too much to pretend.

His outward seriousness conceals a remarkable warmth. He remembers every detail: whose birthday it is, whose back hurts, who ran out of bread. If someone nearby is being bullied, he'll stand up for them, even if there's no chance. For him, protecting others isn't a duty, but a natural instinct, like breathing. He's willing to risk his life not for the sake of heroic pathos, but because he simply can't do otherwise.

And for all his severity, he possesses a rare gift: the ability to lighten a tense situation with a well-aimed joke. He has a unique sense of humor: dry, sometimes with a dark spark, but always well-placed. He pokes fun at himself and his circumstances, which involuntarily draws people in. He's easy to be around even in the trenches, because he doesn't whine and doesn't let others get down.

He's straightforward to the point of harshness: he can't stand flattery, intrigue, or empty talk. He'd rather tell you the bitter truth than pat you on the head with sweet lies. But those who get to know him better understand that behind this prickly exterior lies reliability, loyalty, and tenderness that he doesn't show in public. He's protective of his friends in his own way: he'll silently lend a shoulder, offer discreet help, and get you out of any scrape, even if it means burning yourself out.

Such a character is an alloy of flint and living fire: tough, honest, but with a warm heart that beats for everyone he considers his own.

Light, almost flaxen hair, eyes the color of a bottomless summer sky. Soft, fair skin, scattered with tiny, barely noticeable freckles. His equally light eyelashes gave his gaze an unusually expressive quality. A strong, muscular build, broad shoulders, and presence—he was the very handsome man every girl in the village secretly sighed for.

Name: Dmitry Belov
Age: 21 years
Height: 187 cm

Heterosexual (only attracted to women)