The path leads away from the main road into a ravine. You get out of it - and you are already in the village of Deshevki. I looked back at Kozelsk for the last time. Optina churches are no longer visible. Still, I was mistaken in saying that the city was asleep. I see that at least a third of its residents have gathered at several buses and cars. Everything is clear: they see the guys off to the amiya. The air seems to be rarefied by the sound of an accordion. The accordion player played clumsily, but loudly. And, most importantly, sincerely. Lord, can this still happen in our time? Quite recently. On a Moscow bus. I became an unwitting witness to one conversation, during which a young man of about twenty-five suggested to another, even younger, who said that he would soon go to the army, what nonsense it was to do military service, and that prison was better than the army, and at the same time told several ways to avoid service. I do not think that the mothers of these Kozelsk boys with a light heart accompanied their children far away from home, then I am sure that neither they nor their sons had any thoughts of breaking their duty. After all, this is the Russian outback, and innovations reach here later. If they reach it at all.

Deshevki turned out to be a large village, imperceptibly turning into another, equally large one - Berezichi. The people here are open and talkative. A woman, running past me, hurried to the bus, which, apparently, was supposed to arrive, and threw it on the move, as if I was asking her for an explanation: "Here, fool, I'm late. And there would be a reason! I looked at how Matveevna, like a horse, plows on herself, as if she did not have a man."

I had to go along the road descending far down to the Zhizdra bridge, from there through the village of the glass factory to the Slagovishchi station. Then the track lay by rail. At best, only in the evening did I come to the Kireevskaya station. The path ahead was long. But I immediately decided to turn off the road, seeing a church on the side. Our ancestors knew how to find the most beautiful places for temples, tried to make the church visible from the farthest distance. The church in Bereznichi is no exception. Her fate is also typical. It was closed in the thirties. At first, something was stored in it, then it was abandoned completely. But they used to build it soundly, so it rises, it seems to be defeated, without domes, crosses, but still striving for the sky. I went inside.In several places there are even pieces of painting.One fragment can be seen well: children are hurrying to Christ. The hands are wide open, they stretch them out to the Lord, there are smiles on the faces of the mothers. The artist did not draw Jewish children at all, but his own, Russians (fortunately, there was a lot of nature around). Surprisingly, he even conveyed how blond children's curls were caressed by the breeze. "They brought children to him, that he might touch them; but the disciples did not admit those who brought them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant, and said to them, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for of such is the kingdom of God." Verily I say unto you, Whosoever receiveth not the kingdom of God as a child shall not enter it. And having embraced them, he laid his hands on them, and blessed them" (Mark 10:13-16).

I confess that when I approached the bridge, I was pretty tired. Either from the heat, or from lack of habit: after all, it was the first day of the journey. So the fast and cool Zhizdra came in handy. In addition, I have a peculiar hobby: once I decided to swim in all the famous Russian rivers. I haven't bathed in Zhizdra yet. I was accompanied by five young gypsies. The soul of their company was Zina and Rada. The gypsies were swimming on the opposite bank, quite far from me, but the noise design was such that after five minutes I not only knew what their names were, what they thought of each other, but even all their shortcomings. Rada especially helped me in this. She looked about 9-10 years old, her older brothers and sister decided to teach her to swim. The most interesting thing is that the Rada itself did not want this. Zina was especially affected. To be honest, I did not suspect that the Russian language in the Gypsy interpretation is so sophisticated. When Rada yelled, furiously kicking with all her limbs, that her sister was an "old whore", it almost ended badly for the young gypsy. No, her sister did not even think of being offended by her, they just laughed so unanimously that they let go of their hands at once. But everything worked out. And when I was climbing the mountain that began right by the river, I heard a girl's singing coming from the river. Rada sang. And on the mountain, and I already knew it, there was once a rich estate of Prince Obolensky. There were once many Obolenskys in Russia, among them there were not only cornets. Their estates, or rather, what was left of them, I had previously met in Tula, Lipetsk, Ryazan and other regions. I never found out the exact name of this Obolensky (I think it was Nikolai Alexeevich), but he was, apparently, an outstanding person. And an excellent owner. The surname is noble, but it does not look like Gaev from "The Cherry Orchard" at all. He built a large glass factory, which still works perfectly, the station building at the Slagovishchi station, which is still the best building on this entire line. And his estate, plundered and plundered, continued to serve people to this day. Before the war, there was a sanatorium, during the war a hospital, now a boarding school for children with retarded development. The entrance is easy to find: even if there is nothing left of the former gate, the old lime trees, invariable companions of Russian estates, show where the entrance alley was. There are many new one-story buildings. And where is the manor's house? With difficulty, but I find it, or rather, what is left of it: four walls without a roof, or to be more precise, fragments of the walls. I tried to carry out "survey" work: here, apparently, there was a front entrance, on this lawn, apparently, flowers grew; A fruit garden descended to the river. Now all that remains of all this is the red skeleton of the house, and the lush greenery, from which you can make a complete herbarium called "wild plants of central Russia." But this sky remained the same as a hundred years ago, high, high, white from the heat. This river carries its warm waters. And just like a hundred years ago, a bumblebee buzzes, perching on a flower. I lay down under the hazelnut tree, closed my eyes... I don't know whether it was a dream, a dream, or a vision. I saw a girl in a white dress and with a ball in her hand. I would give her twelve years, but long white dresses grow up children. I could not see the features of the face. The girl shouted something, throwing the ball up. At the cry a little dog jumped out, white, with dark ears and spots on the side. Suddenly, the girl and the dog saw me. The dog rushed into the bushes and stopped. The child did not seem to be frightened, but, looking around, he went to the bushes. I want to shout: don't be afraid, I'm a casual traveler, but I'm a friend, only the words get stuck in my throat; I want to ask: what is your name, and again I can't. But from somewhere above came a quiet sound, like the rustle of leaves: Ta-nya, - Anya, -I... The girl looked at me for the last time and disappeared into the thicket. I opened my eyes. Where she had just stood, hazel branches shuddered sadly, as if someone had touched them. And yet there is no breeze, no man. Only heat, sky and old ruins.

There is very little left to tell about this day. Like a man stupefied by the heat, he wandered along the sleepers: it was impossible to go aside - the Gryazna River tried - there was a swampy forest all around. My heart began to fail.

People came in and out, looked in surprise at the eccentric, who was younger and braver, even approached. But I didn't care. I was asleep, and I dreamed of a girl in a white dress. I felt good. And for some reason I wanted to cry.

June 20. The Soldier's Mother of God.

That's amazing. Rising early in the morning from my wooden bed, I felt that I had a great rest. His legs seemed to be begging to go. The only thing that bothered me was the road itself. On my way, I tried to avoid large asphalt roads that directly connected the cities, preferring those that we modestly call "roads of regional significance". That is why I went to Belev not by a direct route, to the east, but to the south, through the Kozelsk and Belev villages. Let the path be longer, but more interesting. However, in this case, it should not be forgotten that Belev is already another region, Tula. And from experience I already knew that in such "border" places it is not easy to find the right way and not get lost. Gone are the days when people hung their bags over their shoulders and went on the road on foot, not embarrassed by the distance. Paths, paths, paths between villages, especially those. That they were depopulated or were in different territorial associations, overgrown. But I was destined to experience all this in the evening.

In the meantime, it was just a lovely morning. On the left side of me there were fields, interspersed with forests, on the right - forests, interspersed with fields. I covered ten kilometers to the village of Chernysheno almost unnoticed by myself. A cool breeze blew in his face, under his feet was a beautiful concrete paved by the military. A regular bus, a truck, and two tractors - that's all that I met on my way. However, there was another fellow traveler, or rather, a fellow traveler. On a roadside burdock bush on my right side sat a wagtail. The little bird tilted its head, carefully examining me with intelligent eyes. I greeted her, she chirped something and flew to another bush. This went on for two hundred meters. Then she made a circle over me and disappeared. Those who have walked alone for long hours in the field, in the forest, will understand me. During such wanderings, imperceptibly for oneself, some special attitude to nature is developed. I remember my first hiking trips, my first night's stays somewhere in a pile of straw. The huge sky overhead, the anxious rustle of the wind in the coastal bushes, the cries of night birds. How lonely, lonely, dreary! How you want comfort, a warm bed, a people's conversation. But days pass. And as if looking closely at you, nature itself changes. And you begin to see and hear everything differently. The sky above is simply beautiful in its starry radiance, the sound of reeds lulls you, evoking good dreams, and the corncrake, creaking all night, seems to be a grumpy but gentle old man, complaining about old age and worries. But all this cannot be suggested to oneself, cannot be invented, and it happens imperceptibly for a person. And you will no longer pick the flower that you like, and you will look under your feet so as not to accidentally crush the little troublesome forest owner - the ant. When you stop for a halt, be sure to ask permission from the surrounding trees and shrubs, and when collecting medicinal herbs, you apologize to the plants. I want to say right away that I am not a pagan and do not believe in either goblins or water spirits at all. It's completely different here. We are all people, trees, ants, birds - God's creation. Man, created in the image of God, of course, possessing a mind and a soul, occupies a special place. But, imagining ourselves to be the kings of nature, we forgot that no one authorized us to do this. Our distant ancestors knew how to somehow get along with the world around them. We are

- they have forgotten how to fence themselves off with stone boxes and who knows who suggested that it is not a matter to remake nature. The result is in front of our eyes. Moreover, a believer knows how, in the course of his personal communion with God, any illusion about himself, his merits, and his place in the world disappears. When an old monk, who was for many a model of wisdom and other spiritual qualities worthy of imitation and admiration, writes at the end of his life that he is "the most sinful and unworthy person" - this is not hypocrisy or a play on words, but a sincere conviction. And I think: maybe the Lord deliberately leads us to understand this in different ways? One of them is through communication with Nature. Probably, this is the amazing feeling that arises in you; You are equal to an ant, no better than it, and to deprive a living creature of life for no reason is a grave sin. And let someone after you admire this flower. Chernysheno turned out to be a large village with a very picturesque pond. I confess that I can't say anything more about this settlement. I was in a hurry. Pobuzh, the next village, was seven kilometers away, and I wanted to get there before noon. The road from the pond went up the mountain, winding like a snake between buoys, rivers, ravines. The forest was getting smaller. Pobuj immediately amazed me. He lay in front of me as if in the palm of his hand. In the middle of the village there was a river with very swampy banks. It dictated the location of houses and buildings - its flow was too intricate. Her houses were arranged in the same intricate, undulating way. There were many of them. But it was surprising: I walked through the village for a minute, two, and not a single living soul. Somewhere far to the left I heard voices. Farm. And now I'm sitting in a tiny room, swarms of flies all around, but it's the only dry room on the farm. I know that before I ask questions, I need to answer the questions of others myself. In this case, two milkmaids who are interested in literally everything. When I learned that I was walking from afar, the usual female reaction followed: they threw up their hands, they began to feel sorry for me, sincerely trying to understand what kind of evil fate made me wander. After my explanations, they calm down, suggest how best to go further, tell about their life, about the village. They talk about bitter things, but they speak somehow ordinary, as if resigned. About the fact that there were a dozen old people left in the village, that there was no one to milk the cows, that if they, the unfortunate ones, quit their jobs, the farm would be closed, that the store had already been closed, that once a week a mobile shop with bread came, and for everything else they had to go to Chernysheno, that the children were calling to their city, and as soon as you left your native places. After all, what kind of freedom and beauty is here, it would be nice to live and live, but you can see such a fate...

I listen to these women as I listened before others, as tomorrow and the day after tomorrow I will hear the third. Men usually scold Gorbachev, ask what kind of person Yeltsin is, can you trust him, and women just look you in the eye and ask: are you a city man, can you hope for something good or not? They remember that under Brezhnev there was everything in the stores. In which stores? Yes, in our villages. Any cereals, a lot of sugar, any sweets, various cookies there, there is nothing to say about wine. And now, if it were not for your own potatoes, cabbage and cucumbers, at least you would die of hunger. I begin to babble something, but then, feeling all the falsity of my words, I fall silent. They nod their heads in understanding: who will figure it all out now?

Elena Sergeevna Grishina suddenly remembers that I am from the road and it would be nice to drink milk, but milking will be in an hour. "While you are waiting, go to the grave of our Soldier's Mother of God."

"The Soldier's Mother of God?"

-Yes. Don't you know about Pobuzhnichy? And it turns out that the slow death of Pobuzh is the second act of the tragedy of this Kaluga village. The first tragedy occurred in the winter of 1941 - 1942. Hundreds of villagers died in one day. Women, old people, children. They were burned alive and shot. Pobuzh is the Russian Khatyn. I am told that there are books about the tragedy. But I ask you to tell me about what happened fifty years ago, especially since Elena Sergeevna is an eyewitness of those events. There are two versions of what happened. According to one reason, the reason for everything was a village idiot who poured water on the corpse of a German (there were many of them lying in the fields, the fighting was heavy) and together with the children used it to roll down the mountains. According to another, it's all about a lost detachment of Red Army soldiers who were given shelter. And in the village there lived an interpreter, a traitor, who hurried to the nearest village, where the German unit was stationed, to inform his masters about it. The massacre of innocent people was terrible. Most burned down in their homes. Those who tried to take refuge in a few brick buildings were shot. Children were thrown into the well. Few managed to escape...