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...

The mass grave cannot be seen from a distance. Coastal trees, a wild garden hide it. The stone steps were loose. A modest tombstone. Above him is a woman in a sweatshirt, with her head uncovered. She lowered her head. Russian woman. Soldier. Mother. I don't know who the author of this modest sculpture is, but I have never felt more excitement anywhere. Everything is simple, even ordinary, modest, without pathos and monumentality. Trees, the sky, birds above, a tombstone - and this woman. And I cried, although I used to think that I could no longer cry. May the earth be down to you, Russian people. And forgive us for these collapsed steps, the fence overgrown with rubbish. Pobuzh was empty again. But the Soldier's Mother of God is with you for all eternity... As promised, I went to say goodbye to the farm. I thought once again about those who were the author of the sculpture on the grave. We have many beautiful obelisks and memorials. Whose authors have received (and deservedly) all kinds of awards. But it seems to me that the highest reward for an artist is when his work ceases to be just a sculpture. People called a Russian woman in a sweatshirt the Soldier's Mother of God. Is there a top grade? An almost full bucket of milk was waiting for me on the farm. They asked not to offend and drink everything. After the third mug, I "broke". When Pobuj was far behind, I could still hear the humming on the farm. Who knows, maybe it was the last peasants of the Bug who worked? I climbed the mountain. The view was amazing. From the huge forest, there, in the east, it was as if children had run away and now they adorned the boundless hills with small green islands. Here was the border of the Kaluga region. Here the road ended. Some clever guy just plowed it. But I did not despair. Retyun, the nearest Tula village, was about three kilometers away, and I decided that it would not be difficult to overcome them.

And so it happened. Retyun met me as if from an ambush. Just now there was a field, a forest, a bend in the road - and here in front of me was a tiny dam with clear water and three children splashing in it. A thin man in wet family underpants came out of the nearest house, or rather garden.

- Tired from the journey? Refresh yourself, the water is wonderful. I swam with my children. Don't you want to eat? I'll bring something now," and he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

Soon the man appeared with a loaf and a can of milk, saying that his wife was at work, and he did not find anything more worthwhile. He was embarrassed to offer me raw eggs. I thought that he was unnecessarily ashamed. Raw eggs with brown bread and salt are a great thing. I remember how my grandmother told me about how my grandfather, working at the mill, once "washed" the work with a three-liter jar of first for two, having eaten a bucket of raw eggs. After all, genes are a strong thing. However, in this case, I thanked Anatoly Ivanovich (that was the name of the hospitable man), saying that he was unnecessarily worried, I was not hungry at all. I think he doubted this, watching how quickly the loaf disappeared, not to mention the milk. The sun had already begun to sink to the west. Anatoly Ivanovich's children, who had bathed until they were blue in the face, surrounded us. Unexpectedly for me, an ordinary light conversation began to take on a philosophical tinge. Anatoly Ivanovich talked about how he once left here for the city, how he toiled there for so many years. Now he's back and doesn't regret it. He works as a foreman. He loves books very much, but there is no one to discuss them with: people. The male half of it. Here I am interested in something completely different. What people are interested in. I could soon be convinced. A man sat down next to us, who called himself Semyon Semenovich. The state in which Semyon Semyonovich was could be defined as excited and joyful. But, apparently, he wanted to get even more excited. Anatoly Ivanovich, as if justifying himself, told me that "he drinks himself, but in moderation."

It was time for me to move on. After a short meeting, the best route was found, and we, shaking hands tightly, parted. But here the old story repeated itself. The roads were ploughed up, and I got lost. Instead of Slobodka, after long wanderings, I came to the bank of the same river that divided the Bug into three parts. It was Vyrka. And like in Pobuzh - with a swampy shore and a high left steep. I counted a dozen houses in the village. Village children passing by suggested what the village was called: Dolbino. I could not believe my ears. How? The village of the Kireevsky brothers, where they were born and lived most of their lives! I no longer doubted that I was destined to get lost. Yesterday I stood at their graves, today I came to their Penates. St. Ambrose blessed me to come to the native places of my spiritual children.

- Guys, - I ask, - tell me how to get to the estate, it must be here somewhere. - And before my eyes are the drawings of Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky, who at one time lived here with Elagina, the mother of the Kireevsky brothers and his niece. What drawings! What an idyll and beauty they have. A rural paradise! Do not forget that here in Dolbino the poet experienced his strongest feeling, which dramatically passed through his entire life.

The boys looked at each other uncertainly.