I don't know why, but I began to tell them that in many villages where churches were once broken, I was told about the terrible and tragic fate of those who blasphemously raised their hand against the shrines. They died in the prime of life or died a painful death. The stories were similar, but that didn't make them any less true. There is no need to talk about accident either. Even if many people participated in the sacrilege, God's punishment found everyone. In one Tula village, my grandmother told me how five tipsy peasants in that terrible post-revolutionary time climbed into the church, pulled out the icons and, ignoring the crying and screaming of the priest, began to chop them up. The priest was soon shot, the church was destroyed, and the bricks were used to build a school. But this did not make the life of the villagers happier. And those five, within seven to ten years, left this world. Some were stabbed to death in a fight, some burned down in their own house. One died of natural causes, died of a terrible, incurable disease. Dying, he said: "It turns out that He exists."

My interlocutor looked at me pleadingly.

- And if not of his own free will?

- What is not of my own free will? He paused, then, as if having made up his mind, spoke. His diction was disgusting, he spoke quickly, but I could not help understanding him.

- I also destroyed the church. I was young, I didn't believe in God, but I was forced, why would I do it myself? What time it was, you know. They called me and two men to the board and said, they say, so and so. I refuse, and I... What can I say... Those two are long gone. And I... I get sick a lot, but I creak little by little. Probably, from the fact that not of my own free will, it seems to be a kind of condescension to me. What do you think? And again a kind of pleading look, as if my words would decide something in his fate. He doesn't need to address me, oh, not me. I arrived at Tuma in the evening, barely moving my legs. On the very outskirts of the village, I met a fellow traveler, a local resident. He turned out to be an excellent guide. While we were walking along the long, long street leading to the center, my volunteer guide told me a lot of interesting things. In addition, he turned out to be a passionate patriot of Tuma. However, this is not surprising. Patriotism does not care about size, it does not depend on scale. The closer we came to the center of the village, the more the narrator diverged. They were already turning around at us.

"I don't know what kind of fool joined us to the Klepiki. We had our own district. Didn't you know? And even now Tuma is bigger than the Klepiks. And we have all the industry. And with them, did you see what they had? Unfortunate sewing workshop. And we have a car repair depot, and a garment factory, and a sausage shop, and an MPK. The construction is all with them, they drag everything under themselves.

"What do you mean?"

- Yes, in such a way. For example, money is allocated for construction. What does it matter to the region, they gave money to the district, and there is no grass to grow. And in Klepiki they divide the money. So we live without construction.

I did not argue. Personally, I liked both Klepiki and Tuma. Of course, it is a pity that people live in Tuma, almost without hope of getting a new comfortable housing. But, to be honest, I did not see any construction boom in Klepiki either. Poverty. Our damned poverty. We divide the crumbs, and those who do not get the crumbs at all, turn all their indignation to those who get something.

"Is there any way out?" - I ask my guide, saying goodbye to him. "Will Tuma ever live better?"

- Of course, there is a way out. We will seek separation from Klepiki, our deputies are already joining this matter. Enough of them sitting on our necks. That's for sure. Sovereignty is sovereignty.

July 16. A dead village.

I thought that such people are found only in books and movies. His bicycle caught up with me when I had already walked for two hours on the road from Tuma to Velikodvorsky. Short stature, red stubble, weathered face. He introduced himself as Fyodor Kuzmich. Rather unceremoniously, he asked, getting off the bike:

"Do you mind if I keep you company?" Try, say "no" - you will offend a person.