Anton Udod. Dark Bread

If Belarus, a country that look at the map as it is unreal how to win a national lottery, won in World War I, I was lying hopelessly trying to sleep, covered with narrow cotton blanket on the wet grass temporary POW camp. Dry cheese and a loaf of bread is very savory dark, abandoned me smiling enemy-guard as heinous allegations of international rules of fair war, it is not enough, but appropriated forces. They, and still far from distracting lights fires continuous cannonade weep my friends who were placed beside "They cut off the head, they cut off the genitals, they burn alive, they get fed our dog" … And was just only the third day operation "Thank you," whereby our enemy kill random South American soldier, whether he or ordinary General Private, at one point for a day right up to the moment when the scum in Washington on paskupitstsa shameful capitulation. And although now happened only three unknown victims, our guys already terribly cried, after eating mold cheese and dark bread, hiding under blankets light from carnivorous vertuhayskih blowing machines, begging for mercy of the enemy, and the Pentagon about empathy, because any of us could become thereafter. In its own absurdity vague illness I contemplate the answer to such heartily offered by our state green card. About how such a small country could put a flea on his knees the whole civilized world, I tried not to think.
Followed earliest, when winter came to my calculations, we have moved into the country somewhere in the real concentration camp, where we had felling large trees in favor of the enemy. Opened brand new page of my life, I try to look closely to the 2-sides, and from time to time do not see anything through the mists of the warm winter and the smell of the pine forest.
These three and a half months have killed 71 fighters of the South American (I happily passed such a fate), just world order and undermined obviously pryblizili doomsday. Yet they are very changed me. And looking into the dirty water puddles, I beheld as coarsens my face as of greenish-boy rookie, I was transformed into a man-lumberjack tales of ancestors and Kerouac novels.
These strangers sacred forests, meanwhile, so similar to my grandmother’s native Virginia, these sharp, but in the soul myagenkie watchmen, cold voiced announcements that followed in the morning in our camp and will not be killed, of course, this kitchen of weird russian, rough and warm at once, with black bread of mandatory , which had a sour taste for me right and something very familiar, and something quite alien.
I wrote many letters home, even more beloved Julia tried to write just is not bad, about what we do not touch, about what currency razvivayusya trees and on a physical level, that the war will end soon, and, of course, about the dark bread, I mentioned in almost every letter. Nothing that the letters did not reach, I like the process of writing, NIGHT MODE in the light faded barracks.
Three and a half months proparhali inconspicuously, but remained in my memoirs magic unhealthy sleep whole life lived in a dream.
Our battalion prisoner amnesty last week before Washington decided to give life 72 th fighter and conceded defeat. Country-winner quite understand his victory, and was preparing to celebrate a large scale state prazdnichek. Watchmen walked clean-shaven and satisfied, they congratulated us, we humbly reciprocated.
Then there was the return. Shadow process of exchanging prisoners of war. Smoky train. Monstrous transport plane from Warsaw, where I felt forgotten already pungent smell of fast food and terrified of the Polish flag, which not much than differed from the enemy’s flag. Satisfaction and tears of family and friends when they met at a military base. A short way home on his father’s car with endless "how", "For what?", "What are you?" …
I umyknuv parental home, not Ignoring tears mom pazbeg and beloved, who just found out me at the meeting. This will all be followed by yet enough …
Familiar smells and faces Subway absorbed me, sprinkled courteous claps and gaze senior women — Hi reverence soldier who returned home. Unfortunately, not a hero.
I drove seven stops to Brighton Beach and went on the air around the Russian store, over which a funny Cyrillic letters housed magical and incomprehensible «Zolotoy Kluchik».
— Give me a dark bread — I said an elderly Jew wearing glasses that looked at me because had look on his sarodichy American soldier, followed Brahma Nazi camps.
He gave me a lot of magic, as they say they are, bukhanku and smiled sweetly, looking a trifle to change.
But once significantly impaired a nervous and disappointed, lowered his eyes at my clumsy "Dzyakooy", as both his homeland also defeated in this magical World War.

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