"Anatoly Rybakov. The dirk (Кортик, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Misha wondered what Polevoy would do when they met.
Probably slap him on the back and say, "Well, Mikhail Grigoryevich, how
are things?"
Perhaps he would give him a revolver and a belt to hang it on, and they
would walk down the street together, armed and bandaged like real soldiers.
That would give the fellows something to look at! Even Petukh would not be
able to scare him then.
Mother entered the room. Grandfather had sent her a telegram and she
had come down from Moscow a few days ago.
She tidied the bed clothes, cleared the plates and bread from the
table, and brushed off the crumbs.
"Mother," Misha asked, "is the cinema in our block working?"
"Yes."
"What picture are they showing?"
"I don't remember. Lie still."
"I am. Has our bell been repaired?"
"No. You'll do it when you come home."
"Of course, I will. Who'd you see of the fellows? Did you see Slava?"
"Yes."
"And Shura Bolshoi?"
"Yes, I saw them all. Lie quietly, I tell you!"
What a pity he was going to Moscow without the bandages! How the
fellows would have envied him with them! And what if they were not taken off
after all and he went to Moscow all bandaged up? Wouldn't that be grand! And
he would not have to wash....
Mother was sitting by the window, sewing something.
"How much longer will I be in bed, Mother?"
"Until you get well."
"But I feel quite well. Let me go out."
"Don't be silly! Lie still and stop talking."
"Grudging me a little walk," Misha thought gloomily. "Wants to keep me
here in bed! See if I don't get up and run away."
He imagined to himself how Mother would enter the room and find him
already gone. She would weep and pine away with grief; but it would be no
good and she would never see him again.
Misha gave Mother a sidelong glance. She was bent over her sewing. Now
and then she stopped to bite off the thread.
She would have a hard time without him! She'd be all alone. And no one
would be there when she came home from work. The room would be empty and
dark, and every evening she would sit thinking of Misha. He felt a lump
rising to his throat.
She was so frail and reserved, with her grey, radiant eyes; so tireless
and industrious. She came home late from the factory, cooked the dinner,
tidied the room, washed Misha's shirts, darned his socks, and helped him
with his home-work. Yet whenever she asked him to do something like chopping
wood, going to the baker's for bread or warming up the dinner, he always
found some excuse for backing out.
Dear, adorable Mummy! How often had he distressed her by disobeying his
teachers and misbehaving in school! Mother had been called to school on
several occasions and she had pleaded for Might before the headmaster. How