Homer tree service owner

• Full text
• Chapter
• Train is west
,
• Small troubles, meetings and memoirs
• Great Dr. Tsvetkov
• My cattle
• Little and big miracles
• Chapter
• Autumn Dark Dark Dark Dark at night…
• I want to be a double bass!
• In war as in war!
• Take me to you!
• Chapter three
• About French physicist Langevin and ancient Roman physician Galen
• I'm tired of loving you!
• The sad story of medical adviser Dr. Hugo Hummel
• Chapter Four
• A certain Fedorova Valentina
• That's it!
• Aunt, where is Varvara?
• Professor Zhovtyak's failures
• Chapter five
• Schneller, Judas!
• Resurrection and death of accountant Averyanov
• Another performance failed
• Operation "Darkness and Fog XXI"
• Bored Man in the Hospital
• Chapter Six
• "Strict Collar"
• "Closed World of My Soul"
• Sometimes it's not bad to be late!
• Standard philistine
• Chapter Seventh
• It is more difficult here than
• three letters
• In the medical battalion in the old women
• Chapter eight
• About the straw and about the “rope”
• Ashhen fell ill
,
• about the girl Lenochka Lenchka Lenchka
• A if your aunt surrendered?
• Chapter Nine
• Under the assumed circumstances. ..
• Sir Lionel Richard Charles Gay, 5th Earl Neville
• You, Amirajibi, like to exaggerate!
• You can and should operate!
• Chapter Ten
• Hey, on the boat!
• About a bleeding heart
• Beyond human strength...
• "Dance of the Little Swans"
• Chapter Eleven
• You are just being born!
• We must go and go!
• Amen
• There is a hospital near Kyiv…
• I'm tired without you!
• Chapter Twelve
• "Go ahead and dance!"
• Two pills - a good sleep, fifty - a quiet death
• And once again, Lieutenant Lionel Neville
• Well, the wedding ...
• Have I survived?
• Clean!
• See? You can still come in handy!
• Chapter Thirteen
• Eagle Tribe
• Little Cuckoo
• Farewell, Light One!
• My dear man!

Schneller, Judas!

Major Bernhard zu Stackelberg und Waldeck received Professor Zhovtyak standing up. Moreover, he held out both hands to him. And what's more, looking at the professor with his violet eyes, he said rather firmly in Russian:

"I'm glad to see you, old chap!" Yes, yes, that's right! The anecdote about horse tools with which you so consoled my poor late mother still makes friends and buddies laugh ... how is it? Our house - that's it! Have a seat! A cigar? A glass of good Armagnac?

Blinking, Zhovtyak wiped away the tears that had come running: now there was no doubt. He bet on the right horse. And half interrogatively began:

- Baron?

Zu Stackelberg und Waldeck made a movement of protest with his palms:

— I am only a major here, Herr Professor. Military commandant of the group of ruins. But I'm glad you remember that too.

They drank French Armagnac in small sips. The commandant was smoking a cigar, his long pink, very young face was clean-shaven and powdered. The winter sun poured into the frozen glass. Gradually, Zhovtyak recognized the situation: a desk from the office of the chairman of the regional executive committee, both leather chairs, it seems, once stood in the apartment of the dean of the Sechenov Institute, the Persian carpet probably belonged to Ganichev, and the late first secretary of the regional committee slept on this sofa on difficult nights . ..

While he was examining the furniture, the commandant leafed through his documents in a leather folder embossed with oriental patterns. The papers were chosen "cleverly", as Gennady Tarasovich liked to say. Less public activity, more of any academic. Even two certificates of invention - he was a co-author in cases where a professorship was required. In addition, he knew how to "push". The commandant looked through these certificates especially carefully. Then, raising an eyebrow, he threw the monocle into his palm and said, showing even teeth:0007

- Congratulations, Professor. We will do from you ... or how is it? Of you? We will make the only, unique, wonderful, yes, the most beautiful burgomaster...

Zhovtyak even opened his mouth in surprise and fright.

- In your letter addressed to me, you, Mr. Professor, made an announcement? Or how is it? They announced a desire to cooperate...

- Yes, - said Zhovtyak, - I would do my best...

- Great! That's right - all the power! Large . .. No, not like that: the largest! The famous Professor Zhovtyak…

Laughing, he pressed the call button:

— Excuse me, but I don't know how. This is propaganda. Does he know how, he will do it, as the Americans express it? Publicity! Today you are the burgomaster, tomorrow Berlin knows you, another tomorrow, how is it? Europe!

The adjutant was instructed to call Dr. Krolle. Dr. Crolle clicked his heels in front of Zhovtyak, then an interpreter appeared in golfs, with a big backside, then in front of Major zu Stackelberg und Waldeck, as if from under the ground, a pretty, dimpled rosy-cheeked stenographer from the auxiliary service appeared, then an order was signed and immediately sent to the printing house, then, clicking their heels and looking into each other's eyes, they all at once, as if on command, drank to the health of the burgomaster - professor, doctor Mr. Zhovtyak, then the major, making a stone face, threw his hand up and slightly forward and exclaimed:0007

- Heil Hitler!

And Zhovtyak, against his will, bulging his eyes, also threw out his hand and shouted along with all the others:

— Heil!

“And immediately everything began to spin,” as Gennady Tarasovich once read in some funny book. In the commandant's waiting room the "Jupiters" flared up, the motors of the movie cameras sang softly and affectionately, the major with violet eyes, holding the professor by the elbow, walked with a sliding, springy step towards the lenses of military newsreels. The commandant's adjutant handed the professor his polecat fur coat with ponytails. The polite soldier handed over his beaver hat. The searchlights went out, the film non-commissioned officer gave a command to his privates, backing away, talking to each other like ganders, they filmed Zhovtyak at the Mercedes-Benz car - here is the professor near the door, now the door swings open in front of him, now the car has started off ...

— Where are we? Zhovtyak asked, lounging on leather pillows.

“To the hospital,” the interpreter answered in a boorish voice without turning to the professor. — You will perform the operation for the newsreel. You will operate on a child, save a life. Can you do it?

— But which hospital?

- The driver knows. He received an order.

Dr. Crolle sat in front without turning around. A siren howled nearby, filmmakers overtook them. The Benz-Mercedes rocked gently on the potholes, Zhovtyak was sweating, he could not guess where exactly he was being taken. In the former regional hospital? But she's bombed! To a children's clinic? To their hospital?

— Schneller! yelled the kinovakhmistr, or whoever he was, when Zhovtyak, puffing, got out of the car. - Schneller, Schneller!

- Faster! the translator ordered. “The film platoon is in a hurry, they can’t be detained, hurry up!”

"Schnell," the movie soldiers hurried. - Schnell, Schnell!

Only in the intern's room he was given a break, and here he finally figured it out: this was the second city hospital named after Professor Polunin, he himself spoke at the solemn meeting and spoke with inspiration about the late Prova Yakovlevich. “How strange fate is! thought Gennady Tarasovich, wiping his damp bald patch with a handkerchief. Marvelous!"

The movie soldier, resembling a rat, carefully looked the professor in the face, then, wiggling his mustache, smeared Zhovtyak's mouth heavily with some dark lip pencil, rubbed his face with colorless mastic and sprinkled powder on top, in exactly the same way as mothers do with the buttocks of infants . And the nurse, frightened to the point of faintness, was pulling on the professor's dressing gown at that time ...

- You think! the interpreter translated behind him. — You are preparing for the operation. The operation is very difficult. The plan is brewing in your head. Eureka! Solution found!

The spotlights flashed again.

“But I need to know who I will operate on,” exclaimed Zhovtyak. At least a medical history...

They brought him a medical history. “Georgy Matskevich, 11 years old, read Zhovtyak. — Diagnosis…»

— You are smoking at the same time! the translator continued. - Take these cigarettes, hold the pack so that the name "Overstolts" gets into the lens - it is important that the professor-burgomaster smokes an expensive brand.

“Georgy Matskevich,” thought Zhovtyak. - Mackiewicz.

The cameras chirped again, the film sergeant turned Zhovtyak's face to the left with his fingers cold, like those of a dead man, commanding in German.

“You are looking at the Fuhrer,” the translator rumbled, “the Fuhrer will give you strength and courage in the upcoming noble cause. The decision comes after you have looked at the Fuhrer. Now, eureka!

- Eureka! Zhovtyak exclaimed and slapped his forehead.

“Very bad,” said the interpreter. - Unnatural! All over again. Don't slap your forehead, scientists don't do that. And don't forget to smoke!

Georgy Matskevich was lying on the operating table, wearing make-up. In the midst of this unprecedented day, Zhovtyak barely recognized the doctors he knew at the Polunin hospital. The boy looked at the chirping movie cameras, at the yelling movie soldiers, at the sweaty painted Zhovtyak with frightened and suffering eyes, his mouth was half open. The film corpsman did not allow me to wash. “There will be no operation,” he said, “it is too long and not spectacular. Schnell-schnell! The burgomaster-professor gives the child chocolate, caresses him, and that's it!"

“Finish! Zhovtyak thought gratefully. “And glory be to you!”

But damn Georgy didn't want to smile gratefully at the professor. Instead of a smile, he turned into a grimace. Then, changing the script on the go, the film director ordered the assistants and sisters to smile. They didn’t succeed either, and then Gennady Tarasovich heard a phrase that made him go dead.

“Just imagine how the burgomaster will be hanged, and you will immediately feel merry,” someone said softly behind him. - It's really fun!

Just in case, Zhovtyak didn't turn around. He remembered the voice later, already when they were driving back to the city administration. And he wrote down in his tenacious memory - boldly, so as not to forget: Ogurtsov, a comrade of that very Ustimenka Vladimir, who spoiled him so much blood. Never mind, Ogurtsov, we'll meet again...

And he remembered Ogurtsov's face: freckled, rare-toothed, snub-nosed.

Film platoon removed Zhovtyak once again when he entered "honorable and difficult duties." The commandant's fresh order to appoint Zhovtyak was placed on the table of the city government's accountant. Satisfied employees congratulated each other on the new burgomaster and dispersed to their places with cheerful smiles. Then a procession appeared - Dr. Krolle, arm in arm with Gennady Tarasovich, an interpreter who slipped between them and a senior clerk behind them - he was chosen because he was dressed better than the others, even in a tie. And he smiled well.

- Schnell! Schnell! the film commander yelled again. — Schnell!

The employees got up as if on cue. Zhovtyak, according to the script, congratulated them on good morning, on good weather, and in a paternal manner invited the mother of the same Matskevich Georgy, whom he had just “successfully operated on,” to his office. The mother was filmed from behind - she was portrayed by the control typist Sylvia Frantsevna Genike, posing as a "little" German. Zhovtyak patted her on the shoulder and said that the child's life was "out of danger."

- Allee! yelled the film commander. — Ende!

The cameras stopped chirping, the interpreter said to Zhovtyak, holding out his hand:

— Overstolz!

— How? - Gennady Tarasovich did not understand.

- Cigarettes! the translator explained. - Shooting is over. Give back the cigarettes...

The film platoon has departed. The translator advised the professor to wipe his face with a handkerchief or wash his face with warm soapy water. Sylvia Frantsevna brought water in an old slop bowl, Zhovtyak, feeling exhausted, somehow wiped himself off with a wet handkerchief, but they did not let him rest, Dr. professor translator). The servants stood up again, now no one was smiling, they looked at Kroll with fear.

- Lord! the translator began. - Mr. Krolle informs you that Professor Zhovtyak, approved by the burgomaster from today, will not tolerate any complacency, but will take a firm and inflexible position. Mr. Zhovtyak is an old-timer. He knows everyone here. And he will bring to the attention of the imperial command not only any disloyal action, but also any disloyal thought, for thought precedes action... the words sounded like pecks and cracks, the servants stood drooping, not looking at each other. "I'm lost! Zhovtyak thought pitifully. “Lid me!” After a while, already in the hotly heated office of the burgomaster, near the bust of the Führer, made in bronze, the fat-assed translator explained to him that the local employees must be kept “in check”, that certain details are now being investigated, since there were disappearances of forms - essential , for example "ausweiss". The consequence, of course, is unspoken, but if the need arises, then Mr. Professor should contact Mr. Venclof by this phone (he showed which one), using the password "Munich", who understands Russian. The professor should especially look closely at the hunchbacked accountant of the city administration, by the name of Zemskov. He is already on the hook, but everyone should know about him before he is eliminated, since he certainly has connections. It should be conveyed ...

— Excuse me, — objected Zhovtyak, — the word “denunciation” in this case…

— It should be reported, — as if not hearing Zhovtyak, the interpreter continued, making sure that the door was tightly closed…

Dr. Krolle, who had a habit of warming pink palms by all the stoves, turned abruptly and again shouted some few phrases, reminiscent of slaps in the face. The interpreter spoke faster, and his eyes took on an expression of fear; at that moment, Zhovtyak heard that the burgomaster who was before him had not gone anywhere, but had been shot in his apartment, learned that he, too, would certainly be “hunted like rare game, by forest bandits”, realized that he must henceforth in all cases "to show determination, firmness of character, sobriety of mind and, moreover, in accordance with the norms of the great northern cunning, which is an indispensable component of the all-conquering German spirit. " He also learned that they would not give him any German guards, and if he wished, he could form a group of policemen from local residents, he learned that his monthly salary would be such and such an amount of occupation marks, and not other marks, that he would be supplied with food has the right not as an imperial soldier, but only through the warehouse of "surplus" of the kreislandwirth, but that his guards, if he chooses one for himself, have the right to confiscate food both in favor of his burgomaster and in his own, however, on condition that sixty per cent of the confiscations will be handed over to the Kreislandvirt warehouse already mentioned.

From drunk Armagnac at the wrong time, from filming, from cigar smoke, from Crolle's cries and smooth, fast, assertive speech of the translator, Zhovtyak swayed, he sucked in the stomach and wanted to breathe, the whole enterprise he had started now seemed to him a trap that was tightly slammed shut. But Krolle and the translator were no longer there, and the emaciated employees went to their new burgomaster with papers to sign, with questions and cases, which he was afraid to put off, but also could not solve, due to a complete misunderstanding of the scale of his activities.

One paper, printed in Russian, he read for a particularly long time, he had to sign it, but it was terrible, and it seemed that as soon as he signed these even typewritten lines, something would immediately happen to him. His current secretary, an elderly man with a pomaded head and the sullen face of a more than once convicted bandit, sighed, coughed delicately into his fist, then advised:

— Go ahead and sign, mister burgomaster! They will bomb this village.

- So how? Gennady Tarasovich sincerely did not understand.

- They need to learn some kind of special bombing - night, or something. And they painted all this Velikonizhye on their plans. If the people don't leave, the people will be bombed with people. And here you are, as they say, an honor, as a professor of medicine…

Zhovtyak felt cold in his chest. He read the paper again. Through the open door of the office, one could hear someone in the waiting room humming in a dull tenor voice:

I was sitting on a bench,

My friend is with me.

Oh, so it's like that,

Quarter warden...

— In the sense of a preventive measure? Zhovtyak inquired.

- And you can see this better from your bell tower! the thug secretary replied disrespectfully. — You are a professor, not me...

Zhovtyak signed, slapped a dirty blotting paper, and in order not to be alone in the office, inquired politely:

- I'm a doctor, and what is your ... main specialty?

The robber from the highway looked at Zhovtyak with steely eyes and said:

— We are jumpers, mister professor. Sectarians, as we are officially called. And I am a mentor.

“So, so,” Zhovtyak shook his bald head. - Well, it's very nice. I hope we will work.

In the waiting room the dull tenor sang again:

Malanya went to fetch kerosene,

Messed up at the gate,

Petyukha called out to her with guilt...

— Proskuryatinov, stop singing! - Turning to the door, the jumping secretary leads sternly. - Not in the theatre!

— Who is he? Zhovtyak asked.

- Our clerk. In general, the guy is nothing, but, as they say, a little crazy. Relocates souls.

Zhovtyak got scared again:

— In what sense?

- A mouse into a stone, Mr. Professor, a stone into a tree, a tree into a sheep. “Everything is mortal and everything is eternal,” said the sectarian secretary, slightly widening his eyes. - Such is Proskuryatinov's religion. You won't go anywhere!

Gennady Tarasovich nodded his head and hurried. He got really scared. And it all seemed like a bad dream. And the jumping sectarian at that time spoke quietly:

- Another accountant is ours - Zemskov - he trades in brandy. Master, don't say anything. Light brew, crystalline, and tastes like a balm. Sausages, if you want, I'll get it - pork, in melted fat, with garlic? Sign the warrant here...

Having signed the warrant for some kind of search and seizure, Zhovtyak immersed himself in papers, read all the orders for the last month, underlining in red what seemed important to him, made notes in a notebook and looked at his watch. It was two in the afternoon. Puffing on a cigar butt, he opened the door wide and asked in the waiting room if there was anyone to see him. The clock in the waiting room also struck two. "I'm pedantic in German!" thought Zhovtyak.

First in line was a man who looked like an actor, elderly, handsome, with a full mouth of gold teeth. Bowing and smiling and bowing again, he congratulated the burgomaster on taking office and reminded him that they knew each other - he was the director of the Bogodukhovsky cemetery.

“Yes, yes, it seems,” Zhovtyak said absently and majestically.

“It doesn’t seem like it, but for sure,” bowing and smiling like a clockwork, the director assured. - How many professors you used to bury with me, and you yourself were angry with me, you, they said, Filippov, scoundrel-swindler, they said, it's disgusting to look at. You are a schemer, from the dead, they said, and then you will take off your last trousers. And it’s true, Mr Burgomaster, I have such an overvoltage at the cemetery in terms of burial plots, as for a person like you . ..

“Okay, okay,” the superstitious Zhovtyak waved, “I don’t like this. And I don't remember you. What's the matter, you say, I have a reception...

The former cemetery director, moving his lips, hid his gold teeth somewhere inside himself and said that he wanted to make all the burials at the Bogodukhovsky cemetery on his own and with the help of his working artel. The preparation of the graves, the drogs, the priest, whoever "desires" - everything from the former director. And, of course, funeral accessories.

“Since,” the former director confided, “the Germans have organizational difficulties with this issue. Their troops are supplied with coffins, for example, from the Fatherland. Standard!

“Well, then,” said Zhovtyak, solidly stroking his bald patch. We have no objections. And we will support. The business you have conceived, of course, is a big one, funds will be required.

“I’m not applying for a subsidy,” the director said, looking down.

— Saved up?

— So where are you going?

Gennady Tarasovich took the application, thought it over and wrote a resolution with solid signs and yats, which he remembered inaccurately and therefore placed them at random. The resolution was positive and benevolent. After reading the decision of the burgomaster, the former director of the cemetery, and now the owner of the funeral home "The Last Way", bowed, smiled and bowed again, as if he had been wound up again. Zhovtyak's face became sad and expectant. Of course, he understood that he was taking risks and even taking risks, but having risked everything, it did not make sense for him to be afraid of trifles. Gratitude and nothing more. But didn’t the Germans themselves understand that it was impossible to live on their occupation stamps?

- That's it! Gennady Tarasovich said with a slight sigh.

Still bowing and smiling, the “now owner”, turning away, took out of his wallet and counted out the fee to the burgomaster.

— What is this? Zhovtyak asked sternly.

“Donation,” the owner-director replied briskly. - There are few needs. Here I am asking.

— Great! Zhovtyak nodded. - I wish you good health!

After the cemetery affairs, he dealt with rat poisons, issued a patent for the production of surrogate tobacco "Bayadere", kicked out the old pharmacist Yakov Moiseevich Pevzner, who was well known to him, in jolts for asking to release the arrested mother of his wife, ordered his secretary - sectarian to pack the confiscated pork sausage, imposed another half a dozen other resolutions and, having locked the seal and stamp together with the sealed forms of passports and travel permits within the commandant's office, with the firm step of a major figure went out into the frosty street.

In a beaver boyar hat with a velvet bottom, in a fur coat on a ferret with a beaver collar, he slowly crossed the street and went to that casino "Sweet Bavaria", where until recently he had entered only from the back door, feeling like the last beggar.

Now he was the master!

As in ancient times in the restaurant of the Grand Hotel, now he will throw a fur coat into the hands of a respectful porter, merrily and respectably complain about the cold and, rubbing his hands, across the carpets, nodding to his acquaintances, will enter the hall flooded with light, with a look choosing table is more comfortable. After all, if you measure it the old way, he is the mayor, no less ...

And completely forgetting the recent quick thought that “he is gone and now he is dead”, the burgomaster, professor Zhovtyak, in anticipation of a good dinner, beautiful service and courteous servants, even somewhat rejuvenated from these thoughts, walked faster and, going down to a few steps down, opened the mirrored door of the casino in front of him.

Everything was exactly as he imagined in his dreams.

Somewhere far away, in the bright light of electric lamps, a string orchestra was playing. There was a smell of good food, a little German - their officer's cologne, cigars. A doorman in gold, with a beard, rushed to meet Gennady Tarasovich, and he, rubbing his hands, as he expected, began to throw off his fur coat, but at that moment the doorman said to him quickly and angrily:0007

- Get out of here! Only for gentlemen officers of the Reich, understand? Come on…

— Allow me! - Gently and sternly pushing the doorman away from him, said Zhovtyak. — I am a burgomaster and everyone understands…

At that moment a German soldier appeared around the corner. Very politely and very meekly he listened to Zhovtyak's explanations, told him to wait and went behind the velvet curtain. Sweaty Zhovtyak stood in a half-removed fur coat, with a hat in his hand. The German was gone indefinitely. Finally appearing, he again said very politely:

Not allowed.

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