«Antonovna!»
I looked around. Yes, it was Tsybulsky, my foreman. He got twenty years of hard labour in exile because the German who captured the wounded soldier didn’t finish him off but cured and sent to work in a mine. Then he was let off from the camp because he knew who marshal Zhukov and Voroshilov were. I could hardly recognize this grotty «dipso» sitting in the backyard of the shop №5 and surrounded with empty and full bottles. «What happened to you, Grisha?» – «They didn’t let me leave… So I started working here in the shop. And, well, I took to drinking from time to time. At first I drank only at weekends but time passed and…» – «Come off it, Tsybulsky! You are a good timberman. I’ll provide you with work in the mine. But on one condition: no drinking.» – «No, Antonovna. I’ll never be a good man anymore! Never...» He’d better had to stay imprisoned! And what if they let him go to Smolenshina? He had a wife and a daughter there…