“Find the millstone, grind the shit”. The soldier’s mother fights for son’s happiness

This is the story of the guard Sergeant of the airborne troops of Sergei Yeshinwhose Mama almost 20 years of fighting for my son. The names of the characters — genuine, with their consent.

Tatiana Yeshin could “otmazat” the son from army, but conscience does not waive, and the son went to the recruiting office. Sergei hit the “hot spot”. Six months, while the son fought in Chechnya, she was desperately praying that Sergey came back alive. And he’s protecting a mother’s heart, sent me enthusiastic letters about natural beauty and fellow soldiers. And not a word about the war! “…Mom, it is very beautiful! Every day I see how the mountains kiss the clouds”.

Sergey came back from the war, married, fathered two sons. At first Tatiana didn’t want to believe it, but it seems that the “citizen” broke the guards — he began to kiss the glass.

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Living on a prayer of the son

Tatiana is a kind, gentle woman and is said to be fighting friends of Sergey, the best in the world a soldier’s mother.

One of the soldiers of the son of Tatiana decided to arrange a holiday in the war. Our front-line missions in rebel Chechnya coincided, and “AIF” has collected a truckload of gifts for Marines. Got to Mozdok. At a military airfield had to wait for a passing helicopter to get to Chechnya. Tatiana heard that here do sell the humanitarian aid on the local market, two days guarding our cargo. One day she burst into tears, seeing the worn-out soldiers in long greatcoats, which flopped to the ground next to us. Soldiers smoked vile “Accept” and eagerly looked at our mountain of humanitarian aid. One of them dared, and she touched Tatiana’s shoulder, asked:

Aunts of bread not be?

Tatiana gasped, and then rushed to the boxes, taking out the sausage, biscuits, canned food, warm socks.

…We sit in the kitchen and turn over the frontline album Tatiana 17-year-old.

Tatiana and Sergei in the same armor that her son had protected us from the bullets (November 1999). Photo: AiF/ Vladimir Svartsevich

— They say that in war, the shell twice a funnel is not falling, and my fate he fell four times. Great saws my father returned from the war. He was sitting in the eye of the shard, and its sometimes unbearable pain dad poured vodka. The glass was applied almost every day my first husband Vladimir and father-in-law. We lived in Kamchatka, Vladimir served as a Midshipman in the Navy. So my life continued for 13 years. Now, after many years alone, I bathe in women’s happiness, marrying an officer retiree Vladimir Gryzlov. And often hate myself for the fact that the lost son — a shell fell into the funnel the 4th time.

I often call his fellow soldiers. In the war, from the call boys lost only one boy — Sergei Ivanov. The remaining loss is not fighting civilians. One was burned from drugs, the other was killed in a drunken car accident, someone went into the crime, spilling the frontline aggression, helped the bandits to knock a fist debts and died in the gang. So God punishes soldiers ‘ mothers?

Of course, I try to praise my son. He is talented, writes poetry, scripts. In his letters from the war he talked about the dream to build in Pskov children’s village, put to the young audience a theatrical performance about how in the fairy forest beasts struggled with alcoholism dragon, and Baba-Yaga nicotinei. Like fate has made him a creative gift. For 10 years he works as the caretaker of the ancient water mill in the Pushkin reserve. If not for his drunken breakdowns!

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Mom gave the word

Pushkin reserve dressed in white attire. From St. Michael’s close to the village Bugrovo, to the water mill. The mill pond is not frozen yet. Sergei in the costume of the Miller opens the sluice. Mill comes to life, a paratrooper, became a Miller, proudly displays vintage machines and gives the bag of flour is freshly ground.

We haven’t seen him since that cursed war. And he, sitting over a Cup of tea, told how he lived.

20 days after my demob died 6th company of airborne forces, — says Sergey, — the whole platoon that I was called. Try war memories do not pick. Even fellow soldiers are rare. There’s also always the third toast for the dead, for our boys. God forbid to drink, fall asleep again in the war. And all the guys live, cheerful…

We were well trained to fight, but nobody mentioned how to operate in civilian life. A it does not fit. I was in the peacekeeping mission in Yugoslavia. Served under contract. But a son, and accommodation was not given. Wife went with the child to Valdai to the parents, I was in Pskov. At the weekend the son — 500 miles round trip, hold the baby for two days, and again to the service. He left the army, became “taksovat”. Sat on the glass. Once the competitors as baseball bats departed that two weeks spent in the hospital. But apparently I have a guardian angel (perhaps mother Tanya), not just from death saved.

We talked about the plans of Sergei, goodbye, and sat down on the track. Sergey saw me looking at the wooden trough that stood at the Russian stove, slashed a hand in the air: “I Think I’ll remain with nothing? Will not wait. And there are those millstones, which will grind all of my weed. I’m the mother gave the word!”

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