"Gavi, will you explain to me what's going on?" – he said even a little too calmly for his condition. The question had been on his tongue for a month, and now it came out like this.
"Sit down," was the only correct answer now: start telling him anything at once and he wouldn't stand for it.
Volin sank down in his chair, staring at the wall to his left. His face showed no resentment or anger: it was just scolding itself for the fifth week in a row, which made it lose its expressionit was painfully tired.
"Let's deal with this in order…" – Gora felt that something harsh should happen after these words, but nothing of the sort happened: the man simply shook his head and sullenly agreed. – Masha had to get to Razdolnoye. Right?
– So
– There were poppies waiting for her. Until April 10th. Right?
– Well, well, well. But there's nothing.
– The group that was supposed to meet her was ambushed before reaching the rendezvous point 26 kilometers away. There were two survivors. They turned back. The next group was sent later and arrived on April 8.
Volin listened to the whole story and could barely hold himself together: the Maquis had failed to meet his daughter, and he already hated them: "Gavi, you understand me… I have no one but her. And now I don't have her either… You…"
– I didn't finish. She was never seen, that's true. And there was no trace of her anywhere in the vicinity. But. You realize that at any other time no one would have taken this seriously, but one of the Maquis saw a girl, tall, long blond hair. You know there aren't many of those out there....
– Where?! Where have you seen her? – Volin jumped up so that the chair flew back against the door like a deflated chair.
Gora smiled, albeit a little fake: "It's all right. It's okay… That rebel didn't remember the exact location. It was on the other side of the river. Not for long at all." – Where? What river? Don't drag it out!
– Kalmius. Where it was supposed to be… It was near the town of Novy Svet… Don't worry. Ask Tikhomirov, he'll tell you everything. Who better than him to know such things?
Volin's face twisted in an unknown direction. Creases popped up on his forehead, stretched by old wrinkles. These wrinkles had been going on for a month now, and here they cracked. The miner began to slump down and, unable to find a chair, sat straight down on the ground – he felt no better and didn't know what to do next. All these messages only added to the heaviness of his soul, and with time he stopped feeling both time and the surrounding reality.