1941. The war came suddenly and abruptly, without giving a sigh. She ruined many families, villages, and cities in a short time. Our strong Russians did not immediately give up.. But as soon as they got back on their feet, they rebuffed the German creatures. The height of the war, the training ground. The harsh winter overcomes people with frost, hunger, and lack. But even in such an unhappy time, there are gaps of happiness somewhere. Fyodor is sitting on a log, next to him a young man of a lesser rank is chopping firewood. Both are wrapped in a greatcoat, a hat with earflaps on their heads, boots two numbers larger, "the leg is like in a nest." Dostoevsky sniffed, plunging his cold-calloused hand into his pocket and groping for an "oak" biscuit. There's nothing to do, they've been saving a lot lately. In the other pocket was a spoon, a necessary thing. Without a spoon, as without hands, there is nothing to eat! Fyodor crunches the breadcrumbs loudly, chewing and tapping his feet so as not to freeze. Occasionally he exchanges words with the young man, both are waiting for the same girl who reported the news. But they didn't love her for that, the young partisan was so beautiful.. Thin lips- strings, large expressive blue eyes, similar to a clear sky, and highlights - to clean, white clouds. Her soft smile warmed even the heart frozen from the bitter winter.