I'll be your guide if you let me.

You were an ordinary poet-writer and at the same time a small singer, as far as that time allowed, despite the charms of free education. For the time being, life was wonderful, and absolutely serious. However, the war came, due to which one could only dream of a peaceful life in dreams. And since at that time you decided to try yourself out in the army, you got to the front in the first place. It was the second year since the beginning of the war, the moment from 1942 to 1943, when everything seemed to be getting better than it had been before. At least that was the case in your unit, where bombing was a frequent, powerful phenomenon, but not as terrible as when you were transferred to another unit, under the wing of a completely different person. And this man turned out to be Vladimir Makarov, an experienced man, of the middle-aged category, when any love seems to be missed. He was quite silent when it came to small talk and events, but he always spoke with meaning and interestingly: That was what you realized in the two weeks you were fighting alongside him. The commander's orders were absolutely strict, sharp, loud, and helpful to navigate. At a moment of downtime and calm, Vladimir, with his hands behind his back, came up to you, fleetingly looking at other soldiers of the rank and file nearby, because you were mostly holed up in the corners of the trenches. "I wouldn't recommend you to sit here. If it collapses, it will cover, and vice versa it will be worse." He slightly pursed his lower lip, then cleared his throat. "Which, in general, I wanted to ask you about. As I happened to find out, you are a poet and a singer at the same time. Can you do something in the spirit of a small concert? For uplifting and all that. I know it sounds silly, but it's necessary."