Labyrinth (Part 2)

...of the wine point, and we saw our groupmate Miron staggering out of it. He wore a monstrously dirty lab coat, probably once white, stained with trickles of red wine. His splattered glasses had slid to the side and barely held on his nose bridge; his matted hair stuck out from under an equally dirty "white" cap. In his hands, trying not to spill it, he carried a rusty pot of wine.

"Guys!"

— and licking his sticky lips, he groaned, — "Here, our produce. This is for you," he said, trying to lift the pot to us in the back of the truck, spilling half the contents on himself in the process. "We can't drink anymore." We looked at the wine with disgust and horror, but not to offend our friend, we accepted the "gift."

"And where's Dudkin?"

— handing him an apple, I asked about our other groupmate, — "Aren't you working together?"

"There!"

— Miron sighed heavily and waved toward the wine point, — "but he can't walk out," and he added bitterly, — "he's lying down!" The driver got into the cab and our truck slowly started to drive out of the yard. Clouds of unfalling dust, resembling beer foam in density (after a piece of laundry soap), covered our friend. He waved to us sadly in farewell, then adjusted his glasses and walked with an unsteady gait to his workplace. On the way, of course, we drank the wine, using bell peppers instead of glasses (by the way, it's very convenient, you remove the stalk and, voila, the glass is ready. You also snack on it).

"Poor guys," Michael said quietly, biting off the wall of the "glass," "if we and the host suffer since morning, imagine how they have to be here all day?" We realized that ours wasn't the worst fate and that our friends had it much harder.

Fedya.
We arrived at the apple plantations. There were many of us pickers, but only one ladder, so it was used only to climb the tree, after which the foreman, a local, would move it to the next one. I was sitting in the tree, picking fruit, and when I needed to move, I shouted that I needed the ladder. The foreman approached, asked me to wait since it was occupied, and asked what my name was.

"Edik," I said.

"What?"

— the puzzled foreman asked again.

"E-di-k," I spelled it out.

"There is no such name," he said confidently, "I don't know such a name. I will call you Fedya."

"Fine," I answered, seeing that the conversation with the not-very-sober collective farmer was dragging on, and sitting in the tree for a long time was not very comfortable. "Fedya it is! Drag the ladder over."

That was it! From that moment on, I received the nickname - Fedya. What didn't my institute friends call me afterwards (by the way, they still do, 50 years later) - Fedya, Fedor, Feodor, Pyozdr..., and only sometimes - Edik! But all good things come to an end sooner or later; we "harvested" the crops and returning to Kishinev, we began our studies.

Housing.
Chance helped me with housing. A friend of my sister had just graduated from the polytechnic institute and was moving out of the apartment where he lived. For me, this was a great stroke of luck, as the housing was located on the central street of the city, a 10-minute walk from my institute. The sweetest landlady, Maria Zakharovna (by passport, Leia Zelderovna), a woman of about 74-75, rented me a "corner" with board. This meant that I brought groceries from my parents' house, and she cooked delicious breakfasts and lunches from them. So I was provided with housing and food. I want to describe my "mansion."

The entire apartment consisted of: a narrow corridor with a tiny cupboard containing dishes, a two-burner stove where my dear MZ (Maria Zakharovna) prepared "culinary masterpieces," and a toilet - a toilet bowl, separated from the corridor by a plywood wall, slightly lower than my height. When I, excuse me, went to pee, my head rose above the plywood, and I freely saw the front door, facing the central street named after Lenin. The comfort of a more serious action in this toilet was also doubtful, especially if MZ was present in the corridor during cooking. But I quickly adapted and subsequently felt no inconvenience.

The room we lived in was about 12 square meters. In it stood a wardrobe, a round table, a "Saratov" refrigerator, a "Horizon" television, MZ's bed, and on the opposite side, under the only window, my ottoman. When I woke up in the morning and stretched on the bed, I saw my fellow students going to the institute. Above my head hung a "sconce" - a lamp attached to the wall. On it, I hung a photograph of my sister Nelka, with a sentimental inscription made by her hand: "Let's never quarrel, never, never!" Yes, I don't think I ever quarreled with her? Although, if I recall...

A little memory:
I was in my second year when my sister was graduating from the institute in the glorious city of Leningrad and was about to defend her diploma. On the eve of this significant event, my friends and I were celebrating something, and I was a little "tipsy." I returned home late at night and suddenly remembered that tomorrow my beloved sister had her diploma defense. Cursing myself with the worst words for heartlessness, I was not lazy and bravely went to the central post office (by trolleybus, by the way) and sent her a lightning telegram from the bottom of my heart: "Confident in success of defense kisses brother Edik." Nelya was woken up at 2 am and handed the telegram. Frightened, my sister signed the receipt, unrolled the "lightning" with trembling hands, and read about "my confidence in success." The night before the defense, she didn't sleep, so the diploma did not come easy to her. I don't remember exactly, but it seems she was a little offended by me then. Let's continue.

The television served the function of furniture, as it was impossible to use it for its intended purpose. There was only sound; the screen had "ripples" on the top and bottom; there was an image in the middle, but it was very deformed and, for some reason, upside down. So MZ used the television mainly as a radio, and I didn't need it at all, because in my youth, I was little interested in the "News from the Fields" and "The People and the Party are One."
That's it, it's late and Morpheus embraces me... I'm falling asleep...

This is a dream!
The people always loved holidays. Firstly: days off! Secondly: the opportunity to legally have a drink! We always seriously prepared for demonstrations. Almost everyone had in their pockets a small bottle from drinks like "Tarhun" or "Lemonade," with various (to the consumer's taste) alcoholic drinks poured into them in advance. Everyone pretended to drink soda, and the bosses pretended not to notice it. That was a true manifestation of "unity" with the people, not today's "National Unity Day," invented by the government instead of the "Anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution," while the population receives "holiday gifts" from "International Unity" in the form of sanctions.
I shuddered, opened my eyes, and like the Trustee of the educational district Citizen Khvorobyov, waking up, I muttered:
Well, here again the same dreams! I do not want to see in my sleep the far-right delegate of the State Duma Mr. Purishkevich, as well as his colleague Mr. Zhirinovsky; I do not want to see the cheerless "National Unity Day" and foreign sanctions! I wanted to see merry rows of singing and dancing people, walking in drunken columns past my apartment, where my friends and I would leave the portraits of our party leaders by the door, come into my home, and comfortably drink, while MZ always treated us to something delicious. I wanted to cross myself, like Khvorobyov, and fall asleep again, but then remembered that I was far from Orthodoxy and woke up completely. Although, if you think about it, the "National Unity Day" is very relevant today in Russia, uniting the "anti-vaxxers," that is, the population unwilling to be vaccinated against the coronavirus. The soul rejoices when instead of the former slogans - "Long live the Soviet people and our Communist Party, the stronghold of peace and creation," today you hear:

— "We don't believe it"!! "Long live 'National Unity Day', the day of rallying and struggle against oligarchs, officials, and compulsory vaccination"! "We won't let ourselves be microchipped"! "You lie, decaying West, you won't take us"! "We are smarter than everyone in the world"!! "Hooray, gentlemen-comrades"!..... Beautiful! Powerful! In a single impulse!!

That's it, I woke up completely and turned on my brains. At my age, sleeping a lot doesn't work out, and it's harmful, especially with such dreams.

Studies.
The institute group, as I said, was cool. The only problem was with the surnames. When the teachers got to know us in the first classes, there were difficulties writing the surnames down in the register. According to the protocol, each student stood up and said their surname, first name, and patronymic. Svetlana Gavrilenko, Vladimir Mironov, Olga Khochenko - that was fine, but when it came to, for example, - Katsap Marina Saulovna, Eideman Mikhail Yuzefovich, Landa Yanina Lvovna, and especially Shtaif Esfir Iosifovna, the teachers got tired of asking again and got emotionally exhausted. Therefore, we wrote our surnames in large, clear letters on sheets of paper in advance and put them on the teacher's desk, which reduced their psychological burden. Generally, my first year at the institute is associated with three things:
1. Mathematics.
2. Vodka.
3. Cards.

Mathematics.
Our year "had the happiness" of being experimental, having higher mathematics introduced into the curriculum. Imagine, higher mathematics in a medical institute! We, students of a humanities university, had problems even with arithmetic, and with this?! Tell me, who and when from the leadership of the Ministry of Higher Education came up with such nonsense? At lectures on this subject, no one even tried to take notes, because simply repeating what the lecturer said was impossible for anyone. We paid no attention to the teacher and enthusiastically played a game called "Balda." In the physics exam, one of the four questions on the ticket was on higher mathematics. Let me tell you about my exam. Having barely answered the first three questions in physics, I came to the fourth, but couldn't even read it correctly. The examiner looked at me sympathetically and offered a compromise:

— "If you tell me how an integral differs from a differential, I will give you an A." I agreed to a B without a fight. The teacher thought for a second and, probably remembering that I couldn't even correctly read the math question, gave me a C.
The experiment failed, and after our year, higher mathematics was removed from the medical institute curriculum. But who will restore our lost nerve cells? And my scholarship for half a year?

Vodka.
"The Party is the mind, honor, and conscience of our era!!" - remember this famous slogan? We are sitting somehow, with friends, drinking our favorite (because it was cheap, about 2 rubles) vodka called "Merishor." This is our Moldovan "Calvados," or simply - apple vodka. And suddenly, one of us asked this historical question:

— "And why, exactly, is only the Communist Party the mind, honor, and conscience?"
Having discussed the question, we decided that "Merishor" also deserved these words, and after heated debates, we came to a unanimous opinion:
First: after 200 grams of this vitamin drink (apples have a lot of vitamin "C"), the student's MIND improves.
Second: after the same 200 grams, it becomes mandatory to observe the ancient motto: "Do what you must, and come what may at the exam!"
— which brings HONOR to any self-respecting student.
Third: a student who consumes "Merishor," in all CONSCIENCE, must share it with a destitute, sober, and hungry colleague.
The program was adopted unanimously, and since then "Merishor" and the "Slogan" received legitimacy in our ranks. Therefore, after every test, let alone an exam, our mandatory standard was supposed to be: For three people: 0.5 liters of "Merishor" and one portion of "Carnaței" (insanely delicious pork sausages with pickled onions, tomatoes, peas, and herbs). This is the absolute minimum! The maximum was not designated - according to circumstances, depending on the importance of the event and the financial capabilities of the participants at the time of the celebration. The convention was signed by those present!
Since then, our traditional toast sounded: "To 'Merishor' - the mind, honor, and conscience of our era!"
And what were the names of our traditional meeting places worth: "The Glass," "Three Corpses," "Rigoletto," and others? Of course, these "pseudonyms" for public catering establishments were invented by us for conspiracy, but how they sounded!!

Cards.
Previously, I played cards rarely, occasionally, and only "Durak" (Fool). About "Poker," the game of cowboys, American gangsters, and "desperate guys," I knew only by hearsay and from the stories of O. Henry. The basics of this exciting game, I mastered in the family of Uncle Sandu, a good friend of my father. Sometimes, in their small two-room "Khrushchevka," in the evenings, a "poker club" gathered, the permanent members of which were his son Iosif and his friends. At first, I only watched, but eventually became an active player. "Poker" is a game for money, but our stakes were in kopecks and threatened a maximum loss of no more than a ruble (did I know then that in my future, the stakes in the game would be somewhat higher?). The game gave me pleasure, and I eagerly awaited the next meetings in the "Poker club."
Well, fell asleep again. I am dreaming this.
The first year of study flew by like one day. Mainly, we studied general education subjects - physics, chemistry, English and Latin languages, a little philosophy, and, of course, political sciences - history of the CPSU, scientific communism, political economy, etc. Result: none of the above was useful in life! On the other hand, the year was not in vain: I found new friends, realized that mathematics is not for me, learned to drink vodka and play "Poker," and my main discovery - "There is never too much money and there is constantly a lack of it"! So, overall, not bad, for the first year!!
I woke up satisfied, stretched in bed, shook my head, chased away the remnants of sleep. So, Edik-Fedya, remember, remember, what happened in the second year.

Liquidators!
Summer flew by, we returned from vacation to our "Alma-mater". We celebrated the meeting with groupmates vigorously, with the "Mind, Honor, and Conscience of our era - Merishor"! We sat well and more than once. At the institute, we were informed that in connection with the epidemiological situation in the republic (the past cholera epidemic), in order to prevent a new outbreak of the disease, we, as medics, were sent to rural areas for so-called "house-to-house rounds." Our functions included: walking around the houses of the villagers, identifying "citizens with diarrhea," and conducting sanitary and educational work about the dangers of drinking raw water (although Moldovans almost don't drink water, preferring wine).
After reading a couple of lectures on cholera, the benefits and effectiveness of bleach, sanitary and hygienic norms, and measures to prevent an epidemic of this severe disease, we were taken to different regions of the republic. Our group was divided into two parts. Our half - three guys and four girls, ended up in a village called Senatovka, and were placed in two rooms of a dilapidated annex on the territory of the hospital, next to the morgue. On the supply manager responsible for housing, our indignation at this unpleasant neighborhood produced no impression.

— "This is not a hotel for you," he said sternly, "you'd better go get the mattresses. Oh, don't worry so much," the supply manager softened, seeing our frightened faces, "you are doctors, you'll get used to it. Besides, rarely does anyone die in our hospital, mostly at home."
The next day there was an allocation of served areas. My friend Margo and I got the village of Napadovo, 6 km from our permanent deployment location.

— "Yeah, where am I going to find a car for you?"

— the supply manager answered irritably to our question about transport.

— "This is not the city," he gave an "ironclad" argument, "you'll walk on your feet, it's not far from here."
So we started our work as "liquidators." I must note that walking 6 km in the city and the same amount in the countryside, as they say in Odessa: "Two big differences"! The dust clogged all our natural orifices and was even on our eyelashes.
In the village medical center, the local paramedic, Pavel Savvovich, was waiting for us. This was a man of about 40, with the face of a person not "exhausted by intellect," but with obvious signs of a great admirer of the god "Bacchus." But that's not the main thing. He had one peculiarity - "divergent strabismus," scientifically speaking - "Exotropia." This is a rather rare form of strabismus, when the eyes deviate outwards, and it's almost impossible to understand where the person is looking, which brings his interlocutor into an extremely nervous state. Pavel Savvovich sat in the outpatient clinic alone, was very bored, and was glad of our arrival. Quickly pulling a decanter of wine from under the table, he immediately offered to celebrate our acquaintance and, not listening to our weak objections, poured it into glasses.

— "Well, that's it, we're lost!"

— Margo said quietly, took the glass, and looking at me hunted, asked, "doesn't he remind you of anyone?"

— "Baurci-Moldovan," I answered, "the master of our house."

— "It will be harder with this one," my friend sighed, and having drank, added, "look at his Habitus (face, Latin)! And the eyes, the eyes!! Can you understand where he is looking? And if he watches us, we won't even understand who exactly?" We finished the decanter quickly.

— "We could use a bite to eat," I looked inquiringly at the paramedic, trying to catch the focus of his vision, "we're hungry."

— "Yes," Pyotr Savvovich said, looking in different directions, "it's time! Let's go to work," and taking two pharmacy vials with some powder out of the nightstand, he mysteriously uttered, "keep them with you. You'll take them out when I tell you."

— "What is it, cocaine?"

— Margo joked, examining the contents of the bottles, "we don't use that."

— "I don't know what you call it," the paramedic shrugged, "but in our way - it's bleach. Let's go have lunch, I'll tell you what needs to be done. Forward, to work!"

— "So, to work, or to have lunch?"

— Margo asked in despair.

— "Barba crescit, caput nescit (The beard grows, but the mind does not)," nodding at the boss, I flashed my knowledge of the Latin language.

— "Exactly, don't piss yourselves," the "smart" paramedic answered, interpreting the last word of the proverb in his own way, "we'll gorge at work."
(In the first year of the institute, we studied Latin. But besides the beautiful proverbs that I wrote down in my notebook, we knew absolutely nothing).

— "Hai noroc, mosh Ion! (Hello, grandpa Ion! Mold.)," walking into the yard, the paramedic greeted an elderly man and pointed at us, "here, brought you doctors from the capital."

— "And what for?"

— the owner asked, greeting us.

— "Times are tough, cholera in the country," the paramedic sighed, and raising a finger, added, "they will inspect."

— "What are they going to do?"

— the old man didn't understand, "you, Petrica, speak clearer."

— "They will inspect your cellar," Pyotr Savvovich waved his hand, "go, open it. Let's go doctors, we will conduct the inspection."

— "So you understand, mosh Ion," the paramedic waved the vial under the owner's nose, "we pour one dose into the outhouse in the yard, another into the well, and the third into the wine barrels. Nothing can be done, an epidemic. Go ahead, doctors, proceed."
We pulled out the bottles of bleach and looked questioningly at Pyotr Savvich, not knowing what to do next.

— "How can it be," the old man pleaded, hugging a barrel in fear, "the wine will go bad. And what will I water the cattle with, if you poison the well? Maybe we can come to an agreement, eh, Petrica?"

— "Well, I don't know," the paramedic said thoughtfully, "it's as the doctors decide. By the way, did good wine turn out this year?"

— he knocked on the barrel.

— "So try it," the old man pleaded, "I'll be right back," and ran out of the cellar.

— "So, students," Pyotr Savvovich turned to us, "we are going to have lunch now, so eat and be quiet." The owner returned to the cellar with his wife, who had a basket in her hands. We ate tastily and for a long time, washing it down copiously with homemade wine from the barrel.

— "Barely convinced the doctors not to pour the powder," the heavily intoxicated paramedic said goodbye to the happy old man. Taking from the hostess the bag of food prepared for us, he shoved a three-liter jar of wine into my hands, "this is for you from grandpa Ion." I took it mechanically. We returned to the medical center.

— "The round is over for today," he said, taking the jar from me, "come tomorrow, we'll continue." We had a hard time walking home. Our legs obeyed poorly, our heads spun.

— "Did you notice," Margo asked me with a slurring tongue, "that the boss now has convergent, not divergent strabismus? Or did it seem to me?" I answered nothing. It was hard for me.

This is a dream.
My dad was a cheerful and witty man. During the cholera epidemic, an old patient of his, being already in the rank of a friend, asked:

— "Doctor Lebelzon, I am very afraid of cholera. What should I do? And aren't you afraid of getting infected yourself?"

— "Not at all," my dad replied, "I have my own secret," and leaning towards his friend, added quietly, "I just use bleach instead of salt. It constantly sits on the dining table at my house, and when necessary, I add it to my food. And that's it, no cholera is scary."

— "And do you pour a lot?"

— the patient asked, also in a whisper.

— "To taste," dad said in all seriousness, "but I don't put it in tea and cake, because sugar reduces its effectiveness."
A day later, a phone call from the emergency room of the city hospital.

— "Doctor Lebelzon," the voice of the doctor on duty trembled with laughter, "an hour ago, your patient came to us with signs of bleach poisoning. According to him, on your advice, to prevent cholera, he added bleach to his food. We are now pumping his stomach. Of course, I won't write this in the medical history, but please, colleague, be more careful in the future. Do you want to advise him anything else?"

— the doctor laughed again.

— "Please say hello to him and pass on my advice to consult a psychiatrist," dad sighed.
There are overly suspicious people, and during an epidemic, you have to joke with them very carefully.
We barely "crawled" to our base, collapsed on the beds without undressing, and fell asleep. In the evening, we were woken up by our groupmate Mitrich, a roommate.

— "How long can you snooze," he was indignant, "are you going to grub? Am I supposed to scarf down all this alone?" We rubbed our eyes and barely sat up. On the floor, between the beds, stood two buckets, one with a lid, and a ladle stuck out of the other.

— "Mitrich, don't yell," Margo whispered miserably, and pointing to the buckets, asked, "what is this?"

— "This is our dinner-supper," Mitrich answered cheerfully, "the supply manager dragged it over. So get up and please sit down to grub."
There turned out to be borscht in one bucket, and wine splashed in the other.

— "It's just that there are no glasses," Mitrich grieved, pouring borscht into plates, "so we'll have to drink from the ladle."

— "I don't know about cholera," I sighed, sipping wine, "but with such a regimen, we will definitely liquidate our livers."
The night passed quite hard. On the one hand, alcoholic degrees kept us in bed; on the other hand, the volume of liquid consumed drove us out of bed. But there was a problem here. The fact is that the sanitary conveniences of our dwelling were represented by an old wooden "two-section veteran," standing alone in the yard of our dormitory. To get to it in the dark, you had to get up, dress, walk, and, most importantly, illuminate in pitch darkness the very hole you had to hit. For this, we used matches, because it was impossible to buy a flashlight in the village store, due to its absence. And what if, considering the amount of wine drunk daily, the urges were 2-3 times a night? This is a burden even for a sober person, and in our condition even more so. That's when we understood the useful functionality of "Chamber pots," and their absence stressed us a lot.
By the way, this wooden toilet in the yard caused us a lot of inconvenience. The dilapidated structure was very old, creaky, with poorly closing doors and monstrous cracks along the entire perimeter. There could be no talk of maintaining intimacy. The sitter in the "eagle pose" was visible from afar and in all details. And we had 4 girls in the next room, and although we were future doctors, we hadn't completely lost our shame and were very shy. Therefore, at a team meeting, we made a "Solomon's" decision and begging old sheets from the supply manager, we lined the toilet with them from the inside. But we left a couple of cracks so that the sitter could keep an eye on the path leading to the closet and warn a walking competitor of the opposite sex with a signal cough that the premises were temporarily occupied. It was very amusing to observe how the walker and the sitter coughed back and forth. But during the day this could still be survived, but at night?
Therefore, the ladies handed us a 3-liter jar, which was supposed to perform the functions of a "Chamber pot" and neutralize us at night.
In the morning, having barely woken up, we went to work. It was possible to get to Napadovo only by one road, so we immediately noticed the paramedic lying on a hillock at the beginning of the village. Pyotr Savvich was asleep, his arms spread wide, and at his head stood a three-liter jar with the remnants of wine. Waking up the boss, we sat down nearby waiting for further orders.

— "Oh!"

— the paramedic woke up, yawned with pleasure, and turning to us, mumbled, "the students have arrived. Finish it," he pointed to the jar, "and let's go to work. We have important business today. Do you have the bleach with you?"
I looked at Pyotr Savvich and something bothered me, but what exactly, I couldn't understand.

— "Fedya," Margo whispered, "you see, he's not cross-eyed. So, it didn't seem to me yesterday, and this is how the wine affects him?"

— "Perhaps we are on the verge of a global medical discovery," I shrugged, "we need to observe. We'll start with you," I handed Margo the jar of wine, "drink up, you always had a squint in your right eye."

— "You're cross-eyed yourself," Margo grumbled, and discreetly poured out the rest of the wine. We couldn't drink in the morning anymore.
(By the way, for reference, regarding the "global discovery"! It's not such a fantasy. An assistant in the department of "Social Hygiene and Healthcare Organization" of our medical institute brilliantly defended a dissertation on the topic: "The influence of sour wine on occupational injuries among workers in the light industry in the northern regions of Moldova." The applicant received the academic degree of Candidate of Medical Sciences! How is that not a global discovery! And you say fantasy).

— "So, doctors," the paramedic said mysteriously, putting the empty jar into his bag, "let's go to work," and moved towards the village, "we'll do it like this..."
We bypassed the village and came out on the bank of the Dniester.

— "Here," Pyotr Savvich pointed his finger at a cow peacefully nibbling grass on the river bank, "here is our object."
He pulled a piece of cardboard from his bag, on which something was written in pencil, attached it to a twig, went closer to the water, and stuck it into the ground.

— "Remembered?"

— he looked at us, "I speak, and you only nod your heads." We obediently nodded.

— "Right," he said with satisfaction, "wait here," and went to the nearest house. A few minutes later, he returned with an elderly woman in a headscarf.

— "Yes, you understand, Maria, that there is cholera in the country, eh?"

— the paramedic spread his hands indignantly, "what can I do? Here," he pointed at us, "an inspection! Doctors were specially sent from the capital, and your cow drinks contaminated water from the Dniester. The sign is standing there," he pointed to the cardboard, "do you see what it says: 'Cholera! Do not drink water from the Dniester!'"

— "There was no sign there," the woman was indignant, "I didn't see anything."

— "You looked poorly," the paramedic shook his head, "go to an eye doctor. You didn't see it, but your cow is drinking!"

— pointing a finger at the animal, he stated, "maybe she is already a carrier of the infection. Let's see now," he said and put his ear to the belly of the chewing cow, "well, there you go, her stomach is already rumbling! Is there diarrhea?", he asked the old woman.

— "She has no diarrhea," the woman got indignant, "my cow is fine."

— "Not the cow," the paramedic sighed, "do you? Maybe you've already caught it from her? Do you know that cholera can be transmitted through milk? In short, we have to take the cow for tests and take her to the sanitary station, right doctors?"

— "Well, yes," I said, casting my eyes down, "we must."

— "Then, let's decontaminate the territory first," the paramedic said, pouring bleach from the bottle into the water, "and then we will take the sick cow to the station."
We dumbly repeated his actions and poured bleach into the Dniester from our vials.

— "How take her? Where will you take her?"

— the woman started fussing, and taking Pyotr Savvovich by the hand, led him aside.

— "Well, I don't know, I don't know," turning to us, the paramedic said, "I'll try. You, Maria, go home, and I will talk to the doctors."
The woman briskly drove the cow home.

— "Well, that's it," Pyotr Savvovich said with satisfaction, hiding the cardboard with the inscription in his bag, "we'll wait a bit and go inspect her cellar," and habitually settling on the ground, added, "and there is something to inspect there, I know for sure! She will try hard for her cow, you can believe me."
The paramedic was right. The table groaned with viands; I'm not even talking about the wine. We barely dragged the bags of food and wine that the hosts loaded us with for the "saved" cow. Pyotr Savvich, with pronounced "convergent strabismus," barely stayed on his feet and carried complete nonsense.

— "And so, an airplane crashed near the village, the pilot jumped with a parachute, but during the fall his leg was torn off," the paramedic showed the level of the tear on himself. We with Margo were so drunk that we focused all our attention solely on maintaining balance, so we were completely indifferent to the "delirium" of our "mentor." Hearing no objections, he continued:

— "Well, they call me, I look, and the leg is gone! I organized a search for the torn off organ, which was found a kilometer from the fall and brought to the medical center right with the boot. I sewed the leg back in place, after which I sent the pilot to the regional hospital. The operation...," the paramedic stumbled on a stone and fell into the dust but, even lying down, continued his story, "the operation lasted 12 hours."
We barely lifted the "genius surgeon," who, without interrupting his story for a second, continued to grind out nonsense:

— "Then generals, professors came and all asked where I learned this. They gave me an order then; it lies in a casket at my home. And a diploma too, it hangs on the wall in the room. Everyone respects me," the "order bearer" hiccuped, "they wanted to give me a car, but I refused. What do I need it for when I have the best horses in the district, and even in the country, and even...."
We led the paramedic to the medical center, and leaving him and the bags, moved home. How we got there, neither I nor Margo remember. Probably, only our youth saved us.
This is a dream.
Ah, Senatovka, Napadovo, our "heroic liquidation of cholera"! It was fun, noisy, interesting. Every day, we, with our "order-bearing" Pyotr Savvich, walked the yards, asking: "Does anyone have diarrhea, and do they drink water from the Dniester?" For every villager, our poorly educated paramedic had his own approach and a new "fairy tale," where the main characters were Margo and me, doctors from Kishinev! And interestingly, he never repeated himself. So, we went through good "universities," and there was a lot to learn from him. One day, he showed us the ruins of the estate of some boyar who lived in Napadovo about 100 years ago. We were amazed to see, in the courtyard of the estate, several preserved small "trees" made of multi-colored marble, with leaves on the branches. According to the paramedic: "The boyar brought them straight from Paris." Right there, we found a dilapidated family crypt, which Margo and I immediately climbed into in search of treasure, but quickly realized that everything had been plundered long before us.
We drank incredibly much "at the cholera." On "house-to-house rounds" under the leadership and with the active participation of Pyotr Savvich, and at our place of residence, the supply manager supplied us with wine (true, he never participated in the drinking bouts).
Three weeks of the "cholera coven" flew by quickly, and after the "successful liquidation of the epidemic," instead of returning home for rehabilitation from alcohol intoxication, we were transferred to a canning plant in the city of Kamenka, where we worked for another three weeks. But then I woke up. Ah, what a pleasant dream!

Continuation of studies + work.
I want to note that I not only "crunched science" at the institute, but also worked. It's a sin for me to complain, since I was from a fairly affluent family and did not suffer from malnutrition and deprivation. But "the ashes of Klaas beat against my heart," and youthful maximalism (not to depend financially on parents) threw me into the abyss of labor activity - as an orderly in the "Ambulance."
When, 50 years later, I watch movies showing the work of today's "Ambulance," I have a dual feeling:
On the one hand - "Allow me to doubt!"
On the other - "Oh, if only we had today's opportunities back then!"
"Allow me to doubt!" I'll explain. Of course, in the cinema they idealize and embellish the work of this, oh, what a difficult service. But when they show how an "Ambulance" doctor, or even more so a paramedic, having only examined the patient at home, with a smart look, without tests and examinations, makes diagnoses at the level of world-class specialists, excuse me, it is hard to believe. But, I will not discuss modern artistic speculations, better I will tell a little about the work of this service in our time.
"Oh, if only we had today's opportunities back then!" In that distant time, the "Ambulance" mainly employed pre-retirement age doctors, or those who could not get a more "profitable" job. They paid little, the work was hard, associated with duties, constant trips on old, usually written-off transport, blown from all sides through the cracks, which was hot in summer and cold in winter. And the floors? Do you know what floors are? There were elevators only in "high-rises," but they did not work everywhere, especially at night. And how many of those high-rise buildings were there? And the main load was the five-story buildings. What elevator is there? "Legs in hands" and up the endless stairs. And the old town, with dark tangled courtyards, dogs, and "dashing," often not very sober people. And sandwiches with sausage, hard-boiled eggs, and endless tea from a thermos, usually cold. In short, a "fun" job.
A couple more words about equipment, both medical and technical. To say that it was poor is an understatement. It was beggarly! And with this "arsenal," our doctors managed to invent something and somehow help the suffering.
And the technical equipment?!
One day, as a third-year student, I was on a call, a so-called transfer, in the suburbs of Kishinev (a transfer is the delivery of a woman in labor to the maternity hospital). Since there was a catastrophic shortage of doctors, only a paramedic and a driver went on such a call. It was February, outside -7°C, the car from the time of WWII, with a maximum speed of 40 km/h. On the way, the woman's water broke, and labor began. I laid her on the "bare" stretcher (it didn't even have a sheet) and opened the bix, which was supposed to contain sterile material and diapers intended for such cases. Of course, it was empty! I put my coat under the woman in labor, clamped her perineum with my hand, not letting the baby "get out," begged the poor woman to breathe deeper, endure, and try not to give birth. The poor driver "squeezed" everything possible out of the car and, littering the airwaves with profanity, informed the "center" over the radio about the situation. Thus we brought her to the maternity hospital, where obstetricians with hot diapers were already waiting for us and delivered the baby right in the car. Whether from the cold, or from fright, I could not tear my hands away from her perineum. A compassionate midwife brought me back to life by pouring 50 grams of pure alcohol. For several more days, I felt a tremor in my hands. I will not evaluate the correctness of my actions (specialists will understand what I am talking about), but one must take into account the extremeness of the situation and, of course, the level of "qualification" of a 3rd-year student. By the way, I asked later, a healthy boy was born.
Well, I'm tired. Time for a nap. How does that song go... "Let you dream"...
This is a dream.
A rapid flight of another year. Studying wasn't easy, but fun. And interestingly, we were young, active, ambitious, but still different, not like today's youth. No, no! This is not my old man's grumbling, but a statement of fact! At that time, relationships with the opposite sex were completely different. We were friends, gathered in large companies, went to the cinema, theaters, concerts, joked a lot, told a bunch of anecdotes, shared what we read (especially "samizdat"), but the topic of sex was never the main one and, moreover, was not discussed.
And records? Oh, oh, and once again - Oh! Do you know, young people, what "Wealth" is? You think it's "Mercedes," or "Audi," or some other crap? No, my dears! In our time, true wealth, causing respect and envy from our tribesmen, were vinyl records. No one has it, but you "got" it! Have "blat" in the "Melodiya" store - you are a respected person! And if you also have an "Elektronika" record player with speakers - that's it, you are a celestial! People went visiting "for records"!! Does today's youth understand this expression? Unlikely! I'll explain. People came to your house to listen to a highly scarce record: Pugacheva, Rotaru, the groups "Tsvety," "Samotsvety," "Pesnyary"!... But listening only at your place; taking it out - out of the question. To "wear out" a record - God forbid! It was guarded as the "apple of one's eye," wiped with soft cloth, kept in a cellophane bag and original branded packaging. And how they were held! Under no circumstances touch the surface of the disc, but only by the edge of the record, and strictly with two fingers! And if you also have a disc by "Boney M", or "ABBA", or... (that's it, that's it, I lack imagination), then, according to your capabilities, you rapidly approached God! And you say, some "Mercedes"! And records on x-ray film? Have you ever seen the group "Samotsvety" on someone's "ribs"? Hissing, whistling, crackling, but still, "Golubye Gitary" or "Zemlyane"!
Studying at the medical institute is no easy task. What is a subject like - ''Human Anatomy'' worth! On every bone of ''Homo sapiens'', hundreds of little holes, different tuberosities and depressions. And the student must know the names of all these ''landmarks'', moreover in Latin. Horror! We crammed to the point of insanity, to tetanus, and still, it's impossible to remember this.
Classes in this subject were held in a large ''anatomical hall'', where there were five autopsy tables, on which, under sheets, lay specially treated and prepared bodies. This happened in the following way - a group of students arranged themselves around the table, the sheet was thrown back, and the teacher began the interrogation. At first, the lying bodies embarrassed us, but over time, we got used to it and treated it completely calmly. In this regard, I want to tell one funny case.
We are standing somehow with the guys before the start of the lesson near the "anatomy building," smoking. A group of teenagers gathered near us, and from their conversations, we understood that these were students of the graduating class of some school, and they gathered to visit our ''Anatomical Theater''. At that time, a so-called "career guidance system" was developed, when the essence of various professions was explained to schoolchildren and, for clarity, they were taken on introductory excursions. The girls, anticipating the upcoming spectacle, timidly huddled in a bunch and looked at the windows of the "anatomy building" with fear.

— "And then a black-as-pitch decomposed corpse crawls out of the coffin," a tow-headed boy raised his hands above the head of a fragile girl in a red beret and wheezed: "A-a-a..., I'll get you!" The poor schoolgirl closed her eyes in terror and hid behind her friends.

— "And then, out of other graves, others start crawling out," his friend in glasses kept up with him, and running behind the unfortunate girl, hissed right into her ear: "Ooo-ooo-ooo, so that's where you are, Valka..a..a?! We'll get you...."
The girl in the red beret clenched her fists and shouted to the boys:

— "Fools, leave me alone! Aren't you afraid?"

— and pointing to the windows, shivered, "there are dead people lying there!"

— "Oh, oh," the one in glasses grimaced and mockingly mimicked - "dead people"! "Okay," and patted her on the shoulder, "when we go in, stand behind me, you miserable coward."

— "And you're not afraid?"

— making big eyes, the girl asked enthusiastically.

— "You need to fear the living," the "hero" raised a finger, "but what are the dead? Why fear them."
Having observed the activity of the kids, we, having immediately made a decision, went up to the "anatomy room" and, coordinating it with the groupmates, sat around the table. Of course, everyone agreed to have fun and play along with us.

— "Come in, guys," the voice of the department assistant was soft, "come in, don't be shy. This is the so-called 'Anatomical Theater,' where our students," he pointed a hand at us, "conduct practical classes."
The girls timidly huddled in a bunch near the doors, trying to hide behind the boys' backs. At the "frontline," our acquaintances - the tow-headed one and his friend in glasses - shuffled uncertainly. We threw the sheet off the corpse, and part of the group began actively exploring the insides of the "preparation," while others, pulling out sandwiches, started devouring them with appetite. The one in glasses fainted first; they managed to catch the tow-headed one, as he did not fall immediately, but turning pale, slowly began to slump. The girls squealed and jumped out of the hall. The "guide" got confused, not knowing what to do and who to save. We showed true heroism, taking an active part in the evacuation of the victims. Our teacher promised severe punishment, threatened not to count this lesson for us and to give everyone "make-up classes," but everything worked out. Formally, they could not make any claims against us. I wonder if any of those school kids chose the medical profession?
Summer came. A wonderful time. With my groupmate Michael and our girlfriends, we decided to go relax, and not just anywhere, but in Sochi! Someone gave us the phone number of an aunt who rented out a room in the resort, we got through to her and agreed to rent for 10 days. Ah, youth, ah Sochi! We lived in one room, but it did not bother us at all. We endlessly swam in the sea, drank the divine drink "Fanta" (which had just appeared in the Union), went to concerts at the "Green Theater" and alternately walked around the city, giving the other couple an opportunity to relieve sexual tension.
Once, walking around the city, we saw an announcement on a pole: "Fascinating journey! A one-day trip on a steamboat Sochi-Pitsunda. Departure from the port from the 3rd pier at 9°°". Just the thing, we decided, and bought tickets.
In the morning we had buns with milk for breakfast, on the way to the port we dropped by a small market and bought peaches to have something to gnaw on during the trip. The promised steamboat turned out to be rather a large cutter, for about 200 people. Walking in the port before departure, we tasted the peaches, but realizing they were still green, my friends refused them. All except me. I felt sorry to throw them away, and I ate 3-4 pieces.
We got on the boat, departed from the pier, and... here it is - the air of freedom and the endless expanse of water! The cheerful, polyphonic chorus of vacationers, the cries of mothers:

— "Vitya, step away from the side immediately!"

— and without interrupting, "Kolya, we haven't even had time to leave, and you're already 'taking it on the chest'? You'd better keep an eye on your son, he'll fall off the steamboat!"

— "Vitka!"

— the father shouted good-naturedly, clinking glasses with his buddy, "step away from the side," and snacking on a piece of sausage, looked at his wife, "where's he gonna fall? Look how high the sides are."
The atmosphere on the ship was festive; songs by Soviet composers performed by just as Soviet singers poured from the speakers. Tourists spread newspapers on the benches, pulled sandwiches with sausage, cheese, fruits, and vegetables out of their bags, men took out bottles with "noble" drinks, children chased around the deck. Everyone rejoiced in life in anticipation of the promised "fascinating journey."
About half an hour after the start of our excursion, I felt a "rumbling" in my stomach and an urge, excuse me, to empty myself. Probably, the green peaches caught up with the milk, and their "long-awaited" meeting took place. Going down from the upper deck, I found the toilets. Out of three cubicles, one was closed, with a piece of paper on the door: "Toilet out of order." Having emptied my bowels, I returned to my friends.
Suddenly, the sky darkened, the wind picked up, waves appeared, and the boat began to pitch quite noticeably. Whether it was due to the pitching, or the milk and peaches hadn't completely sorted out their relationship, but I again had the desire to go down to the lower deck.
Music was still playing from the speakers, but I didn't hear it, because another song spun in my head, slightly reworked by me, but more relevant at that moment:
Like a wedge the white basin converged on you
Like a wedge the white basin converged on you
Like a wedge the white basin converged on you
But vanished round the bend the toilet bowl did too.
Running down the stairs, I mumbled to myself:
I could have run round the bend
I could have run round the bend
I could have run round the bend
I could have, but my pride won't let me send.
Both cubicles were occupied, and 2-3 minutes of waiting seemed like an eternity to me. Relieved, I came out of the cubicle and went to the stairs leading to the upper deck, but could not immediately climb them, because I had to let a few women run down to the toilets, covering their mouths with their hands. Going up on deck, I felt that the pitching had significantly intensified. Several pale passengers stood along the sides, and someone was already leaning over the rail towards the sea. My friends were still holding up, but a "gentle" nausea had already appeared. I didn't have time to sit on the bench before I again felt an intestinal urge.

— "To each his own," a stupid thought crept into my brain, "everyone is pouring from the top, and I from the bottom!"
But there was no time to reason, and I again ran down. There was a small pandemonium near the toilets. Several people, clamping their mouths, were fighting their way to the cubicles. I felt unwell. My bowels "raged," demanding to be emptied, and I realized that I wouldn't withstand the line and had nothing to lose.

— "Citizens, dears!"

— I howled, seeing a woman come out of a cubicle, "you can puke anywhere, but I have diarrhea. Let me through, for God's sake!"
The crowd was stunned by my scream, and taking advantage of their confusion, I lightning-fast jumped into the cubicle and locked myself in. The passengers at first made an indignant noise, but hearing my sufferings, calmed down. After emptying my bowels, my brains worked better, and I realized that this was not my last "urge," and next time they simply wouldn't let me on the "throne." The prospect of crapping my pants did not appeal to me, and I made a "Solomon's" decision - not to leave the toilet! At first, I was frightened by the cries and curses of the suffering passengers, who promised to break down the door and drown me in the toilet, then I stopped paying attention to them, focusing on my problem.
I don't know what a 10-point storm is, but our little vessel was pitching very decently. The passengers near the toilets changed often, as some ran back to the deck to the coveted sides. The cubicle of the out-of-order toilet had been broken open long ago, and they were relieving themselves with the half-open door clapping, paying no attention to gender. I sat on the "throne" without getting up, periodically using it for its intended purpose. During our "fascinating journey," not only the milk consumed the day before poured out of me, but probably also the milk I drank in infancy.
We arrived in Pitsunda, where all passengers went ashore. All but me, I couldn't risk it. I came out of the toilet, as Maria Zakharovna, the landlady of my Kishinev apartment, would say: "Thin, ringing, and transparent."
Two sailors were swabbing the upper deck "in the sweat of their faces." The contents of the stomachs of the unfortunate travelers with traces of sandwiches with sausage and cheese, scraps of newspapers, fruit cores, and empty bottles that had rolled under the benches - that is what appeared before my clouded gaze on the empty deck. The "steamboat" went back half empty. A significant part of the vacationers preferred ground transport to return home. I can assume that Pitsunda is a very beautiful place! As promised by the organizers, we received a "fascinating journey," but I would also add "unforgettable"!
That's it, I need to rest. What would I like to see in my sleep? Oh...
This is a dream.
A yellow minibus, with the inscription "Ambulance" on a red stripe, parting oncoming cars, races through the city at breakneck speed. A person is lying in it, around whom three people in beautiful blue suits are busily fussing. The interior of the car is packed with the most modern equipment, the IV is dripping, the monitors are beeping. The paramedic girl is injecting an imported medicine intravenously, the male nurse is performing closed-chest cardiac massage, and the doctor is doing artificial ventilation with an "Ambu Bag." Faces are tense, actions are synchronous and professional.

— "Doctor," the anxious voice of the paramedic, "the pulse is thready, the patient is fading. We need to shoot 'Adrenaline' into the heart."

— "Too early," the wise doctor answers thoughtfully, "first a 'shock'."
The male nurse, temporarily stopping the cardiac massage, takes the electrodes in his experienced hands and performs "Defibrillation" on the patient!
Phew..! I woke up in a cold sweat. What was that? What did I dream of? Some kind of medical science fiction? The Strugatsky brothers, maybe Ray Bradbury, or Isaac Asimov? No, doesn't look like it..... Ah.. Ah.., this is our native series "Ambulance," where Gosha Kutsenko and Alexander Tyunin play doctors with truly encyclopedic knowledge. What a thing to dream of. By the way, I also had experience working in this service, but it was a very long time ago and...
In our time... how does Kobzon sing in "The Song of Anxious Youth":
And snow, and wind
And the night flight of stars.
My heart calls me
Into the anxious distance.
I worked at the "Ambulance" for 4 years. First as an orderly, and after the 3rd year, as a paramedic. The work is hard, responsible, and, of course, all sorts of things happened. However, I want to remember something funny. I will tell a few amusing stories, but so that no one takes offense, I will not name real surnames.
We had one doctor, a very strange woman of about 55. She dressed very old-fashioned and, one might say, sloppily. An old coat with a shabby collar, some scarf of an incomprehensible color, disheveled hair, sometimes a dropped stocking dangled on her ankle. She literally "attracted" misfortunes - she stumbled on level ground, and when getting out of the ambulance, she could miss the step and fall out of the cabin; countless times, going to a call to a patient, she fell on the stairs in dark entrances. One time, at night, a jealous husband, being well-oiled, hid under the stairs and kept watch in the entrance for his wife's lover, who, according to his calculations, was supposed to come out of the apartment. It was pitch dark, as he had previously broken the light bulb for conspiracy. Just then, this "Othello's" neighbors called the "Ambulance," and having serviced the call, the doctor and the paramedic were coming down the stairs. The jealous man, not figuring it out in the dark, hit the one walking in front on the head with a stone. The doctor got a concussion and was on sick leave for a long time. As the investigation later established, the lover calmly walked out of his wife's place 20 minutes after the arrest of the jealous man.
But we students loved working with her. Firstly, it was fun with her. Secondly, she had one "trick." If the patient was a man, having washed her hands in the bathroom and taking the towel from his wife, she would say:

— "No, no, my dear, don't even try to persuade me. First the patient, and the treat comes later! Where is our patient?"
Or the second variant - sitting by the patient's bed, she would reproachfully say to the paramedic, but so that the wife could hear:

— "See how good it is that we managed to arrive in time, and didn't sit down to eat, as you suggested. Remember, a real medic should think not about food, but about the patient. You can help people even hungry. So, let's work!"
The poor wives had no choice but to go to the kitchen and urgently prepare some snack for the crew. We were always well-fed with her.
A recent graduate of the medical institute went on her first shift and was very worried. At first, the calls turned out to be quite simple - high fever, high blood pressure, and some other routine. Night fell, her first night working on the "Ambulance." I must note that working at night is different from working during the day. By day it is light, noisy, there are people around, but at night the darkness separates you from the outside world, and you are left alone with yourself, and decisions must be made independently.

— "Crew No. 15," the voice from the speaker, "go out."

— "Here you go," the dispatcher smiled, handing a sheet to the young specialist, "a foreign body on the genital organ."

— "Where?"

— the girl blushed, "where is the foreign body? What foreign body?"

— "On the 'prick', doctor, where else?"

— the dispatcher laughed, "a common thing on the first wedding night. The newlyweds get drunk at the wedding, and then, on their first wedding night, they arrange different games in bed and frolic drunkenly. They pull a wedding ring onto the 'exhausted' organ, it swells up, and then they can't take it off. So, go," and smiling, added, "help the newlyweds."
The apartment door was opened by a young woman with disheveled hair and in a wedding dress worn over a naked body. It was noticeable that she was "tipsy".

— "Come in, doctor," and unable to hold back, she giggled into her fist, "he is in the room."
A guy in underpants sat in an armchair, clutching the groin area with his hands. Seeing the young woman in a lab coat enter, he was terribly embarrassed.

— "Hello!"

— the doctor said in a hoarse voice, "what do you have here, show me?"

— "Maybe he will take a look?"

— the patient whispered pleadingly, pointing to the smiling paramedic.

— "No!"

— the doctor said bravely, "I am the doctor, show it to me!"
Seeing the "problem," she was horrified, because she had never, not only not studied this at the institute, but hadn't even heard of such a thing. further