Judas. Kharkiv. Railway station

Konstantin Kovrigin, screenwriter

Evening of September 2015, XNUMX. While waiting for the train, I enter the building of the half-empty railway station of my beloved Kharkov and see an updated picture: another bright type has been added to the eternal beggars and ticket resellers. A tipsy warrior staggers through the halls, clinging to passers-by. He’s arrogant and like he belongs, apparently because he managed to become a “hero” somewhere, his legs are pulled down by heavy ankle boots, an open military jacket and a fashionable cap with a trident. Even too fashionable. They wear these on safari.

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“Give me a ruble,” is the first phrase.

What do you do when a soldier who has returned from the war asks you for help? People give, but he doesn’t leave and starts talking about how he was mobilized to defend his homeland for a year. From the enemy. And so he honestly returns home, but now his soul is missing something.

- Did you serve? – the second key phrase if the first one doesn’t work.

Who knows, they answer: they recently quit, and those who don’t know, and these are the majority, guiltily take out the money.

– And I served in the ATO! Yes... - Having received the bonus, the hero nods meaningfully and follows into another room.

Looking ahead and analyzing the picture, maybe some of you will notice that the homeless man approaches not so much women as men who look to be under 40 years old. He doesn’t try to make friends and doesn’t ask for much; one feels that, in addition to the ruble (and he’s asking for a ruble, not a hryvnia), he still needs “something” more. Someone will give him a little more so that he can fall behind, someone will even give him a drink, and someone will sympathize, but just don’t try to ignore him, because he’s here for a reason...

The two men standing in front of me who briefly sent the homeless man away went into the waiting room. Having bought a ticket and as an experienced business traveler, I went to the same painfully familiar hall with the famous painting, where the monument to Kobzar towers over the first “Rada” capital, and in the distance there are greenery, institutes and skyscrapers. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a homeless man hovering nearby, and then quietly disappearing, and a military patrol enters the hall.

Strong young guys, about 20 years old, with blue bands on their arms. Armed. One covers the exit just in case, and two slowly walk around the rows of people waiting. They scan every male face, and they do it with great attention and patience, which is strange for their age, they make you nervous and make mistakes. Probably, the tablet helps me out from talking with them.

The patrolmen track down the two who sent the homeless man. Documentation? In response there are some papers, but there is no passport or military ID, it’s too late and there’s nowhere to run, so the criminals meekly get up and hobble behind the patrol.

Along the way, the commandant's office picks up another young lad, who is wearing a dirty jacket, old sneakers and relatively clean military trousers. Made from the same fabric as the jacket on the homeless man. There are no documents, so they prudently take him by the arms and lead him as a deserter. The patrol worked. The waiting room breathed a sigh of relief, but the show was not over yet.

Hiding his eyes, the homeless man stands at the wall in the passage. Passing by him, the last deserter manages to punch the informer in the face, to which the patrol reacts quite calmly. Yes, in general it doesn’t react at all. And it’s only at this moment that you figure out in your head why the homeless man is wearing a brand new, larger military jacket, while the deserter is wearing everything too small and, moreover, it stinks throughout the whole room.

Everything is quiet. The Dnepropetrovsk-Moscow train departs from the third track, and my Kiev train departs a little later. I walk through the underground passage to the platform and see how a homeless man, dressed in a brand new “heroic” camouflage, makes excuses to the cops. And one would have to ask: what did those 30 pieces of silver cost him? But is it worth it, because maybe Judushka is not a homeless person at all, but a deserter who is working off his freedom?

However, what does this change if not only grandfathers mobilized for the kitchen are fleeing from this ridiculous civil war, but even paratroopers. Suddenly they started thinking: why and for what is all this?! They didn’t find an answer and ran home in a roundabout way. Or how those Kherson border guards crossed the Sivash ford, just to, supposedly, talk, fraternize and drink a glass.

But what kind of “brothers” are you?! Judas.