At the beginning of the war, Corea had just learned to count, and he could only count to ten. He counted ten steps away from the door and dug a hole with a shovel.
When the hole was dug, he put a wooden box in it. The wooden box contains all kinds of interesting things, such as skates, axes, hand saws and other gadgets. He put away the wooden box, covered it with soil, stamped it with his foot, and sprinkled a layer of fine sand to avoid being found.
Why did Corea bury these things? Because German fascists are about to attack their village. Corea, his mother and grandmother decided to leave the village and take refuge in Kazan. You can't take everything with you. Mother put some things in the box and walked thirty steps from the door. The box was buried underground. Corea could only count to ten, so he measured ten steps and buried his business.
On that day, mom and grandma took Corea to Kazan, where she was hospitalized for almost four years. Corea grew up and went to primary school. He can count to more than one hundred.
Fascism was finally driven away. Mom and grandma took Cory back and forth. Their house is still there, but the contents were taken away by fascists.
Mother said, "Don't be sad, we still have some things underground."
Mother took thirty steps from the door to the vegetable garden and dug up the box she had buried. She said happily, "Arithmetic is really useful. If I had just dug a hole and buried the box, it would not be easy to find it now. "
Corea also took a shovel, measured ten steps from the door and began to dig. He dug and dug. The hole had been dug deep and the box had not been found. He dug left and right, but he still couldn't find it.
The friends gathered around and smiled at Corea: "Your arithmetic is not important! Maybe fascism stole your treasure. "
Corea said, "No, the enemy didn't even dig away our big box. Can you still find my Xiao Mu box? " . There must be a reason for this.
Corea put down his shovel and sat on the steps, touching his forehead with his hand. Suddenly he smiled and said to his friends, "I know what's going on!" I buried the box four years ago, when I was still young and didn't take much steps. I'm nine years old now, and my steps are twice as big as those at that time, so I should measure five steps instead of ten. Look, I will find my wooden box soon. "
Corea measured five steps and began to dig again. Soon after, he found the wooden box.
Corea said happily, "Guys, today I not only found the box, but also learned that time is passing, people are growing up day by day and the pace is getting bigger. Isn't everything around you changing? "
Stravinsky: Rossignol's hymn
Just after the battle, a small group of German soldiers entered the village. The road is lined with black broken tiles. In the empty garden, the charred trees bent down in frustration.
The nightingale's song broke the silence of summer. The song stopped for a while, and then began to sing with a new energy.
Soldiers and officers listened carefully and began to pay attention to the surrounding bushes and birch branches hanging by the roadside. They found a child sitting on the river bank, with his legs very close. He is bald, wearing a green coat about the color of leaves, and holding a piece of wood in his hand, he doesn't know what he is cutting.
"Ah. You come! " The police officer stopped the child.
The child quickly put the knife in his clothes, shook the sawdust on his clothes and walked to the officer.
"Hey (náo), let me see!" The officer said.
The child took out a gadget from his mouth, handed it to him and looked at him with happy blue eyes. '
That's a whistle made of birch bark. BR> "What a coincidence! Boy, you are quite skilled. " The officer nodded his head. In a blink of an eye, a sneer flashed across his gloomy face. "Who taught you to whistle like this?"
"I learned it myself. I can also imitate the cuckoo's call. "
The child has learned cuckoo calls several times. Then he put the whistle in his mouth and blew it.
"Are you the only one left in the village?" The police officer continued to question him.
"How can I be alone? There are many sparrows, crows and owls here. I am the only nightingale! "
"You bad guy!" The officer interrupted the child. "I asked if there was anyone here."
"What about people? There was no one here when the war started. " The child replied unhurriedly: "As soon as the fire was set, the village caught fire, and everyone shouted' The beast is coming, the beast is coming'-they all ran away."
"Stupid thing!" The officer thought for a moment and smiled contemptuously.
"Okay, do you know the way to Sumontas village? Is that the name of the village? "
"How could I not know!" The child confidently replied, "My uncle and I often go fishing on the dam of the mill. The dog fish there can be fierce and can eat goslings! "
"It's okay, okay, take us. If you lead the way correctly, I will give you this little thing. " The police officer pointed to his lighter and said. "If you take us somewhere else, I'll rip your head off. Do you understand? "
The team set out, marching stove in front, children and officers behind, walking side by side. Children sometimes sing like nightingales, sometimes swing their arms at branches on the roadside like cuckoos, and sometimes bend down to pick up cones and kick them with their feet. He seems to have completely forgotten the officers around him.
The forest is becoming more and more dense. The winding path passes through the dense birch forest, through the overgrown clearing, and climbs the hill covered with Gu Song.
"Do you have guerrillas here?" The officer asked suddenly.
"What you said is a kind of mushroom (mó) mushroom (gū)? No, we don't have this kind of mushroom here. There are only red mushrooms, white mushrooms and mushrooms here. " The child replied.
The police officer felt that he could not get anything out of the child's mouth, so he stopped asking.
Deep in the Woods, there are several guerrillas lying in ambush, with submachine guns beside the trees. They looked out through the cracks in the branches and could see the winding path. From time to time, they say a few simple words, carefully push aside the branches and stare at the distance.
"Did you hear that?" A guerrilla suddenly said. He straightened up, as if there was a bird's cry, faintly coming through the rustling of leaves. He cocked his head and listened carefully to the crying. "Nightingale!"
"Did you hear me right?" Another guerrilla said. He got nervous and listened carefully, but he heard nothing. He took out four grenades from under the big stump and put them in front of his eyes just in case.
"Did you hear it this time?"
The nightingale is singing louder and louder.
The first person who heard the nightingale stood staring as if nailed there. He paid attention to counting the birds' songs: "One, two, three, four ..." He clapped his hands while counting.
The nightingale stopped singing. "Thirty-two demons …" said the man. Only guerrillas know the meaning of this bird song. Then there were two cuckoo calls. "Two machine guns." He added.
"I can handle it!" A bearded man with a submachine gun said. He tidied up the bullet bag hanging around his waist.
"It should be handled!" The person who listened to the birds replied, "Uncle Scepan and I will put them in the past, you fire, and we will refuel in the back." If anything happens to us, don't forget the little nightingale ... "
A few minutes later, German soldiers appeared behind the pine forest. The nightingale is still singing with great interest, but for those who hide in the silent forest, that song has no new meaning.
When the German soldier went to the depression in the forest, he suddenly let out a whistle from the pine forest and answered the child like an echo. The child suddenly stopped, turned and disappeared into the Woods. Gunfire broke the silence in the forest. The police officer rolled into the dust on the side of the road before he could grab the pistol. German soldiers wounded by submachine guns fell down one by one. Groans, shouts and intermittent passwords filled the Woods.
The next day, next to the wall of the burned village, where the path diverged, the child put on the green coat again, sat on the original river bank and cut something, looking back at the road to the village from time to time, as if waiting for someone.
The nightingale's song flew out of the child's mouth. Even people who are used to listening to birds can't tell the difference between this song and a real nightingale. I don't see any difference between it and a real nightingale.