I met the morning of August 14, 1988, on the mountain road leading from the Afghan city of Shindand to Herat and then to my native Kushka. A group of journalists was supposed to capture the long-awaited withdrawal of the motorized rifle regiment, which shot back for 5 years of the war, as they say, in full. For a better view, a plywood"rain" podium was hastily put together, as was usually done at demonstrations and impromptu rallies.

And now, along the road, IFVs were dusted with dust, and tanks screeched their tracks menacingly...

Not being constrained by conventions, the personnel settled down on the armor and joyfully greeted the writing and filming fraternity. But the black-haired Afghan girl who stood next to the general who accompanied us was particularly warmly greeted, waving her arms and hats bleached by the sun.

"Mawluda, ur-r-r-ra!" "sometimes it came from the armor. "Probably from some Kabul newspaper," I thought, and decided to get to know my colleague better. What struck me was not so much her modest Afghan attire, but her amazing, well, simply piercing oriental beauty. Black almond-shaped eyes, a strictly symmetrical spread of eyebrows and a smile that is somewhat similar to the smile of Mona Lisa, only in Persian execution. Later it turned out that Mawlyuda was well-versed in Dari and Farsi languages, in the original she quoted the classics of Persian - Tajik literature Firdousi, Hafiz and Omar Khayyam, and as for the city of Herat, she could have worked here as a guide-she was so well versed in the ancient architecture and painting of the masters of the Herat school.

"Girl, may I ask you something," I said, trying to get her to talk, in a loose gypsy tone.

"I'm studying the mountains,"she said with a charming smile.

"That's it?"

"Isn't that enough?"..

"Don't ask stupid questions and you won't get stupid answers," the Australian weekly correspondent, who was obviously also fascinated by Mawlyuda, advised me in English, hiccupping from whiskey.

In Kushka, where we were taken by helicopter, there was again a rally and a meeting with the regiment, although not on the march. Well, then traditional pilaf, melons, wine... This time I "drove" to the stranger from the other side...

We were brought together by the "great and mighty" Russian language. Mavlyuda was very fond of Pushkin and Yesenin. Me too. She said that she graduated from the History and Philology Department of the University in Dushanbe. She is Tajik by nationality and lives with her parents in Dushanbe. And she came to Afghanistan to work at the call of the party, or rather the Central Committee of the Komsomol, which at that time was equivalent to. Knowing the language perfectly, under the auspices of the Red Cross, she traveled to remote mountain villages, delivered food and medicines...

Our conversation did not last long. Paths-roads also quickly diverged, as well as crossed at one point in space and time. I flew to Herat, but Mawlyuda stayed in Kushka. I didn't even know the reasons at the time. But, as is often the case, Mr. Great Chance explained everything.

In Afghanistan, I came face to face with an old comrade, Volodya Kostrov. When we were green lieutenants, we used to live in the same dorm, read the same books, and watch the same movies...

And ... we sat down at the same table in the staff cafeteria ten years later. Naturally, they kneaded each other's sides for a long time, rejoicing at the unexpected meeting. From a modest tank platoon commander, my old acquaintance rose to the rank of chief of intelligence of the compound and managed to receive two orders. During the conversation, I accidentally mentioned Mawlud.

"Wow, so you've already met her?" Kostrov whistled. "He's an amazing man. You'll see for yourself tonight.

Naturally, I didn't know what would happen at night, and therefore, as the hero of Lermontov's "Taman", I was looking forward to the onset of darkness. As agreed, Kostrov's armored personnel carrier was waiting for me at the designated place, and we rushed to the outskirts of Herat. They pulled up next to a high adobe fence. We were immediately surrounded by several bearded men with Kalashnikov machine guns slung over their shoulders. In the moonlight, their gap-toothed smiles were particularly creepy...

"Don't be afraid, Commander," Kostrov reassured him. - These are Aref's bodyguards. He came to us from Iran with his gang. Now he's working for the government, but he's afraid of his old friends.

"What's Mawlyuda got to do with it?"

"I'll explain later," Volodya said in an ominous whisper.

The meeting was held at the highest diplomatic level. We sat on soft carpets, ate fruit, and drank the disgusting local clandestine brandy. Aref assured my friend that he had finally regained his sight and would now defend the gains of the April Revolution. Instead of a hundred grams, he offered a long pipe, like a flute, for a staff. What kind of potion it was stuffed with, I still didn't fully understand. But I barely took a drag, almost lost consciousness.

Volodya said a cordial goodbye to Aref, and we were just as honored to be escorted as we were met by his bodyguards.

"So," as if there had never been a three-hour pause, " my friend continued the interrupted conversation. - Aref is the commander of the tribal battalion. He has more than a thousand thugs under his command, who have been raiding from Iran for five years. Mawlyuda persuaded him to come over to our side without paying a penny. Literally for the beautiful eyes... Usually, such transactions are expensive. And here is another case. Poor Aref doesn't know that our swallow has dozens of fans among the Mujahideen. They regularly give her flowers...

Only now did I understand why Mawlyuda had stayed in Kushka. It turns out that she wasn't lying at all when she admitted that she was studying the mountains. In its own way, of course.

When I was in Afghanistan, the withdrawal of our troops was only six months away. And all this time, Mawlyuda has reconciled the most implacable enemies, while providing invaluable assistance to the command of the 40th army in collecting intelligence. The tragedy happened, as always, unexpectedly. The girl was awarded the Order of the Badge of Honor and released home to her parents for several days. But the plane never took off: someone booby-trapped the runway. Severe compression shock, severe spinal injury... When the last Soviet battalion left Afghanistan, she had just been discharged from the hospital. I learned about this from mutual acquaintances, meeting with my fellow journalists General B. Gromov. I decided for myself: we should definitely stop by Dushanbe. It was not far from Termez to the capital of Tajikistan. So I took the bus.

I was lucky: Mavlyuda was in the city. She hadn't changed a bit. Still the same open smile, thick black silky hair, and light as a sea breeze gait. As if there were no risky trips to the mountains, blowing up on an anti-tank mine and severe concussion.

We sat down in the dim bar. I secretly admired her stoic self-control and the beauty of her dark velvet eyes. Then he asked bluntly;

- Why didn't you marry Aref? After all, he is a very rich man and would do anything for you...

"Gallius, a poor hungry man, married a rich old woman. Can say: Gallium is full now... my wife, " she replied, quoting an ancient Roman satire by Juvenal.

I felt a little awkward, so I started praising the local nutmeg wine. But she suddenly startled me with an unpleasant question:

"Don't you think the war isn't over?"

"What are you talking about?" - Afghanistan will never happen again.

"That's not what I mean... About the Soviet Union...

There was a bottomless sadness in her eyes.

It was February 1989, and Mavljuda's fears seemed delusional to me.

Two years later, the USSR collapsed. Three months later, civil war broke out in Tajikistan. With minor pauses and varying success, it continues to this day. I never heard from Mawlud again. But how sensitive and prescient was a woman's heart!

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