A few years ago, we— a group of young people from Uzbekistan — were studying at one of the universities in Russian cities. The university building wasn’t too far from our dormitory. We could walk there, although we sometimes used public transportation.
One day, when we had more free time because our first class was canceled, my friend Muminjon and I decided to walk. The streets were busy, full of people rushing to their work. No one paid attention to anyone else.
As we were walking along the sidewalk, suddenly, our eyes caught sight of a piece of white bread lying on the ground. Muminjon immediately ran over, picked up the bread and said, “Oh, what a shame — someone threw bread on the ground!” He gently dusted it off, kissed it, and touched it to his eyes as a sign of respect before handing it to me. I did the same, then placed the piece of bread on a branch between some nearby trees.
As we continued on our way, a voice called out behind us, “Rebyata, wait a minute!”
We turned around and saw a man—around 50 or 55 years old—walking quickly toward us through the crowd. He seemed emotional, and my friend and I were surprised. His clothes were neat and tidy, and his chest was decorated with medals.
When he got closer, he asked, “Where are you from?”
“We’re from Uzbekistan, from the city of Namangan,” we replied.
“I thought so! I figured you weren’t from around here,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve heard the song ‘Namanganskie Yabloki’ (Namangan Apples),” he added with a smile.
That song was very popular at the time, even in Russian, and had become a real hit.
He asked, “Is it true that there are more apples in Namangan than even in Michurinsk?”
We told him that not only apples, but many other fruits grow in abundance in Namangan, and that it’s also known as the city of flowers.
“My name is Nikolai, but you can just call me Uncle Kolya,” he said. “I’m a military training instructor at the school down the road. I’m on my way to work now. But what you just did really touched me — it lifted my spirits. It’s so good to see young people like you. Ah, boys… boys… We truly know the value of a piece of bread.”
He sighed deeply, took the piece of bread we had just placed among the branches, put it in his bag, and continued:
“Just imagine,” Uncle Kolya said, “how many people once longed for even a single piece of bread!
It was during the chaotic years of the Second World War. Everything was in flames. The fascist invaders had occupied villages and towns, displacing people. Both adults and children were starving. Even one piece of bread was a treasure. Everywhere, bread was rationed and distributed by cards—each person was allowed only 30 to 50 grams a day, no more.
Our battalion was on the front lines. We liberated a small village in Belarus from the fascists. Just then, a boy—about 9 or 10 years old—ran up to us and led us to his home. Three soldiers and I followed him into a house where a woman, around forty years old, lay weak and exhausted. She was the boy’s mother. She hadn’t had even a pinch of salt for days—starvation had taken a toll on her.
The invaders had stolen everything they had. They had been boiling and eating potato peels to survive. Witnessing their suffering filled us with even more hatred toward the fascists.
My fellow soldiers took hardened bread, crackers, and canned food from their pouches and placed them beside the woman. She took a piece of bread, touched it to her eyes, cried, and said to her son:
‘Take it, Grishenka, eat it and fill your stomach.’
But the boy replied:
‘No, no, Mommy, you eat it. You haven’t eaten anything for days!’
Seeing this, our soldiers were more determined than ever to drive the fascists out of our motherland.
‘I was a witness to such events,’ said Uncle Kolya. ‘Watching what you boys just did reminded me of those painful times.
He then looked around at the people who had passed by the bread on the ground without a second thought and said,
‘Oh people, people! Have you really forgotten those difficult years so quickly?’”
As we said goodbye to Uncle Kolya, he gave us his address.
“Come visit my home sometime,” he said. “I’ll host you as my guests and tell you more stories from the war.”
As we parted ways with someone who had lived through the horrors of war, his words kept echoing in our ears. For a brief moment, it felt as if we had been transported back to those dark days of suffering.
We deeply felt that one must always appreciate the value of everything—especially bread, this priceless blessing. Even a single piece of bread should be respected and never wasted.
Makhmudjon SOLIYEV