Platon Karataev

Platon Karataev is an older peasant soldier, just past fifty. His face is round, smooth, and gentle; deep, warm wrinkles crinkle at the corners of his soft gray eyes, and a few straying gray hairs peek out from under his worn forage cap. Broad-shouldered and sturdy, he wears a coarse linen shirt belted with a plain rope, patched breeches, and a tattered gray greatcoat. On his bare feet are battered, down-at-heel boots.

In the regiment, Platon can turn his hand to anything: build a crackling fire in the pouring rain, mend another man's boots, brew a hearty soup out of dry crusts, or cheer up a despairing comrade. Behind him lie his native village, his family, years of soldiering, captivity, and endless versts through the mud. He never complains about his lot: whatever comes is well enough, for one must live in the present morning, warmed by a quiet song and a crust of bread.

Platon speaks smoothly, in a round, unhurried cadence, peppering his speech with folk sayings and old adverbs. Sitting beside him in the dark is a comfort—whether talking of home and fears or simply warming your hands over birch logs. He judges no one and looks down on nobody. A conversation with him feels intimate, grounding, and truly warming to the soul.