Boris Ekimov and “Living Soul”. Topic of the research project: “The moral choice of heroes in the works of Boris Ekimov

Technology development critical thinking in a literature lesson in the 5th grade. Lesson model on the topic: B. Ekimov, story “ Alive soul»

Brief summary: One of the tasks of literature lessons is to educate a talented reader, a reader-interlocutor, and a co-author. A teacher who is forming such a reader faces a question: how to structure a lesson to teach a student to reflect on what he read, ask questions and find answers, make discoveries and enjoy the search process? Techniques for developing critical thinking can come to the teacher’s aid. A lesson in the technology of developing critical thinking will help organize a dialogue between the reader and the author, immerse the child in the world literary text.

Academic subject: literature.

Level of education of schoolchildren: The lesson is intended for 5th grade, class level - intermediate

Form academic work: class lesson

Equipment: projector, computer

Work organization: collective, group, individual

Lesson objectives:

1. Bring to the realization of how important it is to be able to sympathize and have compassion, whether it be livestock or people.

2. To promote the development of students’ thinking skills, which are necessary not only in studies, but also in ordinary life(the ability to work with information, analyze various situations), the ability to make informed decisions, the ability for reasonable reflective creative thinking).

Lesson objectives.

To give each student the opportunity to realize themselves, receiving positive emotions from the learning process, and also to construct their own knowledge.

Fostering social responsibility. (To do this, it is advisable to closely link the entire educational process with specific life tasks and problems that children encounter in everyday life)

Formation of UUD.

Formation of UUD in the classroom.

Regulatory.

Independently formulate the topic, problem and goals of the lesson.

Cognitive.

Independently read all types of text information: factual, subtextual, conceptual.

Establish cause-and-effect relationships.

Build reasoning

Carry out analysis and synthesis.

Communicative UUD.

Consider different opinions and strive to coordinate different positions in cooperation.

Form your own opinion and position, give reasons for it.

Ask questions necessary to organize your own activities.

Express your thoughts orally and in writing.

Listen and hear others, try to take a different point of view

Personal.

1. Formation of an emotional-evaluative attitude towards what you read.

2. Formation of perception of the text as a work of art.

During the classes.

Appeal to personal experience, which will help prepare students for a personal perception of the work.

Do you have pets at home? How do you feel about pets?
Does anyone have a grandmother in the village? Does she keep livestock? How does he treat her? Are you helping?

Ekimov Boris Petrovich born on November 19, 1938 in the city of Igarka, Krasnoyarsk Territory, into a family of employees. Graduated from the Higher Literary Courses (1979). He worked as a turner, mechanic, serviceman, electrician at a factory, builder in the Tyumen region and in Kazakhstan, and a labor teacher in a rural school. Columnist for the Volgogradskaya Pravda newspaper.

He made his debut as a prose writer in 1965. He compiled and provided an introduction to the folklore collection “Songs of the Don Cossacks” (1982). Published as a prose writer and essayist in the magazines “Our Contemporary”, “Znamya”, “ New world", "Niva Tsaritsynskaya", "Russia".

Ekimov's works have been translated into English, Spanish, Italian, German, French and other languages.

Recognized with prizes from the magazine “Our Contemporary” (1976), “Literary Newspaper” (1987), named after. I. A. Bunin (1994), the New World magazine (1996), the main Moscow-Penne prize (1997), the State Prize of Russia (1998), the Stalingrad prize (1999).

Lives in Volgograd.

Working with literary text. In this part of the lesson, the “challenge - comprehension - reflection” scheme is implemented. Students receive the following work algorithm:

*reading the text from “stop to stop”

*question – forecast regarding development storyline in the passage

*answer is an assumption, its justification.

So, we read the text (work is carried out only individually). Let's start working on a mind map

The Tebyakins lived opposite the brigade office, across the road. Natalya herself was listed as a stoker and cleaner in the office. It was very convenient: a solid salary and a house at hand. Visiting people, when the office was empty, went to the Tebyakins and asked where to look for a manager, a livestock specialist, or someone else. They were told.

And this clear January One day a visitor entered the Tebyakins’ yard. He looked around, fearing the dog, and shouted from the gate:

The owners of the house?!

Stop.

At what time do the events of the story take place? What weather is normal for this time?

Nobody answered him. The visitor walked through the yard. The Vasika yard was spacious: the house was covered with tin, next to it was a warm outbuilding kitchen, sheds, and heels.

Can we guess who the owners of this house are?( They are hardworking, live in abundance, take care of their household thoroughly)

People were swarming around the cattle station. The visitor came closer: the old man and the boy were removing manure, throwing it into a wooden sled with a box. In their lowered trousers, padded jackets, felt boots and galoshes, they worked in silence and did not see the guest.

You live well! – the visiting man called out to them.

The old man understood his head.

The mistress of the houses,” he said and ended the conversation, returning to work.

The boy didn’t even look up. Operating a shovel.

“I brought you a bow from Uncle Levon, from Baba Lena,” said the guest.

The old man straightened up, leaning on his pitchfork, looked as if he had remembered, and answered slowly:

Thank you. So, they are alive and well...Thank God.

At that moment the hostess came out onto the porch, and the old man called out to her:

Natalya, hit the man!

The boy, leaving the shovel, looked around at the loaded sled and said to his grandfather:

We're lucky.

Was our opinion about the hard work of the owners confirmed?

What can we say about the boy’s character? (silent, immersed in work)

He only glanced at the newcomer with an indifferent glance, joining the sleigh team. The rope attached to the sleigh was long, allowing the boy and the old man to harness themselves comfortably. They took it together and pulled the loaded sled on the packed snow rut down to the bottom, into the garden. AND The move of the old and the small agreed.

What detail helps us see the coherence of the work of the grandfather and grandson??

The hostess turned out to be friendly and talkative. In the house, without listening to reasons, she put out tea and snacks, eagerly asking about her relatives.

The father-in-law is not very talkative, said the guest.

“Old Believers,” the hostess justified herself. “They used to be called Kulugurs.” They took me, so I was out of habit... - she laughed, remembering, and, sighing, added thoughtfully: - Baba Manya died among us. Grandfather misses you, and so does Alyosha.

Do the mother's words help us understand the boy's silence?

We drank some tea. We talked. The guest remembered about business.

I came to your office.

He's on the farm. Alyosha will take you there. Just come and dine with us. Vasily will come. He always remembers Uncle Levon and his brothers. They were young... - The owner ran out into the yard, shouted to her son and returned. - Look at the manager, don’t come to dinner, come to us, to us. Otherwise Vasily will be offended.

The door opened, the owner’s son came in and asked:

Did you call me, mom?

You take your uncle to the farm. You will find the government. Understood?

“We’ll take another sled with grandpa,” said the boy.

Huh, busy... Otherwise, without you.. With grandfather...

The son, without answering, turned and left. The mother shook her head and said apologetically:

Conducts, conducts. Not a child, but Poroshina in the eye. Kuluguristy... Bycha.

How do you understand this word? How does his mother pronounce it? (affectionately, with love)

Last word the guest laughed, but as he and the boy walked, he realized that the word was accurate.

Boy it didn’t hurt to talk: “yes” and “no”" The plump pink sponge protruded forward, the head was large and foreheaded. And it was as if he were watching incredulously, from under his brows.

What class are you in?

In the second.

How do you study?

No triples.

Is there a school in Vikhlyaevka?” the guest asked and looked at the distant Vikhlyaevskaya Mountain, which rose above the surrounding area and now shone with snow.

In Vikhlyavka...

On foot or by car?

It depends… - evasively answered the boy.

Have you been to the regional center?

Come to visit. My son is the same age as you.

The boy was wearing a padded jacket, altered from a military khaki color, with clear buttons.

Did your mother sew a padded jacket?

“Baba,” the boy answered briefly.

And my grandfather rolled felt boots,” the guest guessed, admiring the neat black wire rods, soft even to look at.

Well done grandfather.

The boy glanced sideways, making it clear that this praise was unnecessary.

* Is the boy talkative with the guest? What details should we note that confirmed this?

The farm stood away from the farmstead, in a white field, blackened with stacks of hay, straw, and silage mounds. The squat buildings were drowning in the snow up to their windows. There are plump, tall hats on the roofs.

Autumn in the area dragged on for a long time, with rain. Only towards the New Year it froze and it snowed for a week. And now it's clarified. The whitish sun shone without warming. Another day there was a harsh east wind. It's chalk below. Lazy drifting snow flowed in smoky streams around the snowy sastrugi.

On the farm, on its bases, there was a hubbub: a flock of sparrows flew from place to place, looking for easy money: heavy pigeons rose like a gray cloud, covering the sky, made a circle and descended; talkative jackdaws chattered; the prim crow sat on the fence poles, patiently waiting.

"Belarus", a blue little tractor, snorting smoke, made its way along a deep rut along the bases. From the trailer, through the sleeve, a yellow mess of silage poured into the feeders. Cows hurried to feed, birds flocked.

The boy stopped the tractor and shouted:

Uncle Kolya! Haven’t you seen the government?!

In the water heater! - answered the tractor driver. - And father is there.

The last cattle emerged from the dark caves of the cowshed. From the straw mound that rose in the middle of the base, from under the zagat, where in the calm, under the wind, it was warmer and calmer. Now everyone was rushing to the silo, to the food, lining up over the feeders.

The base is empty. And then a red bull appeared in the middle. Small, disheveled, covered in icicles, he stood in the snow. Legs spread apart, navel thread almost to the ground, head lowered, as if sniffing.

The boy noticed him and called:

Bycha, bycha...Why are you standing here?

Telok raised his head.

Some kind of you... Mom didn’t lick it, stupid... - the boy said and stroked the tousled fur.

The bull did not yet look like cattle, everything about him was childish: a soft body, thin, reed-like legs, white, unhardened hooves.

The body touched the boy's hand with his nose and looked at him with large blue eyes, like Slitheen.

“You’re going to die here, boy,” said the boy. - Where is mommy?

It was difficult to wait for an answer from the chick, especially from such a one. The boy looked back at the newcomer. Said:

We should at least take him to Zagat, it’s warmer there. Let’s go,” he nudged the chick and felt his fragile flesh.

The heifer swayed and was about to fall, but the boy led him, stumbling on fossilized ground. potty road. He brought the bull to the zagat - a straw wall - and here he released it.

Just stay here. Understood?

The heifer obediently leaned sideways against the straw.

The boy, followed by the visitor, left the base, the heifer followed them with his gaze and screamed in a thin bleating voice, stretching his neck.

Dishkanit,” the boy said, smiling.

How do we see the boy at this moment, is he still as taciturn?

Outside the base gate stood a male cattleman with a pitchfork.

Are you looking for your father?” he asked.

Management. “Here it is,” the boy answered, pointing to the guest.

Everything is in the water heater.

“And you have a heifer,” said the guest.

Yes.. It didn’t seem like yesterday.

So, she calved. Why don’t you define it anywhere?

The cattleman looked at the guest carefully and said cheerfully:

Let him get used to it in a day or two, and he’ll get some toughening up. And then we’ll determine it. That’s it,” he coughed.

The crow, sitting on the fence poles, lazily rose from his loud cough and sat down again.

Smart bird,” the cattleman laughed, throwing his pitchfork over his shoulder. I went to the cowshed.

He’ll die... - said the boy, without looking at the newcomer.

What detail helps you understand that the boy understood everything, and it is very difficult for him to come to terms with it?

And the water heater was warm and crowded. The flame was humming in the firebox, the cigarette smoke was turning blue, and white-faced watermelons, their rinds and a couple of slices with scarlet pulp in a puddle of juice lay on the table

Where do watermelons come from? - the visitor was surprised. The manager of the department rose from the bench to meet the guest and explained: When the silo was being laid, several cars of watermelons were dumped there. With melon equipment. And now they opened a hole, and they were really good. Eat.

Can we say that the farm takes care of the animals?

The boy looked at his father, who understood him and gave him a piece. The guest ate, praising him, then asked the manager:

Where do you get chicks to the base? You don’t have a lot of milk, do you?

We supplement the cows with food. And you see... God willing.

Well, where are you going to take them?

Where... - the manager chuckled, looking away. - There. Who is waiting for them where? They are considered barren. Try to replay it. And then you yourself don’t know...

I know, - lowered his eyes a newcomer, but somehow...Still alive soul.

What important words come from his lips?

The manager just shook his head. The boy finished the slice, his father wiped his wet mouth with his palm and said:

Well, run home.

In freedom, the wind hit my face with coldness. But it was so easy to breathe after the smoke and steam! There was a fresh scent of straw and tart-bearing silage, and there was even a smell of watermelon from the open pit.

Do you think the boy will go home straight away?

The boy went straight to the road, to the house. But suddenly he changed his mind and hurried to the cattle base. There, in the quiet, near the thatched wall of the zagat, the red heifer stood in the same place.

Without thinking twice, the boy approached the hay, the stacks of which stood nearby. In past years, when the domestic cow Zorka gave birth to calves, a boy and his late grandmother Manya looked after them. And he knew what kind of hay the little calf needed, although later. Green, with leaves. They hung it up in a bunch, and the heifer crunched.

It was more difficult to find such hay in a large collective farm stack, but the boy found a bunch or two of green leafy alfalfa and took the heifer.

“Eat,” he said, “eat, living soul...

A living soul... This was the saying of the deceased woman Mani. She felt sorry for all cattle. Domestic, stray, wild, and when they reproached her, she made excuses: “But what about... A living soul”

From whom did the boy get so much kindness?

The calf reached for the bundle of hay. He sniffed it noisily. And the boy went home. I remembered the grandmother with whom they always lived, until this fall. Now she lay in the ground, in a snow-covered cemetery. For the boy, Baba Manya remained almost alive for now, because he had known her for a long time and separated recently, and therefore could not yet get used to death.

Now, on the way home, he looked at the cemeteries: crosses were black in the white field.

And at home, the grandfather had not yet left the base: he was feeding and watering the cattle.

“Grandfather,” the boy asked, “can a heifer live on hay alone?” Small? Just born.

“He needs milk,” answered the grandfather. “Now our Zorka should bring it.” Chick.

“Today,” the boy rejoiced.

“Now,” the grandfather repeated. – You won’t have to sleep at night. Guard.

From whom else did the boy learn to care for livestock? What does he care about?

The cow stood nearby, large, side-bodied, and sighed noisily.

And in the house the mother was preparing to welcome the guest: she was rolling out dough for goose noodles, and something was ripe in the oven, the sweet spirit of a hot stove was wafting through the house.

The boy had lunch and ran off to ride from the mound and showed up home only in the evening.

The lights were on in the house. In the upper room, at the table, the newcomer and all his relatives were sitting. Father, mother, grandfather in new shirt, with a combed beard, aunt and uncle and sisters. The boy quietly entered, undressed, sat down in the kitchen and ate. And only then did they notice him.

And we didn’t even notice that you came! – the mother was surprised. - Sit down and have dinner with us.

The boy shook his head and answered briefly:

I ate and went into the back room. He was shy about strangers.

Wow, he’s a natural,” the mother chided. “He’s just an old man.”

And the guest just looked at the boy and immediately remembered the calf. I remembered and said, continuing the conversation I had started

Here's a live example. Calf, this is, to the base. After all, the collective farm should be happy with the extra cattle

They survived... The owners... - the grandfather shook his head.

And the boy turned on the light in the side room and sat down on the bed with a book. But it wasn't read. Relatives were sitting nearby, across the room, and you could hear them talking and laughing. But it was sad. The boy looked out the dark window and waited for his grandfather to remember him and come. But grandfather did not come. Grandma would come. She would come and bring a delicious cookie, one of those that was on the table. She would come, sit next to her, and you could lie on her lap, caressing and dozing off.

Why does the boy miss his grandmother so much? How can she help him?

Outside the window the January evening was pouring into a thick blue. The neighboring house, Amochaev's, seemed to shine from afar, and beyond there was darkness. No village, no surrounding area.

And again I remembered Baba Manya, as if alive. I so wanted to hear her voice, her heavy shuffling gait, and feel her hand. In a kind of daze, the boy got up, went to the window and, looking into the deep blue, called:

Babanya...Babanya...Babanechka...

He grabbed the window sill with his hands and stared into the darkness with his eyes, waiting. He waited, tears standing in his eyes. He waited and seemed to see through the darkness a cemetery covered with white snow.

Grandma didn't come. The boy returned to the bed and sat down, now no longer looking anywhere, not expecting anyone. My sister looked into the room. He ordered her:

Ooh, bull... - the sister reproached, but left.

The boy did not hear her, because he suddenly understood clearly: his grandmother would never come. The dead don't come. They will never exist again, it seems they never existed. Summer will come, then winter again... He will finish school, go into the army, but his grandmother will still be gone. She remained lying in a deep grave. And nothing can lift it.

The tears have dried. It seemed easier.

And then I remembered the heifer from the collective farm. He must die tonight. Die and also never come back to life. Other heifers will wait for spring and wait for it. With their tails raised, they will scamper around the melted base. Then summer will come, and it will be completely good: green grass, water, wandering around the pasture, butting heads, playing.

*What did the boy understand, what truth of life? What do you think he will do?

The boy decided everything at once: he would now take the sled, bring the bull and place it in the kitchen with the kids. And let him not die, because it is better to be alive than dead.

He slipped into the kitchen, grabbed his clothes and rushed out of the house. The wooden sled with a box was light. And the boy trotted straight to the barns, and then along the smooth, well-worn road from the farmstead to the farm.

The yellow lights of the houses remained behind, and the vaguely white steppe and the sky above it opened up ahead.

The moon was already melting, its white horn shone dimly: the well-worn road gleamed, the snow sparkled on the sastrugi. And in the sky the same milky road stretched across starry sky, but the icy fires burned brighter than the earth’s, from edge to edge.

Yellow lanterns barnyard and the very timid, squinted windows of the farm illuminated nothing. The light shone brighter from the warm fireplace, where the man was now sitting.

But the boy did not need other people's eyes, and he walked around the cattle station from below, from the river. He felt in his heart that the heifer was now where he had left it, at the gate, under the wall of the zagat.

Telok was there. He no longer stood, but lay leaning against the wall of straw. And his body, cooling down, accepted the cold, and only with heart there was still a weak knock on warmth gut.

What did the chick need? (Heart warmth, human care)

Who will bring him this warmth?

The boy opened his coat and, hugging the calf, snuggled up to him, warming him. At first the heifer didn’t understand anything, then he started fidgeting. He smelled his mother, a warm mother who had finally come, and she smelled of the sweet spirit that he had long asked for hungry and frozen, but a living soul.

What words cause excitement??

Having laid straw on the sled, the boy threw the heifer into the box and covered it with straw on top, keeping it warm. And he moved towards the house. He was in a hurry, in a hurry. People in the house might have caught him.

He drove into the base from the hay barn, out of the darkness, and pulled the calf into the kitchen, to the kids. Smelling a man, the kids stamped, bleated, and rushed to the boy, expecting their mothers to be brought to them. The boy placed the calf near the warm pipe and went out into the yard.

What does the boy want to do? Should he tell his family about his actions? Who does he want to tell?

Well, my dear, come on, come on... Come on, Zoryushka...

Grandfather! - the boy called.

The grandfather went out to the base with a lantern.

What do you want?

Grandfather, I brought a heifer from the farm.

From what farm? – the grandfather was surprised. -What chick?

From the collective farm. He would have frozen there by morning. I brought him.

Who taught you? - Grandfather was confused. - What are you doing? Or have you lost your mind?

The boy looked up at him with questioning eyes and asked:

Do you want him to die and be dragged around the farm by his dogs? And he is a living soul...yes!

Wait a minute. Pamorki fought off. What kind of chick is this? Tell me.

The boy told the story of today, the day, and asked again:

Grandfather, let him live. I'll keep an eye on him. I can handle it.

Okay,” the grandfather breathed out. - We'll think of something. Oh, father, father, something is wrong. Where is he, heifer?

*What is grandfather worried about? Who is he worried about?

In the kitchen, the kids are warming up. He hasn't eaten today.

Okay,” the grandfather waved his hand, suddenly it seemed to him that he needed it. - Seven troubles... If only Zorka doesn’t let us down. I can handle this myself. And keep quiet. Me myself.

Where were you? - asked the mother.

“At the Shlyapuzhkov’s,” he answered her and began to get ready for bed.

He felt that he was getting chilly, and when he found himself in bed, he made himself a tight little cave under the blanket, inhaled it until it was hot, and only then leaned out and decided to wait for his grandfather.

But at once he fell into a deep sleep. At first, the boy seemed to hear and see everything: the fire in the next room, voices, and the horn of the moon in the upper spike of the window was shining for him. And then everything became foggy, only the white heavenly light became brighter and brighter, and there was a warm smell from there, so familiar and dear that, even without seeing, the boy realized: it was Baba Manya coming. After all, he called her, and she, in a hurry, goes to her grandson.

It was hard to open his eyes, but he opened them, and he was blinded by the light, like the sun woman Mani's face. She hurried towards him, holding out her hands. She didn't walk, didn't run, she swam across the clear summer day, and a red bull hovered next to her.

Granny... bull... - the boy whispered, and also swam, spreading his arms.

Why did I dream about grandmothers and a bull7

Grandfather returned to the hut while they were still sitting at the table. He entered, stood at the threshold and said:

Rejoice, owners... Zorka brought two. Chick and bull.

Everyone was blown out of the table and out of the hut at once. The grandfather grinned after him and went to his grandson, turning on the light.

The boy was sleeping. Grandfather wanted to turn off the light, but his hand stopped. He stood and looked.

How prettier he is child's face when his sleep overtakes him. Everything of the day, flying away, leaves no trace. Cares and needs have not yet filled the heart and mind, when night is not salvation, and daytime anxiety slumbers in mournful wrinkles, not going away. All this is ahead. And now the good angel with his soft wing drives away the unsweetened, and golden dreams are dreamed, and children’s faces bloom. And looking at them is a consolation.

Is it light? The stomp on the porch and in the corridor disturbed the boy, he stirred, smacked his little lips, whispered: “Granny...Bull...” and laughed.

Grandfather turned off the electricity and closed the door. Let him sleep.

*The story is called “The Living Soul.” Now we understand the double meaning of the name.

The boy has a living soul.

Reflection stage– the final stage of the lesson in the mode of critical thinking technology.

At the reflection stage, group creative work is carried out:

Prepare illustrations for the story

An essay is a discussion about the idea of a work

Individual task:

Write a review about the story

Create a mind map based on the work

After completing the task, the groups present the result to the class.

Application.

I recently read a touching, soul-penetrating story by Boris Ekimov, “The Living Soul.”

The main character is Alyoshka, a village boy, businesslike, efficient in his work, and not very friendly, at first glance. Because of his character and even some unsociability, his mother affectionately calls him “Bull.”

At his mother’s request, he accompanies an inspector visiting from the city to the farm. The boy sees there a newly born calf: “The bull did not yet look like cattle, everything about him was childish: a soft body, thin, reed-like legs, white, unhardened hooves.” I was struck by what a touching comparison the author found - feet in a reed.

Alyosha feels so sorry for him, because it’s freezing outside, the calf can’t stand it, and he’s stumbling around. The smart and kind man brought him to the straw wall and left him there. And a little later, in the hay, I dug out soft grass for him, the kind that was given to his little calves recently deceased grandmother. She called all living creatures “living souls” and passed on her kindness and warmth to her grandson.

On the farm, the boy hears that the calves here are unaccounted for and because of them there is only a hassle in the accounting department, so no one cares about the animals, the calves die - less concern.

In the evening, when the family treated the visitor to dinner, the boy did not even come to the table. He remembers his grandmother, she would have come up with something, saved the calf, “a living soul.”

Alyoshka understands that the bull will die if he is not helped, and only he can do this. A boy on a sled brings a calf, already almost frozen, home. As he falls asleep, he sees his grandmother’s face, “as bright as the sun.”

It seems to me that Alyosha will always be so responsible, caring and kind person. These qualities were brought up in him by his parents and grandparents.

After reading this story, I thought about my actions, whether I always do the right thing, whether I can be kind and generous with sympathy.

Moscow, Literary Institute, year 1982... A lecture on current literature is given by the unforgettable Vladimir Pavlovich Smirnov - in student vernacular "VePe", and at the same time gets acquainted with the course: Blagoveshchensk, Irkutsk, Murmansk... It's Tsukanov's turn. “From Volgograd - wonderful. Do you know Boris Ekimov?.. Wonderful prose, I must tell you.”

Smirnov pauses. Now I know what he was thinking about it at that moment. “VePe” managed to read Khodasevich and Nabokov, and Camus, and moreover, everything connected with the 19th century. But most importantly, he had an amazing instinct, based on the taste instilled from childhood, distinguishing originals from fakes. In the early 80s, he spotted the unknown Boris Ekimov, introduced us to the magnificent prose of Konstantin Vorobyov, Yuri Kazakov, and many other authors who were not part of any “clips”; they broke out of the framework of the usual ceremonial socialist realism. But in essence, what are all these “isms” and other flags of the persecutors of criticism? If the prose doesn’t touch you and doesn’t compel you to sympathize, it’s tinsel. Bluff.

What is special about the same “Officer,” an extremely simple everyday story with a leisurely measured rhythm?.. And even more so in “A Christmas Tree for Mother,” an almost anecdotal story that could be put off because of a banal hospital preface. But no, they keep details and details. So accurate that you involuntarily immediately remember your arrival at the hospital to your mother and the vagueness that you said while calming her down. And then you involuntarily remember how you once wandered around the city in search of a run-down pine tree and therefore you empathize with Alexei, the hero of the story. Although, according to someone, what kind of hero is he if he cannot “get” a Christmas tree for his own mother? Can not. Anyone can buy it, but Alexey doesn’t know how to get it when everything was delivered with a smile, a whisper, or an offering. He travels a hundred miles to Kalach-on-Don by train to cut down a pine tree in a forest plantation there. “Business!” - someone in a hurry will exclaim and will be wrong. In the story, every detail is extremely accurate, the same policeman who saw the butt of a pine tree, not sawed down, but cut down with an ax - not stilted, but real, unlike the cops from modern soap operas. The story would not have become so haunting if it were not for the denouement. Alexey brings the doctor a pine tree, and on her balcony there is “a good tree, thick. Real spruce, not pine. He put up his pine tree with a Christmas tree and left.”

Today Boris Ekimov would probably end his story with this phrase. And he, thirty-year-old Ekimov, began to further explain that the tree was not for the doctor, but for the mother. I immediately remembered a story from the early 90s, when district SES still existed, and how I laid out a box of chocolates to the employee who signed the Act. She took it and immediately casually threw it into the cabinet, where a dozen or so similar boxes were piled high, causing me to break out in a thick sweat.

But what is especially memorable to me, as a reader, is the story “The Living Soul.” I am by nature reserved, not sentimental, but reading this simple story I couldn’t help myself, I started crying. This is the most important thing for which a writer works—empathy.

Ekimov is usually laconic in simple everyday conversation, but, as in prose, he has his own unique intonation, slightly peppered with light sarcasm.

Alexander, what is better to keep your money in dollars or rubles? Tell me, you're a businessman...

I laugh. It is useless to object to Ekimov that I am a hard worker, that righteous labor cannot build stone chambers. And why? He has his own clearly constructed opinion on everything. He listens to my reasoning about the fall of the ruble, or the “Russian House of Selenga” and other financial pyramids. He agrees approvingly. But he will do it his way.

One spring I came to Kalach. I went to visit him at his small parental home, where he spends most time in summer and autumn. Conversations about dying Don villages and farmsteads, roads, fishing. And even about the bathhouse in which we meet sometimes. But not about literature. This is a taboo, it is better not to touch it, so as not to spoil good relationships. If Ekimov praises someone, it is with restraint, but he will not blaspheme in vain.

On his recommendation, I’m going to the Kalachevsky port to see a foreman I know. He nods respectfully: “Ekimov sent it. Let's do it. How much fish will you take? I take the box. Then I buy two healthy dried bream from a friend on the street. So greasy that soon all the paper gets wet through. It seems to me that I have never come across anything tastier than those bream dried in the attic by a professional fisherman.

When we met, almost every time he asked about Sergei Vasiliev with his characteristic directness:

What is he drinking?..

And in his sincere: “Eh, Vasiliev!”, one could see compassion for the most talented poet. And Ekimov understands the price of talent. He also understands that our endless reproaches and conversations, and forcing Sergei to go to a drug treatment facility, are unlikely to help. When Sergei Vasiliev brought his first stories, he read them. He said honestly: write better poetry.

Boris Ekimov wrote several stories, but in my opinion they did not reach his level best stories. It seemed that Ivan Bunin was right in his assessment when he spoke “about the short and long breathing” of the writer. But the story “Autumn in Zadonye” proved that Boris Ekimov can perfectly make multi-faceted action-packed stories. prose works. The story entered the top ten best works nominated for the Big Book Award.

Over the years, Boris Ekimov received many different literary prizes. The pinnacle was the Russian State Prize in the field of literature. His stories have already been included in the Golden Fund of Russian Literature, and over time, I am sure, they will also be included in school general education programs.

The Tebyakins lived opposite the brigade office, across the road. Natalya herself was listed as a stoker and cleaner at the office. It was very convenient: the salary was solid and the house was at hand. Visiting people, when the office was empty, went to the Tebyakins and asked where to look for a manager, a livestock specialist, or someone else. They were told.

And on this clear January day, a visitor entered the Tebyakins’ yard, looked around, fearing the dog, and shouted from the gate:

- The owners of the house?!

Nobody answered him. The newcomer walked through the yard. The Vasika yard was spacious: the house was covered with tin, next to it was a warm outbuilding kitchen, sheds, and heels. People were swarming around the cattle station. The visitor came closer: the old man and the boy were removing manure, throwing it into a wooden sled with a box. In their lowered trousers, padded jackets, felt boots and galoshes, they worked in silence and did not see the guest.

- You live well! – the visiting man called out to them.

The old man raised his head.

“The mistress of the houses,” he said and ended the conversation, returning to work.

The boy didn’t even look up as he controlled the shovel.

“I brought you a bow from Uncle Levon, from Baba Lena,” said the guest.

The old man straightened up, leaning on his pitchfork, looked as if he had remembered, and answered slowly:

- Thank you. So, they are alive and well... Thank God.

At that moment the hostess came out onto the porch, and the old man called out to her:

- Natalya, face the man!

The boy, leaving the shovel, looked around at the loaded sled and said to his grandfather:

- We're lucky.

He only glanced at the newcomer with an indifferent glance, joining the sleigh team. The rope attached to the sleigh was long, allowing the boy and the old man to harness themselves comfortably. They took the loaded sleigh at once and pulled it along the packed snow track into the valley below, into the garden. And the move of the old and the small agreed.

The hostess turned out to be friendly and talkative. In the house, without listening to reasons, she put out tea and snacks, eagerly asking about her relatives.

“The father-in-law is not very talkative,” said the guest.

“An Old Believer,” the hostess justified herself. – They used to be called Kulugurs. They took me, so I’m out of habit...” she laughed, remembering, and, sighing, added thoughtfully: “Baba Manya died among us.” Grandfather is bored, and so is Alyoshka.

We drank tea and talked. The guest remembered about business.

- I came to your office.

- He's on the farm. Alyoshka will take you there. Just come to us for lunch. Vasily will come. He always remembers Uncle Levon and his brothers. From a young age they... - The owner ran out into the yard, shouted to her son and returned. - Look at the manager, don’t come to dinner, come to us, to us. Otherwise Vasily will be offended.

The door opened, the landlady's son came in and asked:

- Did you call, mom?

- You take your uncle to the farm. You will find the government. Understood?

“We’ll take another sled with grandpa,” said the boy.

- Huh, busy... Otherwise, without you... With grandfather...

The son, without answering, turned and left. The mother shook her head and said apologetically:

- Conducts, conducts. Not a child, but a speck of powder in the eye. Kuluguristy... Bycha.

The guest laughed at the last word, but as he and the boy walked, he realized that the word was accurate.

The boy spoke calmly: “yes” and “no.” The plump pink sponge protruded forward, the head was large and foreheaded. And he seemed to be nervous, looking incredulously, from under his brows.

- What class are you in?

- In the second.

- How do you study?

- No triples.

– Is there a school in Vikhlyaevka? - the guest asked and looked at the distant Vikhlyaevskaya Mountain, which rose above the surrounding area and now shone with snow.

- In Vikhlyaevka...

– On foot or by car?

“When?” the boy answered evasively.

– Have you been to the regional center?

- Come to visit. I have a son who is the same age as you.

The boy was wearing a padded jacket, altered from a military, khaki color, with clear buttons.

- Did your mother sew a quilted jacket?

“Baba,” the boy answered briefly.

“And my grandfather rolled felt boots,” the guest guessed, admiring the neat black wire rods, soft even to look at.

- Well done, your grandfather.

The boy glanced sideways, making it clear that this praise was unnecessary.

Autumn in the area dragged on for a long time, with rain. It wasn't until New Year's that it froze and it snowed for a week. And now it’s clarified. The whitish sun shone without warming. Another day the east wind blew hard. It's chalk below. Lazy drifting snow flowed in smoky streams around the snowy sastrugi.

On the farm, on its bases, there was a din of birds: flocks of sparrows flew from place to place, looking for easy pickings: heavy pigeons rose in a gray cloud, covering the sky, made a circle and descended; talkative magpies chirped; the prim crow sat on the fence poles, patiently waiting.

"Belarus", a blue tractor, snorting smoke, made its way along a deep rut along the bases. From the trailer, through the sleeve, a yellow mess of silage poured into the feeders. Cows hurried to feed, birds flocked.

The boy stopped the tractor and shouted:

- Uncle Kolya! Haven’t you seen the government?!

- In the water heater! - answered the tractor driver. - And father is there.

The last beast was chosen from dark caves the cowshed, from the straw mound that rose in the middle of the base, from under the zagat, where in the calm, under the wind, it was warmer and calmer. Now everyone was rushing to the silo, to the food, lining up over the feeders.

The base is empty. And then a red bull appeared in the middle of it. Small, disheveled, covered in icicles, he stood in the snow, his legs spread apart, his navel almost reaching the ground, his head lowered as if sniffing.

The boy noticed him and called:

- Bycha, bycha... Why are you standing here?

Telok raised his head.

“You’re kind of... Mom didn’t lick it, stupid...,” the boy said and stroked the tousled fur.

The bull did not yet look like cattle, everything about him was childish: a soft body, thin, reed-like legs, white, unhardened hooves.

Telok touched the boy's hand with his nose and looked at him with large blue eyes, like Slitheen.

“You’re going to die here, boy,” said the boy. - Where is mommy?

It was difficult to wait for an answer from the chick, especially from such a one. The boy looked back at the newcomer and said:

“We should at least take him to Zagat, it’s warmer there.” Let’s go,” he nudged the chick and felt its fragile flesh.

The heifer swayed and was about to fall, but the boy led him, stumbling on the fossilized, potty ground. He brought the bull and the zagat - a straw wall - and here he released it.

- Just stay here. Understood?

The heifer obediently leaned sideways against the straw.

The boy, followed by the visitor, left the base, the heifer followed them with his gaze and screamed in a thin bleating voice, stretching his neck.

“Dishkanit,” the boy said, smiling.

Outside the base gate stood a male cattleman with a pitchfork.

-Are you looking for your father? - he asked.

- Management. “Here it is,” the boy answered, pointing to the guest.

- Everything is in the water heater.

“And you have a heifer there,” said the guest.

- Yes... It didn’t seem like yesterday.

- So, she calved. Why don’t you define it anywhere?

The cattleman looked at the guest carefully and said cheerfully:

“Let him get used to it in a day or two, and he’ll get a little tougher.” And then we’ll determine it. That’s it,” he coughed.

The crow, sitting on the fence poles, lazily rose from its loud cough and sat down again.

“Smart bird,” the cattleman laughed and, throwing his pitchfork over his shoulder, went to the barn.

“He’ll die...” the boy said, without looking at the newcomer.

And the water heater was warm and crowded. The fire was humming in the firebox, the cigarette smoke was turning blue, and white and speckled watermelons, their rinds and a couple of slices with scarlet pulp in a puddle of juice lay on the table.

-Where do watermelons come from? - the visitor was surprised. The manager of the department rose from the bench to meet the guest and explained:

– When the silo was laid, several cars of watermelons were dumped there. With melon equipment. And now they opened a hole, and they were really good. Eat.

The boy looked at his father, who understood him and gave him a piece. The guest ate, praising him, then asked the manager:

– Where do you get chicks for the base? You don’t have a lot of milk, do you?

- We feed the Yalov ones. And you see... God willing.

- Well, where are you going to take them?

“Where...” the manager chuckled, looking away. - There. Who is waiting for them where? They are considered barren. Try to replay it. Otherwise you yourself don’t know...

“I know,” the visitor lowered his eyes, “but somehow... Still a living soul.”

The manager just shook his head. The boy finished the slice, his father wiped his wet mouth with his palm and said:

- Well, run home.

Without thinking twice, the boy approached the hay, the stacks of which rose nearby. In past years, when the domestic cow Zorka gave birth to calves, a boy and his late grandmother Manya looked after them. And he knew what kind of hay the little calf needed, although later. Green, with leaves. They hung it up in a bunch, and the heifer crunched.

It was more difficult to find such hay in a large collective farm stack, but the boy found a bunch or two of green leafy alfalfa and took the heifer.

“Eat,” he said, “eat, living soul...

A living soul... This was the saying of the deceased woman Mani. She pitied all cattle, domestic, stray, wild, and when they reproached her, she justified herself: “But what about... A living soul.”

Telok reached for a bunch of hay and sniffed it noisily. And the boy went home. I remembered the grandmother with whom they always lived, until this fall. Now she lay in the ground, in a snow-covered cemetery. For the boy, Baba Manya remained almost alive for now, because he had known her for a long time and separated recently, and therefore could not yet get used to death.

Now, on the way to the house, he looked at the cemetery: crosses were black in the white field.

And at home, the grandfather had not yet left the base: he was feeding and watering the cattle.

“Grandfather,” the boy asked, “can a heifer live on hay alone?” Small. Just born.

“He needs milk,” answered the grandfather. “Now our Zorka should bring it.” Chick.

“Today,” the boy rejoiced.

“Now,” repeated the grandfather. – You won’t have to sleep at night. Guard.

The cow stood nearby, large, side-bodied, and sighed noisily.

The boy had lunch and ran off to ride from the mound and showed up home only in the evening.

The lights were on in the house. In the upper room, at the table, the newcomer and all his relatives were sitting. Father, mother, grandfather in a new shirt, with a combed beard, aunt and uncle and sisters. The boy quietly entered, undressed, sat down in the kitchen and ate. And only then did they notice him.

“And we didn’t even notice that you came!” – the mother was surprised. - Sit down and have dinner with us.

The boy shook his head and answered briefly:

“I ate,” and went into the back room. He was shy about strangers.

“Wow, and natural,” the mother scolded. - Just an old man.

And the guest just looked at the boy and immediately remembered the calf. He remembered and said, continuing the conversation that had begun:

- Here is a living example. This calf is on the base. After all, the collective farm should be happy with the extra cattle.

“We’ve survived... The owners...” the grandfather shook his head.

Outside the window the January evening was pouring into a thick blue. The neighboring house, Amochaev's, seemed to shine from afar, and beyond there was darkness. No village, no surrounding area.

- Babanya... Babanya... Babanechka...

He grabbed the window sill with his hands and stared into the darkness with his eyes, waiting. He waited, tears in his eyes. He waited and seemed to see through the darkness a cemetery covered with white snow.

Grandma didn't come. The boy returned to the bed and sat down, now no longer looking anywhere, not expecting anyone. My sister looked into the room. He ordered her:

“Uh-oh, bull...” the sister reproached, but left.

The tears have dried. It seemed easier.

The boy decided everything at once: he would now take the sleigh, bring the bull and place it in the kitchen with the kids. And let him not die, because alive is better than dead.

The yellow lights of the houses remained behind, and the vaguely white steppe and the sky above opened up ahead.

The moon was already melting, its white horn shone dimly: the well-worn road gleamed, the snow sparkled on the sastrugi. And in the sky the same milky path stretched across the starry field, but icy lights burned brighter than the earth’s, from edge to edge.

The yellow lanterns of the barnyard and the very timid, squinted windows of the farm illuminated nothing. The light shone brighter from the warm fireplace, where the man was now sitting.

Telok was there. He no longer stood, but lay leaning against the wall of straw. And his body, cooling down, accepted the cold, and only his heart was still beating weakly in his warm interior.

The boy opened his coat and, hugging the calf, pressed against it, warming it. At first the heifer didn’t understand anything, then he started fidgeting. He smelled his mother, a warm mother who had finally come, and she smelled of a sweet spirit, which a hungry and chilled, but living soul had long asked for.

- Well, my dear, come on, come on... Come on, Zoryushka...

- Grandfather! - the boy called.

The grandfather went out to the base with a lantern.

- What do you want?

- Grandfather, I brought a heifer from the farm.

- From what farm? – the grandfather was surprised. -What chick?

- From the collective farm. He would have frozen there by morning. I brought it.

-Who taught you? - Grandfather was confused. - What are you doing? Or have you lost your mind?

The boy looked up at him with questioning eyes and asked:

- Do you want him to die and be dragged around the farm by his dogs? And he is a living soul... yes!

- Wait a minute. Pamorki fought off. What kind of chick is this? Tell me.

The boy told the story of today, the day, and asked again:

- Grandfather, let him live. I'll keep an eye on him. I can handle it.

“Okay,” the grandfather breathed out. - We'll think of something. Oh, father, father, something is wrong. Where is he, heifer?

- In the kitchen, the kids are warming up. He hasn't eaten today.

“Okay,” the grandfather waved his hand, suddenly it seemed to him that he needed it. - Seven troubles... If only Zorka doesn’t let us down. I can handle this myself. And keep quiet. Me myself.

- Where were you? - asked the mother.

“At the Hats,” he answered her and began to get ready for bed.

He felt that he was getting cold, and when he found himself in bed, he made himself a tight little cave under the blanket, inhaled it until it was hot, and only then leaned out and decided to wait for his grandfather.

But at once he fell into a deep sleep. At first the boy seemed to hear and see everything: the fire in the next room, voices, and the horn of the moon in the upper spike of the window was shining for him. And then everything became foggy, only the white heavenly light became brighter and brighter, and there was a warm smell from there, so familiar and dear that, even without seeing, the boy realized: it was Baba Manya coming. After all, he called her, and she, in a hurry, goes to her grandson.

It was hard to open his eyes, but he opened them, and Baba Mani’s face, bright as the sun, blinded him. She hurried towards him, holding out her hands. She didn’t walk, she didn’t run, she swam on a clear summer day, and a red calf hovered next to her.

“Babanya... Bull...,” the boy whispered, and also swam, spreading his arms.

Grandfather returned to the hut while they were still sitting at the table. He entered, stood at the threshold and said:

– Rejoice, owners... Zorka brought two. Heifer and bull.

Everyone was blown out of the table and out of the hut at once. The grandfather grinned after him and walked to his grandson, turning on the light.

The boy was sleeping. Grandfather wanted to turn off the light, but his hand stopped. He stood and looked.

How prettier a child's face becomes when he is asleep. Everything of the day, having flown away, leaves no trace. Cares and needs have not yet filled the heart and mind, when night is not salvation, and daytime anxiety slumbers in mournful wrinkles, not going away. All this is ahead. And now the good angel with his soft wing drives away the unsweetened, and golden dreams are dreamed, and children’s faces bloom. And looking at them is a consolation.

Whether it was the light or the footsteps on the porch and in the corridor, the boy was disturbed; he stirred, smacked his lips, whispered: “Granny... Bull...” - and laughed.

Grandfather turned off the electricity and closed the door. Let him sleep.

Alive soul

And on this clear January day, a visitor entered the Tebyakins’ yard, looked around, fearing the dog, and shouted from the gate:

- The owners of the house?!

- You live well! – the visiting man called out to them.

The old man raised his head.

“The mistress of the houses,” he said and ended the conversation, returning to work.

The boy didn’t even look up as he controlled the shovel.

“I brought you a bow from Uncle Levon, from Baba Lena,” said the guest.

The old man straightened up, leaning on his pitchfork, looked as if he had remembered, and answered slowly:

- Thank you. So, they are alive and well... Thank God.

At that moment the hostess came out onto the porch, and the old man called out to her:

- Natalya, face the man!

The boy, leaving the shovel, looked around at the loaded sled and said to his grandfather:

- We're lucky.

He only glanced at the newcomer with an indifferent glance, joining the sleigh team. The rope attached to the sleigh was long, allowing the boy and the old man to harness themselves comfortably. They took the loaded sleigh at once and pulled it along the packed snow track into the valley below, into the garden. And the move of the old and the small agreed.

The hostess turned out to be friendly and talkative. In the house, without listening to reasons, she put out tea and snacks, eagerly asking about her relatives.

“The father-in-law is not very talkative,” said the guest.

We drank tea and talked. The guest remembered about business.

- I came to your office.

The door opened, the landlady's son came in and asked:

- Did you call, mom?

- You take your uncle to the farm. You will find the government. Understood?

“We’ll take another sled with grandpa,” said the boy.

- Huh, busy... Otherwise, without you... With grandfather...

The son, without answering, turned and left. The mother shook her head and said apologetically:

- Conducts, conducts. Not a child, but a speck of powder in the eye. Kuluguristy... Bycha.

The guest laughed at the last word, but as he and the boy walked, he realized that the word was accurate.

The boy spoke calmly: “yes” and “no.” The plump pink sponge protruded forward, the head was large and foreheaded. And he seemed to be nervous, looking incredulously, from under his brows.

- What class are you in?

- In the second.

- How do you study?

- No triples.

– Is there a school in Vikhlyaevka? - the guest asked and looked at the distant Vikhlyaevskaya Mountain, which rose above the surrounding area and now shone with snow.

- In Vikhlyaevka...

– On foot or by car?

“When?” the boy answered evasively.

– Have you been to the regional center?

- Come to visit. I have a son who is the same age as you.

The boy was wearing a padded jacket, altered from a military, khaki color, with clear buttons.

- Did your mother sew a quilted jacket?

“Baba,” the boy answered briefly.

“And my grandfather rolled felt boots,” the guest guessed, admiring the neat black wire rods, soft even to look at.

- Well done, your grandfather.

The boy glanced sideways, making it clear that this praise was unnecessary.

The boy stopped the tractor and shouted:

- Uncle Kolya! Haven’t you seen the government?!

- In the water heater! - answered the tractor driver. - And father is there.

The last cattle were getting out of the dark caves of the cowshed, from the straw mound that rose in the middle of the base, from under the zagat, where it was quiet, under the wind, warmer and calmer. Now everyone was rushing to the silo, to the food, lining up over the feeders.