Evgeniya Karpova, my name is Ivan. Graduation essay. Does war ruin people's destinies? My name is Ivan
Topic: “Evgeny Karpov “My name is Ivan.” The spiritual fall of the main character"Goals:
educational: familiarization with the text of the story;
developing: analysis of the work; characterize the image of the main character who finds himself in a difficult life situation; find out the reasons for the hero’s moral decline;
educational: find out the reader’s attitude towards the main character of the story.
Introduction. A word about the writer.
In the world of words and images of the writer Evgeny Karpov, it is light and sunny. What do you like about his works? That they were written by a good person, with whom you can argue, disagree in views and tastes, because he assumes a critical attitude towards himself.
Evgeny Vasilyevich Karpov was born in 1919. Until the age of twenty, his peers remained boys; after twenty they left to fight. Having gone through long miles of war, the writer comes to everyday maturity and decides to write about what his generation has done, rising from the soul and ignorance for the future.
Critics have the right to judge the skill and significance of a particular work. But only Time is the best judge in the world. Life dictates the creation of material values. What makes humanity create spiritual values? Evgeny Karpov tries to answer this question in his works.
^ Reading the story “My name is Ivan.”
Conversation on reading:
(The main character of the story, Semyon Avdeev, a participant in the Great Patriotic War, caught fire in a tank and was seriously injured. He miraculously escaped: blind, with a broken leg, he crawled for two days “one step at a time,” “half a step,” “a centimeter per hour.” And Only on the third day did the sappers take him, barely alive, to the hospital. There, his leg was amputated to the knee, and he also lost his sight.)
How did Ivan feel in the hospital?
(As long as his comrades and caring people were nearby, he forgot about his trouble. But the time came, and he went out not for a walk, but, as they say, in life. He needed to take care of himself. And then he felt that he was again in "black hole".)
Ivan Avdeev leaves the hospital. How does he meet his new reality without support and help?
(The city began to boil around Semyon and his comrade Leshka Kupriyanov. It was necessary to move on with life.
The doctors did not promise that Semyon’s vision would return, but he so hoped to wake up one day and see “the sun, the grass, the ladybug” again.
^ Lyoshka also had unkind traces of the war: “he was missing his right arm and three ribs.”
The comrades were left alone with reality, and very soon they ate, and even more, drank away their small funds. They decided to go to the Moscow region, to Lyoshka’s homeland. But Semyon had his own house, garden, mother. But it’s all as if it was left in a past life that cannot be returned.)
(But there was a time: Semyon was a hooligan, a fighting boy, who often received a belt from his father. And his mother... She did not scold her son for mischief and said: “He will be a breadwinner.” He did not turn out to be a breadwinner.)
What path do Semyon and Lenka Kupriyanov choose?
(They start begging. “Brothers and sisters, help the unfortunate cripples...”
With these words, Semyon and Lyoshka entered the carriage, and coins began to fall into the outstretched cap. At first Semyon shivered from this “clanging”; he tried to hide his sightless eyes.
^ But the experience turned out to be successful, and the friends made good money. Lyoshka was pleased, but Semyon wanted to quickly get drunk and forget.
And they drank again, then they danced to the accordion, bawled songs, and Semyon first cried, and then forgot.)
Did fate give them a chance upon arrival in Moscow to choose a different path in life?
(Upon arrival in Moscow, Lyoshka refused to go to the artel - it was much easier to beg.
Semyon went to the Home for the Invalids, even worked one day in a workshop where “the presses were clapping, dry and annoying.” The workers sat down to dinner, and in the evening they will all go home. “There they are waiting, there they are dear.” And Semyon wanted warmth and affection, but, as he believed, it was too late to go to his mother.
^ The next day he didn’t go to work, because in the evening a drunk Lyoshka and his company came, and everything started spinning again. And soon Lyoshka’s house turned into a hangout.)
What was the fate of Semyon's mother?
(And at that time, Semyon’s mother, aged, having lost her husband and son, raised her niece, continued to live, take care of her grandchildren and moved to live in Moscow.
One day she heard a voice that was so familiar. I was afraid to turn in the direction from which it was coming: “Senka.” The mother went to meet her son, she put her hands on his shoulders. "The blind man fell silent." Feeling the woman’s hands, he turned pale and wanted to say something.
“Senya,” the woman said quietly.
“My name is Ivan,” said Semyon and quickly moved on.)
Why didn’t Semyon admit to his mother that it was him?
What feelings do you have towards the hero of the story?
What broke Semyon and his comrade, people who went through the war?
^ Homework : Talk about the problem raised in the story “My name is Ivan.”
LESSON #8
Topic: “The image of the mother in the works of I. Chumak “Mother”, “Herods”, “Strange”
Goals:
educational: introduce students to the works of I. Chumak;
developing: to reveal the greatness of the image of the mother in the works being studied; give the concept of the expressions “maternal feeling”, “maternal heart”; develop monologue speech;
educational: show the generosity, forgiveness of the mother, the ability to sympathize with people even in the most difficult moment of life, not lose the presence of mind, instill respect for the woman-mother.
A word about the writer.
At the heart of everything he wrote is a genuine knowledge of life and people. A brief annotation to the writer’s last lifetime book, “Living Placers,” says: “This is a collection of short stories - short stories. There is not a single line of fiction in the story. Everything was either experienced by the author himself or seen with his own eyes.”
Ilya Chumak was a strict realist, but he did not copy reality. His works are characterized by artistic generalization, making real life phenomena more colorful and brighter.
What attracted Ilya Chumak as a writer? He was a heroic writer.
Ilya Chumak, both as a writer and as a person, had a harsh, but at the same time kind character. He was kind and open-hearted towards those whom he saw in useful activities for the benefit of the Motherland.
^ Working on the topic of the lesson.
^ Reading and discussion of the story "Mother":
Why did Maria Ivanovna, having received the first letter from her son, fall ill? (She lived next door to the airfield, and it was incomprehensibly scary for her to look at the turns and loops that the pilots made, because her son was also a pilot, and even fought.)
How do you understand Marya Ivanovna’s words: “When you become a mother, you will understand everything.” (Even though the news from the son was good, the mother's heart was restless.)
Why didn’t Maria Ivanovna rise to meet the postman? Has she stopped waiting for letters? (No. Her maternal feeling told her that the postman would not bring her letters.)
What else told her that something irreparable had happened? (Daughter's eyes).
How did Maria Ivanovna try to console her grief? (She knitted socks and warm mittens. And she knitted so many that it turned out to be a whole parcel).
How did the mother behave when she heard a message from her daughter that her son had died? (“The old woman did not stagger, did not scream, did not clutch her heart. She just sighed heavily.”)
So why did the mother continue to knit, knowing that her son had died? (She is a mother. And the fighters who defended their homeland from the enemy were as dear to her as her own son, they were also someone’s sons. And having lost her son, she realized how close they were to her.)
What conclusion can be drawn after reading this story? (How much kindness and warmth there is in a mother’s heart, how much courage and love there is in it.)
^ Reading and discussion of the story “Herods”:
What offended Praskovya Ivanovna in her relationship with her sons? (When I raised them, I struggled with my widow’s lot with all my might, and they, my sons, when they became adults, forgot about their mother and did not help her.)
Why didn’t Praskovya Ivanovna sue the children for “a year, two, or maybe even ten”? (These were her children, she felt sorry for them, she thought that they themselves would think of helping their mother).
What decision did the court make? (The children had to send their mother 15 rubles a month).
How did Praskovya Ivanovna react to the court’s decision and why? (She began to cry and called the judges Herods, because their decision, in her opinion, was cruel to her sons. No matter how they treated their mother, they were her children. And the mother’s heart trembled when she heard the verdict. She already, for sure, she forgave her unlucky sons. After all, mothers are always ready to forgive and protect their children, the most precious thing they have.)
What is the main idea of the novella? (A mother loves and is ready to forgive her children, to protect them from those who, as it seems to her, offend them. This special feeling is maternal love, all-forgiving love.)
^ Reading and discussion of the story “Strange”:
Who decided to visit their grief-stricken mother? (The old woman who heard about her grief.)
What did Ivan Timofeevich feel when he heard from a strange, unfamiliar old woman about the decision to go to his wife? (He was worried that the old woman would unsettle Masha’s heart even more with her consolation.)
What could two mothers talk about? (About her grief, about losing her sons. Only Masha lost one son, and the old woman received funerals for her seven sons. About the fact that you need to live, no matter what).
Why is the story called "Strange"? (She was strange, probably, because she consoled a stranger, because she understood that she could console, because she experienced seven times greater grief and well understood the suffering of this woman.)
^ Summing up the lesson:
And the question involuntarily arises: “Do we take care of our mothers? Do we give them as much love and attention as they give to us, the children, whom we love endlessly?” It’s worth thinking about this in order to upset our only mothers less.
^ Homework: write an essay on the topic: “The image of the mother in the works of I. Chumak.”
LESSON #9
Topic: "V. Butenko "The Year of the Wasp". Relationships between "fathers" and "children"
Goals:
educational: introduce students to the story; determine the main idea of the work; explore the age-old problem of relationships between representatives of different generations;
developing: develop the ability to analyze a work, draw conclusions;
educational: instill a caring attitude towards parents, sincerity and a true sense of kindness.
Org moment.
Reading and analysis of V. Butenko’s story “The Year of the Wasp.”
What impression did the story make on you?
Who does Evtrop Lukich live with? (He lives alone, but he has a son and daughter who live separately from their father. His loneliness is shared by his neighbor and friend Kupriyan and the cat.)
How is life for Evtrop Lukic? (“The day was over, a fresh evening came, he sat with his friend Kupriyan, talking about life. When the neighbor left, grandfather Eutrop trudged into his courtyard, dined in the temporary hut with the cat, listened to “Latest News.” Having found out the weather for tomorrow, The old man sat down to smoke, lost his thoughts and lowered his hands with the cigarette to the ground, and then wiped the cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe, and went to sleep under the canopy.")
What was Evtrop Lukich thinking about, “lowering his hand with the cigarette to the very ground”? (Most likely, he was thinking about the life he had lived, about his loneliness in old age, although he had a son and daughter).
What can you say about the son of Eutrop Lukich? (He lives in the city and does not want to return to his father in the village. He has a three-room apartment with all amenities, and has a family.)
What proposal does Vasily come to his father with? (He persuades Evtrop Lukich to move to live with him in the city, where there is a good park, cinema, dancing, “doctors are first class.”)
Does the father agree to go to his son? Why? (No. Lukich is used to living on the land, working on the farm, the land. He likes to drink well water and eat fruits that he grew himself. Lukich has everything: his own honey and tobacco. And as long as he has the strength, he wants to live in his own house , in his village.
^ The grandfather gave the gift to the city, walked his son to the alley and smiled uncertainly. He promised to think about moving.)
What did Kupriyan tell Evtrop Lukich when he found out why Vasily came? (He told the story of another single father who went to visit his son in Stavropol.)
How did his relatives treat the old man? (They greeted him unfriendly, put him to bed on a “lame” cot, the son didn’t even have anything to talk about with his father, “stared at the TV.” The grandfather got ready and went to his village.)
What conclusion did Kupriyan and grandfather Lukich make? (“Blood is the same, but life is different.”)
How do you understand this expression? (Children who have grown up have their own lives, especially if they live in the city. They are cut off from the land, from their roots and no longer need their parents.)
So why did the son of Eutrop Lukich actually come? (He needs money, the line for the Zhiguli is approaching, but there is no money. There is a way out: to sell his father’s house and take him with him.)
What is the main idea of the story? (It is not out of a sense of filial duty that the son calls his father to live with him, it is not a feeling of compassion that drives him, the reason is obvious - the need for money.)
What is your attitude to the problem raised in the story?
Generalization.
^ Homework: write an essay - a reflection on the topic: "And the tears of old people are a reproach for us."
LESSON #10
Topic: “Ian Bernard “The Peaks of Pyatigorye.” Admiration for the beauty of our native nature"
^ Goals:
educational: introduce students to the author’s poetic works;
developing: continue work on developing the ability to analyze a poetic work, convey the feelings and moods of the author;
educational: instill love for one’s native land, native land.
My peaks of Pyatigorye
And my priceless cities.
Here from the first to the last dawn I
I painted your creations.
Ian Bernard
^ Lesson progress
Org moment.
A word about the author
When the Great Patriotic War ended, Ignat Bernard joined the Red Army as a soldier in a construction battalion and begged the commander to leave his sons with him.
Jacek and Stasik became children of the battalion. The Bernard family remained in their second homeland.
Now Jan Bernard lives in Stavropol. He carries out social work and continues his creativity.
In the preface to the collection “The Peaks of Pyatigorye”, Jan Bernard wrote: “I have been circling around Stavropol for more than twelve years. And only now, having become gray-haired, I realized: it is impossible to part with Stavropol - it is beyond my strength! Thank you, Lord, for your Light, thank you!”
Jan Bernard cherishes the landscapes of Stavropol, meetings with noble readers who “cryed and laughed to tears” at the author’s poetry concerts.
^ Reading and analysis of the poems of Jan Bernard.
Mashuk, cut off by the fog,
Airy in a cloudy window.
In some places the forest is black like soot
In the milky depths there is a shadow.
Already dressed in chain mail,
I cut through the steepness.
And you, surprised by the landscape,
You are silent with the mountain alone.
What are you thinking about intensely?
Rocks stroking the hump,
How long have you been wandering in green paradise?
Along the lace of June trails?
Now you look fascinated
Like a branch falling into a snowdrift.
It is not without reason that I wanted to start a conversation about the works of Jan Bernard with this poem. It contains so much lyricism and admiration for one of the most famous mountains of Pyatigorsk - Mashuk. Mashuk is in the fog, it is airy, its peaks are covered with snow, and the author prefers to contemplate such beauty in private, “stroking the hump of the rock.” What can delight you in a cold winter landscape? Probably, the fact that quite recently the poet wandered “along the lace of June paths”, and now his eye is captivated by the cold, frozen beauty, dressed as if in chain mail.
In the poem, the author uses epithets and metaphors that convey the mood of meeting the winter landscape of Mashuk. This is not the only poem that is dedicated to Mashuk. And each one is like a pearl of a precious necklace.
We turn the page of the collection and here is a dedication to Mount Zheleznaya.
"The Beauty of God"(read by student)
Around the healing mountain Zheleznaya,
Along the circular forest alley
A walk through the wilderness of heaven
Sweeter than any earthly bliss.
Oh, how many times have I been under a sheer cliff
The holy birds sang wonderfully.
In the grip of mental and physical pain
I suddenly became lighter.
And he was already like a sailboat,
And the maple looked like a mast
And I sailed on the high-brow waves
And again I loom in the greenery.
From the feelings that surged in the native thicket,
I cry before the Beauty of the Lord.
The author calls Iron Mountain healing, i.e. healing, healing wounds, because at its foot there are springs of “living” water, generously donated by the earth. And these springs heal not only physical pain, but also mental pain, because the holy birds sing wonderfully.
What does the poet compare the cliff to and why? What feelings does he experience when looking at Mount Zheleznaya?
(The poet compares the cliff with a sailboat, the maple with a mast, and one can imagine how the author floats away “on the high-brow waves” into the “Beauty of the Lord.” And tears of joy fill his soul, and it (the soul) is brighter from the beauty of earthly and unearthly. )
"A moment of bloom"(read by student)
I looked - what a beauty, -
Will it really be perishable?
Pure, like a child's dream -
The light is extraordinary.
The Lord himself kissed me on the mouth,
And he named her Elena.
And in the eyes the height shines,
And the spring of the Universe itself.
God! Give the poet words
To sing your Creation,
And so that blue sparkles in them,
And they did not know decay
However, even the leaves of the stars wither,
But the moment of blossoming is eternal.
In this poem one can feel the author’s delight at the moment of flowering, which is pure, “like a child’s dream.” The author again turns to the Lord, because this is his creation, which will not decay, it is eternal - “a moment of flowering.”
Jan Bernard's poems are dedicated not only to nature, its beauty at different times of the year. There are declarations of love to friends, dreams dear to the heart.
"Old Street"(read by student)
On a quiet old street
Almost deserted, like in a dream.
It's like I met a painting
Familiar to me a long time ago.
Here the cloud hangs like an avalanche
On par with a tall tower,
Another white ballerina
It melts in the green depths.
The houses are silent. And the dog is silent
He barely looked over me.
The roof is staining in the attic
Keeping my palette of eyelids,
The trees are wrapped up as if
Mysterious flicker of the day.
Find epithets and personifications in the text. What is their significance?
Summary:
What fascinates him?
What is the mood of his poems?
How do you feel when reading the poet’s poems?
Homework: prepare an expressive reading and analysis of any poem by the poet.
E. Karpov My name is Ivan
At the very end of the war, the Germans set fire to the tank in which Semyon Avdeev was a turret shooter. For two days, blind, burned, with a broken leg, Semyon crawled among some ruins. It seemed to him that the blast wave had thrown him out of the tank into a deep hole. For two days, one step at a time, half a step, a centimeter per hour, he climbed out of this smoky pit towards the sun, into the fresh wind, dragging his broken leg, often losing consciousness. On the third day, sappers found him, barely alive, in the ruins of an ancient castle. And for a long time, the surprised sappers wondered how the wounded tankman could have gotten to this ruin that no one wanted... In the hospital, Semyon’s leg was amputated to the knee and then they took him for a long time to famous professors so that they could restore his sight. But nothing came of it... While Semyon was surrounded by comrades, cripples just like him, while a smart, kind doctor was next to him, while the nurses carefully looked after him, he somehow forgot about his injury, lived, how everyone lives. Behind the laughter, behind the joke, I forgot my grief. But when Semyon left the hospital onto the city street, not for a walk, but completely, into life, he suddenly felt the whole world was completely different from the one that surrounded him yesterday, the day before yesterday and his entire past life. Although Semyon was told a few weeks ago that his vision would not return, he still harbored hope in his heart. And now everything has collapsed. It seemed to Semyon that he again found himself in that black pit where the blast wave had thrown him. Only then did he passionately want to get out into the fresh wind, towards the sun, he believed that he would get out, but now he did not have that confidence. Anxiety crept into my heart. The city was incredibly noisy, and the sounds were somehow elastic, and it seemed to him that if he took even one step forward, these elastic sounds would throw him back, hurt him painfully against the stones. Behind the hospital. Along with everyone else, Semyon scolded him for his boredom, wondered how to get out of it, and now he suddenly became so dear, so necessary. But you can’t go back there, even though it’s still very close. We have to go forward, but it’s scary. Afraid of the seething cramped city, but most of all afraid of himself: Leshka Kupriyanov brought Semyon out of his stupor. Oh, and the weather! Now I just want to go for a walk with the girl! Yes, in the field, yes, collect flowers, and run. I like to fool around. Let's go! What are you up to? They went. Semyon heard how the prosthesis creaked and slammed, how heavily Leshka breathed with a whistle. These were the only familiar, close sounds, and the clanging of trams, the screams of cars, the laughter of children seemed alien, cold. They parted in front of him and ran around. The stones of the pavement and some pillars got tangled under our feet and prevented us from walking. Semyon knew Leshka for about a year. Small in stature, it often served him as a crutch. It used to be that Semyon would lie on the bed and shout: “Nanny, give me a crutch,” and Leshka would run up and squeal, fooling around: “I’m here, Count.” Give me your whitest pen. Place it, Most Serene One, on my unworthy shoulder. So they walked around hugging each other. Semyon knew Leshka's round, armless shoulder and faceted, shorn head well by touch. And now he put his hand on Leshka’s shoulder and his soul immediately felt calmer. They spent the whole night, first in the dining room, and then in the restaurant at the station. When they went to the dining room, Leshka said that they would drink a hundred grams, have a good dinner and leave on the night train. We drank as agreed. Leshka suggested repeating it. Semyon did not refuse, although he rarely drank at all. Vodka flowed surprisingly easily today.
The hops were pleasant, did not stupefy the head, but awakened good thoughts in it. True, it was impossible to concentrate on them. They were nimble and slippery, like fish, and, like fish, they slipped out and disappeared into the dark distance. This made my heart feel sad, but the sadness did not linger long. It was replaced by memories or naive but pleasant fantasies. It seemed to Semyon that one morning he would wake up and see the sun, grass, and a ladybug. And then suddenly a girl appeared. He clearly saw the color of her eyes, hair, and felt her tender cheeks. This girl fell in love with him, with the blind man. They talked a lot about these people in the ward and even read a book out loud. Leshka was missing his right arm and three ribs. The war, as he said with a laugh, cut him like a nut. In addition, he was wounded in the neck. After the throat operation, he spoke intermittently, with a hiss, but Semyon got used to these sounds, which bear little resemblance to human sounds. They irritated him less than the accordion players playing a waltz, than the flirtatious cooing of the woman at the next table. From the very beginning, as soon as wine and snacks began to be served on the table, Leshka chatted merrily and laughed contentedly: Eh, Senka, I love nothing in the world more than a well-decorated table! I love to have fun, especially eat! Before the war, we used to go to Medvezhye Ozera in the summer with the whole plant. Brass band and buffets! And me with an accordion. There is company under every bush, and in every company I, like Sadko, am a welcome guest. “Stretch it, Alexey Svet-Nikolaevich.” Why not stretch it out if they ask and the wine is already poured. And some blue-eyed woman brings ham on a fork... They drank, ate, sipped, savoring, cold thick beer. Leshka continued to talk enthusiastically about his Moscow region. His sister lives there in her own house. She works as a technician at a chemical plant. The sister, as Leshka assured, would definitely fall in love with Semyon. They will get married. Then they will have children. The children will have as many toys as they want and whatever they want. Semyon will make them himself in the artel where they will work. Soon it became difficult for Leshka to speak: he was tired, and it seemed that he stopped believing in what he was talking about. They were silent more, they drank more... Semyon remembers how Leshka wheezed: “We are lost people, it would be better if they killed us completely.” He remembers how his head became heavier, how the bright visions in it darkened and disappeared. The cheerful voices and music completely drove him crazy. I wanted to beat everyone, to smash them, Leshka hissed: “Don’t go home.” Who needs you there? Home? Where is the house? A long, long time ago, maybe a hundred years ago, he had a house. And there was a garden, and a birdhouse on a birch tree, and rabbits. Small, with red eyes, they trustingly jumped towards him, sniffed his boots, and moved their pink nostrils funny. Mother... Semyon was called an “anarchist” because, although he studied well at school, he was desperately hooligan, smoked, and because he and his gang staged merciless raids on gardens and orchards. And she, the mother, never scolded him. The father spanked mercilessly, and the mother only timidly asked not to be a bully. She herself gave money for cigarettes and did her best to hide Semenov’s tricks from her father. Semyon loved his mother and helped her in everything: chopping wood, carrying water, cleaning the cowshed. The neighbors were jealous of Anna Filippovna, seeing how deftly her son managed the housework. He would be the breadwinner, they said, and the seventeenth water would wash away the boy’s nonsense. Drunk Semyon remembered this word “breadwinner” and repeated it to himself, gritting his teeth so as not to cry. What kind of breadwinner is he now? A collar around the mother's neck. The comrades saw how Semyon’s tank was burning, but no one saw how Semyon got out of it. The mother was sent a notice that her son had died. And now Semyon was wondering whether it was worth reminding her of her worthless life? Is it worth stirring up her tired, broken heart with new pain? A drunken woman was laughing nearby. Leshka kissed her with wet lips and hissed something incomprehensible. The dishes rattled, the table overturned, and the earth turned over.
We woke up in a woodshed at a restaurant. Someone caring spread straw for them and gave them two old blankets. All the money has been spent on drink, the requirements for tickets have been lost, and it’s a six-day drive to Moscow. To go to the hospital and say that they had been robbed was not enough of a conscience. Leshka offered to travel without tickets, in the position of beggars. Semyon was even scared to think about it. He suffered for a long time, but there was nothing to do. We need to go, we need to eat. Semyon agreed to walk along the carriages, but he would not say anything, he would pretend to be dumb.
We entered the carriage. Leshka began his speech smartly in his hoarse voice: Brothers and sisters, help the unfortunate cripples... Semyon walked bent over, as if through a cramped black dungeon. It seemed to him that sharp stones were hanging over his head. The hum of voices could be heard from afar, but as soon as he and Leshka approached, this hum disappeared, and Semyon heard only Leshka and the jingling of coins in the pi-tray. This tinkling made Semyon shiver. He lowered his head lower, hiding his eyes, forgetting that they were blind and could not see reproach, anger, or regret. The further they walked, the more unbearable Leshka’s crying voice became for Semyon. It was stuffy in the carriages. It was completely impossible to breathe, when suddenly, from the open window, a fragrant, meadow wind blew into his face, and Semyon was frightened by it, recoiled, and hurt his head painfully on the shelf. We walked the entire train, collected more than two hundred rubles and got off at the station for lunch. Leshka was pleased with his first success and spoke boastfully about his lucky “planid”. Semyon wanted to cut Leshka off and hit him
· him, but I wanted even more to get drunk as soon as possible, to get rid of myself. We drank three-star cognac, snacked on crabs and cakes, since there was nothing else in the buffet. Having gotten drunk, Leshka found friends in the neighborhood, danced with them to the accordion, and bawled songs. Semyon first cried, then somehow forgot, began to stomp his feet, and then sing along, clap his hands, and finally began to sing: But we don’t sow, and we don’t plow, And an ace, an eight, and a jack, And from prison with a handkerchief we wave, Four on the side and yours are gone..., ...They were again left without a penny of money at someone else's distant station. It took the friends a whole month to get to Moscow. Leshka became so comfortable with begging that sometimes he even acted up, singing vulgar jokes. Semyon no longer felt remorse. He reasoned simply: we need money to get to Moscow without stealing, right? And when they get drunk, it’s temporary. He will come to Moscow, get a job in an artel and take his mother with him, he will definitely take her and maybe even get married. Well, if other cripples have the good fortune, it will happen to him too... Semyon sang front-line songs. He behaved confidently, proudly raising his head with dead eyes, shaking his long, thick hair to the beat of the song. And it turned out that he was not asking for alms, but was condescendingly taking the reward due to him. His voice was good, his songs were soulful, and the passengers generously gave to the blind singer. The passengers especially liked the song, which told about how a soldier was quietly dying in a green meadow, an old birch tree bent over him. She extended her branch-like arms to the soldier, like a mother. The fighter tells the birch tree that his mother and girlfriend are waiting for him in a distant village, but he will not come to them, because he is “betrothed to the white birch tree forever,” and that she is now his “bride and his own mother.” In conclusion, the soldier asks: “Sing, my birch, sing, my bride, about the living, about the kind, about people in love, I will sleep sweetly to this song.” It happened that in another carriage Semyon was asked to sing this song several times. Then they took with them in their caps not only silver, but also a bunch of paper money. Upon arrival in Moscow, Leshka flatly refused to join the artel. Wandering on electric trains, like
he said, the work is not dusty and money. My only concern is to evade the policeman. True, this was not always successful. Then he was sent to a nursing home, but he safely escaped from there the next day. Semyon also visited the home for the disabled. Well, he said, it’s nourishing and cozy, there’s good supervision, the artists come, but it all seems like you’re sitting buried in a mass grave. I was also in the artel. “They took it like something they don’t know where to put, and put it next to the machine.” The whole day he sat and stamped some tins. From right and left the press clapped, dryly, annoyingly. An iron box rattled along the concrete floor, in which blanks were dragged in and finished parts were pulled away. The old man who was carrying this box came up to Semyon several times and whispered, breathing in tobacco fumes: You’re here for a day, sit for another, and then ask for another job. At least for a break. You'll make money there. And here the work is hard,” and the earnings are barely... Don’t be silent, but step on the throat, otherwise... It would be best to take a liter and drink it with the foreman. He would then give you money for the work. Our foreman is a good guy Semyon listened to the angry talk of the workshop, the teachings of the old man, and thought that he was not needed here at all, and everything here was alien to him. He felt his restlessness especially clearly during lunch. The talking and laughter of people was heard. on workbenches, on boxes, they untied their bundles, rattling pots, rustling paper. There was a smell of homemade pickles, cutlets with garlic. Early in the morning these bundles were collected by the hands of mothers or wives. The working day will end, and all these people will go home there. , they are dear there. And he? Who cares about him? No one will even take him to the dining room, if he sits there without dinner. And so Semyon wanted home warmth, someone’s affection... “No, now? It's too late. Get lost." Comrade, someone touched Semyon on the shoulder. Why did you hug the stamp? Come and eat with us. Semyon shook his head negatively. Well, as you wish, otherwise let's go. Don't blame me. It always happens again, and then you get used to it. Semyon would have gone home at that very moment, but he didn’t know the way. Leshka brought him to work and in the evening he was supposed to come pick him up. But he didn't come. Semyon waited for him for a whole hour. The shift watchman escorted him home. My arms hurt because I was not used to it, my back was breaking. Without washing or having dinner, Semyon went to bed and fell into a heavy, troubled sleep. Leshka woke up. He came drunk, with a drunk company, with bottles of vodka. Semyon began to drink greedily... The next day he did not go to work. We walked around the carriages again. A long time ago, Semyon stopped thinking about his life, stopped being upset about his blindness, and lived as God dictated. He sang badly: his voice was strained. Instead of songs, it turned out to be a continuous scream. He did not have the same confidence in his gait, pride in the manner of holding his head, all that remained was arrogance. But generous Muscovites still donated, so there was a lot of money from friends. After several scandals, Leshka’s sister left for an apartment. A beautiful house with carved windows turned into a hangout. Anna Filippovna has aged a lot in recent years. During the war, my husband died somewhere while digging trenches. The news of her son’s death completely knocked her down; she thought she wouldn’t get up, but somehow everything worked out. After the war, her niece Shura came to her (she had just graduated from college at that time and got married), came and said: “Why, auntie, will you live here as an orphan, sell the house and let’s come to me.” The neighbors condemned Anna Filippovna, saying that the most important thing for a person is to have his own corner. No matter what happens, keep your house and live neither damned nor crumpled. Otherwise, you sell the house, the money will fly by, and then who knows how it will turn out.
It may be that what people said was true, but the niece got used to Anna Filippovna from an early age, treated her like her own mother, and sometimes lived with her for several years, because they did not get along with their stepmother. In a word, Anna Filippovna made up her mind. She sold the house and went to Shura, lived for four years and didn’t complain. And she really liked Moscow. Today she went to see the dacha that the young couple had rented for the summer. She liked the dacha: a garden, a small vegetable garden. Thinking that today she needed to mend the boys’ old shirts and pants for the village, she heard a song. In some ways it was familiar to her, but in what ways she couldn’t understand. Then I realized the voice! She understood and shuddered and turned pale. For a long time I did not dare to look in that direction, I was afraid that the painfully familiar voice would disappear. And yet I looked. I looked... Senka! The mother, as if blind, stretched out her hands and walked towards her son. Now she is already next to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. And Senkina’s shoulders, with sharp little bumps. I wanted to call my son by name, but I couldn’t; there was no air in my chest and I didn’t have enough strength to breathe. The blind man fell silent. He felt the woman’s hands and became wary. The passengers saw how the beggar turned pale, how he wanted to say something and could not suffocate. The passengers saw how the blind man put his hand on the woman’s hair and immediately pulled it back. Senya, the woman said softly and weakly. The passengers stood up and waited with trepidation for his answer. At first the blind man only moved his lips, and then said dully: Citizen, you are mistaken. My name is Ivan. How! exclaimed the mother. Senya, what are you doing?! The blind man pushed her aside and walked on with a quick, uneven gait and stopped singing. Passengers saw a woman looking after the beggar and whispering: “He, he.” There were no tears in her eyes, only prayer and suffering. Then they disappeared, leaving anger. The terrible anger of an insulted mother... She lay in a severe faint on the sofa. An elderly man, probably a doctor, leaned over her. The passengers asked each other in a whisper to disperse, to give access to fresh air, but did not disperse. Maybe I was wrong? someone asked hesitantly. Mother will not be mistaken, answered the gray-haired woman, So why didn’t he confess? How can one admit this? Stupid... A few minutes later Semyon came in and asked: Where is my mother? “You no longer have a mother,” the doctor answered. The wheels were knocking. For a minute Semyon seemed to see the light, saw the people, was afraid of them and began to back away. The cap fell out of his hands; the little things crumbled and rolled across the floor, clinking coldly and uselessly...
At the very end of the war, the Germans set fire to the tank in which Semyon Avdeev was a turret shooter.
For two days, blind, burned, with a broken leg, Semyon crawled among some ruins. It seemed to him that the blast wave had thrown him out of the tank into a deep hole.
For two days, one step at a time, half a step, a centimeter per hour, he climbed out of this smoky pit towards the sun, into the fresh wind, dragging his broken leg, often losing consciousness. On the third day, sappers found him, barely alive, in the ruins of an ancient castle. And for a long time the surprised sappers wondered how the wounded tanker could have gotten to this useless ruin...
In the hospital, Semyon’s leg was amputated up to the knee and then they took him to famous professors for a long time so that they could restore his sight.
But nothing came of it...
While Semyon was surrounded by comrades, cripples just like him, while a smart, kind doctor was next to him, while nurses cared for him, he somehow forgot about his injury, he lived like everyone else lives. Behind the laughter, behind the joke, I forgot my grief.
But when Semyon left the hospital onto the city street - not for a walk, but completely, into life, he suddenly felt the whole world was completely different from the one that surrounded him yesterday, the day before yesterday and his entire past life.
Although Semyon was told a few weeks ago that his vision would not return, he still harbored hope in his heart. And now everything has collapsed. It seemed to Semyon that he again found himself in that black pit where the blast wave had thrown him. Only then did he passionately want to get out into the fresh wind, towards the sun, he believed that he would get out, but now he did not have that confidence. Anxiety crept into my heart. The city was incredibly noisy, and the sounds were somehow elastic, and it seemed to him that if he took even one step forward, these elastic sounds would throw him back, hurt him painfully against the stones.
Behind the hospital. Along with everyone else, Semyon scolded him for his boredom, wondered how to get out of it, and now he suddenly became so dear, so necessary. But you can’t go back there, even though it’s still very close. We have to go forward, but it’s scary. Afraid of the seething cramped city, but most of all afraid of himself:
Leshka Kupriyanov brought Semyon out of his stupor.
- Oh, and the weather! Now I just want to go for a walk with the girl! Yes, in the field, yes, collect flowers, and run.
I like to fool around. Let's go! What are you up to?
They went.
Semyon heard how the prosthesis creaked and slammed, how Leshka breathed heavily and whistling. These were the only familiar, close sounds, and the clanging of trams, the screams of cars, the laughter of children seemed alien, cold. They parted in front of him and ran around. The stones of the pavement and some pillars got in the way underfoot and made it difficult to walk.
Semyon knew Leshka for about a year. Small in stature, it often served him as a crutch. It used to be that Semyon would lie on the bed and shout: “Nanny, give me a crutch,” and Leshka would run up and squeak, fooling around:
- I'm here, Count. Give me your whitest pen. Place it, Most Serene One, on my unworthy shoulder.
So they walked around hugging each other. Semyon knew Leshka's round, armless shoulder and faceted, cropped head well by touch. And now he put his hand on Leshka’s shoulder and his soul immediately felt calmer.
They spent the whole night, first in the dining room, and then in the restaurant at the station. When they went to the dining room, Leshka said that they would drink a hundred grams, have a good dinner and leave on the night train. We drank as agreed. Leshka suggested repeating it. Semyon did not refuse, although he rarely drank at all. Vodka flowed surprisingly easily today. The hops were pleasant, did not stupefy the head, but awakened good thoughts in it. True, it was impossible to concentrate on them. They were nimble and slippery, like fish, and, like fish, they slipped out and disappeared into the dark distance. This made my heart feel sad, but the sadness did not linger long. It was replaced by memories or naive but pleasant fantasies. It seemed to Semyon that one morning he would wake up and see the sun, grass, and a ladybug. And then suddenly a girl appeared. He clearly saw the color of her eyes, hair, and felt her tender cheeks. This girl fell in love with him, with the blind man. They talked a lot about these people in the ward and even read a book out loud.
Leshka was missing his right arm and three ribs. The war, as he said with a laugh, cut him like a nut. In addition, he was wounded in the neck. After the throat operation, he spoke intermittently, with a hiss, but Semyon got used to these sounds, which bear little resemblance to human sounds. They irritated him less than the accordion players playing a waltz, than the flirtatious cooing of the woman at the next table.
From the very beginning, as soon as wine and appetizers began to be served on the table, Leshka chatted merrily and laughed contentedly:
- Eh, Senka, I love nothing in the world more than a well-cleaned table! I love to have fun - especially to eat! Before the war, we used to go to Medvezhye Ozera in the summer with the whole plant. Brass band and buffets! And I am with an accordion. There is company under every bush, and in every company I, like Sadko, am a welcome guest. “Stretch it, Alexey Svet-Nikolaevich.” Why not stretch it out if they ask and the wine is already poured. And some blue-eyed woman brings ham on a fork...
They drank, ate, and sipped, savoring, cold thick beer. Leshka continued to talk enthusiastically about his Moscow region. His sister lives there in her own house. She works as a technician at a chemical plant. The sister, as Leshka assured, would definitely fall in love with Semyon. They will get married. Then they will have children. The children will have as many toys as they want and whatever they want. Semyon will make them himself in the artel where they will work.
Soon it became difficult for Leshka to speak: he was tired, and it seemed that he stopped believing in what he was talking about. They were silent more, they drank more...
Semyon remembers how Leshka wheezed: “We are lost people, it would be better if they killed us completely.” He remembers how heavier his head became, how dark it became - the bright visions disappeared. The cheerful voices and music completely drove him crazy. I wanted to beat everyone, to smash them, Leshka hissed:
- Don't go home. Who needs you there?
Home? Where is the house? A long, long time ago, maybe
a hundred years ago he had a house. And there was a garden, and a birdhouse on a birch tree, and rabbits. Small, with red eyes, they trustingly jumped towards him, sniffed his boots, and moved their pink nostrils funny. Mother... Semyon was called an “anarchist” because, although he studied well at school, he desperately hooliganized, smoked, and because he and his gang staged merciless raids on gardens and vegetable gardens. And she, the mother, never scolded him. The father spanked mercilessly, and the mother only timidly asked not to misbehave. She herself gave money for cigarettes and did her best to hide Semyonov’s tricks from her father. Semyon loved his mother and helped her in everything: chopping wood, carrying water, cleaning the cowshed. The neighbors were jealous of Anna Filippovna, seeing how deftly her son managed the housework,
“There will be a breadwinner,” they said, “and the seventeenth water will wash away the boyish nonsense.”
Drunk Semyon remembered this word - “breadwinner” - and repeated it to himself, gritting his teeth so as not to cry. What kind of breadwinner is he now? A collar around the mother's neck.
The comrades saw how Semyon’s tank was burning, but no one saw how Semyon got out of it. The mother was sent a notice that her son had died. And now Semyon was wondering whether it was worth reminding her of her worthless life? Is it worth stirring up her tired, broken heart with new pain?
A drunken woman was laughing nearby. Leshka kissed her with wet lips and hissed something incomprehensible. Dishes rattled, the table overturned, and the earth turned over.
We woke up in a woodshed at a restaurant. Someone caring spread straw for them and gave them two old blankets. All the money was spent on drink, the requirements for tickets were lost, and Moscow was six days away. To go to the hospital and say that they had been robbed was not enough of a conscience.
Leshka offered to travel without tickets, in the position of beggars. Semyon was even scared to think about it. He suffered for a long time, but there was nothing to do. We need to go, we need to eat. Semyon agreed to walk along the carriages, but he would not say anything, he would pretend to be dumb.
We entered the carriage. Leshka began his speech smartly in his hoarse voice:
- Brothers and sisters, help the unfortunate cripples...
Semyon walked bent over, as if through a cramped black dungeon. It seemed to him that sharp stones were hanging over his head. A roar of voices could be heard from afar, but as soon as he and Leshka approached, this hum disappeared, and Semyon heard only Leshka and the jingling of coins in his cap. This tinkling made Semyon shiver. He lowered his head lower, hiding his eyes, forgetting that they were blind and could not see reproach, anger, or regret.
The further they walked, the more unbearable Leshka’s crying voice became for Semyon. It was stuffy in the carriages. There was absolutely no way to breathe, when suddenly, from the open window, a fragrant, meadow wind blew into his face, and Semyon was frightened by it, recoiled, and hurt his head painfully on the shelf.
We walked the entire train, collected more than two hundred rubles and got off at the station for lunch. Leshka was pleased with his first success and spoke boastfully about his lucky “planid”. Semyon wanted to cut Leshka off, to hit him, but even more he wanted to get drunk quickly and get rid of himself.
We drank three-star cognac, snacked on crabs and cakes, since there was nothing else in the buffet.
Having gotten drunk, Leshka found friends in the neighborhood, danced with them to the accordion, and bawled songs. Semyon first cried, then somehow he forgot, began to stomp his feet, and then sing along, clap his hands, and finally sang:
But we don’t sow, and we don’t plow, But an ace, an eight, and a jack, And from prison we wave a handkerchief, Four on the side - and yours are gone...,
...They were again left without a penny of money at someone else's distant station.
It took the friends a whole month to get to Moscow. Leshka became so comfortable with begging that sometimes he even made fun of himself, singing vulgar jokes. Semyon no longer felt remorse. He reasoned simply: he needed money to get to Moscow - he shouldn’t steal, right? And when they get drunk, it’s temporary. He will come to Moscow, get a job in an artel and take his mother with him, he will definitely take her and maybe even get married. Well, if other cripples have the good fortune, it will happen to him too...
Semyon sang front-line songs. He carried himself confidently, proudly raising his head with dead eyes, shaking his long, thick hair to the beat of the song. And it turned out that he was not asking for alms, but was condescendingly taking the reward due to him. His voice was good, his songs were soulful, and the passengers generously gave to the blind singer.
The passengers especially liked the song, which told about how a soldier was quietly dying in a green meadow, an old birch tree bent over him. She extended her branch-like arms to the soldier, like a mother. The fighter tells the birch tree that his mother and girlfriend are waiting for him in a distant village, but he will not come to them, because he is “betrothed to the white birch tree forever,” and that she is now his “bride and his own mother.” In conclusion, the soldier asks: “Sing, my birch, sing, my bride, about the living, about the kind, about people in love - I will sleep sweetly to this song.”
It happened that in another carriage Semyon was asked to sing this song several times. Then they took with them in their caps not only silver, but also a bunch of paper money.
Upon arrival in Moscow, Leshka flatly refused to join the artel. Wandering on electric trains, as he said, is not a dusty job and it doesn’t cost money. My only concern is to evade the policeman. True, this was not always possible. Then he was sent to a nursing home, but he safely escaped from there the next day.
Semyon also visited the home for the disabled. Well, he said, it’s nourishing and cozy, there’s good supervision, the artists come, but everything seems as if you’re sitting buried in a mass grave. I was also in the artel. “They took it like something they don’t know where to put, and put it next to the machine.” The whole day he sat and splashed - he stamped some tins. From right and left the press clapped, dryly, annoyingly. An iron box rattled along the concrete floor, in which blanks were dragged in and finished parts were pulled away. The old man who was carrying this box approached Semyon several times and whispered, breathing in the fumes of tobacco:
- You’re here for a day, sit for another, and then ask for another job. At least for a break. You'll make money there. And here the work is hard,” and the earnings are barely... Don’t be silent, but step on the throat, otherwise... It would be best to take a liter and drink it with the foreman. He would then give you money for the work. Our foreman is a good guy .
Semyon listened to the angry talk of the workshop, the teachings of the old man and thought that he was not needed here at all, and everything here was alien to him. He felt his restlessness especially clearly during lunch.
The cars fell silent. People could be heard talking and laughing. They sat on workbenches, on boxes, untied their bundles, rattling pots, rustling paper. It smelled like homemade pickles and garlic cutlets. Early in the morning these bundles were collected by the hands of mothers or wives. The working day will end, and all these people will go home. There they are waiting, there they are dear. And he? Who cares about him? No one will even take you to the dining room if you sit without lunch. And so Semyon wanted the warmth of home, someone’s affection... Go to his mother? “No, it’s too late now. Let it all go to waste."
“Comrade,” someone touched Semyon on the shoulder. “Why did you hug the stamp?” Come and eat with us.
Semyon shook his head negatively.
- Well, as you wish, otherwise let's go. Don't blame me.
It always happens again, and then you get used to it.
Semyon would have gone home at that very moment, but he didn’t know the way. Leshka brought him to work and in the evening he was supposed to come pick him up. But he didn't come. Semyon waited for him for a whole hour. The shift watchman escorted him home.
My arms hurt because I was not used to it, my back was breaking. Without washing or having dinner, Semyon went to bed and fell into a heavy, troubled sleep. Leshka woke up. He came drunk, with a drunk company, with bottles of vodka. Semyon began to drink greedily...
The next day I didn’t go to work. We walked around the carriages again.
A long time ago, Semyon stopped thinking about his life, stopped being upset about his blindness, and lived as God dictated. He sang badly: his voice was strained. Instead of songs, it turned out to be a continuous scream. He did not have the same confidence in his gait, pride in the manner of holding his head, all that remained was arrogance. But generous Muscovites still donated, so there was a lot of money from friends.
After several scandals, Leshka’s sister left for an apartment. A beautiful house with carved windows turned into a hangout.
Anna Filippovna has aged a lot in recent years. During the war, my husband died somewhere while digging trenches. The news of her son’s death completely knocked her down; she thought she wouldn’t get up, but somehow everything worked out. After the war, her niece Shura came to her (she had just graduated from college at that time and got married), came and said: “Why, auntie, will you live here as an orphan, sell the house and let’s come to me.” The neighbors condemned Anna Filippovna, saying that the most important thing for a person is to have his own corner. No matter what happens, keep your house and live neither damned nor crumpled. Otherwise, you sell the house, the money will fly by, and then who knows how it will turn out.
It may be that what people said was true, but the niece got used to Anna Filippovna from an early age, treated her like her own mother, and sometimes lived with her for several years, because they did not get along with their stepmother. In a word, Anna Filippovna made up her mind. She sold the house and went to Shura, lived for four years and didn’t complain. And she really liked Moscow.
Today she went to see the dacha that the young couple had rented for the summer. She liked the dacha: a garden, a small vegetable garden.
Thinking that today she needed to mend the boys’ old shirts and pants for the village, she heard a song. In some ways it was familiar to her, but in what ways she couldn’t understand. Then I realized - a voice! She understood and shuddered and turned pale.
For a long time I did not dare to look in that direction, I was afraid that the painfully familiar voice would disappear. And yet I looked. I looked... Senka!
The mother, as if blind, stretched out her hands and walked towards her son. Now she is already next to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. And Senkina’s shoulders, with sharp little bumps. I wanted to call my son by name but couldn’t - there was no air in my chest and I didn’t have enough strength to breathe.
The blind man fell silent. He felt the woman's hands and became wary.
The passengers saw how the beggar turned pale, how he wanted to say something and could not - he suffocated. The passengers saw how the blind man put his hand on the woman’s hair and immediately pulled it back.
“Senya,” the woman said quietly and weakly.
The passengers stood up and waited with trepidation for his answer.
At first the blind man only moved his lips, and then said dully:
- Citizen, you are mistaken. My name is Ivan.
“What!” exclaimed the mother. “Senya, what are you doing?!” The blind man pushed her aside and with a quick, uneven gait
he moved on and didn’t sing anymore.
The passengers saw how the woman looked after the beggar and whispered: “He, he.” There were no tears in her eyes, only prayer and suffering. Then they disappeared, leaving anger. The terrible anger of an insulted mother...
She lay in a severe faint on the sofa. An elderly man, probably a doctor, leaned over her. The passengers asked each other in a whisper to disperse, to give access to fresh air, but did not disperse.
“Maybe I was mistaken?” someone asked hesitantly.
“Mother will not be mistaken,” answered the gray-haired woman,
- So why didn’t he confess?
- How can you confess to someone like that?
- Silly...
A few minutes later Semyon came in and asked:
- Where is my mother?
“You no longer have a mother,” the doctor answered.
The wheels were knocking. For a minute Semyon seemed to see the light, saw the people, was afraid of them and began to back away. The cap fell out of his hands; the little things crumbled and rolled across the floor, clinking coldly and uselessly...
German Sadulaev
VICTORY DAY
Old people sleep little. In youth, time seems like an irredeemable ruble; the time of an elderly person is copper change. Wrinkled hands carefully put them in piles minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day: how much is left? Sorry every night.
He woke up at half past five. There was no need to get up so early. Even if he had not gotten out of bed at all, and sooner or later this was bound to happen, no one would have noticed. He might not get up at all. Especially so early. In recent years, he increasingly wanted to not wake up one day. But not today. Today was a special day.
Alexey Pavlovich Rodin got up from the old creaking bed in a one-room apartment on the street... in old Tallinn, went to the toilet, relieved his bladder. I began to clean myself up in the bathroom. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and spent a long time scraping the stubble from his chin and cheeks with a well-worn razor. Then he washed his face again, rinsing off the remaining soap suds, and refreshed his face with aftershave lotion.
Walking into the room, Rodin stood in front of a wardrobe with a cracked mirror. The mirror reflected his worn body with old scars, dressed in faded shorts and a T-shirt. Rodin opened the closet door and changed his underwear. For a couple more minutes he looked at his ceremonial jacket with medals of the order. Then he took out the shirt he had ironed the day before and put on his uniform.
It was as if twenty years had been lifted from my shoulders. In the dim light of the chandelier, dimmed by time, the captain's shoulder straps burned brightly.
Already at eight o'clock Rodin met at the front door of his house with another veteran, Vakha Sultanovich Aslanov. Together with Vakha, they went through half the war, in the same reconnaissance company of the First Belorussian Front. By 1944, Vakha was already a senior sergeant and had a medal “For Courage”. When the news came about the eviction of the Chechens, Vakha was in the hospital after being wounded. He was immediately transferred from the hospital to a penal battalion. Without guilt, based on nationality. Rodin, then a senior lieutenant, went to his superiors and asked to return Vakha. The intercession of the company commander did not help. Vakha ended the war in a penal battalion and immediately after demobilization he was sent to settle in Kazakhstan.
Rodin was demobilized in 1946, with the rank of captain, and was assigned to serve in Tallinn, as an instructor in the city party committee.
Back then, there was only one "n" in the name of this city, but my computer has a new spell checker, I will write Tallinn with two "l" and two "n" so that the text editor does not swear and underline this word with a red wavy line .
After the rehabilitation of the Chechens in 1957, Rodin found his front-line comrade. He made requests, taking advantage of his official position - by this time Rodin was already the head of the department. Rodin managed to do more than just find Vakha, he got him a call to Tallinn, found him a job, helped him with an apartment and registration. Vakha has arrived. Rodin, starting his efforts, was afraid that Vakha would not want to leave his native land. He made sure that Vakha could transport his family.
But Vakha came alone. He had no one to transport. The wife and child died during the eviction. They fell ill with typhoid in a freight car and died suddenly. Parents died in Kazakhstan. Vakha has no close relatives left. This is probably why it was easy for him to leave Chechnya.
Then there was... life. Life?.. probably, then there was the whole life. There was good and bad in her. True, a whole life. After all, sixty years have passed. A full sixty years have passed since the end of that war.
Yes, it was a special day. Sixtieth anniversary of the victory.
Sixty years is a lifetime. Even more. For those who did not return from the war, who remained twenty years old, this is three lives. It seemed to Rodin that he was living these lives for those who did not return. No, this is not just a metaphor. Sometimes he thought: these twenty years I have been living for Sergeant Savelyev, who was blown up by a mine. For the next twenty years I will live for Private Talgatov, who died in the first battle. Then Rodin thought: no, I won’t have much time. Better yet, ten years. After all, living to thirty is no longer so bad. Then I will have time to live for three more of my dead soldiers.
Yes, sixty years is a long time! A whole life or six makeweights to the cut short lives of dead soldiers.
And yet this is... if not less, then probably the same as four years of war.
I don't know how to explain this, others before me have already explained it much better. A person lives for four years in a war, or six months in an arctic winter, or a year in a Buddhist monastery, then he lives for a long time, another whole life, but that period of time remains the longest, the most important for him. Maybe because of the emotional tension, because of the simplicity and vividness of the sensations, maybe it’s called something else. Maybe our life is measured not by time, but by the movement of the heart.
He will always remember, will compare his present with that time, which will never turn into the past for him. And the comrades who were next to him then will remain the closest, the most faithful.
And not because good people will never meet again. It's just that those others... they won't understand much, no matter how you explain it. And with your own people, you can even just be silent with them.
Like with Vakha. Sometimes Rodin and Vakha drank together, sometimes they argued and even quarreled, sometimes they simply remained silent. Life was different, yes...
Rodin got married and lived in marriage for twelve years. His wife got a divorce and went to Sverdlovsk to live with her parents. Rodin had no children. But Vakha probably had many children. He himself didn’t know how much. But Vakha did not marry. Vakha was still a reveler.
Neither one nor the other had a big career. But in Soviet times, respected people retired to a decent pension. They stayed in Tallinn. Where were they supposed to go?
Then everything began to change.
Rodin didn’t want to think about it.
Everything just changed. And he found himself in a foreign country, where they were forbidden to wear Soviet orders and medals, where they, who had soaked the land from Brest to Moscow and back to Berlin with their blood, were called occupiers.
They were not occupiers. Better than many others, Rodin knew about everything wrong that was happening in that country that had sunk into oblivion. But then, those four years... no, they were not occupiers. Rodin did not understand this anger of prosperous Estonians, who even under Soviet rule lived better than Russian people somewhere in the Urals.
After all, even Vakha, Rodin was ready that after the eviction, after that monstrous injustice, the tragedy of his people, Vakha would begin to hate the Soviet Union and especially the Russians. But it turned out that this was not the case. Vakha has seen too much. In the penal battalion there are Russian officers who heroically escaped captivity and were demoted to rank and file for this, in overcrowded zones and prisons. One day Rodin asked directly whether Vakha blamed the Russians for what happened.
Vakha said that the Russians suffered more than other nations from all this. And Stalin was generally Georgian, although this is not important.
And Vakha also said that together, together, we not only sat in prison zones. Together we defeated the fascists, sent man into space, built socialism in a poor and devastated country. Everyone did this together and all of this - and not just the camps - was called: the Soviet Union.
And today they put on front-line orders and medals. Today was their day. They even went into a bar and took one hundred grams of front-line soldiers, yes. And there, in the bar, young men in fashionable military uniform with stripes stylized as “SS” symbols called them Russian pigs, old drunkards and tore off their awards. They also called Wakha a Russian pig. The knife was just lying on the counter, probably the bartender was using it to chop ice.
Vakha hit him between the ribs of the young Estonian with a precise blow.
There was also a telephone on the counter, and Rodin threw its cord like a noose around the neck of another SS man. There is no longer that strength in the hands, but it is not needed, every movement of the old scout is worked out to the point of automatism. The frail boy wheezed and fell to the floor.
They returned to that present time. They were Soviet intelligence officers again, and there were enemies around. And everything was correct and simple.
For another five minutes they were young.
While they were being kicked to death on the wooden floor.
And I don't feel sorry for them at all. I simply do not dare to humiliate them with my pity.
V Krupin AND YOU SMILE!
On Sunday, some very important issue was supposed to be decided at a meeting of our housing cooperative. They even collected signatures so that there would be a turnout. But I couldn’t go - I couldn’t take the children anywhere, and my wife was on a business trip.
I went for a walk with them. Even though it was winter, it was melting, and we began to sculpt a snow woman, but what came out was not a woman, but a snowman with a beard, that is, dad. The children demanded to sculpt their mother, then themselves, then their relatives went further afield.
Next to us there was a wire mesh fence for hockey, but there was no ice in it, and the teenagers were playing football. And they drove very excitedly. So we were constantly distracted from our sculptures. Teenagers had a saying: “And you smile!” She stuck to them all. Either they took it from a movie, or they came up with it themselves. The first time it flashed was when one of the teenagers was hit in the face with a wet ball. "It hurts!" - he shouted. "And you smile!" - they answered him amid friendly laughter. The teenager flared up, but pulled back - it was a game of who to be offended by, but I noticed that he began to play angrier and more secretly. He lay in wait for the ball and hit, sometimes not passing to his own, but slamming into his opponents.
Their game was brutal: the boys had watched enough TV. When someone was shunned, pressed against the wire, or pushed away, they shouted victoriously: “Force move!”
My children stopped sculpting and watched. The guys have a new side hobby - throwing snowballs. Moreover, they did not immediately start aiming at each other, first they aimed at the ball, then at the leg at the moment of impact, and soon there was, as they shouted, “a power struggle all over the field.” It seemed to me that they were fighting - the collisions were so rough and ferocious, blows, snowballs were thrown with all their might at any place on the body. Moreover, the teenagers were happy when they saw that their opponent was hit, and it was hurt. "And you smile!" - they shouted to him. And he smiled and responded in kind. It was not a fight, because it was covered up by a game, sports terms, and a score. But what was it?
Then people came from the meeting of the housing cooperative. The teenagers were taken to dinner by their parents. The chairman of the housing cooperative stopped and scolded me for being absent from the meeting.
You can't stand by. We discussed the issue of teenagers. You see, there are so many cases of teenage cruelty. We need to distract, we need to develop sports. We decided to make another hockey field.
"And you smile!" - suddenly I heard the cry of my children. They shot dad, mom, themselves, and all their relatives with snowballs made of snow.
Ray Bradbury "A Sound of Thunder"
A. Gelasimov in his work raises the important problem of misunderstanding of family relationships.
The author tells how the hero met his mother and sister after a long time of their absence, but did not find the words to talk to them, and only at the end does he tell that the character, having already gone down to the subway, suddenly realized who he had lost.
Andrei Valerievich is trying to convey to the reader that a mother is a creature dear to everyone, which we should never forget about.
I completely agree with him, because indeed, spiritual kinship and understanding between family members should be maintained throughout their lives.
A striking example is the work of Evgeny Karpov “My name is Ivan,” which tells about a son who betrayed his mother: the son, blinded in the war, did not return to his home, to his mother. An unexpected meeting on the train, when Semyon shouts a different name in the face of his mother, who recognized him by his voice, does its job. The betrayal of a son, bitterness and resentment stop the heart of a loving mother...
An opposite example of a son’s behavior can be seen in “Filial Duty” by Irina Kuramshina. The main character, Maxim, gives his own kidney to his sick mother, despite the fact that she was, as the text says, a “bad mother”
Thus, we can conclude that it is understanding and spiritual kinship between children and parents that play an important role in the life of every person.
Updated: 2017-10-30
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EVGENY VASILIEVICH KARPOV
At the end of 1967, Wolf Messing, after completing his performances in Stavropol, visited Yevgeny Karpov. When Karpov’s mother came in from the street, Messing suddenly became agitated, got up from the table and began repeating: “Oh, the centenarian has come! The long-liver has arrived! and indeed: Baba Zhenya lived for several more decades, happily telling everyone about the words of the telepathic wizard, and died at a ripe old age.
Now it becomes obvious that Messing could have made the same prediction to her son. But Karpov at that moment turned 48 years old (that is, he was almost half his age today), and Wolf Grigorievich did not look into such a distant future...
A widely known writer in the Stavropol region, he was born on Monday, October 6, 1919 in the Esaulovka farmstead, Rossoshansky district, Voronezh region. His father, hereditary railway worker Vasily Maksimovich Karpov, commander of a red armored train, was shot by soldiers of General Mamontov at the Talovaya South-Eastern Railway station on his son’s birthday.
So, starting from the first moments, the entire future life of E.V. Karpov will be inextricably linked with the fate and history of the country.
During the days of terror, he was in the camp: together with other prisoners, he was building a railway near Murmansk on the orders of L.P. Beria.
During the war, on the front line: topographer at the headquarters battery on the Stalingrad front.
After the war - at the construction of the Volga Giant named after. XXII Party Congress: fitter, dispatcher, circulation worker.
It was here, among the installers and builders of the hydroelectric power station, that Karpov the writer was truly born, although before that the Literary Institute named after him was in his life. A. M. Gorky, classes in the seminar of Konstantin Paustovsky. The living classic favored the former front-line soldier. After defending his diploma, K. Paustovsky said: “Here, meet me. Maybe you’ll like something,” he thrust the Smena magazine into his hands. “I started leafing through,” recalls Karpov, “my dear mother!” My story "Pearl". It was the first time I saw my words published, and even in a metropolitan magazine.”
In 1959, the Stalingrad Book Publishing House published Karpov’s first book of stories, “My Relatives.”
In 1960, the Leningrad magazine “Neva” published his story “Shifted Shores” in issue No. 4, which suddenly became the main publication of the year. Reviews in the magazines “Don”, “October”, “Znamya”, “In the World of Books” are written by well-known literary critics in the country. The story is published as a separate book by the Moscow publishing house “Soviet Russia”. Reprinted in half a million copies in Roman-Gazeta. Translated into Czech, Polish, French and Chinese. A movie was made based on it, in which Ivan Lapikov first appeared on screen.
In 1961, Karpov was accepted into the USSR Writers' Union. The magazine "Neva" and the publishing house "Soviet Russia" offer him to conclude contracts for a new story.
What is the reason for the official recognition and incredible success of “Shifting Shores”? I can assume the following... At that time, the country was engrossed in the books of V. Aksenov and A. Gladilin, whose heroes, city slickers with a touch of healthy cynicism, were very disliked by the party and literary “generals.” And then a story appears, in the center of which working youth with enthusiasm or, as the author himself writes, “coherently and energetically” are building a hydroelectric power station. The ruling power wanted people to read just such books, and they grabbed it like a magic wand. At that time it looked, if not funny, then at least naive. Where could she keep up with “Star Ticket” or “Chronicle of the Times of Victor Podgursky”. But what a metamorphosis this is: a little more than half a century has passed and the once fashionable heroes of Aksenov and Gladilin have shrunk and faded away in our consciousness, while Karpov’s heroes, romantic creators, have acquired even greater significance, charm and necessity today.
Before moving to Stavropol, E. Karpov published two more stories: “Blue Winds” (1963) in the publishing house “Soviet Russia” and “Don’t Be Born Happy” (1965) - in “Soviet Writer”. They are written about in the magazines Ogonyok, Oktyabr, Novy Mir, Zvezda and in Literaturnaya Gazeta.
Since 1967, Karpov has been in Stavropol. From now on, the history of the Stavropol region and its people become the main theme of his work for the writer. “Chogray Dawns” (1967) is the first book by E. Karpov published in the Stavropol region. For two years he was the executive secretary of the Stavropol Writers' Organization.
His 50th anniversary was marked in the region not only by articles by A. Popovsky and V. Belousov in the press, but also by the publication of “The Chosen” by the Stavropol book publishing house, the premiere of the play “Don’t Be Born Happy” on the stage of the Drama Theater. Lermontov, as well as awarding the hero of the day the title “Honored Worker of Culture of the RSFSR.”
In 1975, Profizdat published a documentary story by E. Karpov, “High Mountain,” about the builders of the Great Stavropol Canal. The regional publishing house publishes the collection “Your Brother”: it contains a scattering of poetically subtle, deep and tragic stories - “Five Poplars”, “Brutus”, “My name is Ivan”, “Sorry, Motya”.
In 1980, the Sovremennik publishing house published the story “Sultry Field” - a large-scale biography of the first secretary of the Izobilnensky district party committee G.K. Gorlov, where the fate of the country is explored through the fate of the hero.
The following year, a small but unique book “On Seven Hills” (“Soviet Russia”) was published - essays about Stavropol and its famous residents, known throughout the Soviet Union. This book is like an old wine: its price and importance grow every year.
A quarter of a century later, Doctor of Philology, Professor of Stavropol State University Lyudmila Petrovna Egorova, in the article “Literary Stavropoliana”, published in the almanac “Literary Stavropol Region”, focused on the essays “On Seven Hills”, explaining this by the fact that Karpov was able to issue “a new business card “to industrial Stavropol: “Among the Stavropol writers, E. Karpov was perhaps the first to bring out the generalized human component of the city: “The city is the concentrated energy of human genius, its constant development, intense search.” Therefore, human characteristics are necessarily present in generalized definitions of the City: “Courage, courage, hard work, breadth of nature, its nobility - this is Stavropol, a city on seven hills, on seven winds. And they are all incidental.”
In the early 90s, having released the novel “Buruny” (1989), E. Karpov moved to Moscow. It is in vain that he does not take into account the bitter experience of Stavropol writer friends who moved to Moscow earlier - Andrei Gubin and Vladimir Gneushev. The latter publicly regretted their thoughtless move:
We must live in our homeland, where we love,
Where envy and lies are dead.
In a foreign land, where there are only strangers,
Milk, my friend Andryusha Gubin,
You can't even drink from a she-wolf.
In the fall of 1999, Karpov visited Stavropol for the last time. Journalist Gennady Khasminsky, after meeting with him, publishes the material “They Don’t Refuse Confession” in the newspaper “Stavropol Gubernskie Vedomosti” for the writer’s 80th birthday:
“I have the impression that I came to my home,” said Evgeniy Vasilyevich. – As for Stavropol, it has become much cleaner and more comfortable... Many beautiful buildings have appeared. I walked along familiar streets, remembered my friends, visited the studio of the artist Zhenya Bitsenko, and met the writer Vadim Chernov. Vladyka Gideon received me and gave me his blessing for the book “A Link of Times” - about the revival of Orthodoxy, which I am currently working on.
I don't think I lived my life in vain. No life is wasted, except perhaps a criminal one. But simple human life... It is already good because I saw the sun, met sunsets and sunrises, saw the steppe. I love the steppe more than the sea, because I am a steppe dweller. And it’s not in vain that my life was lived because I have children, grandchildren, and many friends.”
Currently, E. Karpov lives in Kyiv, where he has a daughter, Alena, and a son, Lev, who work in Ukrainian cinema. Published in the Russian-language magazine "Rainbow". Kyiv publishing houses have published several voluminous volumes of the writer: “New Heaven” (2004), “Thy will be done” (2006), “Everything was as it was” (2008).
Fortunately, his most important book is “Gog and Magog: Reportage Chronicle, 1915–1991.” published in Stavropol in the magazine “Southern Star” in 2005. And here we all must express words of gratitude to the publisher Viktor Kustov. He makes energetic efforts to preserve the works of E. Karpov in the treasury of classical Russian literature.
Vadim Chernov, who for a long time valued only his own creativity, in his declining years honored Karpov with an unprecedented characteristic: “His authority eclipsed mine and even Cherny, Usov, Melibeev and other old people combined. Karpov is a bright star among writers not only in the North Caucasus.”
Even today, Evgeny Vasilyevich begins his day at the computer, working on the story “Baba Nastusya” - the story of the appearance of a beautifully published volume of the “Bible” in the Karpovs’ house. This book in a homemade oilcloth binding with a large yellow metal cross is familiar to many Stavropol writers.
A priest from the nearby church of Prince Vladimir often comes to visit Karpov. They have long, leisurely conversations.
And only if the conversation concerns Stavropol, Karpov cannot hold back his tears...
Nikolai Sakhvadze
// Stavropol chronograph for 2014. – Stavropol, 2014. – pp. 231–236.
