Children's prose for the reading competition repertoire. Reading prose works - "living classics"

Chingiz Aitmatov. "Mother Field" The scene of a fleeting meeting between mother and son near the train.

The weather was, like yesterday, windy and cold. It’s not for nothing that the station gorge is called the caravanserai of the winds. Suddenly the clouds cleared and the sun came out. “Oh,” I thought, “if only my son would suddenly shine like the sun from behind the clouds, if only he could appear before our eyes at least once...”
And then the sound of a train was heard in the distance. He was coming from the east. The ground shook underfoot, the rails began to hum.

Meanwhile, a man came running with red and yellow flags in his hands and shouted in his ear:
- It won’t stop! Won't stop! Away! Get out of the way! - And he began to push us away.
At that moment a cry was heard nearby:
- Mom-ah! Alima-a-an!
He! Maselbek! Oh, my God, my God! He rushed past us very close. He leaned out of the carriage with his whole body, holding the door with one hand, and with the other he waved his hat at us and shouted, saying goodbye. I just remember screaming: “Maselbek!” And in that short moment I saw him accurately and clearly: the wind tousled his hair, the skirts of his overcoat beat like wings, and on his face and in his eyes - joy, and grief, and regret, and farewell! And, without taking my eyes off him, I ran after him. The last carriage of the train rustled past, and I was still running along the sleepers, then I fell. Oh, how I moaned and screamed! My son was leaving for the battlefield, and I said goodbye to him, hugging the cold iron rail. The sound of the wheels went further and further, and then it died down. And now sometimes it still seems to me as if this train is rushing through my head and the wheels are pounding in my ears for a long time. Aliman ran up all in tears, sank down next to me, wants to lift me but can’t, she’s choking, her hands are shaking. Then a Russian woman, a switchman, arrived in time. And also: “Mom! Mom!” - hugs, cries. The two of them took me to the side of the road, and as we walked to the station, Aliman gave me a soldier’s hat.
“Take it, mom,” she said. - Maselbek left.
It turns out that he threw his hat to me when I was running behind the carriage. I was driving home with this hat in my hands; sitting in the chaise, she pressed her tightly to her chest. It still hangs on the wall. An ordinary soldier's gray earflaps with an asterisk on the forehead. Sometimes I take it in my hands, bury my face and smell my son’s scent.

"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (4)"

The prose poem “Old Woman” is read by Magomirzaev Magomirza

I was walking along wide field, one.

And suddenly I thought I felt light, cautious steps behind my back... Someone was following my trail.

I looked around and saw a small, hunched old woman, all wrapped in gray rags. The old woman's face alone was visible from under them: a yellow, wrinkled, pointed-nosed, toothless face.

I approached her... She stopped.

- Who are you? What do you need? Are you poor? Are you waiting for alms?

The old woman did not answer. I leaned towards her and noticed that both her eyes were covered with a translucent, whitish membrane, or hymen, such as is found in other birds: they protect their eyes with it from too much bright light.

But the old woman’s hymen did not move and did not open her pupils... from which I concluded that she was blind.

- Do you want alms? – I repeated my question. - Why are you following me? “But the old woman still did not answer, but only shrank a little.

I turned away from her and went my way.

And now again I hear behind me the same light, measured, as if creeping steps.

“This woman again! – I thought. - Why did she pester me? “But I immediately added mentally: “She probably blindly lost her way, and is now following my steps by ear, so that together with me she can go out to a residential place.” Yes, yes; that's true."

But a strange uneasiness gradually took over my thoughts: it began to seem to me that the old woman was not only following me, but that she was guiding me, that she was pushing me now to the right, now to the left, and that I was involuntarily obeying her.

However, I continue to walk... But ahead, on my very road, something turns black and widens... some kind of hole...

“Grave! – flashed in my head. “That’s where she’s pushing me!”

I turn sharply back... The old woman is in front of me again... but she sees! She looks at me with large, angry, sinister eyes... the eyes of a bird of prey... I move towards her face, towards her eyes... Again the same dull hymen, the same blind and stupid appearance.

"Oh! – I think... – this old woman is my destiny. That fate from which a person cannot escape!”

“Don’t leave! don't leave! What kind of madness is this?... We have to try.” And I rush to the side, in a different direction.

I walk quickly... But the light steps still rustle behind me, close, close... And the pit darkens again ahead.

I again turn in the other direction... And again the same rustling from behind and the same menacing spot in front.

And wherever I rush, like a hare on the run... everything is the same, the same!

“Stop! - I think. - I’ll deceive her! I’m not going anywhere!” – and I instantly sit down on the ground.

The old woman is standing behind me, two steps away from me. I can't hear her, but I feel that she is here.

And suddenly I see: that spot that was black in the distance is floating, crawling towards me!

God! I look back... The old woman looks straight at me - and her toothless mouth is twisted into a grin...

- You won’t leave!

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (5)"

Prose poem "Azure Sky"

Azure Kingdom

O azure kingdom! O kingdom of azure, light, youth and happiness! I saw you... in a dream.

There were several of us on a beautiful, dismantled boat. A white sail rose like a swan's chest under the frisky pennants.

I did not know who my comrades were; but I felt with all my being that they were just as young, cheerful and happy as I was!

Yes, I didn’t even notice them. I saw all around me one boundless azure sea, all covered with small ripples of golden scales, and above my head the same boundless, the same azure sky - and across it, triumphant and as if laughing, the gentle sun rolled.

And from time to time, loud and joyful laughter rose between us, like the laughter of the gods!

Otherwise, suddenly words and poems would fly from someone’s lips, filled with wondrous beauty and inspired power... It seemed as if the very sky was sounding in response to them - and all around the sea trembled sympathetically... And there again a blissful silence fell.

Our fast boat sailed gently through the soft waves. She was not moved by the wind; it was ruled by our own playing hearts. Where we wanted, she rushed there, obediently, as if alive.

We came across islands, magical, translucent islands with shimmers of precious stones, yachts and emeralds. Delightful incense drifted from the rounded banks; some of these islands showered us with a shower of white roses and lilies of the valley; from others, iridescent long-winged birds suddenly rose up.

Birds circled above us, lilies of the valley and roses melted into the pearly foam that slid along the smooth sides of our boat.

Together with flowers, with birds, sweet, sweet sounds flew in... Women's voices seemed to be in them... And everything around: the sky, the sea, the fluttering of the sail in the heights, the murmur of the stream behind the stern - everything spoke of love, of blissful love!

And the one whom each of us loved - she was here... invisible and close. Another moment - and then her eyes will shine, her smile will bloom... Her hand will take your hand - and take you with her to an unfading paradise!

O azure kingdom! I saw you... in a dream.

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (6)"

Oleg Koshevoy about his mother (excerpt from the novel "Young Guard").

"... Mom, mom! I remember your hands from the moment I became
to be aware of oneself in the world. Over the summer they were always covered in tan, and it didn’t go away even in the winter - it was so gentle, even, only a little darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher, your hands, - after all, they had so much work to do in life - but they always seemed so tender to me, and I loved kissing them right on the dark veins.
Yes, from the very moment I became conscious of myself until the last
minutes when you, exhausted, quietly laid your head on my chest for the last time, seeing me off on the difficult path of life, I always remember your hands at work. I remember how they scurried about in the soapy foam, washing my sheets, when these sheets were still so small that they looked like diapers, and I remember how you, in a sheepskin coat, in winter, carried buckets on a yoke, placing a small mittened hand on the yoke in front , she herself is so small and fluffy, like a mitten. I see your fingers with slightly thickened joints on the primer, and I repeat
you: “ba-a-ba, ba-ba.” I see how with your strong hand you bring the sickle under the belly, broken by the grain of the other hand, right on the sickle, I see the elusive sparkle of the sickle and then this instant smooth, such a feminine movement of the hands and the sickle, throwing back the ears in the bunch so as not to break the compressed stems.
I remember your hands, unbending, red, turning blue from the icy water in the ice hole, where you rinsed clothes when we lived alone - it seemed completely alone in the world - and I remember how imperceptibly your hands could remove a splinter from your son’s finger and how they instantly threaded a needle when you sewed and sang - sang only for yourself and for me. Because there is nothing in the world that your hands cannot do, that they cannot do, that they would abhor! I saw how they kneaded clay with cow dung to coat the hut, and I saw your hand peeking out of the silk, with a ring on your finger, when you raised a glass of red Moldavian wine. And with what submissive tenderness your full and white hand above the elbow wrapped itself around your stepfather’s neck when he, playing with you, picked you up in his arms - the stepfather whom you taught to love me and whom I honored as my own, for one thing alone, that you loved him.
But most of all, I remembered forever how gently they stroked, your hands, slightly rough and so warm and cool, how they stroked my hair, and neck, and chest, when I lay half-conscious in bed. And, whenever I opened my eyes, you were always next to me, and the night light was burning in the room, and you looked at me with your sunken eyes, as if from the darkness, yourself all quiet and bright, as if in vestments. I kiss your clean, holy hands!
You sent your sons off to war - if not you, then someone else, just like
you, - you will never wait for others, and if this cup passed you, it did not pass another, the same as you. But if even in the days of war people have a piece of bread and there are clothes on their bodies, and if there are stacks of stacks in the field, and trains are running along the rails, and cherries are blooming in the garden, and a flame is raging in the blast furnace, and someone’s invisible force raises a warrior from the ground or from the bed when he was sick or wounded - all this was done by the hands of my mother - mine, and his, and his.
Look around you too, young man, my friend, look around like I did and tell me who you are
I have offended you more in life than my mother - is it not from me, not from you, not from him, is it not from our failures, mistakes, and is it not from our grief that our mothers turn gray? But the time will come when all this will turn into a painful reproach to the heart at the mother’s grave.
Mom, mom!.. Forgive me, because you are alone, only you in the world can forgive, put your hands on your head, like in childhood, and forgive...”

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (7)"

A.P. Chekhov. "Gull". Monologue of Nina Zarechnaya ( final scene farewell to Treplev)

I'm so tired... I wish I could rest... I could rest!
I am a seagull... No, that's not it. I'm an actress. And he is here... He didn’t believe in the theater, he kept laughing at my dreams, and little by little I also stopped believing and lost heart... And then the worries of love, jealousy, constant fear for the little one... I became petty, insignificant, I played senselessly... I didn’t know what to do with my hands, I didn’t know how to stand on stage, I didn’t have control of my voice. You don't understand this state when you feel like you're playing terribly. I am a seagull.
No, that's not it... Remember when you shot a seagull? A man came by chance, saw him and, having nothing better to do, killed him... The plot for a short story...
What am I talking about?.. I'm talking about the stage. Now I’m not like that... I’m already a real actress, I play with pleasure, with delight, I get drunk on stage and feel beautiful. And now, while I live here, I keep walking, I keep walking and I think, I think and I feel how my spiritual strength is growing every day... I now know, I understand. Kostya, that in our business - it doesn’t matter whether we play on stage or write - the main thing is not fame, not brilliance, not what I dreamed of, but the ability to endure. Know how to bear your cross and believe. I believe, and it doesn’t hurt me so much, and when I think about my calling, I’m not afraid of life.
No, no... Don't see him off, I'll get there myself... My horses are close... So she brought him with her? Well, whatever. When you see Trigorin, don’t say anything to him... I love him. I love him even more than before... I love him, I love him passionately, I love him desperately!
It was good before, Kostya! Remember? What a clear, warm, joyful, pure life, what feelings - feelings like tender, graceful flowers... "People, lions, eagles and partridges, antlered deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those who could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, have died out for thousands of centuries since the earth has not carried a single living creature, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain. The cranes no longer wake up screaming in the meadow, and cockchafers are no longer heard in the linden groves..."
I'll go. Farewell. When I become a big actress, come and see me.
Do you promise? And now... It's too late. I can barely stand on my feet...

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (8)"

BAD CUSTOM. Zoshchenko.

In February, my brothers, I fell ill.

I went to the city hospital. And here I am, you know, in the city hospital, receiving treatment and resting my soul. And all around is peace and quiet and God's grace. Everything around is clean and orderly, it’s even awkward to lie down. If you want to spit, use a spittoon. If you want to sit down, there is a chair, if you want to blow your nose, blow your nose into your hand, but if you blow it into the sheet, oh my God, they don’t allow you to blow it into the sheet. There is no such order, they say.

Well, you humble yourself.

And you can’t help but come to terms with it. There is such care, such affection, that it couldn’t be better. Just imagine, some lousy person is lying down, and they drag him lunch, and make his bed, and put thermometers under his armpits, and push enemas with his own hands, and even inquire about his health.

And who is interested? Important, progressive people - doctors, doctors, nurses and, again, paramedic Ivan Ivanovich.

And I felt such gratitude to all this staff that I decided to offer financial gratitude.

I don’t think you can give it to everyone - there won’t be enough giblets. I'll give it to one, I think. And to whom - he began to take a closer look.

And I see: there is no one else to give, except to the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich. The man, I see, is large and respectable and tries harder than anyone else and even goes out of his way.

Okay, I think I'll give it to him. And he began to think about how to stick it to him, so as not to offend his dignity and so as not to get punched in the face for it.

The opportunity soon presented itself.

The paramedic approaches my bed. Says hello.

Hello, he says, how are you? Was there a chair?

Hey, I think it took the bait.

Why, I say, there was a chair, but one of the patients took it away. And if you want to sit down, sit down with your feet on the bed. Let's talk.

The paramedic sat down on the bed and sat.

Well,” I tell him, “what do they write about, are the earnings high?”

The earnings, he says, are small, but which intelligent patients, even at the point of death, certainly strive to put into their hands.

If you please, I say, although I’m not dying, I don’t refuse to give. And I’ve even been dreaming about this for a long time.

I take out the money and give it. And he kindly accepted and curtsied with his hand.

And the next day it all started.

I was lying very calmly and well, and no one had disturbed me until then, but now the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich seemed stunned by my material gratitude. During the day he will come to my bed ten or fifteen times. Either, you know, he’ll straighten the pads, or he’ll drag him into the bath. He tortured me with thermometers alone. Previously, a thermometer or two would be set a day in advance - that’s all. And now fifteen times. Previously, the bath was cool and I liked it, but now it’s too much hot water to fill up - even though you’re on guard.

I have already done this and that way - no way. I still shove money at him, the scoundrel, just leave him alone, do me a favor, he gets even more furious and tries.

A week has passed - I see I can’t do it anymore.

I was exhausted, lost fifteen pounds, lost weight and lost my appetite.

And the paramedic is still trying.

And since he, a tramp, almost even boiled me in boiling water. By God. The scoundrel gave me such a bath - the callus on my foot burst and the skin came off.

I tell him:

What, I say, you bastard, are you boiling people in boiling water? There will be no more material gratitude for you.

And he says:

It won't - it won't be necessary. Die, he says, without the help of scientists.

But now everything is going as before again: the thermometers are set once, the bath is cool again, and no one bothers me anymore.

It’s not for nothing that the fight against tipping is happening. Oh, brothers, not in vain!

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"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document"

I SEE YOU PEOPLE! (Nodar Dumbadze)

- Hello, Bezhana! Yes, it’s me, Sosoya... I haven’t been with you for a long time, my Bezhana! Excuse me!.. Now I’ll put everything in order here: I’ll clear the grass, straighten the cross, repaint the bench... Look, the rose has already faded... Yes, quite a bit of time has passed... And how much news I have for you, Bezhana! I don't know where to start! Wait a little, I’ll pull out this weed and tell you everything in order...

Well, my dear Bezhana: the war is over! Our village is unrecognizable now! The guys have returned from the front, Bezhana! Gerasim's son returned, Nina's son returned, Minin Evgeniy returned, and Nodar's father returned, and Otia's father. True, he is missing one leg, but what does that matter? Just think, a leg!.. But our Kukuri, Lukain Kukuri, did not return. Mashiko's son Malkhaz also did not return... Many did not return, Bezhana, and yet we have a holiday in the village! Salt and corn appeared... After you, ten weddings took place, and at each I was among the guests of honor and drank great! Do you remember Giorgi Tsertsvadze? Yes, yes, the father of eleven children! So, George also returned, and his wife Taliko gave birth to a twelfth boy, Shukria. That was some fun, Bejana! Taliko was in a tree picking plums when she went into labor! Do you hear, Bejana? I almost died on a tree! I still managed to get downstairs! The child was named Shukriya, but I call him Slivovich. Great, isn't it, Bejana? Slivovich! What's worse than Georgievich? In total, after you, we had thirteen children... Yes, one more news, Bezhana, I know it will make you happy. Khatia's father took her to Batumi. She will have surgery and she will see! After? Then... You know, Bezhana, how much I love Khatia? So I'll marry her! Certainly! I'll celebrate a wedding, a big wedding! And we will have children!.. What? What if she doesn’t see the light? Yes, my aunt also asks me about this... I’m getting married anyway, Bezhana! She can’t live without me... And I can’t live without Khatia... Didn’t you love some Minadora? So I love my Khatia... And my aunt loves... him... Of course she loves, otherwise she wouldn’t ask the postman every day if there is a letter for her... She’s waiting for him! You know who... But you also know that he will not return to her... And I’m waiting for my Khatia. It makes no difference to me whether she returns as sighted or blind. What if she doesn't like me? What do you think, Bejana? True, my aunt says that I have matured, become prettier, that it is difficult to even recognize me, but... who the hell is not joking!.. However, no, it cannot be that Khatia doesn’t like me! She knows what I am like, she sees me, she herself has spoken about this more than once... I graduated from ten classes, Bezhana! I'm thinking of going to college. I’ll become a doctor, and if Khatia doesn’t get help in Batumi now, I’ll cure her myself. Right, Bejana?

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"Microsoft Word Document"

Marina Tsvetaeva. Sonechka's monologue. "How I love to love...".

Do you ever forget when you love something - you love it? I - never. It's like a toothache, only the opposite - the opposite of a toothache. Only there it aches, but here there is no word.
And what wild fools they are. Those who don’t love don’t love themselves, as if the point is to be loved. I’m not saying, of course, but you hit a wall. But you know, there is no wall that I wouldn’t break through.
Do you notice how all of them, even those who kiss, even those who seem to love, are so afraid to say this word? How come they never say it? One explained to me that this is grossly backward, that there is no need for words when there are actions, that is, kisses and so on. And I told him: “No. The deed does not prove anything. But the word is everything!”
This is all I need from a person. “I love you” and nothing more. Even if he doesn’t love you any way he wants, or does whatever he wants, I won’t believe the deeds. Because there was a word. I only fed on this word. That’s why I became so emaciated.
And how stingy, calculating, and cautious they are. I always want to say: “Just tell me. I won’t check.” But they don’t say it because they think it’s about getting married, getting in touch, and not letting go. “If I’m the first to speak, I’ll never be the first to leave.” As if you can’t be the first to leave with me.
I have never been the first to leave in my life. And as long as God allows me in my life, I will not be the first to leave. I just can't. I do everything to make the other one leave. Because it’s easier for me to leave first - it’s easier to cross over my own corpse.
I was never the first to leave within myself. I was never the first to stop loving. Always until the very last opportunity. Until the very last drop. It’s like when you drink as a child and it’s already hot from an empty glass. And you keep pulling and pulling and pulling. And only your own steam...

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"Microsoft Office Word Document (23)"

Larisa Novikova

Monologue of Pechorin from "Hero of Our Time" by M. Lermontov

Yes, this has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read on my face signs of bad feelings that were not there; but they were anticipated - and they were born. I was modest - I was accused of guile: I became secretive. I felt good and evil deeply; no one caressed me, everyone insulted me: I became vindictive; I was gloomy, - other children were cheerful and talkative; I felt superior to them - they put me lower. I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth passed in a struggle with myself and the world; Fearing ridicule, I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart: they died there. I told the truth - they didn’t believe me: I began to deceive; Having learned well the light and springs of society, I became skilled in the science of life and saw how others were happy without art, freely enjoying the benefits that I so tirelessly sought. And then despair was born in my chest - not the despair that is treated with the barrel of a pistol, but cold, powerless despair, covered with courtesy and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple: one half of my soul did not exist, it dried up, evaporated, died, I cut it off and threw it away - while the other moved and lived at the service of everyone, and no one noticed this, because no one knew about the existence of the deceased half of it; but now you have awakened in me the memory of her, and I read her epitaph to you.

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"wish"

You have to really want it and...

To tell the truth, all my life I have often had all sorts of difficult-to-fulfill desires and fantasies in my head.

At one time, for example, I dreamed of inventing a device with the help of which it would be possible to turn off the voice of any person at a distance. According to my calculations, this device (I called it TIKHOFON BYU-1 - a voice switch according to the Barankin system) was supposed to act like this: suppose today in class the teacher tells us about something uninteresting and thereby prevents me, Barankin, from thinking about what something interesting; I click the quiet switch in my pocket, and the teacher’s voice disappears. Those who don’t have such a device continue to listen, and I calmly go about my business in silence.

I really wanted to invent such a device, but for some reason I didn’t get beyond the name

I also had other strong desires, but none of them, of course, captured me like this, truly, like the desire to turn from a man into a sparrow!..

I sat on a bench, without moving, without being distracted, without thinking about anything extraneous, and thought only about one thing: “How can I quickly turn into a sparrow.”

At first I sat on a bench just like all ordinary people sit, and I didn’t feel anything special. All sorts of unpleasant human thoughts continued to creep into my head: about the deuce, and about arithmetic, and about Mishka Yakovlev, but I tried not to think about all this.

I’m sitting on a bench with my eyes closed, I have goosebumps all over my body, like crazy ones, like kids at a big break, and I sit and think: “I wonder what these goosebumps and these oats mean? Goosebumps - that’s understandable to me, I’m probably the one who spent time on my feet, but what does oats have to do with it?”

I even ate my mother’s oatmeal with milk and jam at home without any pleasure. Why do I want raw oats? I'm still a man, not a horse, right?

I’m sitting, thinking, wondering, but I can’t explain anything to myself, because my eyes are tightly closed, and this makes my head completely dark and unclear.

Then I thought: “Has something like this happened to me...” - and so I decided to examine myself from head to toe...

Holding my breath, I opened my eyes slightly and first looked at my feet. I look - instead of wearing boots, I have bare feet of a sparrow, and with these feet I stand barefoot on a bench, like a real sparrow. I opened my eyes wider, and I saw that instead of hands I had wings. I open my eyes even more, turn my head, and look - a tail sticks out from behind. What does this mean? It turns out that I have turned into a sparrow after all!

I am a sparrow! I'm no longer Barankin! I am the realest, most authentic sparrow! So that’s why I suddenly wanted oats: oats are the favorite food of horses and sparrows! Everything is clear! No, not everything is clear! What does this mean? So my mother was right. This means that if you really want it, you can really achieve anything and achieve anything!

What a discovery!

Such a discovery is perhaps worth tweeting to the entire yard. What about the whole yard - the whole city, even the whole world!

I spread my wings! I popped my chest out! I turned towards Kostya Malinin and froze with my beak agape.

My friend Kostya Malinin continued to sit on the bench, like an ordinary person... Kostya Malinin failed to turn into a sparrow!.. That's it for you!

Texts for learning by heart for the competition “Living Classics-2017”

V. Rozov “Wild Duck” from the series “Touching War”)

The food was bad, I was always hungry. Sometimes food was given once a day, and then in the evening. Oh, how I wanted to eat! And so on one of these days, when dusk was already approaching, and there was not yet a crumb in our mouths, we, about eight soldiers, sat on the high grassy bank of a quiet river and almost whined. Suddenly we see him without his gymnast. Holding something in his hands. Another of our comrades is running towards us. He ran up. Radiant face. The package is his tunic, and something is wrapped in it.

Look! – Boris exclaims triumphantly. He unfolds the tunic, and in it... is a live wild duck.

I see: sitting, hiding behind a bush. I took off my shirt and - hop! There is food! Let's fry it.

The duck was weak and young. Turning her head from side to side, she looked at us with amazed beady eyes. She simply could not understand what kind of strange, cute creatures surrounded her and looked at her with such admiration. She did not struggle, did not quack, did not strain her neck to slip out of the hands that held her. No, she looked around gracefully and curiously. Beautiful duck! And we are rough, uncleanly shaven, hungry. Everyone admired the beauty. And a miracle happened, like in a good fairy tale. Somehow he simply said:

Let's go!

Several logical remarks were thrown, like: “What’s the point, there are eight of us, and she’s so small,” “More messing around!”, “Borya, bring her back.” And, no longer covering it with anything, Boris carefully carried the duck back. Returning, he said:

I let her into the water. She dove. I didn’t see where she surfaced. I waited and waited to look, but I didn’t see it. It's already getting dark.

When I get overwhelmed by life, when you start cursing everyone and everything, you lose faith in people and you want to scream, as I once heard the cry of one very famous person: “I don’t want to be with people, I want with dogs!” - in these moments of disbelief and despair, I remember the wild duck and think: no, no, you can believe in people. This will all pass, everything will be fine.

They may tell me; “Well, yes, it was you, intellectuals, artists, everything can be expected about you.” No, during the war everything got mixed up and turned into one whole - single and invisible. At least, the one where I served. There were two thieves in our group who had just been released from prison. One proudly told how he managed to steal a crane. Apparently he was talented. But he also said: “Let go!”

Parable about life - Life values

Once a wise man, standing in front of his students, did the following. He took a large glass vessel and filled it to the brim with large stones. Having done this, he asked the disciples if the vessel was full. Everyone confirmed that it was full.

Then the sage took a box of small pebbles, poured it into a vessel and gently shook it several times. The pebbles rolled into the gaps between the large stones and filled them. After this, he again asked the disciples if the vessel was now full. They again confirmed the fact - it is full.

And finally, the sage took a box of sand from the table and poured it into the vessel. Sand, of course, filled the last gaps in the vessel.

Now,” the sage addressed the students, “I would like you to be able to recognize your life in this vessel!”

Large stones represent important things in life: your family, your loved one, your health, your children - those things that, even without everything else, can still fill your life. Small pebbles represent less important things, such as your job, your apartment, your house or your car. Sand symbolizes the little things in life, the hustle and bustle of everyday life. If you fill your vessel with sand first, there will be no room left for larger stones.

It’s the same in life - if you spend all your energy on small things, then there will be nothing left for big things.

Therefore, pay attention first of all to important things - find time for your children and loved ones, take care of your health. You will still have enough time for work, for home, for celebrations and everything else. Watch your big stones - only they have a price, everything else is just sand.

A. Green. Scarlet Sails

She sat with her legs tucked up and her arms around her knees. Attentively leaning towards the sea, she looked at the horizon with large eyes in which there was nothing adult left - the eyes of a child. Everything she had been waiting for so long and passionately was happening there - at the end of the world. She saw an underwater hill in the land of distant abysses; climbing plants flowed upward from its surface; Among their round leaves, pierced at the edge by a stem, fanciful flowers shone. The upper leaves glittered on the surface of the ocean; those who knew nothing, as Assol knew, saw only awe and brilliance.

A ship rose from the thicket; he surfaced and stopped in the very middle of dawn. From this distance he was visible as clear as clouds. Scattering joy, he burned like wine, rose, blood, lips, scarlet velvet and crimson fire. The ship went straight to Assol. The wings of foam fluttered under the powerful pressure of its keel; Already, having stood up, the girl pressed her hands to her chest, when a wonderful play of light turned into a swell; the sun rose, and the bright fullness of the morning tore the covers off everything that was still basking, stretching on the sleepy earth.

The girl sighed and looked around. The music fell silent, but Assol was still in the power of its sonorous choir. This impression gradually weakened, then became a memory and, finally, just fatigue. She lay down on the grass, yawned and, blissfully closing her eyes, fell asleep - truly, soundly, like a young nut, sleep, without worries and dreams.

She was awakened by a fly wandering over her bare foot. Restlessly turning her leg, Assol woke up; sitting, she pinned up her disheveled hair, so Gray's ring reminded her of herself, but considering it nothing more than a stalk stuck between her fingers, she straightened them; Since the obstacle did not disappear, she impatiently raised her hand to her eyes and straightened up, instantly jumping up with the force of a spraying fountain.

Gray's radiant ring shone on her finger, as if on someone else's - she could not recognize it as hers at that moment, she did not feel her finger. - “Whose thing is this? Whose joke? - she quickly cried. - Am I dreaming? Maybe I found it and forgot?” Grasping the right hand with her left hand, on which there was a ring, she looked around in amazement, torturing the sea and green thickets with her gaze; but no one moved, no one hid in the bushes, and in the blue, far-illuminated sea there was no sign, and a blush covered Assol, and the voices of the heart said a prophetic “yes.” There were no explanations for what had happened, but without words or thoughts she found them in her strange feeling, and the ring already became close to her. Trembling, she pulled it off her finger; holding it in a handful like water, she examined it - with all her soul, with all her heart, with all the jubilation and clear superstition of youth, then, hiding it behind her bodice, Assol buried her face in her palms, from under which a smile burst uncontrollably, and, lowering her head, slowly I went the opposite way.

So, by chance, as people who can read and write say, Gray and Assol found each other on the morning of a summer day full of inevitability.

"Note". Tatyana Petrosyan

The note looked most harmless.

According to all gentlemanly laws, it should have revealed an inky face and a friendly explanation: “Sidorov is a goat.”

So Sidorov, without suspecting anything bad, instantly unfolded the message... and was dumbfounded.

Inside, in large, beautiful handwriting, it was written: “Sidorov, I love you!”

Sidorov felt mockery in the roundness of the handwriting. Who wrote this to him?

Squinting, he looked around the class. The author of the note was bound to reveal himself. But for some reason Sidorov’s main enemies did not grin maliciously this time.

(As usual they grinned. But this time they didn’t.)

But Sidorov immediately noticed that Vorobyova was looking at him without blinking. It doesn’t just look like that, but with meaning!

There was no doubt: she wrote the note. But then it turns out that Vorobyova loves him?!

And then Sidorov’s thought reached a dead end and fluttered helplessly, like a fly in a glass. WHAT DOES LOVES MEAN??? What consequences will this entail and what should Sidorov do now?..

“Let’s think logically,” Sidorov reasoned logically. “What, for example, do I love? Pears! I love it, which means I always want to eat it...”

At that moment, Vorobyova turned to him again and licked her bloodthirsty lips. Sidorov went numb. What caught his eye were her long uncut... well, yes, real claws! For some reason I remembered how in the buffet Vorobyov greedily gnawed at a bony chicken leg...

“You need to pull yourself together,” Sidorov pulled himself together. (My hands turned out to be dirty. But Sidorov ignored the little things.) “I love not only pears, but also my parents. However, there is no question of eating them. Mom bakes sweet pies. Dad often carries me around his neck. And I love them for that..."

Then Vorobyova turned around again, and Sidorov thought with sadness that he would now have to bake sweet pies for her all day long and carry her to school around his neck in order to justify such a sudden and crazy love. He took a closer look and discovered that Vorobyova was not thin and would probably not be easy to wear.

“All is not lost yet,” Sidorov did not give up. “I also love our dog Bobik. Especially when I train him or take him out for a walk...” Then Sidorov felt stuffy at the thought that Vorobyov could make him jump for every pie, and then he will take you for a walk, holding the leash tightly and not allowing you to deviate either to the right or to the left...

“...I love the cat Murka, especially when you blow right into her ear...” Sidorov thought in despair, “no, that’s not it... I like to catch flies and put them in a glass... but this is too much... I love toys that you can break and see what's inside..."

The last thought made Sidorov feel unwell. There was only one salvation. He hastily tore a piece of paper out of the notebook, pursed his lips resolutely and in firm handwriting wrote the menacing words: “Vorobyova, I love you too.” Let her be scared.

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Ch. Aitmatov. “And the day lasts longer than a century”

In this confrontation of feelings, she suddenly saw, having crossed over a gentle ridge, a large herd of camels, freely grazing along a wide valley. Naiman-Ana hit her Akmaya, set off as fast as she could and at first simply choked with joy that she had finally found the herd, then I was scared, I got chills, I became so scared that I would now see my son turned into a mankurt. Then she was happy again and no longer really understood what was happening to her.

Here it is, a herd, grazing, but where is the shepherd? Must be here somewhere. And I saw a man on the other edge of the valley. From a distance it was impossible to discern who he was. The shepherd stood with a long staff, holding a riding camel with luggage on the reins behind him, and calmly looked from under his pulled-down hat at her approach.

And when she approached, when she recognized her son, Naiman-Ana did not remember how she rolled off the camel’s back. It seemed to her that she had fallen, but that was it!

My son, dear! And I'm looking for you all around! “She rushed towards him as if through a thicket that separated them. - I'm your mother!

And immediately she understood everything and began to sob, trampling the ground with her feet, bitterly and fearfully, curling her convulsively jumping lips, trying to stop and unable to control herself. To stay on her feet, she tenaciously grabbed the shoulder of her indifferent son and cried and cried, deafened by the grief that had been hanging for a long time and now collapsed, crushing and burying her. And, crying, she peered through the tears, through the sticky strands of gray wet hair, through the shaking fingers with which she smeared the road dirt on her face, at the familiar features of her son and still tried to catch his gaze, still waiting, hoping that he would recognize her, because this It’s so easy to recognize your own mother!

But her appearance did not have any effect on him, as if she had been here constantly and visited him every day in the steppe. He didn't even ask who she was or why she was crying. At some point, the shepherd took her hand off his shoulder and walked, dragging the inseparable riding camel with its luggage, to the other side of the herd to see if the young animals who had started playing had run too far.

Naiman-Ana remained in place, squatted down, sobbing, clutching her face with her hands, and sat there without raising her head. Then she gathered her strength and went to her son, trying to remain calm. The Mankurt son, as if nothing had happened, senselessly and indifferently looked at her from under his tightly pulled cap, and something like a weak smile slid across his emaciated, blackly weathered, roughened face. But the eyes, expressing a dense lack of interest in anything in the world, remained as detached as before.

Sit down, let’s talk,” Naiman-Ana said with a heavy sigh.

And they sat down on the ground.

Do you recognize me? - asked the mother.

Mankurt shook his head negatively.

What's your name?

Mankurt,” he answered.

This is your name now. Do you remember your previous name? Remember your real name.

Mankurt was silent. His mother saw that he was trying to remember; large drops of sweat appeared on the bridge of his nose from tension and his eyes were clouded with a trembling fog. But a blank, impenetrable wall must have appeared in front of him, and he could not overcome it.

What was your father's name? Who are you, where are you from? Do you even know where you were born?

No, he didn’t remember anything and didn’t know anything.

What did they do to you! - the mother whispered, and again her lips began to jump against her will, and, choking with resentment, anger and grief, she began to sob again, trying in vain to calm herself down. The mother’s sorrows did not affect the mankurt in any way.

YOU CAN TAKE AWAY LAND, YOU CAN TAKE AWAY WEALTH, YOU CAN TAKE AWAY LIFE, SHE SPOKE OUT LOUD, “BUT WHO THOUGHT UP WITH WHO DARES TO ENSURE THE MEMORY OF A MAN?!” OH LORD, IF YOU EXIST, HOW DID YOU INSPIRE THIS INTO PEOPLE? IS THERE NOTHING EVIL ON EARTH WITHOUT THIS?

And then lamentations burst out of her soul, long inconsolable cries among the silent endless Sarozeks...

But nothing touched her son, Mankurt.

At this time, a man riding a camel was seen in the distance. He was heading towards them.

Who is this? - asked Naiman-Ana.

“He’s bringing me food,” the son answered.

Naiman-Ana became worried. It was necessary to quickly hide before the Ruanzhuan, who showed up inopportunely, saw her. She brought her camel to the ground and climbed into the saddle.

Don't say anything. “I’ll come soon,” Naiman-Ana said.

The son did not answer. He didn't care.

This was one of the enemies who captured the Sarozeks, drove many people into slavery and caused so much misfortune to her family. But what could she, an unarmed woman, do against the fierce Ruanzhuang warrior? BUT SHE WAS THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT LIFE, WHAT EVENTS LEADED THESE PEOPLE TO SUCH CRUELTY, savagery - TO ERASE THE MEMORY OF A SLAVE...

After scouring back and forth, the Ruanzhuan soon retreated back to the herd.

It was already evening. The sun had set, but the glow lingered over the steppe for a long time. Then it got dark all at once. And the dead of night came.

And she came to the decision not to leave her son in slavery, to try to take him with her. Even if he is a mankurt, even if he doesn’t understand what’s what, it’s better for him to be at home, among his own people, than among the shepherds of the Ruanzhuans in deserted Sarozeks. That's what her mother's soul told her. She could not come to terms with what others were coming to terms with. She could not leave her blood in slavery. What if, in his native place, his sanity returns, he suddenly remembers his childhood...

She did not know, however, that upon returning, the embittered Ruanzhuans began to beat the mankurt. But what is the demand for him? He only answered:

She said she was my mother.

She is not your mother! You don't have a mother! Do you know why she came? You know? She wants to rip off your hat and steam your head! - they intimidated the unfortunate mankurt.

At these words, the mankurt turned pale, his black face became grey-gray. He pulled his neck into his shoulders and, grabbing his hat, began to look around like an animal.

Don't be afraid! Here you go! - The elder Ruanzhuang put a bow and arrows in his hands.

Well, take aim! - The younger Ruanzhuan threw his hat high into the air. The arrow pierced the hat. - Look! - the owner of the hat was surprised. - The memory remains in my hand!

We drove away side by side without looking back. Naiman-Ana did not take her eyes off them for a long time and, when they disappeared into the distance, she decided to return to her son. Now she wanted to take him with her at all costs. Whatever he is

It is not his fault that fate turned out so that his enemies mocked him, but his mother will not leave him in slavery. And let the Naimans, seeing how the invaders mutilate the captured horsemen, how they humiliate and deprive them of their reason, let them become indignant and take up arms. It's not about the land. There would be enough land for everyone. However, Zhuanzhuan evil is intolerable even for an alienated neighborhood...

With these thoughts, Naiman-Ana returned to her son and kept thinking about how to convince him, persuade him to run away that very night.

Zholaman! My son, Zholaman, where are you? - began to call Naiman-Ana.

No one showed up or responded.

Zholaman! Where are you? It's me, your mother! Where are you?

And, looking around in concern, she did not notice that her son, mankurt, hiding in the shadow of a camel, was already ready from his knees, aiming with an arrow stretched on a bowstring. The glare of the sun disturbed him, and he waited for the right moment to shoot.

Zholaman! My son! - Naiman-Ana called, afraid that something had happened to him. She turned in the saddle. - Don't shoot! - she managed to scream and just urged the white camel Akmaya to turn around, but the arrow whistled briefly, piercing her left side under her arm.

It was a fatal blow. Naiman-Ana bent down and began to slowly fall, clinging to the camel’s neck. But first, her white scarf fell from her head, which turned into a bird in the air and flew away shouting: “Remember, whose are you? What is your name? Your father Donenbai! Donenbai! Donenbai!”

Since then, they say, the bird Donenbai began to fly in saroseks at night. Having met a traveler, the Donenbai bird flies nearby with the exclamation: “Remember, whose are you? Whose are you? What is your name? Name? Your father Donenbai! Donenbai, Donenbai, Donenbai, Donenbai!..”

The place where Naiman-Ana was buried began to be called in the Sarozeks the Ana-Beyit cemetery - the Mother's rest...

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Marina Druzhinina. Cure for the test

It was a great day! Lessons ended early and the weather was great. We just ran out of school! They started throwing snowballs, jumping in the snowdrifts and laughing! I could have fun like this my whole life!

Suddenly Vladik Gusev realized:

- Brothers! Tomorrow is a math test! You need to get ready! - and, shaking off the snow, hurried to the house.

- Just think, counterfeit! - Vovka threw a snowball after Vladik and collapsed in the snow. - I suggest letting her go!

- How is this? - I didn’t understand.

- And so! - Vovka stuffed snow into his mouth and gestured around the snowdrifts with a broad gesture. - Look how much anti-control there is! The drug is certified! A slight cold during the test is guaranteed! If we're sick tomorrow, we won't go to school! Great?

- Great! - I approved and also took anti-control medication.

Then we jumped in the snowdrifts, made a snowman in the shape of our head teacher Mikhail Yakovlevich, ate an extra portion of anti-control food - just to be sure - and went home.

This morning I woke up and didn’t recognize myself. One cheek became three times thicker than the other, and at the same time the tooth ached terribly. Wow, a mild cold for one day!

- Oh, what a flux! - Grandma clasped her hands when she saw me. - See a doctor immediately! School is cancelled! I'll call the teacher.

In general, the anti-control agent worked flawlessly. This, of course, made me happy. But not quite the way we would like. Anyone who has ever had a toothache or been in the hands of a dentist will understand me. And the doctor also “comforted” him one last time:

- The tooth will hurt for a couple more days. So be patient and don't forget to rinse.

In the evening I call Vovka:

- How are you?

There was some hissing in the receiver. I could hardly make out that it was Vovka who was answering:

The conversation didn't work out.

The next day, Saturday, the tooth, as promised, continued to ache. Every hour my grandmother gave me medicine, and I diligently rinsed my mouth. Being sick on Sunday was not part of my plans either: my mother and I were going to go to the circus.

On Sunday, I jumped up just before dawn so as not to be late, but my mother immediately spoiled my mood:

- No circus! Stay at home and rinse so that you get better by Monday. Don't miss classes again - it's the end of the quarter!

I’ll quickly go to the phone and call Vovka:

- Your anti-controllin, it turns out, is also anti-circolin! The circus was canceled because of him! We need to warn you!

- He is also an antikinol! - Vovka picked up hoarsely. - Because of him, they didn’t let me into the cinema! Who knew there would be so many side effects!

- You have to think! - I was indignant.

- The fool himself! - he snapped!

In short, we completely quarreled and went to gargle: I - the tooth, Vovka - the throat.

On Monday I approach the school and see: Vovka! It also means he was healed.

- How's life? - I ask.

- Great! - Vovka patted me on the shoulder. - The main thing is that they got sick!

We laughed and went to class. The first lesson is mathematics.

- Ruchkin and Semechkin! Recovered! - Alevtina Vasilievna was delighted. - Very good! Hurry up, sit down and take out clean leaves. Now you will write the test that you missed on Friday. In the meantime, let's check your homework.

That's the number! Anticontrollin turned out to be a complete idiot!

Or maybe it's not him?

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I.S. Turgenev
Prose poem “Alms”
Near a large city, an old, sick man was walking along a wide road.
He staggered as he walked; his emaciated legs, tangling, dragging and stumbling, walked heavily and weakly, as if they were strangers; his clothes hung in rags; his bare head fell onto his chest... He was exhausted.
He sat down on a roadside stone, leaned forward, leaned on his elbows, covered his face with both hands - and through his crooked fingers, tears dripped onto the dry, gray dust.
He recalled...
He remembered how he, too, had once been healthy and rich - and how he had spent his health, and distributed his wealth to others, friends and enemies... And now he does not have a piece of bread - and everyone has abandoned him, friends even before enemies... Should he really stoop to beg for alms? And he felt bitter and ashamed in his heart.
And the tears kept dripping and dripping, dappling the gray dust.
Suddenly he heard someone calling his name; he raised his tired head and saw a stranger in front of him.
The face is calm and important, but not stern; the eyes are not radiant, but light; the gaze is piercing, but not evil.
“You gave away all your wealth,” an even voice was heard... “But you don’t regret doing good?”
“I don’t regret it,” the old man answered with a sigh, “only now I’m dying.”
“And if there were no beggars in the world who stretched out their hands to you,” the stranger continued, “there would be no one for you to show your virtue over; could you not practice it?”
The old man did not answer anything and became thoughtful.
“So don’t be proud now, poor man,” the stranger spoke again, “go, extend your hand, give other good people the opportunity to show in practice that they are kind.”
The old man started, raised his eyes... but the stranger had already disappeared; and in the distance a passer-by appeared on the road.
The old man approached him and extended his hand. This passerby turned away with a stern expression and did not give anything.
But another followed him - and he gave the old man a small alms.
And the old man bought himself some bread with the given pennies - and the piece he asked for seemed sweet to him - and there was no shame in his heart, but on the contrary: a quiet joy dawned on him.

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Week of enlightenment. Mikhail Bulgakov

Our military commissar comes to our company in the evening and says to me:

- Sidorov!

And I told him:

- I!

He looked at me piercingly and asked:

- “You,” he says, “what?

- “I,” I say, “nothing...

- “Are you,” he says, “illiterate?”

I tell him, of course:

- That's right, comrade military commissar, illiterate.

Then he looked at me again and said:

- Well, if you are illiterate, then I’ll send you tonight to La Traviata [an opera by G. Verdi (1813–1901), written by him in 1853]!

- Have mercy, - I say, - for what? The fact that I am illiterate is not our reason. They didn’t teach us under the old regime.

And he answers:

- Fool! What were you afraid of? This is not for your punishment, but for your benefit. There they will educate you, you will watch the performance, that’s your pleasure.

And Panteleev and I from our company were aiming to go to the circus that evening.

I say:

- Is it possible, comrade military commissar, for me to retire to the circus instead of the theater?

And he narrowed his eye and asked:

- To the circus?.. Why is this?

- Yes, - I say, - it’s very interesting... They will bring out a learned elephant, and again, redheads, French wrestling...

He waved his finger.

- “I’ll show you,” he says, “an elephant!” Ignorant element! Redheads... redheads! You yourself are a red-haired hillbilly! Elephants are scientists, but you, my grief, are unscientists! What benefit do you get from the circus? A? And in the theater they will educate you... Nice, good... Well, in a word, I don’t have time to talk to you for a long time... Get a ticket and go!

There is nothing to do - I took a ticket. Panteleev, who is also illiterate, received a ticket, and we set off. We bought three glasses of sunflower seeds and came to the First Soviet Theater.

We see that at the fence where people are allowed in there is Babylonian pandemonium. They pour into the theater in droves. And among our illiterate people there are also literate ones, and more and more young ladies. There was one and she poked her head up to the controller, showed her the ticket, and he asked her:

- Excuse me, he says, comrade madam, are you literate?

And she was foolishly offended:

- Strange question! Of course, competent. I studied at the gymnasium!

- “Oh,” says the controller, “at the gymnasium.” Very nice. In that case, let me wish you goodbye!

And he took the ticket from her.

- On what basis, - the young lady shouts, - how can this be?

- “And this way,” he says, “it’s very simple, that’s why we only let in the illiterate.

- But I also want to listen to an opera or a concert.

- Well, if you want, he says, then come to the Kavsoyuz. All your literate people were gathered there - doctors there, doctors there, professors. They sit and drink tea with molasses, because they are not given sugar, and Comrade Kulikovsky sings romances to them.

And so the young lady left.

Well, Panteleev and I were let through unhindered and taken straight to the stalls and seated in the second row.

We are sitting.

The performance had not yet begun, and therefore, out of boredom, they chewed a glass of sunflower seeds. We sat like that for an hour and a half, and finally it got dark in the theater.

I look, someone is climbing into the main place, which is fenced off. In a seal cap and a coat. A mustache, a beard with gray hair, and such a stern appearance. He climbed in, sat down, and first of all put on his pince-nez.

I ask Panteleev (even though he is illiterate, he knows everything):

- Who will this be?

And he answers:

- This is deri, he says, zher. He is the most important one here. Serious sir!

- Well, I ask, why is he being put behind a fence for show?

- “And because,” he answers, “he is the most literate in opera here.” This is why they put him on display for us as an example.

- So why did they put him with his back to us?

- “Oh,” he says, “it’s more convenient for him to dance with an orchestra!”

And this same conductor unfolded some book in front of him, looked into it and waved a white twig, and immediately the violins started playing under the floor. It’s pitiful, thin, and I just want to cry.

Well, this conductor really turned out to be not the last person to read and write, so he does two things at once - he reads a book and waves a rod. And the orchestra is heating up. Further - more! Behind the violins there are pipes, and behind the pipes there is a drum. Thunder rang throughout the theater. And then he barks from the right side... I looked into the orchestra and shouted:

- Panteleev, but this, God forbid, is a Lombard [B. A. Lombard (1878–1960), famous trombonist], who is on rations in our regiment!

And he also looked in and said:

- He is the one! Apart from him, there is no one else who can play the trombone so well!

Well, I was delighted and shouted:

- Bravo, encore, Lombard!

But out of nowhere, a policeman, and now to me:

- I ask you, comrade, not to disturb the silence!

Well, we fell silent.

Meanwhile, the curtain parted, and we see on stage - smoke like a rocker! Some are gentlemen in jackets, and some are ladies in dresses, dancing and singing. Well, of course, the drinks are right there, and the same thing at nine.

In a word, the old regime!

Well, that means Alfred is among the others. Tozke drinks and eats.

And it turns out, my brother, he is in love with this very Traviata. But he doesn’t explain this only in words, but everything by singing, everything by singing. Well, and she answered him the same.

And it turns out that he cannot avoid marrying her, but it turns out that this same Alfred has a father named Lyubchenko. And suddenly, out of nowhere, in the second act he strode onto the stage.

He is small in stature, but so respectable, his hair is gray, and his voice is strong, thick - beryvton.

And right away he sang to Alfred:

- Well, so and so, have you forgotten your dear land?

Well, I sang and sang to him and upset all this Alfredian machination, to hell. Alfred got drunk out of grief in the third act, and he, my brothers, created a huge scandal - with this Traviata of his.

He cursed her out loud, in front of everyone.

Sings:

- “You,” he says, “are this and that, and in general,” he says, “I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore.”

Well, of course, there are tears, noise, scandal!

And she fell ill with consumption from grief in the fourth act. They sent for a doctor, of course.

The doctor arrives.

Well, I see, even though he is in a frock coat, by all indications our brother is a proletarian. The hair is long and the voice is as healthy as a barrel.

He went up to La Traviata and sang:

- Be calm, he says, your illness is dangerous, and you will certainly die!

And he didn’t even write any prescription, but simply said goodbye and left.

Well, Traviata sees, there is nothing to do - he must die.

Well, then Alfred and Lyubchenko came, asking her not to die. Lyubchenko already gives his consent to the wedding. But nothing works!

- Sorry,” says Traviata, “I can’t, I have to die.”

And indeed, the three of them sang again, and La Traviata died.

And the conductor closed the book, took off his pince-nez and left. And everyone left. That's all.

Well, I think: thank God, we have been enlightened, and that will be ours! Boring story!

And I say to Panteleev:

- Well, Panteleev, let's go to the circus tomorrow!

I went to bed and kept dreaming that La Traviata was singing and Lombard was quacking on his trombone.

Well, the next day I come to the military commissar and say:

- Allow me, comrade military commissar, to leave for the circus this evening...

And how he growls:

- Still, he says, you have elephants on your mind! No circuses! No, brother, you will go to the Council of Trade Unions for a concert today. There,” he says, “comrade Bloch and his orchestra will play the Second Rhapsody! [Most likely, Bulgakov means F. Liszt’s Second Hungarian Rhapsody, which the writer loved and often performed on the piano.]

So I sat down, thinking: “Here are the elephants for you!”

- So, I ask, will Lombard play the trombone again?

- Definitely, he says.

Occasion, God forgive me, where I go, he goes with his trombone!

I looked and asked:

- Well, what about tomorrow?

- And tomorrow, he says, it’s impossible. Tomorrow I will send you all to the drama.

- Well, what about the day after tomorrow?

- And the day after tomorrow back to the opera!

And in general, he says, it’s enough for you to hang around circuses. The week of enlightenment has arrived.

I went crazy from his words! I think: this way you will disappear completely. And I ask:

- So, are they going to drive our entire company like this?

- Why, - he says, - everyone! They won't be literate. Competent and without the Second Rhapsody is good! It's just you, illiterate devils. And let the literate one go in all four directions!

I left him and thought about it. I see it's tobacco! Since you are illiterate, it turns out that you should be deprived of all pleasure...

I thought and thought and came up with an idea.

I went to the military commander and said:

- Let me declare!

- Declare it!

- Let me, I say, go to literacy school.

The military commissar smiled and said:

- Well done! - and enrolled me in school.

Well, I tried it, and what do you think, you learned it!

And now the devil is not my brother, because I’m literate!

___________________________________________________________________________________

Anatoly Aleksin. Division of property

When I was in ninth grade, my literature teacher came up with an unusual topic for a home essay: “ Main man in my life."

I wrote about my grandmother.

And then I went to the cinema with Fedka... It was Sunday, and a line lined up at the box office, pressing against the wall. Fedka’s face, in my opinion and in the opinion of my grandmother, was beautiful, but always so tense, as if Fedka was ready to jump from a tower into the water. Seeing the tail near the cash register, he squinted, which foreshadowed his readiness for emergency actions. “I’ll find you by any trace,” he said when he was a boy. The desire to achieve one's goals immediately and at any cost remained a dangerous sign of Fedka's character.

Fedka could not stand in line: it humiliated him, because it immediately assigned him a certain serial number, and, of course, not the first.

Fedka rushed to the cash register. But I stopped him:

– Let's go to the park instead. This is the weather!..

– Are you sure you want it? – he was delighted: there was no need to stand in line.

– “Don’t ever kiss me in the yard again,” I said. - Mom doesn't like it.

– Am I...

– Right under the windows!

– Exactly?

– Have you forgotten?

– Then I have every right... - Fedka prepared to jump. – Once it was, that means that’s it! There's a chain reaction...

I turned towards the house, because Fedka carried out his intentions at any cost and did not put it off for a long time.

– Where are you going? I was joking... That's for sure. I was joking.

If people who are not used to humiliating themselves have to do this, one feels sorry for them. And yet I loved it when Fedka Sled, the thunderstorm at home, fussed around me: let everyone see what I am like nowfull-fledged !

Fedka begged me to go to the park, even promised that he would never kiss me again in his life, which I did not demand from him at all.

– Home! – I said proudly. And she repeated: “Only home...

But she repeated it in confusion, because at that moment she remembered with horror that she had left the essay “The Main Man in My Life” on the table, although she could have easily put it in a drawer or briefcase. What if mom reads it?

Mom has already read it.

– Who am I in your life? – without waiting for me to take off my coat, she asked in a voice that, as if from a cliff, was about to break into a scream. - Who am I? Not the main person... This is undeniable. But stillWhich ?!

I just stood there in my coat. And she continued:

– I can't do it anymore, Vera! An incompatibility has occurred. And I propose to separate... This is indisputable.

– You and me?

– Us?! Would you mind?

– And with whom then? – I sincerely didn’t understand.

Always impeccably self-possessed, my mother, having lost control of herself, burst into tears. Tears often crying man don't shock us. And I saw my mother’s tears for the first time in my life. And she began to console her.

No literary work probably made such a strong impression on my mother as mine did. She could not calm down until the evening.

When I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, my grandmother came. Mom didn’t let her take off her coat either. In a voice that returned to the edge of the cliff, not trying to hide anything from me, she began to speak haltingly, as I had once said:

– Vera wrote... And I accidentally read it. “The main person in my life”... School essay. Everyone in their class will dedicate it to their mothers. This is undeniable! And she wrote about you... If your son was a child... Eh? We need to leave! This is undeniable. I can't do it anymore. My mother doesn’t live with us... And she’s not trying to win my daughter away from me!

I could go out into the corridor and explain that before winning me back, my mother’s mother would have to win back my health, my life, just like my grandmother did. And it would hardly have been possible to do this over the phone. But mom started crying again. And I hid and became quiet.

– You and I must leave. “This is undeniable,” my mother said through tears, but already firmly. – We will do everything according to the law, in fairness...

– How can I live without Verochka? - Grandma didn’t understand.

– What about us all... under one roof? I'll write a statement. To court! There they will understand that they need to save the family. That mother and daughter are practically separated... I will write! When Vera finishes the school year... so that she doesn't have a nervous breakdown.

Even then I stayed in the bathroom, not taking the threats about the trial seriously.

…In the struggle for existence, one often does not choose means... When I entered the tenth grade, my mother, no longer afraid of my nervous breakdown, fulfilled her promise. She wrote that my grandmother and I should be separated. Separate... And about the division of property “in accordance with existing judicial laws.”

– Understand, I don’t want anything extra! – the man squeezed out of the tube continued to prove.

– Suing your mother is the mostsuperfluous business on earth. And you say: there’s no need for unnecessary things...” she said in an impassive, non-appealable tone.

“You need someone who is needed. Needed when needed... Needed while needed!” – I mentally repeated the words that, like poems etched in my memory, were always on my mind.

When I left home in the morning, I left a letter on the kitchen table, or rather, a note addressed to mom and dad: “I will be the part of the property that, according to the court, will go to my grandmother.”

Someone touched me from behind. I turned around and saw dad.

– Let's go home. We won't do anything! Let's go home. Let’s go...” he repeated frantically, looking around so that no one would hear.

Grandmother was not at home.

– Where is she? – I asked quietly.

– “Nothing happened,” dad answered. - She went to the village. You see, on your piece of paper at the bottom it is written: “I left for the village. Don't worry: it's okay."

– To Aunt Mana?

– Why to Aunt Mana? She’s been gone for a long time... She just went to the village. To your home village!

– To Aunt Mana? – I repeated. - To that oak tree?..

The mother, petrified on the sofa, jumped up:

– To which oak tree? You can't worry! What oak?

– She just left... No big deal! - Dad exhorted. - It's OK!

He dared to reassure me with my grandmother’s words.

– It's OK? Has she gone to Aunt Mana? To Aunt Mana? To Aunt Mana, right?! - I screamed, feeling that the ground, as it happened before, was disappearing from under my feet.

The best. Nikolay Teleshov

One day the shepherd Demyan was wandering across the lawn with a long whip on his shoulder. He had nothing to do, and the day was hot, and Demyan decided to swim in the river.

He undressed and just got into the water, he looked - at the bottom under his feet something glittered. The place was shallow; he dove in and pulled out from the sand a small light horseshoe, the size of a human ear. He turns it over in his hands and doesn’t understand what it can be good for.

- “Is it really possible to shoe a goat,” Demyan laughs to himself, “otherwise, what good is such a little thing?”

He took the horseshoe with both hands by both ends and was just about to try to straighten it or break it, when a woman appeared on the shore, all in white silver clothes. Demyan even became embarrassed and went into the water up to his neck. Demyanov’s head alone looks out from the river and listens as a woman congratulates him:

- Your happiness, Demyanushka: you have found such a treasure, which has no equal in the whole wide world.

- What should I do with it? - Demyan asks from the water and looks first at the white woman, then at the horseshoe.

- Go quickly, unlock the doors, enter the underground palace and take from there everything you want, whatever you like.

Take as much as you want. But just remember one thing: don’t leave the best there.

- What's the best thing about it?

- “Lean the horseshoe against this stone,” the woman pointed with her hand. And she repeated again: “Take as much as you want until you are satisfied.” But when you go back, don’t forget to take the best with you.

And the white woman disappeared.

Demyan doesn't understand anything. He looked around: he saw in front of him on the shore big stone, lies right next to the water. He stepped towards him and leaned the horseshoe against him, as the woman said.

And suddenly the stone broke in two, the iron doors opened behind it, opened wide by themselves, and in front of Demyan was a luxurious palace. As soon as he holds out his horseshoe, as soon as he leans it against something, all the shutters in front of him dissolve, all the locks are unlocked, and Demyan goes, like a master, wherever he pleases.

Wherever you enter, untold riches lie.

In one place there is a huge mountain of oats, and what a heavy, golden one! In another place there is rye, in a third there is wheat; Demyan had never seen such white grain in his dreams.

“Well, that’s it! - he thinks. “It’s not just that you can feed yourself, but there’s enough for a whole city for a hundred years, and there’s still some left over!”

“Well, well! - Demyan rejoices. “I got myself wealth!”

The only trouble is that he came up here straight from the river, as if he were naked. No pockets, no shirt, no hat - nothing; nothing to put it in.

There is a great abundance of all sorts of good things around him, but there is nothing to pour into, or wrap in, or carry away with. But you can’t put a lot into two handfuls.

“We should run home, haul the sacks and bring the horse and cart to the shore!”

Demyan goes further - the room is full of silver; further - rooms are full of gold; even further - precious stones - green, red, blue, white - all sparkle, glow with semi-precious rays. Eyes run wide; you don’t know what to look at, what to want, what to take. And what’s best here is something Demyan doesn’t understand; he can’t figure it out in a hurry.

“We must quickly run for the bags,” - only one thing is clear to him. Moreover, it’s a shame that there’s nothing to put even a little bit into right now.

“Why, you fool, didn’t I put on my hat just now! At least into it!”

So as not to make a mistake and not forget to take the best, Demyan grabbed both handfuls of precious stones of all sorts and quickly went to the exit.

He walks, and handfuls of stones fall out! It’s a pity that your hands are small: if only each handful was as big as a pot!

He walks past gold and thinks: what if it is the best? We must take him too. But there is nothing to take and nothing to take: the handfuls are full, but there are no pockets.

I had to throw off the extra stones and take at least a little bit of golden sand.

While Demyan was hastily exchanging stones for gold, all his thoughts scattered. He doesn’t know what to take, what to leave. It’s a pity to leave every little thing, but there’s no way to take it away: a naked man has nothing but two handfuls for this. If he applies more, it falls out of his hands. Again we have to pick and place. Demyan finally became exhausted and resolutely walked towards the exit.

So he crawled out onto the shore, onto the lawn. He saw his clothes, hat, whip - and was happy.

“I’ll return to the palace now, pour the loot into my shirt and tie it with a whip, and the first bag is ready!” And then I run to get the cart!”

He laid out handfuls of his jewels in his hat and rejoiced, looking at them, how they sparkled and played in the sun.

He quickly got dressed, hung the whip on his shoulder and wanted to go again to the underground palace for wealth, but there were no doors in front of him anymore, and the large gray stone still lay on the shore.

- My fathers! - Demyan shouted, and even his voice squealed. - Where is my little horseshoe?

He forgot it in the underground palace, when he hastily exchanged stones for gold, looking for the best.

Only now he realized that he had left the best things there, where now you would never, ever enter without horseshoes.

- Here's a horseshoe for you!

In despair, he rushed to his hat, to his jewelry, with his last hope: wasn’t “the best” lying among them?

But in the cap there was now only a handful of river sand and a handful of small field stones, which the whole bank is full of.

Demyan lowered his hands and head:

- Here's the best for you!..

______________________________________________________________________________________

The candle was burning. Mike Gelprin

The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had already lost all hope.

- Hello, I'm following an ad. Do you give literature lessons?

Andrei Petrovich peered at the videophone screen. A man in his late thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich’s heart sank; he posted the ad online only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be insurance agents working the old fashioned way, and one confused literature with a ligature.

- “I give lessons,” Andrei Petrovich said, stuttering with excitement. - N-at home. Are you interested in literature?

“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Maxim. Let me know what the conditions are.

“For nothing!” - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.

- “Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?

- I, actually... - the interlocutor hesitated.

- The first lesson is free,” Andrei Petrovich hastily added. - If you don’t like it, then...

- Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.

- “It will work,” Andrei Petrovich was delighted. - Write down the address.

- Tell me, I'll remember.

That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.

- “You are too narrow a specialist,” the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations said then, hiding his eyes. - We value you as an experienced teacher, but unfortunately this is your subject. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?

Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. It was not possible to find a new job, literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closed, philologists, one after another, retrained in all sorts of different ways. For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.

The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.

As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.

“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amadou."

It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.

Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.

- Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. Here, actually... Where would you like to start?

Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.

- Whatever you think is necessary. You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.

- Yes, yes, of course,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. Literature has not been taught in secondary schools for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.

- Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.

- I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?

- Yes, please continue.

- In the twenty-first century, books were no longer printed; paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.

Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.

- It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he finally said. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!

- I came to this conclusion myself, Andrei Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.

- Do you have children?

- Yes,” Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anechka are the same age. Andrey Petrovich, I just need the basics. I will find literature on the Internet and read it. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. Will you teach me?

- Yes,” Andrei Petrovich said firmly. - I’ll teach you.

He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and concentrated.

- Pasternak,” he said solemnly. - Chalk, chalk all over the earth, to all limits. The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...

- Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - Andrei Petrovich asked, trying to calm the trembling in his voice.

- Definitely. Only now... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy married couple. I manage the household, business, and balance the bills. My salary is low. But I,” Maxim looked around the room, “can bring food.” Some things, perhaps household appliances. On account of payment. Will it suit you?

Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. He would be happy with it for nothing.

- Of course, Maxim,” he said. - Thank you. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.

- “Literature is not only what is written about,” said Andrei Petrovich, walking around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the very tool that great writers and poets used. Listen here.

Maxim listened intently. It seemed that he was trying to remember, to learn the teacher’s speech by heart.

- Pushkin,” said Andrei Petrovich and began to recite.

"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene Onegin".

Lermontov "Mtsyri".

Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilyov, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...

Maxim listened.

- Aren't you tired? - asked Andrei Petrovich.

- No, no, what are you talking about? Please continue.

The day gave way to a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to life, in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, which took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught it on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be amazed at how Maxim, who at first was deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and knew it better, deeper than the previous one.

Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.

Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.

Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.

Classics, fiction, fantasy, detective.

Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatsky, Weiner, Japriseau.

One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrei Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, convincing himself that he could get sick. I couldn’t, whispered an inner voice, persistent and absurd. Scrupulous, pedantic Maxim could not. He has never been a minute late in a year and a half. And then he didn’t even call. By evening, Andrei Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never slept a wink. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.

- The number has been disconnected from service,” said a mechanical voice.

The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even my favorite books did not save me from acute melancholy and a newly emerging feeling of worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. To call hospitals, morgues, there was an obsessive buzzing in my temple. So what should I ask? Or about whom? Didn’t a certain Maxim, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?

Andrei Petrovich got out of the house when it became unbearable to be within four walls anymore.

- Ah, Petrovich! - old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below, greeted. - Long time no see. Why don’t you go out? Are you ashamed or something? So it seems like you have nothing to do with it.

- In what sense am I ashamed? - Andrei Petrovich was dumbfounded.

- Well, what is this, yours,” Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - Who came to see you. I kept wondering why Petrovich, in his old age, got involved with this public.

- What are you talking about? - Andrei Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?

- It is known which one. I see these little darlings right away. I think I worked with them for thirty years.

- With whom with them? - Andrei Petrovich begged. -What are you even talking about?

- Don't you really know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. - Look at the news, they are talking about it everywhere.

Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He went up to the fourteenth and with shaking hands fumbled for the key in his pocket. On the fifth attempt, I opened it, trotted over to the computer, connected to the network, and scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly sank with pain. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the photo blurred before his eyes.

“Caught by the owners,” Andrei Petrovich read from the screen with difficulty focusing his vision, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about childhood lack of spirituality, which he decided to fight. Unauthorizedly taught children subjects outside the school curriculum. He hid his activities from his owners. Withdrawn from circulation... In fact, disposed of.... The public is concerned about the manifestation... The issuing company is ready to bear... A specially created committee decided...".

Andrei Petrovich stood up. On stiff legs he walked to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and on the bottom shelf stood an open bottle of cognac that Maxim had brought as payment for his tuition fees. Andrei Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I couldn’t find it and tore it out of my throat. He coughed, dropped the bottle, and staggered back against the wall. His knees gave way and Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.

Down the drain, came the final thought. Everything is down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.

A soulless, defective piece of hardware. I put everything I have into it. Everything that makes life worth living. Everything he lived for.

Andrei Petrovich, overcoming the pain that grabbed his heart, stood up. He dragged himself to the window and closed the transom tightly. Now a gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour. That's all.

The doorbell rang and caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, gritting his teeth, moved to open it. Two children stood on the threshold. A boy of about ten years old. And the girl is a year or two younger.

- Do you give literature lessons? - the girl asked, looking from under her bangs falling into her eyes.

- What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?

- “I’m Pavlik,” the boy took a step forward. - This is Anya, my sister. We are from Max.

- From... From whom?!

- From Max,” the boy repeated stubbornly. - He told me to convey it. Before he... what's his name...

- Chalk, chalk all over the earth to all limits! - the girl suddenly shouted loudly.

Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.

- Are you kidding? - he said quietly, barely audible.

- The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning,” the boy said firmly. - He told me to convey this, Max. Will you teach us?

Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.

- “Oh my God,” he said. - Come in. Come in, children.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Leonid Kaminsky

Composition

Lena sat at the table and did her homework. It was getting dark, but from the snow that lay in drifts in the yard, it was still light in the room.
In front of Lena lay an open notebook, in which only two phrases were written:
How I help my mother.
Composition.
There was no further work. Somewhere at the neighbors' house a tape recorder was playing. Alla Pugacheva could be heard insistently repeating: “I really want summer not to end!..”.
“But it’s true,” Lena thought dreamily, “it would be good if summer didn’t end!.. Sunbathe yourself, swim, and no essays for you!”
She read the headline again: How I Help Mom. “How can I help? And when to help here, if they ask so much for the house!
The light came on in the room: my mother entered.
“Sit, sit, I won’t bother you, I’ll just tidy up the room a little.” “She began wiping the bookshelves with a rag.
Lena began to write:
“I help my mother with the housework. I clean the apartment, wipe the dust off the furniture with a rag.”
- Why did you throw your clothes all over the room? - Mom asked. The question was, of course, rhetorical, because my mother did not expect an answer. She began putting things in the closet.
“I’m putting things in their places,” Lena wrote.
“By the way, your apron needs to be washed,” mom continued talking to herself.
“Washing clothes,” Lena wrote, then thought and added: “And ironing.”
“Mom, a button on my dress came off,” Lena reminded and wrote: “I sew buttons on if necessary.”
Mom sewed on a button, then went out to the kitchen and returned with a bucket and mop.
Pushing the chairs aside, she began to wipe the floor.
“Well, raise your legs,” said mom, deftly wielding a rag.
- Mom, you're bothering me! – Lena grumbled and, without lowering her feet, wrote: “Washing the floors.”
There was something burning coming from the kitchen.
- Oh, I have potatoes on the stove! – Mom shouted and rushed to the kitchen.
“I’m peeling potatoes and cooking dinner,” Lena wrote.
- Lena, have dinner! – Mom called from the kitchen.
- Now! – Lena leaned back in her chair and stretched.
A bell rang in the hallway.
- Lena, this is for you! - Mom shouted.
Olya, Lena’s classmate, entered the room, blushing from the frost.
- I won't be long. Mom sent for bread, and I decided to go to you on the way.
Lena took a pen and wrote: “I’m going to the store for bread and other products.”
- Are you writing an essay? – Olya asked. - Let me see.
Olya looked at the notebook and burst into tears:
- Well, you give it to me! Yes, this is all not true! You made it all up!
– Who said you can’t compose? – Lena was offended. - That’s why it’s called so-chi-ne-nie!

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Green Alexander Fourteen feet

I

- So, she turned you both down? - the owner of the steppe hotel asked goodbye. - What did you say?

Rod silently raised his hat and walked away; Kist did the same. The miners were annoyed with themselves for having chatted last night under the power of wine fumes. Now the owner was trying to make fun of them; at least this last question of his hardly hid his grin.

When the hotel disappeared around the bend, Rod said, smiling awkwardly:

- It was you who wanted vodka. If it weren’t for the vodka, Kat’s cheeks wouldn’t have burned with shame for our conversation, even though the girl was two thousand miles away from us. What does this shark care...

- But what special did the innkeeper learn? - Kist objected gloomily. Well... you loved... I loved... loved one. She doesn’t care... In general, this conversation was about women.

“You don’t understand,” Rod said. “We did something wrong to her: we said her name at... behind the counter.” Well, enough of that.

Despite the fact that the girl was firmly in everyone’s heart, they remained comrades. It is not known what would have happened in the case of preference. Heartbreak even brought them closer; Both of them, mentally, looked at Kat through the telescope, and no one is as close to each other as astronomers. Therefore, their relationship did not break down.

As Keast said, “Cat didn’t care.” But not really. However, she remained silent.

II

"He who loves goes to the end." When both Rod and Kist came to say goodbye, she thought that the strongest and most persistent in his feelings should return and repeat the explanation again. So, perhaps, eighteen-year-old Solomon in a skirt reasoned a little cruelly. Meanwhile, the girl liked both of them. She did not understand how anyone could go further than four miles from her without wanting to return in twenty-four hours. However, the serious appearance of the miners, their tightly packed sacks and those words that are spoken only during real separation, made her a little angry. It was difficult for her mentally, and she took revenge for it.

“Go ahead,” said Kat. - The light is great. Not all of you will be crouching at the same window.

Saying this, she thought at first that soon, very soon, a cheerful, lively Kist would appear. Then a month passed, and the impressiveness of this period turned her thoughts to Rod, with whom she always felt easier. Rod was big-headed, very strong and did not talk much, but he looked at her so good-naturedly that she once said to him: “chick-chick”...

III

The direct path to the Solar Quarries lay through a mixture of rocks - a spur of a chain crossing the forest. There were paths here, the meaning and connection of which the travelers learned at the hotel. They walked almost the entire day, adhering to the right direction, but by evening they began to gradually lose their way. The biggest mistake occurred at the Flat Stone - a piece of rock that was once thrown off by an earthquake. Because of fatigue, their memory of the turns failed them, and they went up when they had to go a mile and a half to the left, and then begin to climb.

At sunset, having emerged from the dense wilds, the miners saw that their path was blocked by a crack. The width of the abyss was significant, but, in general, it seemed accessible to a horse's gallop in suitable places.

Seeing that they were lost, Kist split up with Rod: one went to the right, the other to the left; Kist climbed out to impassable cliffs and returned; Half an hour later Rod also returned - his path led to the division of the crack into beds of streams falling into the abyss.

The travelers came together and stopped in the place where they first saw the crack.

IV

The opposite edge of the abyss stood in front of them so close, so accessible to a short bridge, that Kist stamped his feet in annoyance and scratched the back of his head. The edge separated by the crack was steeply sloping and covered with rubble, however, of all the places they passed in search of a detour, this place was the least wide. Throwing the string with the stone tied to it, Rod measured the annoying distance: it was almost fourteen feet. He looked around: dry, brush-like bushes were crawling along the evening plateau; the sun was setting.

They could have returned, having lost a day or two, but far ahead, below, shone the thin loop of the Ascenda, from the curve of which to the right lay the gold-bearing spur of the Solar Mountains. To overcome the crack meant shortening the journey by no less than five days. Meanwhile, the usual path with a return to their old trail and a journey along the bend of the river constituted a large Roman “S”, which they now had to cross in a straight line.

“There may be a tree,” said Rod, “but this tree does not exist.” There is nothing to throw over and nothing to grab onto with a rope on the other side. All that's left is the jump.

Kist looked around, then nodded. Indeed, the run-up was convenient: he walked slightly slopingly towards the crack.

“You have to think that a black canvas is stretched in front of you,” said Rod, “that’s all.” Imagine that there is no abyss.

“Of course,” Kist said absently. - It’s a little cold... Like swimming.

Rod took the bag off his shoulders and threw it over; Kist did the same. Now they had no choice but to follow their decision.

“So...” Rod began, but Kist, more nervous, less able to bear the anticipation, held out his hand dismissively.

“First me, and then you,” he said. - This is complete nonsense. Nonsense! Look.

Acting in the heat of the moment to prevent an attack of excusable cowardice, he walked away, ran and, successfully giving a kick, flew to his bag, landing flat on his chest. At the zenith of this desperate jump, Rod made an internal effort, as if helping the jumper with his whole being.

Kist stood up. He was a little pale.

“Done,” said Kist. - I'm waiting for you with the first mail.

Rod slowly walked up to the dais, absentmindedly rubbed his hands and, bowing his head, rushed to the cliff. His heavy body seemed to rush with the strength of a bird. When he took a run and then gave in, breaking away into the air, Kist, unexpectedly for himself, imagined him falling into the bottomless depths. It was a vile thought - one of those over which a person has no control. It is possible that it was transmitted to the jumper. Rod, leaving the ground, carelessly glanced at Kist - and this knocked him down.

He fell chest-first onto the edge, immediately raising his hand and clinging to Kist's arm. The entire emptiness of the bottom groaned in him, but Kist held on tightly, managing to grab the falling one at the last hair of time. A little more - Rod's hand would have disappeared into the void. Kist lay down, sliding on the crumbling small stones along the dusty curve. His hand stretched out and died from the weight of Rod’s body, but, scratching the ground with his feet and free hand, he held Rod’s squeezed hand with the fury of a victim, with heavy inspiration of risk.

Rod saw clearly and understood that Kist was crawling down.

- Let go! - Rod said so terribly and coldly that Kist desperately shouted for help, without knowing to whom. - You will fall, I tell you! Rod continued. - Let me go and don’t forget that it was she who looked at you especially.

Thus he revealed his bitter, secret conviction. Kist did not answer. He silently redeemed his thought - the thought of Rod jumping down. Then Rod took a folding knife from his pocket with his free hand, opened it with his teeth and plunged it into Kist's hand.

The hand unclenched...

Kist looked down; then, barely stopping himself from falling, he crawled away and tied his hand with a handkerchief. For some time he sat quietly, holding his heart, in which there was thunder; finally, he lay down and began to quietly shake his whole body, pressing his hand to his face.

In the winter of the following year, a decently dressed man entered the yard of the Carrol farm and did not have time to look back when, slamming several doors inside the house, a young girl with an independent appearance, but with an elongated and tense face, quickly ran out to him, scaring away the chickens.

-Where is Rod? - she asked hastily, as soon as she offered her hand. - Or are you alone, Kist?!

“If you made a choice, you were not mistaken,” thought the newcomer.

“Rod...” Kat repeated. - After all, you were always together...

Kist coughed, looked to the side and told everything.

The magician's revenge. Stephen Leacock

- “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the magician, “when you are convinced that there is nothing in this handkerchief, I will take out a jar of goldfish from it.” One, two! Ready.

Everyone in the hall repeated in amazement:

- Simply amazing! How does he do this?

But the Clever gentleman, sitting in the front row, told his neighbors in a loud whisper:

- She... was... on his... sleeve.

And then everyone looked joyfully at the Clever Mr. and said:

- Well, of course. How come we didn’t guess it right away?

And a whisper echoed throughout the hall:

- He had it up his sleeve.

- My next trick, said the magician, is the famous Indian rings. Please note that the rings, as you can see for yourself, are not connected to each other. Look - now they will unite. Boom! Boom! Boom! Ready!

There was an enthusiastic roar of amazement, but the Clever Mr. whispered again:

- Apparently he had other rings up his sleeve.

And everyone whispered again:

- He had other rings up his sleeve.

The magician's eyebrows knitted together angrily.

- Now,” he continued, “I’ll show you the most interesting number.” I will take any number of eggs out of the hat. Would any gentleman be willing to lend me his hat? So! Thank you. Ready!

He pulled seventeen eggs out of the hat, and for thirty-five seconds the audience could not recover from admiration, but Smart leaned over to his neighbors in the first row and whispered:

- He's got chicken up his sleeve.

And everyone whispered to each other:

- He's got a dozen chickens up his sleeve.

The egg trick was a fiasco.

This went on all evening. From the Clever Man's whisper it was clear that, in addition to rings, a chicken and fish, hidden in the magician's sleeve were several decks of cards, a loaf of bread, a doll's bed, a live guinea pig, a fifty-cent coin and a rocking chair.

Soon the magician's reputation dropped below zero. Towards the end of the performance he made one last desperate attempt.

- Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. - In conclusion, I will show you a wonderful Japanese trick, recently invented by the natives of Tipperary. Would you like, sir,” he continued, turning to the Clever gentleman, “would you like to give me your gold watch?”

The watch was immediately handed over to him.

- Do you allow me to put them in this mortar and crush them into small pieces? - he asked with a hint of cruelty in his voice.

The smart one nodded his head affirmatively and smiled.

The magician threw the watch into a huge mortar and grabbed a hammer from the table. There was a strange cracking sound.

- “He hid them in his sleeve,” whispered Smart.

- Now, sir,” continued the magician, “let me take your handkerchief and poke holes in it.” Thank you. You see, ladies and gentlemen, there is no deception here, the holes are visible to the naked eye.

Smarty's face shone with delight. This time everything seemed truly mysterious to him, and he was completely fascinated.

- And now, sir, be so kind as to hand me your top hat and let me dance on it. Thank you.

The magician put the cylinder on the floor, performed some steps on it, and after a few seconds the cylinder became flat, like a pancake.

- Now, sir, please take off your celluloid collar and let me burn it on a candle. Thank you, sir. Would you also allow your glasses to be broken with a hammer? Thank you.

This time Smarty's face took on an expression of complete confusion.

- Well, well! - he whispered. “Now I really don’t understand anything.”

There was a roar in the hall. Finally, the magician straightened up to his full height and, casting a devastating glance at the Clever Mr., said:

- Ladies and gentlemen! You had the opportunity to watch how, with the permission of this gentleman, I broke his watch, burned his collar, crushed his glasses and danced the foxtrot on his hat. If he allows me to paint his coat with green paint or tie a knot in his suspenders, I will be happy to continue entertaining you... If not, the show is over.

The victorious sounds of the orchestra rang out, the curtain fell, and the audience dispersed, convinced that there were still tricks to which the magician’s sleeve had nothing to do.

M. Zoshchenko “Nakhodka”

One day Lelya and I took a box of chocolates and put a frog and a spider in it.

Then we wrapped this box in clean paper, tied it with a chic blue ribbon and placed this package on the panel facing our garden. It was as if someone was walking and lost their purchase.

Having placed this package near the cabinet, Lelya and I hid in the bushes of our garden and, choking with laughter, began to wait for what would happen.

And here comes a passerby.

When he sees our package, he, of course, stops, rejoices and even rubs his hands with pleasure. Of course: he found a box of chocolates - this doesn’t happen very often in this world.

With bated breath, Lelya and I watch what will happen next.

The passerby bent down, took the package, quickly untied it and, seeing the beautiful box, became even more happy.

And now the lid is open. And our frog, bored with sitting in the dark, jumps out of the box right onto the hand of a passerby.

He gasps in surprise and throws the box away from him.

Then Lelya and I began to laugh so much that we fell on the grass.

And we laughed so loudly that a passerby turned in our direction and, seeing us behind the fence, immediately understood everything.

In an instant he rushed to the fence, jumped over it in one fell swoop and rushed towards us to teach us a lesson.

Lelya and I set a streak.

We ran screaming across the garden towards the house.

But I tripped over a garden bed and sprawled out on the grass.

And then a passerby tore my ear quite hard.

I screamed loudly. But the passer-by, giving me two more slaps, calmly left the garden.

Our parents came running to the scream and noise.

Holding my reddened ear and sobbing, I went up to my parents and complained to them about what had happened.

My mother wanted to call the janitor so that she and the janitor could catch up with the passerby and arrest him.

And Lelya was about to rush after the janitor. But dad stopped her. And he said to her and mother:

- Don't call the janitor. And there is no need to arrest a passerby. Of course, it’s not the case that he tore Minka’s ears, but if I were a passer-by, I would probably have done the same.

Hearing these words, mom got angry with dad and said to him:

- You are a terrible egoist!

Lelya and I also got angry with dad and didn’t tell him anything. I just rubbed my ear and started crying. And Lelka also whimpered. And then my mother, taking me in her arms, said to my father:

- Instead of standing up for a passerby and bringing children to tears, you would better explain to them what is wrong with what they did. Personally, I don’t see this and regard everything as innocent children’s fun.

And dad couldn’t find what to answer. He just said:

- The children will grow up big and someday they will find out for themselves why this is bad.

And so the years passed. Five years have passed. Then ten years passed. And finally twelve years have passed.

Twelve years passed, and from a little boy I turned into a young student of about eighteen.

Of course, I forgot to even think about this incident. More interesting thoughts came into my head then.

But one day this is what happened.

In the spring, after finishing the exams, I went to the Caucasus. At that time, many students took some kind of job for the summer and went somewhere. And I also took a position for myself - a train controller.

I was a poor student and had no money. And here they gave me a free ticket to the Caucasus and, in addition, paid a salary. And so I took this job. And I went.

I first come to the city of Rostov in order to go to the department and get money, documents and ticket pliers there.

And our train was late. And instead of morning he came at five o’clock in the evening.

I deposited my suitcase. And I took the tram to the office.

I come there. The doorman tells me:

- Unfortunately, we're late, young man. The office is already closed.

- “How come,” I say, “it’s closed.” I need to get money and ID today.

Doorman says:

- Everyone has already left. Come the day after tomorrow.

- How so, - I say, - the day after tomorrow? Then I’d better come by tomorrow.

Doorman says:

- Tomorrow is a holiday, the office is closed. And the day after tomorrow come and get everything you need.

I went outside. And I stand. I don't know what to do.

There are two days ahead. There is no money in my pocket - only three kopecks left. The city is foreign - no one knows me here. And where I should stay is unknown. And what to eat is unclear.

I ran to the station to take some shirt or towel from my suitcase to sell at the market. But at the station they told me:

- Before you take your suitcase, pay for storage, and then take it and do with it what you want.

I had nothing except three kopecks, and I could not pay for storage. And he went out into the street even more upset.

No, I wouldn’t be so confused now. And then I was terribly confused. I’m walking, wandering down the street, I don’t know where, and I’m grieving.

And so I’m walking down the street and suddenly I see on the panel: what is this? Small red plush wallet. And, apparently, not empty, but tightly packed with money.

For one moment I stopped. Thoughts, each more joyful than the other, flashed through my head. I mentally saw myself in a bakery drinking a glass of coffee. And then in the hotel on the bed, with a bar of chocolate in his hands.

I took a step towards my wallet. And he held out his hand for him. But at that moment the wallet (or it seemed to me) moved a little away from my hand.

I reached out my hand again and was about to grab the wallet. But he moved away from me again, and quite far away.

Without realizing anything, I again rushed to my wallet.

And suddenly, in the garden, behind the fence, children's laughter was heard. And the wallet, tied by a thread, quickly disappeared from the panel.

I approached the fence. Some guys were literally rolling on the ground laughing.

I wanted to rush after them. And he already grabbed the fence with his hand in order to jump over it. But then in an instant I remembered a long-forgotten scene from my childhood life.

And then I blushed terribly. Moved away from the fence. And slowly walking, he wandered on.

Guys! Everything happens in life. These two days have passed.

In the evening, when it got dark, I went outside the city and there, in a field, on the grass, I fell asleep.

In the morning I got up when the sun rose. I bought a pound of bread for three kopecks, ate it and washed it down with some water. And all day, until evening, he wandered around the city uselessly.

And in the evening he came back to the field and spent the night there again. Only this time it’s bad because it started to rain and I got wet like a dog.

Early the next morning I was already standing at the entrance and waiting for the office to open.

And now it is open. I, dirty, disheveled and wet, entered the office.

The officials looked at me incredulously. And at first they didn’t want to give me money and documents. But then they gave me away.

And soon I, happy and radiant, went to the Caucasus.

Green lamp. Alexander Green

I

In London in 1920, in the winter, on the corner of Piccadilly and One Lane, two well-dressed middle-aged people stopped. They had just left an expensive restaurant. There they had dinner, drank wine and joked with the artists from the Drurilensky Theater.

Now their attention was drawn to a motionless, poorly dressed man of about twenty-five, around whom a crowd began to gather.

- Stilton cheese! - the fat gentleman said disgustedly to his tall friend, seeing that he had bent down and was peering at the man lying down. - Honestly, you shouldn’t spend so much time on this carrion. He's drunk or dead.

- “I’m hungry... and I’m alive,” muttered the unfortunate man, rising to look at Stilton, who was thinking about something. - It was a faint.

Reimer! - said Stilton. - Here's a chance to make a joke. I came up with an interesting idea. I'm tired of ordinary entertainment, and there's only one way to joke well: making toys out of people.

These words were spoken quietly, so that the man lying and now leaning against the fence did not hear them.

Reimer, who did not care, shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, said goodbye to Stilton and went to while away the night at his club, and Stilton, with the approval of the crowd and with the help of a policeman, put the homeless man into a cab.

The crew headed to one of Gaystreet's taverns. The poor guy's name was John Eve. He came to London from Ireland to seek service or work. Yves was an orphan, raised in the family of a forester. Apart from primary school, he received no education. When Yves was 15 years old, his teacher died, the adult children of the forester left - some to America, some to South Wales, some to Europe, and Yves worked for some time for a farmer. Then he had to experience the work of a coal miner, a sailor, a servant in a tavern, and at the age of 22 he fell ill with pneumonia and, upon leaving the hospital, decided to try his luck in London. But competition and unemployment soon showed him that finding work was not so easy. He spent the night in parks, on wharves, became hungry, grew thin, and was, as we have seen, raised by Stilton, the owner of trading warehouses in the City.

Stilton, at the age of 40, experienced everything that a single person who does not know the worries about lodging and food can experience for money. He owned a fortune of 20 million pounds. What he came up with to do with Yves was complete nonsense, but Stilton was very proud of his invention, since he had the weakness of considering himself a man of great imagination and cunning imagination.

When Yves drank wine, ate well and told Stilton his story, Stilton said:

- I want to make you an offer that will immediately make your eyes sparkle. Listen: I’m giving you ten pounds on the condition that tomorrow you rent a room on one of the central streets, on the second floor, with a window onto the street. Every evening, exactly from five to twelve at night, on the windowsill of one window, always the same, there should be a lit lamp, covered with a green lampshade. While the lamp burns for the designated period of time, you will not leave the house from five to twelve, you will not receive anyone and you will not speak to anyone. In a word, the work is not difficult, and if you agree to do so, I will send you ten pounds every month. I won't tell you my name.

- “If you’re not joking,” answered Yves, terribly amazed at the proposal, “I agree to forget even my own name.” But tell me, please, how long will this prosperity of mine last?

- This is unknown. Maybe a year, maybe a lifetime.

- Even better. But - I dare to ask - why did you need this green illumination?

- Secret! - Stilton replied. - Great secret! The lamp will serve as a signal for people and things about which you will never know anything.

- Understand. That is, I don’t understand anything. Fine; drive the coin and know that tomorrow at the address I provided, John Eve will illuminate the window with a lamp!

Thus a strange deal took place, after which the tramp and the millionaire parted, quite satisfied with each other.

Saying goodbye, Stilton said:

- Write poste restante like this: “3-33-6.” Also keep in mind that who knows when, maybe in a month, maybe in a year, in a word, completely unexpectedly, suddenly you will be visited by people who will make you a wealthy person. Why and how this is - I have no right to explain. But it will happen...

- Damn it! - Yves muttered, looking after the cab that was taking Stilton away, and thoughtfully twirling the ten-pound ticket. - Either this man has gone crazy, or I am a special lucky guy. Promise such a heap of grace just for the fact that I burn half a liter of kerosene a day.

On the evening of the next day, one window of the second floor of the gloomy house No. 52 on River Street shone with a soft green light. The lamp was moved close to the frame.

Two passersby looked for a while at the green window from the sidewalk opposite the house; then Stilton said:

- So, my dear Reimer, when you are bored, come here and smile. There, outside the window, sits a fool. A fool, bought cheaply, in installments, for a long time. He will get drunk from boredom or go crazy... But he will wait, not knowing what. Yes, here he is!

Indeed, a dark figure, leaning his forehead against the glass, looked into the semi-darkness of the street, as if asking: “Who is there?” What should I expect? Who's coming?"

- However, you are also a fool, my dear,” said Reimer, taking his friend by the arm and dragging him towards the car. - What's funny about this joke?

- A toy... a toy made from a living person,” said Stilton, “the sweetest food!”

II

In 1928, a hospital for the poor, located on one of the outskirts of London, was filled with wild screams: an old man who had just been brought in, a dirty, poorly dressed man with an emaciated face, was screaming in terrible pain. He broke his leg when he tripped on the back stairs of a dark den.

The victim was taken to the surgical department. The case turned out to be serious, since a complex bone fracture caused rupture of blood vessels.

Based on the inflammatory process of the tissues that had already begun, the surgeon who examined the poor man concluded that surgery was necessary. It was immediately carried out, after which the weakened old man was laid on a bed, and he soon fell asleep, and when he woke up, he saw that the same surgeon who had deprived him of his right leg was sitting in front of him.

- So this is how we had to meet! - said the doctor, a serious, tall man with a sad look. - Do you recognize me, Mr. Stilton? - I am John Eve, whom you assigned to be on duty every day at the burning green lamp. I recognized you at first sight.

- A thousand devils! - Stilton muttered, peering. - What happened? Is this possible?

- Yes. Tell us what changed your lifestyle so dramatically?

- I went broke... several big losses... panic on the stock exchange... It's been three years since I became a beggar. What about you? You?

- “I lit a lamp for several years,” Yves smiled, “and at first out of boredom, and then with enthusiasm I began to read everything that came to hand. One day I opened an old anatomy that was lying on the shelf of the room where I lived, and I was amazed. A fascinating country of secrets of the human body opened up before me. Like a drunk, I sat all night reading this book, and in the morning I went to the library and asked: “What do you need to study to become a doctor?” The answer was mocking: “Study mathematics, geometry, botany, zoology, morphology, biology, pharmacology, Latin, etc.” But I stubbornly interrogated, and I wrote everything down for myself as a memory.

By that time, I had already been burning a green lamp for two years, and one day, returning in the evening (I did not consider it necessary, as at first, to sit hopelessly at home for 7 hours), I saw a man in a top hat who was looking at my green window, either with annoyance or with contempt. “Yves is a classic fool! - muttered that man, not noticing me. “He is waiting for the wonderful things that were promised... yes, at least he has hope, but I... I’m almost ruined!” It was you. You added: “Stupid joke. Shouldn't have thrown the money away."

I bought enough books to study, study and study, no matter what. I almost hit you on the street then, but I remembered that thanks to your mocking generosity I could become an educated person...

- What next? - Stilton asked quietly.

- Further? Fine. If the desire is strong, then the fulfillment will not slow down. In the same apartment there lived a student who took part in me and helped me, a year and a half later, pass the exams for admission to medical college. As you can see, I found myself capable person…

There was silence.

- “I haven’t come to your window for a long time,” said Yves Stilton, shocked by the story, “for a long time... a very long time.” But now it seems to me that it’s still on fire green lamp... a lamp illuminating the darkness of the night. Forgive me.

Yves took out his watch.

- Ten o'clock. It’s time for you to sleep,” he said. - You'll probably be able to leave the hospital in three weeks. Then call me, maybe I’ll give you a job in our outpatient clinic: writing down the names of incoming patients. And when going down the dark stairs, light... at least a match.

July 11, 1930

Excerpt from the story
Chapter II

My mommy

I had a mother, affectionate, kind, sweet. My mother and I lived in a small house on the banks of the Volga. The house was so clean and bright, and from the windows of our apartment we could see the wide, beautiful Volga, and huge two-story steamships, and barges, and a pier on the shore, and crowds of people walking who came out to this pier at certain hours to meet the arriving ships... And mommy and I went there, only rarely, very rarely: mommy gave lessons in our city, and she was not allowed to walk with me as often as I would like. Mommy said:

Wait, Lenusha, I’ll save up some money and take you along the Volga from our Rybinsk all the way to Astrakhan! Then we'll have a good time.
I was happy and waiting for spring.
By spring, mommy had saved up some money, and we decided to carry out our idea on the first warm days.
- As soon as the Volga is cleared of ice, you and I will go for a ride! - Mommy said, affectionately stroking my head.
But when the ice broke, she caught a cold and began to cough. The ice passed, the Volga cleared, but mommy kept coughing and coughing endlessly. She suddenly became thin and transparent, like wax, and she kept sitting by the window, looking at the Volga and repeating:
“The cough will go away, I’ll get better a little, and you and I will ride to Astrakhan, Lenusha!”
But the cough and cold did not go away; The summer was damp and cold this year, and every day mommy became thinner, paler and more transparent.
Autumn has come. September has arrived. Long lines of cranes stretched over the Volga, flying to warm countries. Mommy no longer sat by the window in the living room, but lay on the bed and shivered all the time from the cold, while she herself was hot as fire.
Once she called me over and said:
- Listen, Lenusha. Your mother will soon leave you forever... But don’t worry, dear. I will always look at you from heaven and rejoice at you good deeds my girl, uh...
I didn’t let her finish and cried bitterly. And mommy started crying too, and her eyes became sad, sad, just like those of the angel I saw on the big icon in our church.
Having calmed down a little, mommy spoke again:
- I feel that the Lord will soon take me to Himself, and may His holy will be done! Be a smart girl without a mother, pray to God and remember me... You will go to live with your uncle, my brother, who lives in St. Petersburg... I wrote to him about you and asked him to shelter an orphan...
Something painfully painful when hearing the word “orphan” squeezed my throat...
I began to sob, cry and huddle by my mother’s bed. Maryushka (the cook who lived with us for nine years, from the very year I was born, and who loved mommy and me madly) came and took me to her place, saying that “mama needs peace.”
I fell asleep in tears that night on Maryushka’s bed, and in the morning... Oh, what happened in the morning!..
I woke up very early, I think around six o’clock, and wanted to run straight to mommy.
At that moment Maryushka came in and said:
- Pray to God, Lenochka: God took your mother to him. Your mom died.
- Mommy died! - I repeated like an echo.
And suddenly I felt so cold, cold! Then there was a noise in my head, and the whole room, and Maryushka, and the ceiling, and the table, and the chairs - everything turned over and began to spin before my eyes, and I no longer remember what happened to me after this. I think I fell on the floor unconscious...
I woke up when my mother was already lying in a large white box, in a white dress, with a white wreath on her head. An old, gray-haired priest read prayers, the singers sang, and Maryushka prayed at the threshold of the bedroom. Some old women came and also prayed, then looked at me with regret, shook their heads and mumbled something with their toothless mouths...
- Orphan! Orphan! - Also shaking her head and looking at me pitifully, Maryushka said and cried. The old women also cried...
On the third day, Maryushka took me to the white box in which Mommy was lying and told me to kiss Mommy’s hand. Then the priest blessed mommy, the singers sang something very sad; some men came up, closed the white box and carried it out of our house...
I cried loudly. But then old women I already knew arrived, saying that they were going to bury my mother and that there was no need to cry, but to pray.
The white box was brought to the church, we held mass, and then some people came up again, picked up the box and carried it to the cemetery. A deep black hole had already been dug there, into which mother’s coffin was lowered. Then they covered the hole with earth, placed a white cross over it, and Maryushka led me home.
On the way, she told me that in the evening she would take me to the station, put me on a train and send me to St. Petersburg to see my uncle.
“I don’t want to go to my uncle,” I said gloomily, “I don’t know any uncle and I’m afraid to go to him!”
But Maryushka said that it was a shame to tell the big girl like that, that mommy heard it and that my words hurt her.
Then I became quiet and began to remember my uncle’s face.
I never saw my St. Petersburg uncle, but there was a portrait of him in my mother’s album. He was depicted on it in a gold embroidered uniform, with many orders and with a star on his chest. He had a very important view, and I was involuntarily afraid of him.
After dinner, which I barely touched, Maryushka packed all my dresses and underwear into an old suitcase, gave me tea and took me to the station.

Lydia Charskaya
NOTES OF A LITTLE GYMNASIUM STUDENT

Excerpt from the story
Chapter XXI
To the sound of the wind and the whistle of a snowstorm

The wind whistled, screeched, groaned and hummed in different ways. Either in a plaintive thin voice, or in a rough bass rumble, he sang his battle song. The lanterns flickered barely noticeably through the huge white flakes of snow that fell abundantly on the sidewalks, on the street, on carriages, horses and passers-by. And I kept walking and walking, forward and forward...
Nyurochka told me:
“You first have to go through a long, big street, where there are such tall houses and luxurious shops, then turn right, then left, then right again and left again, and then everything is straight, straight to the very end - to our house. You will recognize it right away. It’s right next to the cemetery, there’s also a white church... so beautiful.”
That's what I did. Everything went straight, as it seemed to me, along a long and wide street, but I didn’t see any tall buildings or luxury shops. Everything was obscured from my eyes by a white, shroud-like, living, loose wall of silently falling huge flakes of snow. I turned right, then left, then right again, doing everything with precision, as Nyurochka told me - and I kept walking, walking, walking endlessly.
The wind mercilessly ruffled the flaps of my burnusik, piercing me through and through with cold. Snow flakes hit my face. Now I was no longer walking as fast as before. My legs felt like they were filled with lead from fatigue, my whole body was shaking from the cold, my hands were numb, and I could barely move my fingers. Having turned right and left almost for the fifth time, I now went along the straight path. The quiet, barely noticeable flickering lights of lanterns came across me less and less often... The noise from the riding of horse-drawn horses and carriages in the streets died down significantly, and the path along which I walked seemed dull and deserted to me.
Finally the snow began to thin out; huge flakes did not fall so often now. The distance cleared up a little, but instead there was such a thick twilight all around me that I could barely make out the road.
Now neither the noise of driving, nor voices, nor the coachman's exclamations could be heard around me.
What silence! What dead silence!..
But what is it?
My eyes, already accustomed to the semi-darkness, now discern the surroundings. Lord, where am I?
No houses, no streets, no carriages, no pedestrians. In front of me is an endless, huge expanse of snow... Some forgotten buildings along the edges of the road... Some fences, and in front of me is something black, huge. It must be a park or a forest - I don’t know.
I turned back... Lights were flashing behind me... lights... lights... There were so many of them! Without end... without counting!
- Lord, this is a city! The city, of course! - I exclaim. - And I went to the outskirts...
Nyurochka said that they live on the outskirts. Well yes, of course! What darkens in the distance is the cemetery! There is a church there, and, just a short distance away, their house! Everything, everything turned out just as she said. But I was scared! What a stupid thing!
And with joyful inspiration I again walked forward vigorously.
But that was not the case!
My legs could hardly obey me now. I could barely move them from fatigue. The incredible cold made me tremble from head to toe, my teeth chattered, there was a noise in my head, and something hit my temples with all its might. To all this was added some strange drowsiness. I wanted to sleep so badly, I wanted to sleep so badly!
“Well, well, a little more - and you will be with your friends, you will see Nikifor Matveevich, Nyura, their mother, Seryozha!” - I mentally encouraged myself as best I could...
But this didn’t help either.
My legs could barely move, and now I had difficulty pulling them, first one, then the other, out of the deep snow. But they move more and more slowly, more and more quietly... And the noise in my head becomes more and more audible, and something hits my temples stronger and stronger...
Finally, I can’t stand it and fall onto a snowdrift that has formed on the edge of the road.
Oh, how good! How sweet it is to relax like this! Now I don’t feel tired or pain... Some kind of pleasant warmth spreads throughout my whole body... Oh, how good! I could just sit here and never leave! And if it weren’t for the desire to find out what happened to Nikifor Matveyevich, and to visit him, healthy or sick, I would certainly fall asleep here for an hour or two... I fell asleep soundly! Moreover, the cemetery is not far away... You can see it there. A mile or two, no more...
The snow stopped falling, the blizzard subsided a little, and the month emerged from behind the clouds.
Oh, it would be better if the moon didn’t shine and at least I wouldn’t know the sad reality!
No cemetery, no church, no houses - there is nothing ahead!.. Only the forest turns black like a huge black spot there in the distance, and the white dead field spreads around me like an endless veil...
Horror overwhelmed me.
Now I just realized that I was lost.

Leo Tolstoy

Swans

Swans flew in a herd from the cold side to the warm lands. They flew across the sea. They flew day and night, and another day and another night, without resting, they flew over the water. There was a full month in the sky, and the swans saw blue water far below them. All the swans were exhausted, flapping their wings; but they did not stop and flew on. Old, strong swans flew in front, and those who were younger and weaker flew behind. One young swan flew behind everyone. His strength weakened. He flapped his wings and could not fly any further. Then he, spreading his wings, went down. He descended closer and closer to the water; and his comrades further and further became whiter in the monthly light. The swan descended onto the water and folded its wings. The sea rose beneath him and rocked him. A flock of swans was barely visible as a white line in the light sky. And in the silence you could barely hear the sound of their wings ringing. When they were completely out of sight, the swan bent its neck back and closed its eyes. He did not move, and only the sea, rising and falling in a wide strip, lifted and lowered him. Before dawn, a light breeze began to sway the sea. And the water splashed into the white chest of the swan. The swan opened his eyes. The dawn reddened in the east, and the moon and stars became paler. The swan sighed, stretched out its neck and flapped its wings, rose up and flew, clinging to the water with its wings. He rose higher and higher and flew alone over the dark, rippling waves.

Paulo Coelho
Parable "The Secret of Happiness"

One merchant sent his son to learn the Secret of Happiness from the wisest of all people. The young man walked forty days through the desert and
Finally, he came to a beautiful castle that stood on the top of the mountain. There lived the sage whom he was looking for. However, instead of the expected meeting with a wise man, our hero found himself in a hall where everything was seething: merchants were coming in and out, people were talking in the corner, a small orchestra was playing sweet melodies and there was a table laden with the most exquisite dishes of the area. The sage talked with different people, and the young man had to wait about two hours for his turn.
The sage listened carefully to the young man's explanations about the purpose of his visit, but said in response that he did not have time to reveal to him the Secret of Happiness. And he invited him to take a walk around the palace and come again in two hours.
“However, I want to ask for one favor,” the sage added, handing the young man a small spoon into which he dropped two drops of oil. — Keep this spoon in your hand the entire time you walk so that the oil does not spill out.
The young man began to go up and down the palace stairs, not taking his eyes off the spoon. Two hours later he returned to the sage.
“Well,” he asked, “have you seen the Persian carpets that are in my dining room?” Have you seen the park that the head gardener took ten years to create? Have you noticed the beautiful parchments in my library?
The young man, embarrassed, had to admit that he did not see anything. His only concern was not to spill the drops of oil that the sage entrusted to him.
“Well, come back and get acquainted with the wonders of my Universe,” the sage told him. “You can’t trust a person if you don’t know the house in which he lives.”
Reassured, the young man took the spoon and again went for a walk around the palace; this time, paying attention to all the works of art hanging on the walls and ceilings of the palace. He saw gardens surrounded by mountains, the most delicate flowers, the sophistication with which each piece of art was placed exactly where it was needed.
Returning to the sage, he described in detail everything he saw.
- Where are the two drops of oil that I entrusted to you? - asked the Sage.
And the young man, looking at the spoon, discovered that all the oil had poured out.
- This is the only advice I can give you: The secret of Happiness is to look at all the wonders of the world, while never forgetting about two drops of oil in your spoon.

Leonardo da Vinci
Parable "NEVOD"

And once again the seine brought a rich catch. The fishermen's baskets were filled to the brim with chubs, carp, tench, pike, eels and a variety of other food items. Whole fish families
with their children and household members, were taken to market stalls and prepared to end their existence, writhing in agony on hot frying pans and in boiling cauldrons.
The remaining fish in the river, confused and gripped by fear, not even daring to swim, buried themselves deeper in the mud. How to live further? You can't handle the net alone. He is abandoned every day in the most unexpected places. He mercilessly destroys the fish, and eventually the entire river will be devastated.
- We must think about the fate of our children. No one but us will take care of them and deliver them from this terrible obsession,” reasoned the minnows who had gathered for a council under a large snag.
“But what can we do?” the tench asked timidly, listening to the speeches of the daredevils.
- Destroy the seine! - the minnows responded in unison. On the same day, the all-knowing nimble eels spread the news along the river
about making a bold decision. All fish, young and old, were invited to gather tomorrow at dawn in a deep, quiet pool, protected by spreading willows.
Thousands of fish of all colors and ages swam to the appointed place to declare war on the net.
- Listen carefully, everyone! - said the carp, which more than once managed to gnaw through the nets and escape from captivity. “The net is as wide as our river.” To keep it upright under water, lead weights are attached to its lower nodes. I order all the fish to split into two schools. The first should lift the sinkers from the bottom to the surface, and the second flock will firmly hold the upper nodes of the net. The pikes are tasked with chewing through the ropes with which the net is attached to both banks.
With bated breath, the fish listened to every word of their leader.
- I order the eels to immediately go on reconnaissance! - continued the carp. - They must establish where the net is thrown.
The eels went on a mission, and schools of fish huddled near the shore in agonizing anticipation. Meanwhile, the minnows tried to encourage the most timid and advised not to panic, even if someone fell into the net: after all, the fishermen would still not be able to pull him ashore.
Finally the eels returned and reported that the net had already been abandoned about a mile down the river.
And so, in a huge armada, schools of fish swam to the goal, led by the wise carp.
“Swim carefully!” the leader warned. “Keep your eyes open so that the current doesn’t drag you into the net.” Use your fins as hard as you can and brake on time!
A seine appeared ahead, gray and ominous. Seized by a fit of anger, the fish boldly rushed to attack.
Soon the seine was lifted from the bottom, the ropes holding it were cut by sharp pike teeth, and the knots were torn. But the angry fish did not calm down and continued to attack the hated enemy. Grasping the crippled, leaky net with their teeth and working hard with their fins and tails, they dragged it in different directions and tore it into small pieces. The water in the river seemed to be boiling.
The fishermen spent a long time scratching their heads about the mysterious disappearance of the net, and the fish still proudly tell this story to their children.

Leonardo da Vinci
Parable "PELICAN"
As soon as the pelican went in search of food, the viper sitting in ambush immediately crawled, stealthily, to its nest. The fluffy chicks slept peacefully, not knowing anything. The snake crawled close to them. Her eyes sparkled with an ominous gleam - and the reprisal began.
Having received a fatal bite each, the serenely sleeping chicks never woke up.
Satisfied with what she had done, the villainess crawled into hiding to enjoy the bird’s grief to the fullest.
Soon the pelican returned from hunting. At the sight of the brutal massacre committed against the chicks, he burst into loud sobs, and all the inhabitants of the forest fell silent, shocked by the unheard-of cruelty.
“Without you, I have no life now!” lamented the unhappy father, looking at the dead children. “Let me die with you!”
And he began to tear apart his chest with his beak right at the heart. Hot blood gushed out in streams from the open wound, sprinkling the lifeless chicks.
Losing last strength, the dying pelican cast a farewell glance at the nest with the dead chicks and suddenly shuddered in surprise.
Oh miracle! His shed blood and parental love brought the dear chicks back to life, snatching them from the clutches of death. And then, happy, he gave up the ghost.

Lucky
Sergey Silin

Antoshka was running down the street, with his hands in his jacket pockets, tripped and, falling, managed to think: “I’ll break my nose!” But he didn’t have time to take his hands out of his pockets.
And suddenly, right in front of him, out of nowhere, a small, strong man the size of a cat appeared.
The man stretched out his arms and took Antoshka on them, softening the blow.
Antoshka rolled onto his side, got up on one knee and looked at the peasant in surprise:
- Who are you?
- Lucky.
-Who-who?
- Lucky. I will make sure that you are lucky.
- Does every person have a lucky person? - Antoshka asked.
“No, there aren’t that many of us,” the man answered. “We just go from one to the other.” WITH today I'll be with you.
- I'm starting to get lucky! - Antoshka was delighted.
- Exactly! - Lucky nodded.
- When will you leave me for someone else?
- When necessary. I remember I served one merchant for several years. And one pedestrian was helped for only two seconds.
- Yeah! - Antoshka thought. - So I need
anything to wish?
- No no! - The man raised his hands in protest. - I am not a wish-fulfiller! I just give a little help to the smart and hardworking. I just stay nearby and make sure the person is lucky. Where did my invisibility cap go?
He groped around with his hands, felt for the invisibility cap, put it on and disappeared.
-Are you here? - Antoshka asked, just in case.
“Here, here,” responded Lucky. - Don't mind
me attention. Antoshka put his hands in his pockets and ran home. And wow, I was lucky: I was in time for the start of the cartoon minute by minute!
An hour later my mother returned from work.
- And I received a prize! - she said with a smile. -
I'll go shopping!
And she went into the kitchen to get some bags.
- Mom got Lucky too? - Antoshka asked his assistant in a whisper.
- No. She's lucky because we're close.
- Mom, I'm with you! - Antoshka shouted.
Two hours later they returned home with a whole mountain of purchases.
- Just a streak of luck! - Mom was surprised, her eyes sparkling. - All my life I dreamed of such a blouse!
- And I’m talking about such a cake! - Antoshka responded cheerfully from the bathroom.
The next day at school he received three A's, two B's, found two rubles and made peace with Vasya Poteryashkin.
And when he returned home whistling, he discovered that he had lost the keys to the apartment.
- Lucky, where are you? - he called.
A tiny, scruffy woman peeked out from under the stairs. Her hair was disheveled, her nose, her dirty sleeve was torn, her shoes were asking for porridge.
- There was no need to whistle! - she smiled and added: “I’m unlucky!” What, you're upset, right?..
Don't worry, don't worry! The time will come, they will call me away from you!
“I see,” Antoshka said sadly. - A streak of bad luck begins...
- That's for sure! - Bad luck nodded joyfully and, stepping into the wall, disappeared.
In the evening, Antoshka received a scolding from his dad for losing his key, accidentally broke his mother’s favorite cup, forgot what he was assigned in Russian, and couldn’t finish reading a book of fairy tales because he left it at school.
And just in front of the window the phone rang:
- Antoshka, is that you? It's me, Lucky!
- Hello, traitor! - Antoshka muttered. - And who are you helping now?
But Lucky wasn’t the least bit offended by the “traitor.”
- To an old lady. Can you imagine, she had bad luck all her life! So my boss sent me to her.
Soon I will help her win a million rubles in the lottery, and I will return to you!
- Is it true? - Antoshka was happy.
“True, true,” answered Lucky and hung up.
That night Antoshka had a dream. It’s as if she and Lucky are dragging four string bags of Antoshka’s favorite tangerines from the store, and from the window of the house opposite, a lonely old woman smiles at them, lucky for the first time in her life.

Charskaya Lidiya Alekseevna

Lucina's life

Princess Miguel

“Far, far away, at the very end of the world, there was a large, beautiful blue lake, similar in color to a huge sapphire. In the middle of this lake, on a green emerald island, among myrtle and wisteria, intertwined with green ivy and flexible vines, stood a high rock. On it stood a marble a palace, behind which there was a wonderful garden, fragrant with fragrance. It was a very special garden, which can only be found in fairy tales.

The owner of the island and the lands adjacent to it was the powerful king Ovar. And the king had a daughter, the beautiful Miguel, a princess, growing up in the palace...

A fairy tale floats and unfolds like a motley ribbon. A series of beautiful, fantastic pictures swirl before my spiritual gaze. Aunt Musya’s usually ringing voice is now reduced to a whisper. Mysterious and cozy in the green ivy gazebo. The lacy shadow of the trees and bushes surrounding her cast moving spots on the pretty face of the young storyteller. This fairy tale is my favorite. Since the day my dear nanny Fenya, who knew how to tell me so well about the girl Thumbelina, left us, I have listened with pleasure to the only fairy tale about Princess Miguel. I love my princess dearly, despite all her cruelty. Is it her fault, this green-eyed, soft pink and golden-haired princess, that when she was born, the fairies, instead of a heart, put a piece of diamond in her small childish breast? And that the direct consequence of this was the complete absence of pity in the princess’s soul. But how beautiful she was! She was beautiful even in those moments when, with the movement of her tiny white hand, she sent people to a cruel death. Those people who accidentally ended up in the princess’s mysterious garden.

In that garden, among the roses and lilies, there were small children. Motionless pretty elves chained with silver chains to golden pegs, they guarded that garden, and at the same time they plaintively rang with their bell-like voices.

Let us go free! Let go, beautiful princess Miguel! Let us go! - Their complaints sounded like music. And this music had a pleasant effect on the princess, and she often laughed at the pleas of her little captives.

But their plaintive voices touched the hearts of people passing by the garden. And they looked into the princess’s mysterious garden. Ah, it was no joy that they appeared here! With each such appearance of an uninvited guest, the guards ran out, grabbed the visitor and, on the orders of the princess, threw him into the lake from a cliff

And Princess Miguel laughed only in response to the desperate cries and groans of the drowning...

Even now I still cannot understand how my pretty, cheerful aunt came up with a fairy tale so terrible in essence, so gloomy and heavy! The heroine of this fairy tale, Princess Miguel, was, of course, an invention of the sweet, slightly flighty, but very kind Aunt Musya. Oh, it doesn’t matter, let everyone think that this fairy tale is a fiction, princess Miguel herself is a fiction, but she, my wondrous princess, is firmly entrenched in my impressionable heart... Whether she ever existed or not, what do I really care about? there was a time when I loved her, my beautiful cruel Miguel! I saw her in a dream more than once, I saw her golden hair the color of a ripe ear, her green, like a forest pool, deep eyes.

That year I turned six years old. I was already dismantling warehouses and, with the help of Aunt Musya, instead of sticks, I wrote clumsy, lopsided letters. And I already understood beauty. The fabulous beauty of nature: sun, forest, flowers. And my eyes lit up with delight when I saw a beautiful picture or an elegant illustration on a magazine page.

Aunt Musya, dad and grandmother tried from my very early age to develop aesthetic taste in me, drawing my attention to what for other children passed without a trace.

Look, Lyusenka, what a beautiful sunset! You see how wonderfully the crimson sun sinks in the pond! Look, look, now the water has turned completely scarlet. And the surrounding trees seem to be on fire.

I look and seethe with delight. Indeed, scarlet water, scarlet trees and scarlet sun. What a beauty!

Yu.Yakovlev Girls from Vasilyevsky Island

I'm Valya Zaitseva from Vasilyevsky Island.

There is a hamster living under my bed. He will stuff his cheeks full, in reserve, sit on his hind legs and look with black buttons... Yesterday I beat one boy. I gave him a good bream. We, Vasileostrovsk girls, know how to stand up for ourselves when necessary...

It’s always windy here on Vasilyevsky. The rain is falling. Wet snow is falling. Floods happen. And our island floats like a ship: on the left is the Neva, on the right is the Nevka, in front is the open sea.

I have a friend - Tanya Savicheva. We are neighbors. She is from the Second Line, building 13. Four windows on the first floor. There is a bakery nearby, a kerosene shop in the basement... Now there is no shop, but in Tanino, when I was not yet alive, there was always a smell of kerosene on the ground floor. They told me.

Tanya Savicheva was the same age as I am now. She could have grown up long ago and become a teacher, but she would forever remain a girl... When my grandmother sent Tanya to get kerosene, I was not there. And she went to the Rumyantsevsky Garden with another friend. But I know everything about her. They told me.

She was a songbird. She always sang. She wanted to recite poetry, but she stumbled over her words: she would stumble, and everyone would think that she had forgotten the right word. My friend sang because when you sing, you don't stutter. She couldn’t stutter, she was going to become a teacher, like Linda Augustovna.

She always played teacher. He will put a large grandmother’s scarf on his shoulders, clasp his hands and walk from corner to corner. “Children, today we will review with you...” And then he stumbles on a word, blushes and turns to the wall, although there is no one in the room.

They say there are doctors who treat stuttering. I would find one like that. We, Vasileostrovsk girls, will find anyone you want! But now the doctor is no longer needed. She stayed there... my friend Tanya Savicheva. She was taken from besieged Leningrad to the mainland, and the road, called the Road of Life, could not give Tanya life.

The girl died of hunger... Does it matter whether you die from hunger or from a bullet? Maybe hunger hurts even more...

I decided to find the Road of Life. I went to Rzhevka, where this road begins. I walked two and a half kilometers - there the guys were building a monument to the children who died during the siege. I also wanted to build.

Some adults asked me:

- Who are you?

— I’m Valya Zaitseva from Vasilyevsky Island. I also want to build.

I was told:

- It is forbidden! Come with your area.

I didn't leave. I looked around and saw a baby, a tadpole. I grabbed it:

— Did he also come with his region?

- He came with his brother.

You can do it with your brother. With the region it is possible. But what about being alone?

I told them:

- You see, I don’t just want to build. I want to build for my friend... Tanya Savicheva.

They rolled their eyes. They didn't believe it. They asked again:

— Is Tanya Savicheva your friend?

-What's special here? We are the same age. Both are from Vasilyevsky Island.

- But she’s not there...

How stupid people are, and adults too! What does “no” mean if we are friends? I told them to understand:

- We have everything in common. Both the street and the school. We have a hamster. He'll stuff his cheeks...

I noticed that they didn't believe me. And so that they would believe, she blurted out:

“We even have the same handwriting!”

- Handwriting? - They were even more surprised.

- And what? Handwriting!

Suddenly they became cheerful because of the handwriting:

- This is very good! This is a real find. Come with us.

- I'm not going anywhere. I want to build...

- You will build! You will write for the monument in Tanya’s handwriting.

“I can,” I agreed. - Only I don’t have a pencil. Will you give it?

- You will write on concrete. You don't write on concrete with a pencil.

I've never written on concrete. I wrote on the walls, on the asphalt, but they brought me to the concrete plant and gave Tanya a diary - notebook with the alphabet: a, b, c... I have the same book. For forty kopecks.

I picked up Tanya’s diary and opened the page. It was written there:

I felt cold. I wanted to give them the book and leave.

But I am Vasileostrovskaya. And if a friend’s older sister died, I should stay with her and not run away.

- Give me your concrete. I will write.

The crane lowered a huge frame of thick gray dough to my feet. I took a stick, squatted down and began to write. The concrete was cold. It was difficult to write. And they told me:

- Take your time.

I made mistakes, smoothed the concrete with my palm and wrote again.

I didn't do well.

- Take your time. Write calmly.

While I was writing about Zhenya, my grandmother died.

If you just want to eat, it’s not hunger - eat an hour later.

I tried fasting from morning to evening. I endured it. Hunger - when day after day your head, hands, heart - everything you have goes hungry. First he starves, then he dies.

Leka had his own corner, fenced off with cabinets, where he drew.

He earned money by drawing and studied. He was quiet and short-sighted, wore glasses, and kept creaking his pen. They told me.

Where did he die? Probably in the kitchen, where the potbelly stove smoked like a small weak locomotive, where they slept and ate bread once a day. A small piece is like a cure for death. Leka didn't have enough medicine...

“Write,” they told me quietly.

In the new frame, the concrete was liquid, it crawled onto the letters. And the word “died” disappeared. I didn't want to write it again. But they told me:

- Write, Valya Zaitseva, write.

And I wrote again - “died.”

I am very tired of writing the word “died”. I knew that with each page of Tanya Savicheva’s diary it was getting worse. She stopped singing a long time ago and did not notice that she stuttered. She no longer played teacher. But she didn’t give up - she lived. They told me... Spring has come. The trees have turned green. We have a lot of trees on Vasilyevsky. Tanya dried out, froze, became thin and light. Her hands were shaking and her eyes hurt from the sun. The Nazis killed half of Tanya Savicheva, and maybe more than half. But her mother was with her, and Tanya held on.

- Why don’t you write? - they told me quietly. - Write, Valya Zaitseva, otherwise the concrete will harden.

For a long time I did not dare to open a page with the letter “M”. On this page Tanya’s hand wrote: “Mom May 13 at 7.30 o’clock.

morning 1942." Tanya did not write the word “died”. She didn't have the strength to write the word.

I gripped the wand tightly and touched the concrete. I didn’t look in my diary, but wrote it by heart. It's good that we have the same handwriting.

I wrote with all my might. The concrete became thick, almost frozen. He no longer crawled onto the letters.

-Can you still write?

“I’ll finish writing,” I answered and turned away so that my eyes could not see. After all, Tanya Savicheva is my... girlfriend.

Tanya and I are the same age, we, Vasileostrovsky girls, know how to stand up for ourselves when necessary. If she hadn’t been from Vasileostrovsk, from Leningrad, she wouldn’t have lasted so long. But she lived, which means she didn’t give up!

I opened page “C”. There were two words: “The Savichevs died.”

I opened the page “U” - “Everyone died.” The last page of Tanya Savicheva’s diary began with the letter “O” - “There is only Tanya left.”

And I imagined that it was me, Valya Zaitseva, who was left alone: ​​without mom, without dad, without my sister Lyulka. Hungry. Under fire.

In an empty apartment on the Second Line. I wanted to cross out this last page, but the concrete hardened and the stick broke.

And suddenly I asked Tanya Savicheva to myself: “Why alone?

What about me? You have a friend - Valya Zaitseva, your neighbor from Vasilyevsky Island. You and I will go to the Rumyantsevsky Garden, run around, and when you get tired, I’ll bring my grandmother’s scarf from home and we’ll play teacher Linda Augustovna. There is a hamster living under my bed. I'll give it to you for your birthday. Do you hear, Tanya Savicheva?”

Someone put his hand on my shoulder and said:

- Let's go, Valya Zaitseva. You did everything you needed to do. Thank you.

I didn’t understand why they were saying “thank you” to me. I said:

- I’ll come tomorrow... without my area. Can?

“Come without a district,” they told me. - Come.

My friend Tanya Savicheva did not shoot at the Nazis and was not a scout for the partisans. She simply lived in her hometown during the most difficult time. But perhaps the reason the Nazis did not enter Leningrad was because Tanya Savicheva lived there and there were many other girls and boys who remained forever in their time. And today’s guys are friends with them, just as I am friends with Tanya.

But they are only friends with the living.

Vladimir Zheleznyakov “Scarecrow”

A circle of their faces flashed in front of me, and I rushed around in it, like a squirrel in a wheel.

I should stop and leave.

The boys attacked me.

“For her legs! - Valka yelled. - For your legs!..”

They knocked me down and grabbed me by the legs and arms. I kicked and kicked as hard as I could, but they grabbed me and dragged me into the garden.

Iron Button and Shmakova dragged out a scarecrow mounted on a long stick. Dimka came out after them and stood to the side. The stuffed animal was in my dress, with my eyes, with my mouth from ear to ear. The legs were made of stockings stuffed with straw; instead of hair, there was tow and some feathers sticking out. On my neck, that is, the scarecrow, dangled a plaque with the words: “SCACHERY IS A TRAITOR.”

Lenka fell silent and somehow completely faded away.

Nikolai Nikolaevich realized that the limit of her story and the limit of her strength had come.

“And they were having fun around the stuffed animal,” said Lenka. - They jumped and laughed:

“Wow, our beauty-ah!”

“I waited!”

“I came up with an idea! I came up with an idea! - Shmakova jumped for joy. “Let Dimka light the fire!”

After these words from Shmakova, I completely stopped being afraid. I thought: if Dimka sets it on fire, then maybe I’ll just die.

And at this time Valka - he was the first to succeed everywhere - stuck the scarecrow into the ground and sprinkled brushwood around it.

“I don’t have matches,” Dimka said quietly.

“But I have it!” - Shaggy put matches in Dimka’s hand and pushed him towards the scarecrow.

Dimka stood near the scarecrow, his head bowed low.

I froze - I was waiting for the last time! Well, I thought he would look back and say: “Guys, Lenka is not to blame for anything... It’s all me!”

“Set it on fire!” - ordered the Iron Button.

I couldn’t stand it and screamed:

“Dimka! No need, Dimka-ah-ah!..”

And he was still standing near the scarecrow - I could see his back, he was hunched over and seemed somehow small. Maybe because the scarecrow was on a long stick. Only he was small and weak.

“Well, Somov! - said the Iron Button. “Finally, go to the end!”

Dimka fell to his knees and lowered his head so low that only his shoulders stuck out, and his head was not visible at all. It turned out to be some kind of headless arsonist. He struck a match and a flame of fire grew over his shoulders. Then he jumped up and hurriedly ran to the side.

They dragged me close to the fire. Without looking away, I looked at the flames of the fire. Grandfather! I felt then how this fire engulfed me, how it burned, baked and bited, although only waves of its heat reached me.

I screamed, I screamed so much that they let me out of surprise.

When they released me, I rushed to the fire and began to kick it around with my feet, grabbing the burning branches with my hands - I didn’t want the scarecrow to burn. For some reason I really didn’t want this!

Dimka was the first to come to his senses.

“Are you crazy? “He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me away from the fire. - This is a joke! Don’t you understand jokes?”

I became strong and easily defeated him. She pushed him so hard that he flew upside down - only his heels sparkled towards the sky. And she pulled the scarecrow out of the fire and began waving it over her head, stepping on everyone. The scarecrow had already caught fire, sparks were flying from it in different directions, and they all shied away in fear from these sparks.

They ran away.

And I got so dizzy, driving them away, that I couldn’t stop until I fell. There was a stuffed animal lying next to me. It was scorched, fluttering in the wind and that made it look like it was alive.

At first I lay with my eyes closed. Then she felt that she smelled something burning and opened her eyes - the scarecrow’s dress was smoking. I slammed my hand down on the smoldering hem and leaned back onto the grass.

There was a crunch of branches, retreating footsteps, and then there was silence.

"Anne of Green Gables" by Lucy Maud Montgomery

It was already quite light when Anya woke up and sat up in bed, looking confusedly out the window through which a stream of joyful sunlight was pouring and behind which something white and fluffy was swaying against the background of the bright blue sky.

At first, she couldn't remember where she was. At first she felt a delightful thrill, as if something very pleasant had happened, then a terrible memory appeared. It was Green Gables, but they didn’t want to leave her here because she was not a boy!

But it was morning, and outside the window stood a cherry tree, all in bloom. Anya jumped out of bed and in one leap found herself at the window. Then she pushed the window frame - the frame gave way with a creak, as if it had not been opened for a long time, which, however, was in fact - and sank to her knees, peering into the June morning. Her eyes sparkled with delight. Ah, isn't this wonderful? Isn't this a lovely place? If only she could stay here! She will imagine herself staying. There is room for imagination here.

A huge cherry tree grew so close to the window that its branches touched the house. It was so densely strewn with flowers that not a single leaf was visible. On both sides of the house there were large gardens, on one side an apple tree, on the other a cherry tree, all in bloom. The grass under the trees seemed yellow from the blooming dandelions. A little further away in the garden one could see lilac bushes, all in clusters of bright purple flowers, and the morning breeze carried their dizzyingly sweet aroma to Anya’s window.

Further beyond the garden, green meadows covered with lush clover descended to a valley where a stream ran and many white birch trees grew, the slender trunks of which rose above the undergrowth, suggesting a wonderful holiday among ferns, mosses and forest grasses. Beyond the valley was a hill, green and fluffy with spruce and fir trees. Among them there was a small gap, and through it one could see the gray mezzanine of the house that Anya had seen the day before from the other side of the Lake of Sparkling Waters.

To the left were large barns and other outbuildings, and beyond them green fields sloped down to the sparkling blue sea.

Anya's eyes, receptive to beauty, slowly moved from one picture to another, greedily absorbing everything that was in front of her. The poor thing has seen so many ugly places in her life. But what was revealed to her now exceeded her wildest dreams.

She knelt, forgetting about everything in the world except the beauty that surrounded her, until she shuddered, feeling someone's hand on her shoulder. The little dreamer did not hear Marilla enter.

“It’s time to get dressed,” said Marilla shortly.

Marilla simply did not know how to talk to this child, and this unfamiliarity, which was unpleasant to her, made her harsh and decisive against her will.

Anya stood up with a deep sigh.

- Ah. isn't it wonderful? - she asked, pointing her hand at the beautiful world outside the window.

“Yes, it’s a big tree,” said Marilla, “and it blooms profusely, but the cherries themselves are no good—small and wormy.”

- Oh, I'm not just talking about the tree; of course, it is beautiful... yes, it is dazzlingly beautiful... it blooms as if it were extremely important for itself... But I meant everything: the garden, and the trees, and the stream, and the forests - the whole big beautiful world. Don't you feel like you love the whole world on a morning like this? Even here I can hear the stream laughing in the distance. Have you ever noticed what joyful creatures these streams are? They always laugh. Even in winter I can hear their laughter from under the ice. I'm so glad there's a stream here near Green Gables. Maybe you think it doesn't matter to me since you don't want to leave me here? But that's not true. I will always be pleased to remember that there is a stream near Green Gables, even if I never see it again. If there had not been a stream here, I would always have been haunted by the unpleasant feeling that it should have been here. This morning I am not in the depths of grief. I am never in the depths of grief in the morning. Isn't it wonderful that there is morning? But I'm very sad. I just imagined that you still need me and that I will stay here forever, forever. It was a great comfort to imagine this. But the most unpleasant thing about imagining things is that there comes a moment when you have to stop imagining, and this is very painful.

“Better get dressed, go downstairs, and don’t think about your imaginary things,” said Marilla, as soon as she managed to get a word in edgewise. - Breakfast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. Leave the window open and turn the bed around to air it out. And hurry up, please.

Anya obviously could act quickly when required, because within ten minutes she came downstairs, neatly dressed, with her hair combed and braided, her face washed; At the same time, her soul was filled with the pleasant consciousness that she had fulfilled all of Marilla’s demands. However, in fairness, it should be noted that she still forgot to open the bed for airing.

“I’m very hungry today,” she announced, slipping into the chair Marilla had indicated to her. “The world no longer seems as dark a desert as it did last night.” I'm so glad it's a sunny morning. However, I love rainy mornings too. Every morning is interesting, right? There is no telling what awaits us on this day, and there is so much left to the imagination. But I’m glad that it’s not raining today, because it’s easier not to be discouraged and to endure the vicissitudes of fate on a sunny day. I feel like I have a lot to endure today. It's very easy to read about other people's misfortunes and imagine that we too could heroically overcome them, but it's not so easy when we actually have to face them, right?

“For God's sake, hold your tongue,” said Marilla. “A little girl shouldn’t talk so much.”

After this remark, Anya fell completely silent, so obediently that her continued silence began to irritate Marilla somewhat, as if it were something not entirely natural. Matthew was also silent - but at least that was natural - so breakfast passed in complete silence.

As he neared the end, Anya became more and more distracted. She ate mechanically, and her large eyes constantly, unseeingly looked at the sky outside the window. This irritated Marilla even more. She had an unpleasant feeling that while the body of this strange child was at the table, his spirit was soaring on the wings of fantasy in some transcendental land. Who would want to have such a child in the house?

And yet, what was most incomprehensible, Matthew wanted to leave her! Marilla felt that he wanted it this morning as much as he did last night, and that he intended to continue to want it. It was his usual way to get some whim into his head and cling to it with amazing silent tenacity - ten times more powerful and effective thanks to silence than if he talked about his desire from morning to evening.

When breakfast was over, Anya came out of her reverie and offered to wash the dishes.

— Do you know how to wash dishes properly? asked Marilla incredulously.

- Pretty good. True, I am better at babysitting children. I have a lot of experience in this matter. It's a pity that you don't have children here for me to take care of.

“But I wouldn’t want there to be more children here than in at the moment. You alone are enough trouble. I can't imagine what to do with you. Matthew is so funny.

“He seemed very nice to me,” said Anya reproachfully. “He’s very friendly and didn’t mind at all, no matter how much I said it—he seemed to like it.” I felt a kindred spirit in him as soon as I saw him.

“You're both eccentrics, if that's what you mean when you talk about kindred spirits,” Marilla snorted. - Okay, you can wash the dishes. Use hot water and dry thoroughly. I already have a lot of work to do this morning, because I have to go to White Sands this afternoon to see Mrs. Spencer. You will come with me, and there we will decide what to do with you. When you're done with the dishes, go upstairs and make the bed.

Anya washed the dishes quite quickly and thoroughly, which did not go unnoticed by Marilla. Then she made the bed, though with less success, because she had never learned the art of fighting feather beds. But still the bed was made, and Marilla, in order to get rid of the girl for a while, said that she would allow her to go into the garden and play there until dinner.

Anya rushed to the door, with a lively face and shining eyes. But right at the threshold she suddenly stopped, turned sharply back and sat down near the table, the expression of delight disappearing from her face, as if it had been blown away by the wind.

- Well, what else happened? asked Marilla.

“I don’t dare go out,” said Anya in the tone of a martyr renouncing all earthly joys. “If I can’t stay here, I shouldn’t fall in love with Green Gables.” And if I go out and get acquainted with all these trees, flowers, and garden, and stream, I cannot help but fall in love with them. My soul is already heavy, and I don’t want it to become even heavier. I really want to go out - everything seems to be calling me: “Anya, Anya, come out to us! Anya, Anya, we want to play with you!” - but it's better not to do this. You shouldn't fall in love with something you'll be torn away from forever, right? And it’s so hard to resist and not fall in love, isn’t it? That's why I was so happy when I thought I'd stay here. I thought there was so much to love here and nothing would get in my way. But this brief dream passed. Now I have come to terms with my fate, so it’s better for me not to go out. Otherwise, I'm afraid I won't be able to reconcile with him again. What is the name of this flower in a pot on the windowsill, please tell me?

- This is a geranium.

- Oh, I don't mean that name. I mean the name you gave her. You didn't give her a name? Then can I do it? Can I call her... oh, let me think... Darling will do... can I call her Darling while I'm here? Oh, let me call her that!

- For God's sake, I don't care. But what's the point in naming geraniums?

- Oh, I like things to have names, even if it's just geraniums. This makes them more like people. How do you know you're not hurting geranium's feelings when you just call it "geranium" and nothing more? After all, you wouldn’t like it if you were always called just a woman. Yes, I will call her Darling. I gave a name to this cherry tree under my bedroom window this morning. I called her Snow Queen because she's so white. Of course, it won’t always be in bloom, but you can always imagine it, right?

“I’ve never seen or heard anything like this in my life,” Marilla muttered, fleeing to the basement for potatoes. “She's really interesting, as Matthew says.” I can already feel myself wondering what else she will say. She casts a spell on me too. And she’s already unleashed them on Matthew. That look he gave me as he left again expressed everything he had said and hinted at yesterday. It would be better if he were like other men and talked about everything openly. Then it would be possible to answer and convince him. But what can you do with a man who only watches?

When Marilla returned from her pilgrimage to the basement, she found Anne again falling into a reverie. The girl sat with her chin resting on her hands and her gaze fixed on the sky. So Marilla left her until dinner appeared on the table.

“Can I take the mare and the gig after lunch, Matthew?” asked Marilla.

Matthew nodded and looked sadly at Anya. Marilla caught this glance and said dryly:

“I’m going to go to White Sands and resolve this issue.” I'll take Anya with me so Mrs. Spencer can send her back to Nova Scotia right away. I'll leave some tea for you on the stove and come home in time for milking.

Again Matthew said nothing. Marilla felt that she was wasting her words. Nothing is more annoying than a man who doesn't respond...except a woman who doesn't respond.

In due course, Matthew harnessed the bay horse, and Marilla and Anya got into the convertible. Matthew opened the courtyard gate for them and, as they slowly drove past, he said loudly, apparently not addressing anyone:

“There was this guy here this morning, Jerry Buot from Creek, and I told him I'd hire him for the summer.

Marilla did not answer, but whipped the unfortunate bay with such force that the fat mare, unaccustomed to such treatment, broke into a gallop indignantly. When the convertible was already rolling along the high road, Marilla turned around and saw that the obnoxious Matthew was leaning against the gate, sadly looking after them.

Sergey Kutsko

WOLVES

The way village life is structured is that if you don’t go out into the forest before noon and take a walk through familiar mushroom and berry places, then by evening there’s nothing to run for, everything will be hidden.

One girl thought so too. The sun has just risen to the tops of the fir trees, and already there is a full basket in my hands, I have wandered far, but what mushrooms! She looked around with gratitude and was just about to leave when the distant bushes suddenly trembled and an animal came out into the clearing, its eyes tenaciously following the girl’s figure.

- Oh, dog! - she said.

Cows were grazing somewhere nearby, and meeting a shepherd dog in the forest was not a big surprise to them. But the meeting with several more pairs of animal eyes put me in a daze...

“Wolves,” a thought flashed, “the road is not far, run...” Yes, my strength disappeared, the basket involuntarily fell out of my hands, my legs became weak and unruly.

- Mother! - this sudden cry stopped the flock, which had already reached the middle of the clearing. - People, help! - flashed three times over the forest.

As the shepherds later said: “We heard screams, we thought the children were playing around...” This is five kilometers from the village, in the forest!

The wolves slowly approached, the she-wolf walked ahead. This happens with these animals - the she-wolf becomes the head of the pack. Only her eyes were not as fierce as they were searching. They seemed to ask: “Well, man? What will you do now, when there are no weapons in your hands, and your relatives are not nearby?

The girl fell to her knees, covered her eyes with her hands and began to cry. Suddenly the thought of prayer came to her, as if something stirred in her soul, as if the words of her grandmother, remembered from childhood, were resurrected: “Ask the Mother of God! ”

The girl did not remember the words of the prayer. Making the sign of the cross, she asked the Mother of God, as if she were her mother, in the last hope of intercession and salvation.

When she opened her eyes, the wolves, passing the bushes, went into the forest. A she-wolf walked slowly ahead, head down.

Boris Ganago

LETTER TO GOD

This happened in late XIX centuries.

Petersburg. Christmas Eve. A cold, piercing wind blows from the bay. Fine prickly snow is falling. Horses' hooves clatter on the cobblestone streets, shop doors slam - the last purchases are made before the holiday. Everyone is in a hurry to get home quickly.

Only a little boy slowly wanders along a snowy street. Every now and then he takes his cold, red hands out of the pockets of his old coat and tries to warm them with his breath. Then he stuffs them deeper into his pockets again and moves on. Here he stops at the bakery window and looks at the pretzels and bagels displayed behind the glass.

The store door swung open, letting out another customer, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted out. The boy swallowed his saliva convulsively, stomped on the spot and wandered on.

Dusk is falling imperceptibly. There are fewer and fewer passers-by. The boy pauses near a building with lights burning in the windows, and, rising on tiptoe, tries to look inside. After a moment's hesitation, he opens the door.

The old clerk was late at work today. He's in no hurry. He has been living alone for a long time and on holidays he feels his loneliness especially acutely. The clerk sat and thought with bitterness that he had no one to celebrate Christmas with, no one to give gifts to. At this time the door opened. The old man looked up and saw the boy.

- Uncle, uncle, I need to write a letter! - the boy said quickly.

- Do you have money? - the clerk asked sternly.

The boy, fiddling with his hat in his hands, took a step back. And then the lonely clerk remembered that today was Christmas Eve and that he really wanted to give someone a gift. He took out a blank sheet of paper, dipped his pen in ink and wrote: “Petersburg. January 6. Mr...”

- What is the gentleman's last name?

“This is not sir,” muttered the boy, not yet fully believing his luck.

- Oh, is this a lady? — the clerk asked, smiling.

No no! - the boy said quickly.

So who do you want to write a letter to? - the old man was surprised,

- To Jesus.

“How dare you make fun of an elderly man?” — the clerk was indignant and wanted to show the boy to the door. But then I saw tears in the child’s eyes and remembered that today was Christmas Eve. He felt ashamed of his anger, and in a warmer voice he asked:

-What do you want to write to Jesus?

— My mother always taught me to ask God for help when it’s difficult. She said God's name is Jesus Christ. “The boy came closer to the clerk and continued: “And yesterday she fell asleep, and I can’t wake her up.” There’s not even bread at home, I’m so hungry,” he wiped the tears that had come to his eyes with his palm.

- How did you wake her up? - asked the old man, rising from his table.

- I kissed her.

- Is she breathing?

- What are you saying, uncle, do people breathe in their sleep?

“Jesus Christ has already received your letter,” said the old man, hugging the boy by the shoulders. “He told me to take care of you, and took your mother to Himself.”

The old clerk thought: “My mother, when you left for another world, you told me to be a good person and a pious Christian. I forgot your order, but now you won’t be ashamed of me.”

Boris Ganago

THE SPOKEN WORD

On the outskirts of a big city stood an old house with a garden. They were guarded by a reliable guard - the smart dog Uranus. He never barked at anyone in vain, kept a vigilant eye on strangers, and rejoiced at his owners.

But this house was demolished. Its inhabitants were offered a comfortable apartment, and then the question arose - what to do with the shepherd? As a watchman, Uranus was no longer needed by them, becoming only a burden. For several days there were fierce disputes about dog's fate. Through the open window from the house to the guard kennel, the plaintive sobs of the grandson and the menacing shouts of the grandfather often reached.

What did Uranus understand from the words he heard? Who knows...

Only his daughter-in-law and grandson, who were bringing him food, noticed that the dog’s bowl remained untouched for more than a day. Uranus did not eat in the following days, no matter how much he was persuaded. He no longer wagged his tail when people approached him, and even looked away, as if no longer wanting to look at the people who had betrayed him.

The daughter-in-law, expecting an heir or heiress, suggested:

— Isn’t Uranus sick? The owner said in anger:

“It would be better if the dog died on its own.” There would be no need to shoot then.

The daughter-in-law shuddered.

Uranus looked at the speaker with a look that the owner could not forget for a long time.

The grandson persuaded the neighbor's veterinarian to look at his pet. But the veterinarian did not find any disease, he only said thoughtfully:

- Maybe he was sad about something... Uranus soon died, until his death he barely moved his tail only to his daughter-in-law and grandson, who visited him.

And at night the owner often remembered the look of Uranus, who had faithfully served him for so many years. The old man already regretted the cruel words that killed the dog.

But is it possible to return what was said?

And who knows how the voiced evil hurt the grandson, attached to his four-legged friend?

And who knows how it, scattering around the world like a radio wave, will affect the souls of unborn children, future generations?

Words live, words never die...

An old book told the story: one girl’s father died. The girl missed him. He was always kind to her. She missed this warmth.

One day her dad dreamed of her and said: now be kind to people. Every kind word serves Eternity.

Boris Ganago

MASHENKA

Yule story

Once, many years ago, a girl Masha was mistaken for an Angel. It happened like this.

One poor family had three children. Their dad died, their mom worked where she could, and then got sick. There wasn’t a crumb left in the house, but I was so hungry. What to do?

Mom went out into the street and began to beg, but people passed by without noticing her. Christmas night was approaching, and the woman’s words: “I’m not asking for myself, but for my children... For Christ’s sake! “were drowning in the pre-holiday bustle.

In desperation, she entered the church and began to ask Christ Himself for help. Who else was left to ask?

It was here, at the icon of the Savior, that Masha saw a woman kneeling. Her face was flooded with tears. The girl had never seen such suffering before.

Masha had an amazing heart. When people were happy nearby, and she wanted to jump with happiness. But if someone was in pain, she could not pass by and asked:

What's wrong with you? Why are you crying? And someone else's pain penetrated her heart. And now she leaned towards the woman:

Are you in grief?

And when she shared her misfortune with her, Masha, who had never felt hungry in her life, imagined three lonely children who had not seen food for a long time. Without thinking, she handed the woman five rubles. It was all her money.

At that time, this was a significant amount, and the woman’s face lit up.

Where is your home? - Masha asked goodbye. She was surprised to learn that a poor family lived in the next basement. The girl did not understand how she could live in a basement, but she knew exactly what she needed to do on this Christmas evening.

The happy mother, as if on wings, flew home. She bought food at a nearby store, and the children greeted her joyfully.

Soon the stove was blazing and the samovar was boiling. The children warmed up, satiated and became quiet. The table laden with food was an unexpected holiday for them, almost a miracle.

But then Nadya, the smallest one, asked:

Mom, is it true that at Christmas time God sends an Angel to children, and he brings them many, many gifts?

Mom knew very well that they had no one to expect gifts from. Glory to God for what He has already given them: everyone is fed and warm. But kids are kids. They so wanted to have a Christmas tree, the same as all the other children. What could she, poor thing, tell them? Destroy a child's faith?

The children looked at her warily, waiting for an answer. And my mother confirmed:

This is true. But the Angel comes only to those who believe in God with all their hearts and pray to Him with all their souls.

“But I believe in God with all my heart and pray to Him with all my heart,” Nadya did not back down. - Let him send us His Angel.

Mom didn't know what to say. There was silence in the room, only the logs crackled in the stove. And suddenly there was a knock. The children shuddered, and the mother crossed herself and opened the door with a trembling hand.

On the threshold stood a little fair-haired girl Masha, and behind her was a bearded man with a Christmas tree in his hands.

Merry Christmas! - Mashenka joyfully congratulated the owners. The children froze.

While the bearded man was setting up the Christmas tree, Nanny Machine entered the room with a large basket, from which gifts immediately began to appear. The kids couldn't believe their eyes. But neither they nor the mother suspected that the girl had given them her Christmas tree and her gifts.

And when the unexpected guests left, Nadya asked:

Was this girl an Angel?

Boris Ganago

RETURN TO LIFE

Based on the story “Seryozha” by A. Dobrovolsky

Usually the brothers' beds were next to each other. But when Seryozha fell ill with pneumonia, Sasha was moved to another room and was forbidden to disturb the baby. They just asked me to pray for my brother, who was getting worse and worse.

One evening Sasha looked into the patient’s room. Seryozha lay with his eyes open, seeing nothing, and barely breathing. Frightened, the boy rushed to the office, from which the voices of his parents could be heard. The door was ajar, and Sasha heard mom, crying, say that Seryozha was dying. Dad answered with pain in his voice:

- Why cry now? There's no way to save him...

In horror, Sasha rushed to his sister’s room. There was no one there, and he fell to his knees, sobbing, in front of the icon of the Mother of God hanging on the wall. Through the sobs the words broke through:

- Lord, Lord, make sure that Seryozha doesn’t die!

Sasha's face was flooded with tears. Everything around blurred as if in a fog. The boy saw in front of him only the face of the Mother of God. The sense of time disappeared.

- Lord, You can do anything, save Seryozha!

It was already completely dark. Exhausted, Sasha stood up with the corpse and lit the table lamp. The Gospel lay before her. The boy turned over a few pages, and suddenly his gaze fell on the line: “Go, and as you believed, so be it for you...”

As if he had heard an order, he went to Seryozha. My mother sat silently at the bedside of her beloved brother. She gave a sign: “Don’t make noise, Seryozha fell asleep.”

Words were not spoken, but this sign was like a ray of hope. He fell asleep - that means he’s alive, that means he will live!

Three days later, Seryozha could already sit in bed, and the children were allowed to visit him. They brought their brother’s favorite toys, a fortress and houses that he had cut out and glued before his illness - everything that could please the baby. The little sister with the big doll stood next to Seryozha, and Sasha, jubilantly, took a photograph of them.

These were moments of real happiness.

Boris Ganago

YOUR CHICKEN

A chick fell out of the nest - very small, helpless, even its wings had not yet grown. He can’t do anything, he just squeaks and opens his beak - asking for food.

The guys took him and brought him into the house. They built him a nest from grass and twigs. Vova fed the baby, and Ira gave him water and took him out into the sun.

Soon the chick grew stronger, and feathers began to grow instead of fluff. The guys found an old birdcage in the attic and, to be safe, they put their pet in it - the cat began to look at him very expressively. All day long he was on duty at the door, waiting for the right moment. And no matter how much his children chased him, he did not take his eyes off the chick.

Summer flew by unnoticed. The chick grew up in front of the children and began to fly around the cage. And soon he felt cramped in it. When the cage was taken outside, he hit the bars and asked to be released. So the guys decided to release their pet. Of course, they were sorry to part with him, but they could not deprive the freedom of someone who was created for flight.

One sunny morning the children said goodbye to their pet, took the cage out into the yard and opened it. The chick jumped onto the grass and looked back at his friends.

At that moment the cat appeared. Hiding in the bushes, he prepared to jump, rushed, but... The chick flew high, high...

The holy elder John of Kronstadt compared our soul to a bird. The enemy is hunting for every soul and wants to catch it. After all, at first the human soul, just like a fledgling chick, is helpless and does not know how to fly. How can we preserve it, how can we grow it so that it does not break on sharp stones or fall into the net of a fisherman?

The Lord created a saving fence behind which our soul grows and strengthens - the house of God, the Holy Church. In it the soul learns to fly high, high, to the very sky. And she will know such a bright joy there that no earthly nets are afraid of her.

Boris Ganago

MIRROR

Dot, dot, comma,

Minus, the face is crooked.

Stick, stick, cucumber -

So the little man came out.

With this poem Nadya finished the drawing. Then, fearing that she would not be understood, she signed under it: “It’s me.” She carefully examined her creation and decided that it was missing something.

The young artist went to the mirror and began to look at herself: what else needs to be completed so that anyone can understand who is depicted in the portrait?

Nadya loved to dress up and twirl in front of a large mirror, and tried different hairstyles. This time the girl tried on her mother’s hat with a veil.

She wanted to look mysterious and romantic, like the long-legged girls showing fashion on TV. Nadya imagined herself as an adult, cast a languid glance in the mirror and tried to walk with the gait of a fashion model. It didn't turn out very nicely, and when she stopped abruptly, the hat slid down onto her nose.

It’s good that no one saw her at that moment. If only we could laugh! In general, she didn’t like being a fashion model at all.

The girl took off her hat, and then her gaze fell on her grandmother’s hat. Unable to resist, she tried it on. And she froze, making an amazing discovery: she looked exactly like her grandmother. She just didn't have any wrinkles yet. Bye.

Now Nadya knew what she would become in many years. True, this future seemed very distant to her...

It became clear to Nadya why her grandmother loved her so much, why she watched her pranks with tender sadness and secretly sighed.

There were footsteps. Nadya hastily put her hat back in place and ran to the door. On the threshold she met... herself, only not so frisky. But the eyes were exactly the same: childishly surprised and joyful.

Nadya hugged her future self and quietly asked:

Grandma, is it true that you were me as a child?

Grandma paused, then smiled mysteriously and took out an old album from the shelf. After flipping through a few pages, she showed a photograph of a little girl who looked very much like Nadya.

That's what I was like.

Oh, really, you look like me! - the granddaughter exclaimed in delight.

Or maybe you are like me? - Grandma asked, squinting slyly.

It doesn't matter who looks like whom. The main thing is that they are similar,” the little girl insisted.

Isn't it important? And look who I looked like...

And the grandmother began to leaf through the album. There were all sorts of faces there. And what faces! And each was beautiful in its own way. The peace, dignity and warmth that radiated from them attracted the eye. Nadya noticed that all of them - small children and gray-haired old men, young ladies and fit military men - were somehow similar to each other... And to her.

Tell me about them,” the girl asked.

The grandmother hugged her little blood to herself, and a story flowed about their family, coming from ancient centuries.

The time for cartoons had already come, but the girl didn’t want to watch them. She was discovering something amazing, something that had been there for a long time, but living inside her.

Do you know the history of your grandfathers, great-grandfathers, the history of your family? Maybe this story is your mirror?

Boris Ganago

PARROT

Petya was wandering around the house. I'm tired of all the games. Then my mother gave instructions to go to the store and also suggested:

Our neighbor, Maria Nikolaevna, broke her leg. There is no one to buy her bread. He can barely move around the room. Come on, I'll call and find out if she needs to buy anything.

Aunt Masha was happy about the call. And when the boy brought her a whole bag of groceries, she didn’t know how to thank him. For some reason, she showed Petya the empty cage in which the parrot had recently lived. It was her friend. Aunt Masha looked after him, shared her thoughts, and he took off and flew away. Now she has no one to say a word to, no one to care about. What kind of life is this if there is no one to take care of?

Petya looked at the empty cage, at the crutches, imagined Aunt Mania hobbling around the empty apartment, and an unexpected thought came to his mind. The fact is that he had long been saving the money that he was given for toys. I still couldn't find anything suitable. And now this strange thought is to buy a parrot for Aunt Masha.

Having said goodbye, Petya ran out into the street. He wanted to go to a pet store, where he had once seen various parrots. But now he looked at them through the eyes of Aunt Masha. Which one could she become friends with? Maybe this one will suit her, maybe this one?

Petya decided to ask his neighbor about the fugitive. The next day he told his mother:

Call Aunt Masha... Maybe she needs something?

Mom even froze, then hugged her son to her and whispered:

So you become a man... Petya was offended:

Wasn’t I a human before?

There was, of course there was,” my mother smiled. - Only now your soul has also awakened... Thank God!

What is the soul? — the boy became wary.

This is the ability to love.

The mother looked searchingly at her son:

Maybe you can call yourself?

Petya was embarrassed. Mom answered the phone: Maria Nikolaevna, excuse me, Petya has a question for you. I'll give him the phone now.

There was nowhere to go, and Petya muttered embarrassedly:

Aunt Masha, maybe I should buy you something?

Petya didn’t understand what happened at the other end of the line, only the neighbor answered in some way. in an unusual voice. She thanked him and asked him to bring milk if he went to the store. She doesn't need anything else. She thanked me again.

When Petya called her apartment, he heard the hasty clatter of crutches. Aunt Masha didn’t want to make him wait extra seconds.

While the neighbor was looking for money, the boy, as if by chance, began to ask her about the missing parrot. Aunt Masha willingly told us about the color and behavior...

There were several parrots of this color in the pet store. Petya took a long time to choose. When he brought his gift to Aunt Masha, then... I don’t undertake to describe what happened next.

A selection of texts for the reading competition “Living Classics”

A. Fadeev “Young Guard” (novel)
Monologue of Oleg Koshevoy.

"... Mom, mom! I remember your hands from the moment I began to recognize myself in the world. Over the summer they were always covered with a tan, it didn’t go away even in the winter - it was so gentle, even, just a little darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher, your hands - after all, they had so much work to do in life - but they always seemed so tender to me, and I loved kissing them right on the dark veins. Yes, from that very moment. the moment I began to become aware of myself, and until the last minute, when you, exhausted, quietly laid your head on my chest for the last time, seeing me off on the difficult path of life, I always remember your hands at work. I remember how they scurried about in the soap bar. foam, washing my sheets, when these sheets were still so small that they looked like diapers, and I remember how you, in a sheepskin coat, in winter, carried buckets on a yoke, placing a small hand in a mitten on the yoke in front of the yoke, you yourself were so small and fluffy, like mitten. I see your fingers with slightly thickened joints on the ABC book, and I repeat after you: “ba-a - ba, ba-ba.” I see how with your strong hand you bring the sickle under the belly, broken by the grain of the other hand, right on the sickle, I see the elusive sparkle of the sickle and then this instant smooth, such a feminine movement of the hands and the sickle, throwing back the ears in the bunch so as not to break the compressed stems. I remember your hands, unbending, red, turning blue from the icy water in the ice hole, where you rinsed clothes when we lived alone - it seemed completely alone in the world - and I remember how imperceptibly your hands could remove a splinter from your son’s finger and how they instantly threaded a needle when you sewed and sang - sang only for yourself and for me. Because there is nothing in the world that your hands cannot do, that they cannot do, that they would abhor! I saw how they kneaded clay with cow dung to coat the hut, and I saw your hand peeking out of the silk, with a ring on your finger, when you raised a glass of red Moldavian wine. And with what submissive tenderness your full and white hand above the elbow wrapped itself around your stepfather’s neck when he, playing with you, picked you up in his arms - the stepfather whom you taught to love me and whom I honored as my own, for one thing alone, that you loved him. But most of all, I remembered forever how gently they stroked, your hands, slightly rough and so warm and cool, how they stroked my hair, and neck, and chest, when I lay half-conscious in bed. And, whenever I opened my eyes, you were always next to me, and the night light was burning in the room, and you looked at me with your sunken eyes, as if from the darkness, yourself all quiet and bright, as if in vestments. I kiss your clean, holy hands! You sent your sons off to war - if not you, then another, just like you - you will never wait for others, and if this cup passed you by, then it did not pass another, just like you. But if even in the days of war people have a piece of bread and there are clothes on their bodies, and if there are stacks of stacks in the field, and trains are running along the rails, and cherries are blooming in the garden, and a flame is raging in the blast furnace, and someone’s invisible force raises a warrior from the ground or from the bed when he was sick or wounded - all this was done by the hands of my mother - mine, and his, and his. Look around, too, young man, my friend, look around, like me, and tell me who you offended in life more than your mother - wasn’t it from me, wasn’t it from you, wasn’t it from him, wasn’t it from our failures, mistakes and Is it not because of our grief that our mothers turn gray? But the time will come when all this will turn into a painful reproach to the heart at the mother’s grave. Mom, mom!. .Forgive me, because you are alone, only you in the world can forgive, put your hands on your head, like in childhood, and forgive... "

Vasily Grossman “Life and Fate” (novel)

Last letter to a Jewish mother

“Vityenka... This letter is not easy to break off, it is my last conversation with you, and, having forwarded the letter, I am finally leaving you, you will never know about my last hours. This is our very last separation. What will I tell you, saying goodbye, before eternal separation? These days, as throughout my life, you have been my joy. At night I remembered you, your children's clothes, your first books, I remembered your first letter, the first day of school. I remembered everything, everything from the first days of your life to the last news from you, the telegram received on June 30. I closed my eyes, and it seemed to me that you shielded me from the impending horror, my friend. And when I remembered what was happening around me, I was glad that you were not near me - let the terrible fate blow you away. Vitya, I have always been lonely. On sleepless nights I cried with sadness. After all, no one knew this. My consolation was the thought that I would tell you about my life. I'll tell you why your dad and I separated, why we are like this for many years I lived alone. And I often thought how surprised Vitya would be to learn that his mother made mistakes, was crazy, was jealous, that she was jealous, was like all young people. But my destiny is to end my life alone, without sharing with you. Sometimes it seemed to me that I should not live away from you, I loved you too much. I thought that love gave me the right to be with you in my old age. Sometimes it seemed to me that I shouldn’t live with you, I loved you too much. Well, enfin... Always be happy with those you love, who surround you, who have become closer to your mother. I'm sorry. From the street you can hear women crying, police officers cursing, and I look at these pages, and it seems to me that I am protected from a terrible world full of suffering. How can I finish my letter? Where can I get strength, son? Are there human words that can express my love for you? I kiss you, your eyes, your forehead, your hair. Remember that on days of happiness and on days of sorrow, mother’s love is always with you; no one can kill it. Vitenka... Here is the last line of my mother’s last letter to you. Live, live, live forever... Mom.

Yuri Krasavin
“Russian Snows” (story)

It was a strange snowfall: in the sky, where the sun was, there was a blurry spot shining. Is it really a clear sky up there? Where does the snow come from then? White darkness all around. Both the road and the lying tree disappeared behind a veil of snow, barely ten steps away from them. The country road, going away from the highway, from the village of Ergushovo, was barely visible under the snow, which covered it in a thick layer, and what was on the right and left, and the roadside bushes showed outlandish figures, some of them had a frightening appearance. Now Katya walked, not lagging behind: she was afraid of getting lost. - Why are you like a dog on a leash? - he said to her over his shoulder. - Walk next to me. She answered him: “The dog always runs ahead of the owner.” “You’re being rude,” he remarked and quickened his pace, walking so quickly that she was already whining pitifully: “Well, Dementy, don’t be angry... This way I’ll fall behind and get lost.” And you are responsible for me before God and people. Listen, Dementy! “Ivan Tsarevich,” he corrected and slowed down. At times it seemed to him that a human figure, covered in snow, or even two, loomed ahead. Every now and then vague voices came, but it was impossible to understand who was speaking or what they were saying. The presence of these travelers ahead was a little reassuring: it meant he was guessing the road correctly. However, voices were heard from somewhere on the side, and even from above - the snow, perhaps, separated someone’s conversation into parts and carried it to different sides? “There are fellow travelers somewhere nearby,” Katya said warily. “These are demons,” Vanya explained. - They are always at this time... they are at their peak now. - Why now? - Look, what a hush! And here you and I... Don’t feed them bread, just let them lead people so that they get lost, make fun of us and even destroy us. - Oh, come on! Why are you scared? - Demons are rushing, demons are hovering, the moon is invisible... - We don’t even have a moon. In complete silence, snowflakes fell and fell, each the size of a dandelion head. The snow was so weightless that it rose even from the air movement produced by the walking feet of the two travelers - it rose like fluff and, swirling, spread to the sides. The weightlessness of the snow gave the deceptive impression that everything had lost its weight - both the ground under your feet and yourself. What remained behind was not footprints, but a furrow, like behind a plow, but it, too, quickly closed. Strange snow, very strange. The wind, if it arose, was not even wind, but a light breeze, which from time to time created chaos around, causing the surrounding world to shrink so much that it even became cramped. The impression is as if they were enclosed in a huge egg, in its empty shell, filled with scattered light from the outside - this light fell and rose in clumps, flakes, circled this way and that...

Lydia Charskaya
“Notes of a Little Schoolgirl” (story)

In the corner there was a round stove, which was constantly burning at this time; The stove door was now wide open, and one could see how a small red book was burning brightly in the fire, gradually curling into tubes with its blackened and charred sheets. My God! Japanese Little Red Book! I recognized her immediately. - Julie! Julie! - I whispered in horror. - What have you done, Julie! But there was no trace of Julie. - Julie! Julie! - I desperately called my cousin. - Where are you? Ah, Julie! - What's happened? What's happened? Why are you shouting like a street urchin! - suddenly appearing on the threshold, the Japanese woman said sternly. - Is it possible to shout like that! What were you doing here in class alone? Answer this very minute! Why are you here? But I stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to answer her. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes stubbornly looked at the floor. Suddenly, the loud cry of the Japanese woman made me immediately raise my head and come to my senses... She stood by the stove, probably attracted by the open door, and, stretching out her hands to its opening, moaned loudly: “My little red book, my poor book!” A gift from my late sister Sophie! Oh, what grief! What a terrible grief! And, kneeling down in front of the door, she began to sob, clutching her head with both hands. I felt infinitely sorry for the poor Japanese woman. I myself was ready to cry with her. With quiet, careful steps I approached her and, lightly touching her hand with mine, whispered: “If you only knew how sorry I am, mademoiselle, that... that... I repent so much... I wanted to finish the sentence and say how I repent that I didn’t run after Julie and didn’t stop her, but I didn’t have time to say this, because at that very moment the Japanese woman, like a wounded animal, jumped up from the floor and, grabbing me by the shoulders, began to shake me with all her might. Yeah, you repent! Now you repent, yeah! What have you done? Burn my book! My innocent book, the only memory of my dear Sophie! She probably would have hit me if at that moment the girls had not ran into the classroom and surrounded us from all sides, asking what was the matter. The Japanese woman roughly grabbed me by the hand, pulled me into the middle of the class and, menacingly shaking her finger over my head, shouted at the top of her voice: “She stole from me the little red book that my late sister gave me and from which I did German dictations for you.” She must be punished! She's a thief! My God! What is this? On top of the black apron, between the collar and the waist, a large white piece of paper dangles from my chest, secured with a pin. And on the sheet is written in clear, large handwriting: / “She’s a thief!” Stay away from her!" It was beyond the power of the little orphan who had already suffered a lot to bear! To say right away that it was not I, but Julie, who was to blame for the death of the little red book! Julie alone! Yes, yes, now, no matter what it became! And my gaze found the hunchback in the crowd of other girls. And what kind of eyes she had at that moment!.. What sadness and horror looked out of them! No! You can calm down, Julie! - I said mentally. - I won't give you away. After all, you have a mother who will be sad and hurt for your action, but my mother is in heaven and sees perfectly well that I am not to blame for anything. Here on earth, no one will take my action as close to their heart as they will take yours! No, no, I won’t give you up, not for anything, not for anything!”

Veniamin Kaverin
"Two Captains" (novel)

“On my chest, in my side pocket, there was a letter from Captain Tatarinov. “Listen, Katya,” I said decisively, “I want to tell you a story. In general, like this: imagine that you live on the bank of a river and one fine day on this A mail bag appears on the shore. Of course, it does not fall from the sky, but it is washed away by the water. And this bag falls into the hands of one woman who loves to read. And among her neighbors there is a boy, about eight years old, who loves to listen. And then one day she reads him this letter: “Dear Maria Vasilyevna...” Katya shuddered and looked at me in amazement - “... I hasten to inform you that Ivan Lvovich is alive and well,” I continued quickly, “Four months ago I, according to his instructions...” And without taking a breath, I read the navigator’s letter by heart. I didn’t stop, although Katya took me by the sleeve several times with some horror and surprise. “Have you seen this letter?” she asked and turned pale. “Is he writing about his father?” she asked again, as if there could be any doubt about it. - Yes. But that's not all! And I told her about how Aunt Dasha once came across another letter, which spoke about the life of a ship covered in ice and slowly moving north. “My friend, my dear, my dear Mashenka...” I began by heart and stopped. Goosebumps ran down my spine, my throat tightened, and I suddenly saw in front of me, as in a dream, the gloomy, aged face of Marya Vasilyevna, with gloomy, sullen eyes. She was like Katya when he wrote her this letter, and Katya was a little girl who was still waiting for a “letter from daddy.” Finally got it! “In a word, here it is,” I said and took out letters in compressed paper from my side pocket. - Sit down and read, and I’ll go. I'll be back when you read it. Of course, I didn't go anywhere. I stood under the tower of Elder Martyn and looked at Katya the entire time she was reading. I felt very sorry for her, and my chest always felt warm when I thought about her, and cold when I thought how scary it was for her to read these letters. I saw how, with an unconscious movement, she straightened her hair, which was preventing her from reading, and how she stood up from the bench as if to make out a difficult word. I didn’t know before whether it was grief or joy to receive such a letter. But now, looking at her, I realized that this was a terrible grief! I realized that she never lost hope! Thirteen years ago, her father went missing in the polar ice, where there is nothing easier than to die of hunger and cold. But for her he died only now!

Yuri Bondarev “Youth of Commanders” (novel)

They walked slowly down the street. Snow flew in the light of lonely street lamps and fell from the roofs; There were fresh snowdrifts near the dark entrances. The whole block was white and white, and there was not a single passerby around, as in the dead of a winter night. And it was already morning. It was five o'clock in the morning of the new year. But it seemed to both of them that yesterday evening had not yet ended with its lights, thick snow on collars, traffic and bustle at tram stops. It’s just that last year’s snowstorm was churning through the deserted streets of the sleeping city, knocking on fences and shutters. It began in the old year and did not end in the new one. And they walked and walked past smoking snowdrifts, past swept-out entrances. Time has lost its meaning. It stopped yesterday. And suddenly a tram appeared in the depths of the street. This carriage, empty, lonely, crawled quietly, making its way through the snowy darkness. The tram reminded me of the time. It moved. - Wait, where did we come? Oh yes, Oktyabrskaya! Look, we have reached Oktyabrskaya. Enough. I'm about to fall into the snow from fatigue. Valya stopped decisively, lowered her chin into the fur of her collar, and looked thoughtfully at the lights of the tram, dim in the snowstorm. Her breath froze the fur near her lips, the tips of her eyelashes turned frosty, and Alexey saw that they were frozen solid. He said: “It seems like it’s morning...” “And the tram is so dull and tired, like you and me,” Valya said and laughed. - After a holiday, you always feel sorry for something. For some reason you have a sad face. He answered, looking at the lights approaching from the snowstorm: “I haven’t ridden a tram for four years.” I wish I could remember how it's done. Honestly. In fact, during his two weeks at the artillery school in the rear city, Alexey became little accustomed to peaceful life; he was amazed at the silence, he was overwhelmed by it. He was touched by the distant bells of the tram, the light in the windows, the snowy silence of winter evenings, the wipers at the gates (just like before the war), the barking of dogs - everything, everything that had long been half-forgotten. When he walked along the street alone, he involuntarily thought: “There, on the corner, there is a good anti-tank position, you can see the intersection, in that house with a turret there may be a machine-gun point, the street is being shot through.” All this was familiar and still lived firmly in him. Valya gathered her coat around her legs and said: “Of course, we won’t pay for the tickets.” Let's go as rabbits. Moreover, the conductor sees New Year's dreams! Alone on this empty tram, they sat opposite each other. Valya sighed, rubbed the squeaky frost of the window with her glove, and breathed. She rubbed the “peephole”: dim spots of flashlights rarely floated through it. Then she shook the glove on her knees and, straightening up, raised her close eyes and asked seriously: “Did you remember anything just now?” - What did I remember? - Alexey said, meeting her gaze point-blank. One reconnaissance. And the New Year near Zhitomir, or rather, near the Makarov farm. We, two artillerymen, were then taken on a search... The tram rolled through the streets, the wheels squealed freezing; Valya leaned over to the worn “eye,” which was already filled with a thick, cold blue: either it was getting light, or the snow had stopped, and the moon was shining over the city.

Boris Vasiliev “And the dawns here are quiet” (story)

Rita knew that her wound was fatal and that she would have to die long and difficult. So far there was almost no pain, only the burning sensation in my stomach was getting stronger and I was thirsty. But it was impossible to drink, and Rita simply soaked a rag in the puddle and applied it to her lips. Vaskov hid her under a spruce tree, covered her with branches and left. At that time they were still shooting, but soon everything suddenly became quiet, and Rita began to cry. She cried silently, without sighs, tears just flowed down her face, she realized that Zhenya was no more. And then the tears disappeared. They retreated before the huge thing that now stood in front of her, what she needed to deal with, what she had to prepare for. A cold black abyss opened up at her feet, and Rita looked courageously and sternly into it. Soon Vaskov returned. He scattered the branches and silently sat down next to him, clasping his wounded arm and swaying.

— Zhenya died?

He nodded. Then he said:

- We don’t have any bags. No bags, no rifles. Either they took it with them or hid it somewhere.

— Zhenya died right away?

“Right away,” he said, and she felt that he was telling a lie. - They left. For

explosives, apparently... - He caught her dull, understanding look, and suddenly shouted: - They didn’t defeat us, you understand? I'm still alive, I still need to be knocked down!..

He fell silent, gritting his teeth. He swayed, cradling his wounded hand.

“It hurts here,” he pointed at his chest. “It’s itching here, Rita.” It itches so much!.. I put you down, I put all five of you there, but for what? For a dozen Krauts?

- Well, why do that... It’s still clear, it’s war.

- It’s still war, of course. And then, when will there be peace? It will be clear why you should die

did you have to? Why didn’t I let these Krauts go further, why did I make such a decision? What to answer when they ask why you guys couldn’t protect our mothers from bullets? Why did you marry them with death, but you yourself are intact? Did they take care of the Kirovskaya Road and the White Sea Canal? Yes, there must be security there too, there are a lot more people there than five girls and a foreman with a revolver...

“No need,” she said quietly. “The homeland doesn’t start with the canals.” Not from there at all. And we protected her. Her first, and then the channel.

“Yes...” Vaskov sighed heavily and paused. “You just lie down for a while, I’ll take a look around.” Otherwise they’ll stumble and that’ll be the end of us. “He took out a revolver and for some reason carefully wiped it with his sleeve. - Take it. True, there are two cartridges left, but still calmer with him. - Wait. “Rita looked somewhere past his face, into the sky blocked by branches. - Do you remember how I came across the Germans at the crossing? Then I ran to my mother in the city. I have a three-year-old son there. Name is Alik, Albert. My mother is very sick and will not live long, and my father is missing.

- Don't worry, Rita. I understood everything.

- Thank you. “She smiled with colorless lips. - My last request

will you do it?

“No,” he said.

- It’s pointless, I’ll die anyway. I'm just getting tired of it.

“I’ll do some reconnaissance and come back.” We'll get to ours by nightfall.

“Kiss me,” she suddenly said.

He leaned over awkwardly and awkwardly pressed his lips to his forehead.

“Prickly...” she sighed barely audibly, closing her eyes. - Go. Cover me with branches and go. Tears slowly crawled down her gray, sunken cheeks. Fedot Evgrafych quietly stood up, carefully covered Rita with spruce paws and quickly walked towards the river. Towards the Germans...

Yuri Yakovlev “Heart of the Earth” (story)

Children never remember their mother as young and beautiful, because the understanding of beauty comes later, when mother’s beauty has time to fade. I remember my mother gray-haired and tired, but they say she was beautiful. Large, thoughtful eyes in which the light of the heart appeared. Smooth dark eyebrows, long eyelashes. Smoky hair fell over his high forehead. I still hear her quiet voice, leisurely steps, feel the gentle touch of her hands, the rough warmth of the dress on her shoulder. It has nothing to do with age, it is eternal. Children never tell their mother about their love for her. They don’t even know the name of the feeling that binds them more and more to their mother. In their understanding, this is not a feeling at all, but something natural and obligatory, like breathing, quenching thirst. But a child’s love for his mother has its golden days. I experienced them at an early age, when I first realized that the most necessary person in the world was my mother. My memory has not retained almost any details of those distant days, but I know about this feeling of mine, because it still glimmers in me and has not dissipated throughout the world. And I take care of it, because without love for my mother there is a cold emptiness in my heart. I never called my mother mother, mother. I had another word for her - mommy. Even when I became big, I could not change this word. My mustache has grown and my bass has appeared. I was embarrassed by this word and pronounced it barely audibly in public. The last time I uttered it was on a rain-wet platform, near a red soldier’s train, in a crush, to the sounds of the alarming whistles of a steam locomotive, to the loud command “to the carriages!” I didn’t know that I was saying goodbye to my mother forever. I whispered “mommy” in her ear and, so that no one would see my manly tears, I wiped them on her hair... But when the train started moving, I couldn’t stand it, I forgot that I was a man, a soldier, I forgot that there were people around, a lot of people, and Through the roar of the wheels, through the wind hitting my eyes, I shouted: “Mommy!” And then there were letters. And the letters from home had one extraordinary property, which everyone discovered for themselves and did not admit their discovery to anyone. In the most difficult moments, when it seemed that everything was over or would end in the next moment and there was no longer a single clue for life, we found an untouchable supply of life in letters from home. When a letter arrived from my mother, there was no paper, no envelope with a field mail number, no lines. There was only my mother’s voice, which I heard even in the roar of the guns, and the smoke of the dugout touched my cheek, like the smoke of a home. On New Year's Eve, my mother spoke in detail in a letter about the Christmas tree. It turns out that Christmas tree candles were accidentally found in the closet, short, multi-colored, similar to sharpened colored pencils. They were lit, and the incomparable aroma of stearin and pine needles spread from the spruce branches throughout the room. The room was dark, and only the cheerful will-o'-the-wisps faded and flared up, and the gilded walnuts flickered dimly. Then it turned out that all this was a legend that my dying mother composed for me in an ice house, where all the glass was broken by the blast wave, and the stoves were dead and people were dying of hunger, cold and shrapnel. And she wrote, from the icy besieged city, sending me the last drops of her warmth, the last blood. And I believed the legend. He held on to it - to his emergency supply, to his reserve life. Was too young to read between the lines. I read the lines themselves, not noticing that the letters were crooked, because they were written by a hand devoid of strength, for which the pen was heavy, like an ax. Mother wrote these letters while her heart was beating...

Zheleznikov “Dogs Don’t Make Mistakes” (story)

Yura Khlopotov had the largest and most interesting collection of stamps in the class. Because of this collection, Valerka Snegirev went to visit his classmate. When Yura began to pull out huge and for some reason dusty albums from the massive desk, a drawn-out and plaintive howl was heard right above the boys’ heads...- Don't pay attention! - Yurka waved his hand, moving his albums with concentration. - The neighbor's dog!- Why is she howling?- How do I know? She howls every day. Until five o'clock.
It stops at five. My dad says: if you don’t know how to look after, don’t get dogs... Looking at his watch and waving his hand to Yura, Valerka hastily wrapped his scarf in the hallway and put on his coat. Running out into the street, I took a breath and found windows on the façade of Yurka’s house. The three windows on the ninth floor above the Khlopotovs’ apartment were uncomfortably dark. Valerka, leaning his shoulder against the cold concrete of the lamppost, decided to wait as long as necessary. And then the outermost window lit up dimly: they turned on the light, apparently in the hallway... The door opened immediately, but Valerka didn’t even have time to see who was standing on the threshold, because a small brown ball suddenly jumped out from somewhere and, squealing joyfully, rushed under Valerka legs. Valerka felt the wet touch of a dog’s warm tongue on his face: a very tiny dog, but he jumped so high! (He stretched out his arms, picked up the dog, and she buried herself in his neck, breathing quickly and devotedly.- Miracles! - a thick voice rang out, immediately filling the entire space of the staircase. The voice belonged to a frail, short man.- Are you coming to me? It’s a strange thing, you know... Yanka is not particularly kind to strangers. And how about you! Come in.- Just a moment, on business. The man immediately became serious.- On business? I'm listening. - Your dog... Yana... Howls all day long. The man became sad.- So... It interferes, that is. Did your parents send you?- I just wanted to know why she howls. She's feeling bad, right?- You're right, she feels bad. Yanka is used to going for walks during the day, and I’m at work. My wife will come and everything will be all right. But you can’t explain it to a dog!- I come home from school at two o'clock... I could walk with her after school! The owner of the apartment looked strangely at the uninvited guest, then suddenly walked up to the dusty shelf, extended his hand and took out the key.- Here you go. It's time to be surprised by Valerka.- What are you, anyone to a stranger Do you trust the key to the apartment?- Oh, excuse me, please,” the man extended his hand. - Let's get acquainted! Molchanov Valery Alekseevich, engineer.- Snegirev Valery, student of the 6th “B,” the boy answered with dignity.- Very nice! Is everything all right now? The dog Yana did not want to go down to the floor, and then she ran after Valerka all the way to the door.- Dogs don’t make mistakes, they don’t make mistakes... - engineer Molchanov muttered under his breath.

Nikolay Garin-Mikhailovsky “Tyoma and the Bug” (story)

Nanny, where is Zhuchka? - asks Tyoma. “Some Herod threw a bug into an old well,” the nanny answers. - All day, they say, she screamed, heartfelt... The boy listens with horror to the nanny’s words, and thoughts swarm in his head. He has a lot of plans flashing through his mind on how to save the Bug, he moves from one incredible project to another and, unnoticed by himself, falls asleep. He wakes up from some kind of shock in the midst of an interrupted dream, in which he kept pulling out the Bug, but she broke down and fell again to the bottom of the well. Deciding to immediately go save his pet, Tyoma tiptoes to the glass door and quietly, so as not to make noise, goes out onto the terrace. It's dawn outside. Running up to the hole of the well, he calls in a low voice: “Bug, Bug!” The bug, recognizing the owner's voice, squeals joyfully and pitifully. - I'll free you now! - he shouts, as if the dog understands him. The lantern and two poles with a crossbar at the bottom on which the loop lay began to slowly descend into the well. But this well-thought-out plan unexpectedly burst: as soon as the device reached the bottom, the dog tried to grab onto it, but, losing its balance, fell into the mud. The thought that he worsened the situation, that Bug could still have been saved and now he himself is to blame for the fact that she will die, makes Tyoma decide to fulfill the second part of the dream - to go down into the well himself. He ties a rope to one of the posts supporting the crossbar and climbs into the well. He realizes only one thing: not a second of time can be lost. For a moment, fear creeps into his soul that he might suffocate, but he remembers that the Bug has been sitting there for a whole day. This calms him down and he goes further down. The bug, having sat down again in its original place, has calmed down and with a cheerful squeak expresses sympathy for the crazy enterprise. This calmness and firm confidence of the bugs are transferred to the boy, and he safely reaches the bottom. Without wasting time, Tyoma ties the reins around the dog, then hastily climbs up. But going up is harder than going down! We need air, we need strength, and Tyoma already doesn’t have enough of both. Fear covers him, but he encourages himself in a voice trembling with horror: “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid!” It's a shame to be afraid! Cowards are only afraid! Those who do bad things are afraid, but I don’t do bad things, I pull out the Bug, my mom and dad will praise me for this. Tyoma smiles and again calmly waits for the surge of strength. Thus, unnoticed, his head finally protrudes above the top frame of the well. Making a last effort, he gets out himself and pulls out the Bug. But now that the job is done, his strength quickly leaves him, and he faints.

Vladimir Zheleznikov “Three branches of mimosa” (story)

In the morning, Vitya saw a huge bouquet of mimosa in a crystal vase on the table. The flowers were as yellow and fresh as the first warm day! “Dad gave this to me,” said Mom. - After all, today is the Eighth of March. Indeed, today is the Eighth of March, and he completely forgot about it. He immediately ran to his room, grabbed his briefcase, pulled out a card in which it was written: “Dear mom, I congratulate you on the Eighth of March and I promise to always obey you,” and solemnly handed it to his mother. And when he was already leaving for school, his mother suddenly suggested: “Take a few branches of mimosa and give it to Lena Popova.” Lena Popova was his desk neighbor. - For what? - he asked gloomily. - And then, today is the Eighth of March, and I’m sure that all your boys will give the girls something. He took three sprigs of mimosa and went to school. On the way, it seemed to him that everyone was looking at him. But at the school itself he was lucky: he met Lena Popova. He ran up to her and handed her a mimosa. - This is for you. - To me? Oh, how beautiful! Thank you very much, Vitya! She seemed ready to thank him for another hour, but he turned and ran away. And at the first break it turned out that none of the boys in their class gave anything to the girls. None. Only in front of Lena Popova lay tender branches of mimosa. -Where did you get the flowers? - asked the teacher. “Vitya gave this to me,” Lena said calmly. Everyone immediately began to whisper, looking at Vitya, and Vitya lowered his head low. And at recess, when Vitya, as if nothing had happened, approached the guys, although he already felt bad, Valerka began to grimace, looking at him. - And here the groom has come! Hello, young groom! The guys laughed. And then high school students passed by, and everyone looked at him and asked whose fiancé he was. Having barely sat through the end of the lessons, as soon as the bell rang, he rushed home as fast as he could, so that there, at home, he could vent his frustration and resentment. When his mother opened the door for him, he shouted: “It’s you, it’s your fault, it’s all because of you!” Vitya ran into the room, grabbed mimosa branches and threw them on the floor. - I hate these flowers, I hate them! He began to trample the mimosa branches with his feet, and the yellow delicate flowers burst and died under the rough soles of his boots. And Lena Popova carried home three tender branches of mimosa in a wet cloth so that they would not wilt. She carried them in front of her, and it seemed to her that the sun was reflected in them, that they were so beautiful, so special...

Vladimir Zheleznikov “Scarecrow” (story)

Meanwhile, Dimka realized that everyone had forgotten about him, slid along the wall behind the guys to the door, grabbed its handle, carefully pressed it to open it without a creak and run away... Oh, how he wanted to disappear right now, before Lenka left, and then, when she leaves, when he doesn’t see her judging eyes, he’ll come up with something, he’ll definitely come up with it... last moment he looked around, collided with Lenka’s gaze and froze.He stood alone against the wall, eyes downcast. - Look at him! - said the Iron Button to Lenka. Her voice trembled with indignation. - He can’t even lift his eyes! - Yes, it’s an unenviable picture,” said Vasiliev. - It's peeled off a little.Lenka slowly approached Dimka.The Iron Button walked next to Lenka and told her: - I understand that it’s difficult for you... You believed him... but now you’ve seen his true face! Lenka came close to Dimka - as soon as she extended her hand, she would have touched his shoulder. - Punch him in the face! - Shaggy shouted.Dimka sharply turned his back to Lenka. - I spoke, I spoke! -Iron Button was delighted. Her voice sounded victorious. -The hour of reckoning will not pass anyone!.. Justice has triumphed! Long live justice! She jumped up on her desk: - Guys! Somov - the most cruel boycott! And everyone shouted: - Boycott! Boycott Somov! Iron Button raised her hand: - Who's for the boycott? And all the guys raised their hands behind her - a whole forest of hands hovered above their heads. And many were so thirsty for justice that they raised two hands at once. “That’s all,” thought Lenka, “and Dimka has met his end.” And the guys stretched their hands, pulled, and surrounded Dimka, and tore him away from the wall, and he was about to disappear for Lenka in the ring of an impenetrable forest of hands, their own horror and her triumph and victory.Everyone was for a boycott! Only Lenka did not raise her hand.- And you? - Iron Button was surprised. “But I don’t,” Lenka said simply and smiled guiltily, as before. -Have you forgiven him? - asked the shocked Vasiliev. - What a fool,” said Shmakova. - He betrayed you!Lenka stood at the board, pressing her cropped head to its black, cold surface. The wind of the past whipped her face: “Chu-che-lo-o-o, traitor!.. Burn at the stake!” - But why, why are you against it?! -Iron Button wanted to understand what prevented this Bessoltseva from declaring a boycott on Dimka. -You are the one who is against it. You can never be understood... Explain! “I was at the stake,” Lenka answered. - And they chased me down the street. And I will never chase anyone... And I will never poison anyone. At least kill me!

Ilya Turchin
Extreme case

So Ivan reached Berlin, carrying freedom on his mighty shoulders. In his hands he had an inseparable friend - a machine gun. In my bosom is a piece of my mother’s bread. So I saved the scraps all the way to Berlin. On May 9, 1945, defeated Nazi Germany surrendered. The guns fell silent. The tanks stopped. The air raid alarms began to sound. It became quiet on the ground. And people heard the wind rustling, grass growing, birds singing. At that hour, Ivan found himself in one of the Berlin squares, where a house set on fire by the Nazis was still burning down.The square was empty.And suddenly a little girl came out of the basement of the burning house. She had thin legs and a face darkened from grief and hunger. Stepping unsteadily on the sun-drenched asphalt, helplessly outstretching her arms as if blind, the girl went to meet Ivan. And she seemed so small and helpless to Ivan in the huge empty, as if extinct, square that he stopped, and his heart was squeezed by pity.Ivan took out a precious edge from his bosom, squatted down and handed the girl the bread. Never before has the edge been so warm. So fresh. Never before have I smelled so much of rye flour, fresh milk, and kind mother’s hands.The girl smiled, and her thin fingers grabbed the edge.Ivan carefully lifted the girl from the scorched ground.And at that moment, a scary, overgrown Fritz - the Red Fox - peeked out from around the corner. What did he care that the war was over! Only one thought was spinning in his clouded fascist head: “Find and kill Ivan!”And here he is, Ivan, in the square, here is his broad back.Fritz - The red fox took out a filthy pistol with a crooked muzzle from under his jacket and fired treacherously from around the corner.The bullet hit Ivan in the heart.Ivan trembled. Staggered. But he didn’t fall - he was afraid to drop the girl. I just felt my legs filling with heavy metal. The boots, cloak, and face became bronze. Bronze - a girl in his arms. Bronze - a formidable machine gun behind his powerful shoulders.A tear rolled down from the girl’s bronze cheek, hit the ground and turned into a sparkling sword. Bronze Ivan took hold of its handle.Fritz the Red Fox screamed in horror and fear. The burnt wall trembled from the scream, collapsed and buried him under it...And at that very moment the edge that remained with the mother also became bronze. The mother realized that trouble had befallen her son. She rushed out into the street and ran where her heart led.People ask her:

What's your hurry?

To my son. My son is in trouble!

And they brought her up in cars and on trains, on ships and on planes. The mother quickly reached Berlin. She went out to the square. She saw her bronze son and her legs gave way. The mother fell to her knees and froze in her eternal sorrow.Bronze Ivan with a bronze girl in his arms still stands in the city of Berlin - visible to the whole world. And if you look closely, you will notice between the girl and Ivan’s wide chest a bronze edge of her mother’s bread.And if our homeland is attacked by enemies, Ivan will come to life, carefully put the girl on the ground, raise his formidable machine gun and - woe to the enemies!

Elena Ponomarenko
LENOCHKA

Spring was filled with warmth and the hubbub of rooks. It seemed that the war would end today. I've been at the front for four years now. Almost none of the battalion's medical instructors survived. My childhood somehow immediately turned into adulthood. In between battles, I often remembered school, the waltz... And the next morning the war. The whole class decided to go to the front. But the girls were left at the hospital to undergo a month-long course for medical instructors. When I arrived at the division, I already saw the wounded. They said that these guys didn’t even have weapons: they got them in battle. I experienced my first feeling of helplessness and fear in August '41... - Guys, is anyone alive? - I asked, making my way through the trenches, carefully peering into every meter of the ground. - Guys, who needs help? I turned over the dead bodies, they all looked at me, but no one asked for help, because they no longer heard. The artillery attack destroyed everyone... - Well, this can’t happen, at least someone should survive?! Petya, Igor, Ivan, Alyoshka! - I crawled to the machine gun and saw Ivan. - Vanechka! Ivan! - she screamed at the top of her lungs, but her body had already cooled down, only her blue eyes looked motionlessly into the sky. Going down into the second trench, I heard a groan. - Is anyone alive? People, at least someone respond! - I screamed again. The groan was repeated, indistinct, muffled. She ran past the dead bodies, looking for him, who was still alive. - Darling! I'm here! I'm here! And again she began to turn over everyone who got in her way. - No! No! No! I will definitely find you! Just wait for me! Don't die! - and jumped into another trench. A rocket flew up, illuminating him. The groan was repeated somewhere very close. “I’ll never forgive myself for not finding you,” I shouted and commanded myself: “Come on.” Come on, listen up! You will find him, you can! A little more - and the end of the trench. God, how scary! Faster, faster! “Lord, if you exist, help me find him!” - and I knelt down. I, a Komsomol member, asked the Lord for help... Was it a miracle, but the groan was repeated. Yes, he is at the very end of the trench! - Hold on! - I screamed with all my strength and literally burst into the dugout, covered with a raincoat. - Dear, alive! - his hands worked quickly, realizing that he was no longer a survivor: he had a severe wound in the stomach. He held his insides with his hands.“You’ll have to deliver the package,” he whispered quietly, dying. I covered his eyes. A very young lieutenant lay in front of me. - How can this be?! What package? Where? You didn't say where? You didn't say where! - Looking around, I suddenly saw a package sticking out of my boot. “Urgent,” read the inscription, underlined in red pencil. - Field mail of the division headquarters." Sitting with him, a young lieutenant, I said goodbye, and tears rolled down one after another. Having taken his documents, I walked along the trench, staggering, feeling nauseous as I closed my eyes to the dead soldiers along the way. I delivered the package to headquarters. And the information there really turned out to be very important. Only I never wore the medal that was awarded to me, my first combat award, because it belonged to that lieutenant, Ivan Ivanovich Ostankov....After the end of the war, I gave this medal to the lieutenant’s mother and told how he died.In the meantime, the fighting was going on... The fourth year of the war. During this time, I completely turned gray: my red hair became completely white. Spring was approaching with warmth and rook hubbub...

Boris Ganago
"Letter to God"

E this happened at the end of the 19th century. Petersburg. Christmas Eve. A cold, piercing wind blows from the bay. Fine prickly snow is falling. Horses' hooves clatter on the cobblestone streets, shop doors slam - the last purchases are made before the holiday. Everyone is in a hurry to get home quickly.
T Only a little boy slowly wanders along a snowy street. ABOUT Every now and then he takes his cold, reddened hands out of the pockets of his old coat and tries to warm them with his breath. Then he stuffs them deeper into his pockets again and moves on. Here he stops at the bakery window and looks at the pretzels and bagels displayed behind the glass. D The store door swung open, letting out another customer, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted out of it. The boy swallowed his saliva convulsively, stomped on the spot and wandered on.
N Dusk is falling imperceptibly. There are fewer and fewer passers-by. The boy pauses near a building with lights burning in the windows, and, rising on tiptoe, tries to look inside. After a moment's hesitation, he opens the door.
WITH The old clerk was late at work today. He's in no hurry. He has been living alone for a long time and on holidays he feels his loneliness especially acutely. The clerk sat and thought with bitterness that he had no one to celebrate Christmas with, no one to give gifts to. At this time the door opened. The old man looked up and saw the boy.
- Uncle, uncle, I need to write a letter! - the boy said quickly.
- Do you have money? - the clerk asked sternly.
M The boy, fiddling with his hat in his hands, took a step back. And then the lonely clerk remembered that today was Christmas Eve and that he really wanted to give someone a gift. He took out a blank sheet of paper, dipped his pen in ink and wrote: “Petersburg. January 6. Mr...."
- What is the gentleman's last name?
“This is not sir,” muttered the boy, not yet fully believing his luck.
- Oh, is this a lady? - the clerk asked smiling.
- No no! - the boy said quickly.
- So who do you want to write a letter to? - the old man was surprised.
- To Jesus.
- How dare you make fun of an elderly man? - the clerk was indignant and wanted to show the boy to the door. But then I saw tears in the child’s eyes and remembered that today was Christmas Eve. He felt ashamed of his anger, and in a warmer voice he asked:
-What do you want to write to Jesus?
- My mother always taught me to ask God for help when it’s difficult. She said that God’s name is Jesus Christ,” the boy came closer to the clerk and continued. - And yesterday she fell asleep, and I just can’t wake her up. There’s not even bread at home, I’m so hungry,” he wiped the tears that had come to his eyes with his palm.
- How did you wake her up? - asked the old man, rising from his table.
- I kissed her.
- Is she breathing?
- What are you saying, uncle, do people breathe in their sleep?
“Jesus Christ has already received your letter,” said the old man, hugging the boy by the shoulders. -He told me to take care of you, and took your mother with him.
WITH The old clerk thought: “My mother, when you left for another world, you told me to be a good person and a pious Christian. I forgot your order, but now you won’t be ashamed of me.”

B. Ekimov. “Speak, mother, speak...”

In the mornings the mobile phone now rang. The black box came to life:
the light came on in it, cheerful music sang and the daughter’s voice announced, as if she were nearby:
- Mom, hello! Are you okay? Well done! Questions or suggestions? Amazing! Then I kiss you. Be, be!
The box was rotten and silent. Old Katerina marveled at her and could not get used to it. This seems like a small thing - a matchbox. No wires. He lays there and lies there, and suddenly his daughter’s voice begins to play and light up:
- Mom, hello! Are you okay? Have you thought about going? Look... Any questions? Kiss. Be, be!
But the city where my daughter lives is one and a half hundred miles away. And not always easy, especially in bad weather.
But this year the autumn has been long and warm. Near the farm, on the surrounding mounds, the grass turned red, and the poplar and willow fields near the Don stood green, and in the courtyards pears and cherries grew green like summer, although by time it was high time for them to burn out with a red and crimson quiet fire.
The bird's flight took a long time. The goose slowly went south, calling somewhere in the foggy, stormy sky a quiet ong-ong... ong-ong...
But what can we say about the bird, if Grandma Katerina, a withered, hunchbacked old woman, but still an agile old woman, could not get ready to leave.
“I throw it with my mind, I won’t throw it…” she complained to her neighbor. - Should I go or not?.. Or maybe it will stay warm? They are talking on the radio: the weather has completely broken down. Now the fast has begun, but the magpies have not come to the yard. It's warm and warm. Back and forth... Christmas and Epiphany. And then it’s time to think about seedlings. There’s no point in going there and getting tights.
The neighbor just sighed: it was still so far away from spring, from seedlings.
But old Katerina, rather convincing herself, took out another argument from her bosom - a mobile phone.
- Mobile! — she proudly repeated the words of the city grandson. - One word - mobile. He pressed the button, and immediately - Maria. Pressed another - Kolya. Who do you want to feel sorry for? Why shouldn't we live? - she asked. - Why leave? Throw away the house, the farm...
This was not the first conversation. I talked with the children, with the neighbor, but more often with myself.
Recent years she was leaving to spend the winter with her daughter in the city. Age is one thing: it’s difficult to light the stove every day and carry water from the well. Through mud and ice. You will fall and hurt yourself. And who will lift it?
The farmstead, which until recently was populous, with the death of the collective farm, dispersed, moved away, died out. Only old people and drunks remained. And they don’t carry bread, not to mention the rest. It's hard for an old person to spend the winter. So she left to join her people.
But it’s not easy to part with a farm, with a nest. What to do with small animals: Tuzik, cat and chickens? Shove it around people?.. And my heart aches about the house. The drunkards will climb in and the last saucepans will be stuck.
And it’s not too much fun to settle into new corners in old age. Even though they are our own children, the walls are foreign and life is completely different. Guest and look around.
So I was thinking: should I go, should I not go?.. And then they brought a phone for help - a mobile phone. They explained for a long time about the buttons: which ones to press and which ones not to touch. Usually my daughter called from the city in the morning.
Cheerful music will begin to sing, and the light will flash in the box. At first, it seemed to old Katerina that her daughter’s face would appear there, as if on a small television. Only a voice announced, distant and not for long:
- Mom, hello! Are you okay? Well done. Any questions? That's good. Kiss. Be, be.
Before you know it, the light has already gone out, the box has fallen silent.
In the first days, old Katerina only marveled at such a miracle. Previously, on the farm there was a telephone in the collective farm office. Everything is familiar there: wires, a big black tube, you can talk for a long time. But that phone floated away with the collective farm. Now there is “mobile”. And then thank God.
- Mother! Can you hear me?! Alive and healthy? Well done. Kiss.
Before you even have time to open your mouth, the box has already gone out.
“What kind of passion is this?” the old woman grumbled. - Not a telephone, waxwing. He crowed: be it... So be it. And here...
And here, that is, in the life of the farmstead, the old man’s life, there was a lot of things that I wanted to talk about.
- Mom, can you hear me?
- I hear, I hear... Is that you, daughter? And the voice doesn’t seem to be yours, it’s somehow hoarse. Are you sick? Look, dress warmly. Otherwise, you are urban - fashionable, tie a down scarf. And don't let them look. Health is more valuable. Because I just had a dream, such a bad one. Why? It seems like there is some cattle in our yard. Alive. Right on the doorstep. She has a horse's tail, horns on her head, and a goat's muzzle. What kind of passion is this? And why would that be?
“Mom,” came a stern voice from the phone. - Talk to the point, and not about goat faces. We explained to you: the tariff.
“Forgive me for Christ’s sake,” the old woman came to her senses. They really warned her when the phone was delivered that it was expensive and she needed to talk briefly about the most important thing.
But what is the most important thing in life? Especially among old people... And in fact, I saw such passion at night: a horse’s tail and a scary goat’s face.
So think about it, what is this for? Probably not good.
Another day passed again, followed by another. The old woman’s life went on as usual: get up, tidy up, release the chickens; feed and water your small living creatures and even have something to eat. And then he’ll go and hook things up. It’s not for nothing that they say: even though the house is small, you are not told to sit.
A spacious farmstead that once fed a large family: a vegetable garden, a potato garden, and levada. Sheds, cubbyholes, chicken coop. Summer kitchen-mazanka, cellar with exit. Pletnevaya town, fence. Earth that needs to be dug little by little while it’s warm. And cut firewood, cutting it wide with a hand saw. Coal has become expensive these days and you can’t buy it.
Little by little the day dragged on, cloudy and warm. Ong-ong... ong-ong... - was heard sometimes. This goose went south, flock after flock. They flew away to return in the spring. But on the ground, on the farm, it was cemetery-like quiet. Having left, people did not return here either in the spring or in the summer. And therefore, rare houses and farmsteads seemed to crawl apart like crustaceans, shunning each other.
Another day has passed. And in the morning it was slightly frosty. Trees, bushes and dry grass stood in a light layer of frost - white fluffy frost. Old Katerina, going out into the courtyard, looked around at this beauty, rejoicing, but she should have looked down at her feet. She walked and walked, stumbled, fell, hitting a rhizome painfully.
The day started off awkwardly and just didn't go well.
As always in the morning, the mobile phone lit up and began to sing.
- Hello, my daughter, hello. Just one title: alive. “I’m so upset now,” she complained. “It was either the leg playing along, or maybe the slime.” Where, where...” she got annoyed. - In the yard. I went to open the gate at night. And there, near the gate, there is a black pear. You love her. She's sweet. I’ll make you compote from it. Otherwise I would have liquidated it long ago. Near this pear tree...
“Mom,” a distant voice came through the phone, “be more specific about what happened, and not about a sweet pear.”
- And that’s what I’m telling you. There, the root crawled out of the ground like a snake. But I walked and didn’t look. Yes, there’s also a stupid-faced cat poking around under your feet. This root... Letos Volodya asked how many times: take it away for Christ’s sake. He's on the move. Chernomyaska...
- Mom, please be more specific. About myself, not about the black meat. Don't forget that this is a mobile phone, a tariff. What hurts? Didn't you break anything?
“It seems like it didn’t break,” the old woman understood everything. — I’m adding a cabbage leaf.
That was the end of the conversation with my daughter. I had to explain the rest to myself: “What hurts, what doesn’t hurt... Everything hurts, every bone. Such a life is behind..."
And, driving away bitter thoughts, the old woman went about her usual activities in the yard and in the house. But I tried to huddle more under the roof so as not to fall. And then she sat down near the spinning wheel. A fluffy tow, a woolen thread, the measured rotation of the wheel of an ancient self-spinner. And thoughts, like a thread, stretch and stretch. And outside the window it’s an autumn day, like twilight. And it seems chilly. It would be necessary to heat it, but the firewood is tight. Suddenly we really have to spend the winter.
At the right time, I turned on the radio, waiting for words about the weather. But after a short silence, the soft, gentle voice of a young woman came from the loudspeaker:
- Do your bones hurt?..
These heartfelt words were so fitting and appropriate that the answer came naturally:
- They hurt, my daughter...
“Are your arms and legs aching?” a kind voice asked, as if guessing and knowing fate.
- There’s no way to save me... We were young, we didn’t smell it. In milkmaids and pig farms. And no shoes. And then they got into rubber boots, in winter and summer. So they force me...
“Your back hurts...” a female voice cooed softly, as if bewitching.
- My daughter will get sick... For centuries she carried chuvals and wahli with straw on her hump. How not to get sick... Such is life...
Life really was not easy: war, orphanhood, hard collective farm work.
The gentle voice from the loudspeaker spoke and spoke, and then fell silent.
The old woman even cried, scolding herself: “Stupid sheep... Why are you crying?..” But she cried. And the tears seemed to make it easier.
And then, quite unexpectedly, at an inopportune lunch hour, the music started playing and my mobile phone woke up. The old woman was frightened:
- Daughter, daughter... What happened? Who's not sick? And I was alarmed: you’re not calling on time. Don't hold a grudge against me, daughter. I know that the phone is expensive, it's a lot of money. But I really almost died. Tama, about this stick... - She came to her senses: - Lord, I’m talking about this stick again, forgive me, my daughter...
From afar, many kilometers away, my daughter’s voice was heard:
- Talk, mom, talk...
- So I’m humming. It's kind of a mess now. And then there’s this cat... Yes, this root is creeping under my feet, from a pear tree. For us old people, everything is in the way now. I would completely eliminate this pear tree, but you love it. Steam it and dry it, as usual... Again, I’m doing the wrong thing... Forgive me, my daughter. Can you hear me?..
In a distant city, her daughter heard her and even saw, closing her eyes, her old mother: small, bent, in a white scarf. I saw it, but suddenly felt how unsteady and unreliable it all was: telephone communication, vision.
“Tell me, mom...” she asked and was afraid of only one thing: suddenly this voice and this life would end, perhaps forever. - Talk, mom, talk...

Vladimir Tendryakov.

Bread for dogs

One evening my father and I were sitting on the porch at home.

Recently, my father had a kind of dark face, red eyelids, in some way he reminded me of the station master, walking along the station square in a red hat.

Suddenly, below, under the porch, a dog seemed to grow out of the ground. She had deserted, dull, unwashed yellow eyes and fur that was abnormally disheveled on the sides and back in gray clumps. She gazed at us for a minute or two with her empty gaze and disappeared as instantly as she had appeared.

- Why is her fur growing like that? - I asked.

The father paused and reluctantly explained:

- Falls out... From hunger. Its owner himself is probably going bald from hunger.

And it was as if I was doused with bath steam. I seem to have found the most, most unfortunate creature in the village. There are no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, but someone will take pity, even if secretly, ashamed, to themselves, No, no, no, and there will be a fool like me, who will slip them some bread. And the dog... Even the father now felt sorry not for the dog, but for its unknown owner - “he’s going bald from hunger.” The dog will die, and not even Abram will be found to clean it up.

The next day I was sitting on the porch in the morning with my pockets filled with pieces of bread. I sat and waited patiently to see if the same one would appear...

She appeared, just like yesterday, suddenly, silently, staring at me with empty, unwashed eyes. I moved to take out the bread, and she shied away... But out of the corner of her eye she managed to see the bread taken out, froze, and stared from afar at my hands - empty, without expression.

- Go... Yes, go. Don't be afraid.

She looked and did not move, ready to disappear at any second. She did not believe either the gentle voice, or the ingratiating smiles, or the bread in her hand. No matter how much I begged, she didn’t come, but she didn’t disappear either.

After struggling for half an hour, I finally gave up the bread. Without taking her empty, uninvolving eyes off me, she approached the piece sideways, sideways. A jump - and... not a piece, not a dog.

The next morning - a new meeting, with the same deserted glances, with the same unbending distrust of the kindness in the voice, of the kindly extended bread. The piece was only caught when it was thrown to the ground. I couldn’t give her the second piece.

The same thing happened on the third morning and on the fourth... We didn’t miss a single day without meeting, but we didn’t become closer to each other. I was never able to train her to take bread from my hands. I have never seen any expression in her yellow, empty, shallow eyes - not even a dog's fear, not to mention a dog's tenderness and friendly disposition.

Looks like I've encountered a victim of time here too. I knew that some exiles ate dogs, baited them, killed them, butchered them. Probably, my friend also fell into their hands. They couldn’t kill her, but they killed her trust in people forever. And it seemed like she didn’t particularly trust me. Raised by a hungry street, could she imagine such a fool who was ready to give food just like that, without demanding anything in return... not even gratitude.

Yes, even gratitude. This is a kind of payment, and for me it was quite enough that I feed someone, support someone’s life, which means that I myself have the right to eat and live.

I did not feed the dog, which was peeling from hunger, with pieces of bread, but my conscience.

I won’t say that my conscience really liked this suspicious food. My conscience continued to be inflamed, but not so much, not life-threatening.

That month, the station manager, who, as part of his duty, had to wear a red hat along the station square, shot himself. He didn’t think of finding an unfortunate little dog for himself to feed every day, tearing the bread off himself.

Vitaly Zakrutkin. Mother of man

On this September night, the sky trembled, trembled frequently, glowed crimson, reflecting the fires blazing below, and neither the moon nor the stars were visible on it. Near and distant cannon salvos thundered over the dully humming earth. Everything around was flooded with an uncertain, dim copper-red light, an ominous rumbling could be heard from everywhere, and indistinct, frightening noises crawled from all sides...

Huddled to the ground, Maria lay in a deep furrow. Above her, barely visible in the vague twilight, a thick thicket of corn rustled and swayed with dried panicles. Biting her lips in fear, covering her ears with her hands, Maria stretched out in the hollow of the furrow. She wanted to squeeze into the hardened, grass-overgrown plowed land, cover herself with earth, so as not to see or hear what was happening now on the farm.

She lay down on her stomach and buried her face in the dry grass. But lying there for a long time was painful and uncomfortable for her - the pregnancy was making itself felt. Inhaling the bitter smell of grass, she turned on her side, lay there for a while, then lay down on her back. Above, leaving a trail of fire, buzzing and whistling, rockets rushed past, and tracer bullets pierced the sky with green and red arrows. From below, from the farm, a sickening, suffocating smell of smoke and burning lingered.

Lord,” Maria whispered, sobbing, “send me death, Lord... I have no more strength... I can’t... send me death, I ask you, God...

She rose, knelt, and listened. “Whatever happens,” she thought in despair, “it’s better to die there, with everyone.” After waiting a little, looking around like a hunted she-wolf, and seeing nothing in the scarlet, moving darkness, Maria crawled to the edge of the corn field. From here, from the top of a sloping, almost inconspicuous hill, the farmstead was clearly visible. It was a kilometer and a half away, no more, and what Maria saw penetrated her with mortal cold.

All thirty houses of the farm were on fire. Slanting tongues of flame, swayed by the wind, broke through black clouds of smoke, raising thick scatterings of fiery sparks to the disturbed sky. Along the only farm street, illuminated by the glow of the fire, German soldiers walked leisurely with long flaming torches in their hands. They stretched torches to the thatched and reed roofs of houses, barns, chicken coops, not missing anything on their way, not even the most strewn coil or dog kennel, and after them new strands of fire flared up, and reddish sparks flew and flew towards the sky.

Two strong explosions shook the air. They followed one after another on the western side of the farm, and Maria realized that the Germans had blown up the new brick cowshed that the collective farm had built just before the war.

All the surviving farmers - there were about a hundred of them, along with women and children - the Germans drove them out of their houses and gathered them in an open place, behind the farm, where there was a collective farm current in the summer. A kerosene lantern was swinging on a current, suspended on a high pole. Its weak, flickering light seemed like a barely noticeable point. Maria knew this place well. A year ago, shortly after the start of the war, she and the women from her brigade were stirring grain on the threshing floor. Many cried, remembering their husbands, brothers, and children who had gone to the front. But the war seemed distant to them, and they did not know then that its bloody wave would reach their inconspicuous, small farmstead, lost in the hilly steppe. And on this terrible September night, their native farm was burning down before their eyes, and they themselves, surrounded by machine gunners, stood on the current, like a flock of dumb sheep on the rear, and did not know what awaited them...

Maria's heart was pounding, her hands were shaking. She jumped up and wanted to rush there, towards the current, but fear stopped her. Backing away, she crouched to the ground again, sank her teeth into her hands to muffle the heart-rending scream bursting from her chest. So Maria lay for a long time, sobbing like a child, suffocating from the acrid smoke creeping up the hill.

The farm was burning down. The gun salvos began to subside. In the darkened sky the steady rumble of heavy bombers flying somewhere was heard. From the direction of the current, Maria heard a woman's hysterical crying and short, angry cries of the Germans. Accompanied by submachine gun soldiers, a discordant crowd of farmers slowly moved along the country road. The road ran along a corn field very close, about forty meters away.

Maria held her breath and pressed her chest to the ground. “Where are they driving them?” a feverish thought beat in her fevered brain. “Are they really going to shoot? There are small children, innocent women...” Opening her eyes wide, she looked at the road. A crowd of farmers wandered past her. Three women were carrying babies in their arms. Maria recognized them. These were two of her neighbors, young soldiers whose husbands had gone to the front just before the Germans arrived, and the third was an evacuated teacher, she gave birth to a daughter here on the farm. The older children hobbled along the road, holding on to the hems of their mothers' skirts, and Maria recognized both mothers and children... Uncle Korney walked awkwardly on his homemade crutches; his leg had been taken away during that German war. Supporting each other, two decrepit old widowers walked, grandfather Kuzma and grandfather Nikita. Every summer they guarded the collective farm’s melon plant and more than once treated Maria to juicy, cool watermelons. The farmers walked quietly, and as soon as one of the women began to cry loudly, sobbingly, a German in a helmet immediately approached her and knocked her down with blows from a machine gun. The crowd stopped. Grabbing the fallen woman by the collar, the German lifted her, quickly and angrily muttered something, pointing his hand forward...

Peering into the strange luminous twilight, Maria recognized almost all the farmers. They walked with baskets, with buckets, with bags on their shoulders, walking, obeying the short shouts of the machine gunners. None of them said a word, only the crying of children was heard in the crowd. And only at the top of the hill, when for some reason the column was delayed, a heartbreaking cry was heard:

Bastards! Pala-a-chi! Fascist freaks! I don't want your Germany! I won't be your farmhand, you bastards!

Maria recognized the voice. Fifteen-year-old Sanya Zimenkova, a Komsomol member, the daughter of a farm tractor driver who had gone to the front, was screaming. Before the war, Sanya was in seventh grade and lived in a boarding school in a distant regional center, but the school had not been open for a year, Sanya came to her mother and stayed on the farm.

Sanechka, what are you doing? Shut up, daughter! - the mother began to wail. Please, shut up! They will kill you, my child!

I will not remain silent! - Sanya shouted even louder. - Let them kill, damned bandits!

Maria heard a short burst of machine gun fire. The women began to voice hoarsely. The Germans croaked in barking voices. The crowd of farmers began to move away and disappeared behind the top of the hill.

A sticky, cold fear fell on Maria. “It was Sanya who was killed,” a terrible guess struck her like lightning. She waited a little and listened. Human voices were not heard anywhere, only machine guns were tapping dully somewhere in the distance. Behind the copse, in the eastern hamlet, flares flared up here and there. They hung in the air, illuminating the mutilated earth with a dead yellowish light, and after two or three minutes, flowing out in fiery drops, they went out. In the east, three kilometers from the farmstead, was the front line of the German defense. Maria was there with other farmers: the Germans were forcing residents to dig trenches and communication passages. They wound in a sinuous line along the eastern slope of the hill. For many months, fearing the darkness, the Germans illuminated their defense line with rockets at night in order to notice the chains of attacking Soviet soldiers in time. And the Soviet machine gunners - Maria saw this more than once - used tracer bullets to shoot enemy missiles, cut them apart, and they, fading away, fell to the ground. So it was now: machine guns crackled from the direction of the Soviet trenches, and the green lines of bullets rushed towards one rocket, to a second, to a third and extinguished them...

“Maybe Sanya is alive?” Maria thought. Maybe she was just wounded and, poor thing, she’s lying on the road, bleeding? Coming out of the thicket of corn, Maria looked around. There is no one around. An empty grassy lane stretched along the hill. The farm was almost burnt down, only here and there flames still flared up, and sparks flickered over the ashes. Clinging to the boundary at the edge of the corn field, Maria crawled to the place from where she thought she heard Sanya’s scream and shots. It was painful and difficult to crawl. At the boundary, tough tumbleweed bushes, blown by the winds, clung together, they pricked her knees and elbows, and Maria was barefoot, wearing only an old chintz dress. So, undressed, last morning, at dawn, she ran away from the farm and now cursed herself for not taking a coat, a scarf, and putting on stockings and shoes.

She crawled slowly, half-dead with fear. She often stopped, listened to the dull, guttural sounds of distant shooting, and crawled again. It seemed to her that everything around was humming: both the sky and the earth, and that somewhere in the most inaccessible depths of the earth this heavy, mortal hum also did not stop.

She found Sanya where she thought. The girl lay prostrate in the ditch, her thin arms outstretched and her bare left leg uncomfortably bent under her. Barely discerning her body in the unsteady darkness, Maria pressed herself close to her, felt the sticky wetness on her warm shoulder with her cheek, and put her ear to her small, sharp chest. The girl’s heart beat unevenly: it froze, then pounded in fitful tremors. "Alive!" - thought Maria.

Looking around, she stood up, took Sanya in her arms and ran to the saving corn. Shortcut seemed endless to her. She stumbled, breathed hoarsely, afraid that she would drop Sanya, fall and never rise again. No longer seeing anything, not understanding that the dry stalks of corn were rustling like a tin around her, Maria sank to her knees and lost consciousness...

She woke up from Sanya’s heart-breaking moan. The girl lay under her, choking from the blood filling her mouth. Blood covered Maria's face. She jumped up, rubbed her eyes with the hem of her dress, lay down next to Sanya, and pressed her whole body against her.

Sanya, my baby,” Maria whispered, choking on tears, “open your eyes, my poor child, my little orphan... Open your little eyes, say at least one word...

With trembling hands, Maria tore off a piece of her dress, raised Sanya’s head, and began wiping the girl’s mouth and face with a piece of washed chintz. She touched her carefully, kissed her forehead, salty with blood, her warm cheeks, the thin fingers of her submissive, lifeless hands.

Sanya’s chest was wheezing, squelching, bubbling. Stroking the girl’s childish, angular-columnar legs with her palm, Maria felt with horror how Sanya’s narrow feet were getting colder under her hand.

“Come on, baby,” she began to beg Sanya. - Take a break, my dear... Don’t die, Sanechka... Don’t leave me alone... It’s me with you, Aunt Maria. Do you hear, baby? You and I are the only two left, only two...

The corn rustled monotonously above them. The cannon fire died down. The sky darkened, only somewhere far away, behind the forest, the reddish reflections of the flame still shuddered. That early morning hour came when thousands of people killing each other - both those who, like a gray tornado, rushed to the east, and those who with their breasts held back the movement of the tornado, were exhausted, tired of mutilating the earth with mines and shells and, stupefied by the roar, smoke and soot, they stopped their terrible work to catch their breath in the trenches, rest a little and begin the difficult, bloody harvest again...

Sanya died at dawn. No matter how hard Maria tried to warm the mortally wounded girl with her body, no matter how she pressed her hot chest against her, no matter how she hugged her, nothing helped. Sanya’s hands and feet grew cold, the hoarse bubbling in her throat ceased, and she began to freeze all over.

Maria closed Sanya’s slightly open eyelids, folded her scratched, stiff hands with traces of blood and purple ink on her fingers on her chest, and silently sat down next to the dead girl. Now, in these moments, Mary’s heavy, inconsolable grief - the death of her husband and little son, hanged by the Germans two days ago on the old farm apple tree - seemed to float away, shrouded in fog, wilted in the face of this new death, and Maria, pierced by a sharp sudden thought, realized that her grief was only a drop invisible to the world in that terrible, wide river of human grief, a black river, illuminated by fires, which, flooding, destroying the banks, spread wider and wider and rushed there faster and faster , to the east, moving away from Mary what she lived in this world for all her short twenty-nine years...

Sergey Kutsko

WOLVES

The way village life is structured is that if you don’t go out into the forest before noon and take a walk through familiar mushroom and berry places, then by evening there’s nothing to run for, everything will be hidden.

One girl thought so too. The sun has just risen to the tops of the fir trees, and already there is a full basket in my hands, I have wandered far, but what mushrooms! She looked around with gratitude and was just about to leave when the distant bushes suddenly trembled and an animal came out into the clearing, its eyes tenaciously following the girl’s figure.

- Oh, dog! - she said.

Cows were grazing somewhere nearby, and meeting a shepherd dog in the forest was not a big surprise to them. But the meeting with several more pairs of animal eyes put me in a daze...

“Wolves,” a thought flashed, “the road is not far, run...” Yes, my strength disappeared, the basket involuntarily fell out of my hands, my legs became weak and unruly.

- Mother! - this sudden cry stopped the flock, which had already reached the middle of the clearing. - People, help! - flashed three times over the forest.

As the shepherds later said: “We heard screams, we thought the children were playing around...” This is five kilometers from the village, in the forest!

The wolves slowly approached, the she-wolf walked ahead. This happens with these animals - the she-wolf becomes the head of the pack. Only her eyes were not as fierce as they were searching. They seemed to ask: “Well, man? What will you do now, when there are no weapons in your hands, and your relatives are not nearby?

The girl fell to her knees, covered her eyes with her hands and began to cry. Suddenly the thought of prayer came to her, as if something stirred in her soul, as if the words of her grandmother, remembered from childhood, were resurrected: “Ask the Mother of God! ”

The girl did not remember the words of the prayer. Making the sign of the cross, she asked the Mother of God, as if she were her mother, in the last hope of intercession and salvation.

When she opened her eyes, the wolves, passing the bushes, went into the forest. A she-wolf walked slowly ahead, head down.

Ch. Aitmatov

Chordon, pressed against the railing of the platform, looked over the sea of ​​heads at the red carriages of the endlessly long train.

Sultan, Sultan, my son, I am here! Can you hear me?! - he shouted, raising his arms over the fence.

But where was there to shout! A railway worker standing next to the fence asked him:

Do you have a mine?

Yes,” Chordon answered.

Do you know where the marshalling yard is?

I know, in that direction.

Then that's it, dad, sit on the mine and ride there. You'll have time, about five kilometers, no more. The train will stop there for a minute, and there you will say goodbye to your son, just ride faster, don’t stand there!

Chordon rushed around the square until he found his horse, and only remembered how he jerked the knot of the chumbur, how he put his foot into the stirrup, how he burned the sides of the horse with damask and how, ducking, he rushed down the street along the railway. Along the deserted, echoing street, frightening the rare passers-by, he rushed like a ferocious nomad.

“Just to be in time, just to be in time, there’s so much to tell my son!” - he thought and, without opening his clenched teeth, uttered a prayer and spells to the galloping horseman: “Help me, spirits of the ancestors! Help me, patron of the Kambar-ata mines, don’t let my horse stumble! Give him the wings of a falcon, give him a heart of iron, give him the legs of a deer!”

Having passed the street, Chordon jumped out onto the path under the iron road embankment and slowed down his horse again. It was not far from the marshalling yard when the noise of the train began to overtake him from behind. The heavy, hot roar of two steam locomotives paired in a train, like a mountain collapse, fell on his bent broad shoulders.

The echelon overtook the galloping Chordon. The horse is already tired. But he expected to make it in time, if only the train would stop; it wasn’t that far to the marshalling yard. And fear, anxiety that the train might suddenly not stop, made him remember God: “Great God, if you are on earth, stop this train! Please, stop, stop the train!”

The train was already at the marshalling yard when Chordon caught up with the tail cars. And the son ran along the train - towards his father. Seeing him, Chordon jumped off his horse. They silently threw themselves into each other's arms and froze, forgetting about everything in the world.

Father, forgive me, I’m leaving as a volunteer,” said the Sultan.

I know, son.

I offended my sisters, father. Let them forget the insult if they can.

They have forgiven you. Don’t be offended by them, don’t forget them, write to them, you hear. And don't forget your mother.

Okay, father.

A lonely bell rang at the station; it was time to leave. For the last time, the father looked into his son’s face and for a moment saw in him his own features, himself, still young, still at the dawn of his youth: he pressed him tightly to his chest. And at that moment, with all his being, he wanted to convey his father’s love to his son. Kissing him, Chordon kept saying the same thing:

Be a man, my son! Wherever you are, be human! Always remain human!

The carriages shook.

Chordonov, let's go! - the commander shouted to him.

And when Sultan was dragged into the carriage as they walked, Chordon lowered his hands, then turned around and, falling to the sweaty, hot mane of the captain, began to sob. He cried, hugging the horse's neck, and shuddered so much that under the weight of his grief the horse's hooves moved from place to place.

The railway workers passed by in silence. They knew why people cried in those days. And only the station boys, suddenly subdued, stood and looked at this big, old, crying man with curiosity and childish compassion.

The sun rose above the mountains two poplars high when Chordon, having passed the Small Gorge, drove out into the wide expanse of a hilly valley, going under the snowiest mountains. Chordon took my breath away. His son lived on this land...

(excerpt from the story “A Date with My Son”)

List of works to learn by heart and definition of the genre of the work the teacher carries out independently according to the author's program.

An excerpt of a work (poetic) for grades 5-11 must be a complete semantic text of at least 30 lines; prose text – 10-15 lines (grades 5-8), 15-20 lines (grades 9-11). Texts to learn by heart from dramatic work determined by the form of the monologue.

1. A.S. Pushkin. “The Bronze Horseman” (excerpt “I love you, Peter’s creation...”)

2. I.S. Turgenev. "Fathers and Sons" (excerpt)

3. I.S.Goncharov. "Oblomov" (excerpt)

4. A.N. Ostrovsky. “Thunderstorm” (excerpt: one of the monologues)

5. F.I.Tyutchev. "Oh, how murderously we love..."

6. N.A. Nekrasov. “The Poet and the Citizen” (excerpt “The son cannot look calmly...”); “You and I are stupid people...”, “Who can live well in Rus'?” (excerpt)

7. A.A.Fet. “Distant friend, understand my sobs...”

8. A.K. Tolstoy. “In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance...”

9. L.N. Tolstoy. "War and Peace" (excerpt)

10. A. Rimbaud. "Closet"

Alexander Pushkin.“I love you, Peter’s creation” (from the poem “The Bronze Horseman”)

I love you, Petra's creation,

I love your strict, slender appearance,

Neva sovereign current,

Its coastal granite,

Your fences have a cast iron pattern,

of your thoughtful nights

Transparent twilight, moonless shine,

When I'm in my room

I write, I read without a lamp,

And the sleeping communities are clear

Deserted streets and light

Admiralty needle,

And, not letting the darkness of the night

To golden skies

One dawn gives way to another

He hurries, giving the night half an hour.

I love your cruel winter

Still air and frost,

Sleigh running along the wide Neva,

Girls' faces are brighter than roses,

And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,

And at the hour of the feast the bachelor

The hiss of foamy glasses

And the punch flame is blue.

I love the warlike liveliness

Amusing Fields of Mars,

Infantry troops and horses

Uniform beauty

In their harmoniously unsteady system

The shreds of these victorious banners,

The shine of these copper caps,

Shot through and through in battle.

I love you, military capital,

Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,

When the queen is full

Gives a son to the royal house,

Or victory over the enemy

Russia triumphs again

Or, breaking your blue ice,

The Neva carries him to the seas

And, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.

Show off, city Petrov, and stand

Unshakable like Russia,

May he make peace with you

And the defeated element;

Enmity and ancient captivity

Let the Finnish waves forget

And they will not be vain malice

Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!

I.S. Turgenev. "Fathers and Sons" (excerpt)

And now I repeat to you at parting... because there is no point in deceiving yourself: we are saying goodbye forever, and you yourself feel it... you acted smartly; you were not created for our bitter, tart, bean* life. You have neither insolence nor anger, but only youthful courage and youthful enthusiasm; This is not suitable for our business. Your brother, a nobleman, cannot go further than noble humility or noble boiling, and this is nothing. For example, you don’t fight - and you already imagine yourself to be great - but we want to fight. What! Our dust will eat into your eyes, our dirt will stain you, and you haven’t grown up to us, you involuntarily admire yourself, you enjoy scolding yourself; But it’s boring for us - give us others! We need to break others! You are a nice fellow; but you are still a soft, liberal barich - e volatu, as my parent puts it.

Are you saying goodbye to me forever, Evgeniy? - Arkady said sadly, - and you have no other words for me?

Bazarov scratched the back of his head.

Yes, Arkady, I have other words, but I won’t express them, because this is romanticism - it means: get drunk *. And you should get married as soon as possible; Yes, get your own nest, and have more children. They will be smart just because they will be born on time, not like you and me.

NOTES:

* BOBYL- unmarried, unmarried, unmarried, single, wifeless, familyless.

*GET EXCITED and fall apart, fall apart, fall apart - become soft, fall into a sentimental mood.

I.S. Goncharov."Oblomov" (excerpt)

No,” Olga interrupted, raising her head and trying to look at him through her tears. “I only recently found out that I loved in you what I wanted to have in you, what Stolz showed me, what we invented with him.” I loved the future Oblomov! You are meek and honest, Ilya; you are gentle... dove; you hide your head under your wing - and don’t want anything more; you are ready to coo under the roof all your life... but I’m not like that: this is not enough for me, I need something else, but I don’t know what! Can you teach me, tell me what it is, what I lack, give it all so that I... And tenderness... where it is not!

Oblomov’s legs gave way; he sat down in a chair and wiped his hands and forehead with a handkerchief.

The word was cruel; it deeply stung Oblomov: inside it seemed to burn him, outside it blew cold on him. In response, he smiled somehow pitifully, painfully bashful, like a beggar who was reproached for his nakedness. He sat with this smile of powerlessness, weakened from excitement and resentment; his dull gaze clearly said: “Yes, I am meager, pitiful, poor... beat me, beat me!..”

Who cursed you, Ilya? What have you done? You are kind, smart, gentle, noble... and... you are dying! What ruined you? There is no name for this evil...

“Yes,” he said, barely audible.

She looked at him questioningly, her eyes full of tears.

Oblomovism! - he whispered, then took her hand, wanted to kiss it, but couldn’t, he just pressed it tightly to his lips, and hot tears dripped onto her fingers.

Without raising his head, without showing her his face, he turned around and walked away.

A.N. Ostrovsky.“Thunderstorm” (excerpt: one of the monologues)

Monologue of Katerina.

I say, why don’t people fly like birds? You know, sometimes I feel like I'm a bird. When you stand on a mountain, you feel the urge to fly. That's how I would run up, raise my hands and fly...

How playful I was! I'm completely withered...

Was that what I was like? I lived, didn’t worry about anything, like a bird in the wild. Mama doted on me, dressed me up like a doll, and didn’t force me to work; I used to do whatever I want. Do you know how I lived with girls? I'll tell you now. I used to get up early; If it’s summer, I’ll go to the spring, wash myself, bring some water with me and that’s it, I’ll water all the flowers in the house. I had many, many flowers. Then we’ll go to church with Mama, all of us, strangers; our house was full of strangers; yes praying mantis. And we’ll come home from church, sit down to do some kind of work, more like gold velvet, and the wandering women will begin to tell us: where they were, what they saw, different lives, or sing poetry. So time will pass until lunch. Here the old women go to sleep, and I walk around the garden. Then to Vespers, and in the evening again stories and singing. It was so good!

Monologue of Kuligin.

Cruel morals, sir, in our city, cruel! In philistinism, sir, you will see nothing but rudeness and stark poverty. And we, sir, will never escape this crust! Because honest work will never earn us more than our daily bread. And whoever has money, sir, tries to enslave the poor so that he can make even more money from his free labors. Do you know what your uncle, Savel Prokofich, answered to the mayor? The peasants came to the mayor to complain that he would not disrespect any of them. The mayor began to tell him: “Listen,” he says, Savel Prokofich, pay the men well! Every day they come to me with complaints!” Your uncle patted the mayor on the shoulder and said: “Is it worth it, your honor, for us to talk about such trifles! I have a lot of people every year; You understand: I won’t pay them a penny per person, but I make thousands out of this, so that’s good for me!” That's it, sir!

F.I. Tyutchev."Oh, how murderously we love..."

Oh, how murderously we love,

We are most likely to destroy,

What is dear to our hearts!

How long ago, proud of my victory,

You said: she is mine...

A year has not passed - ask and find out,

What was left of her?

Where did the roses go?

The smile of the lips and the sparkle of the eyes?

Everything was scorched, tears burned out

With its hot moisture.

Do you remember, when you met,

At the first fatal meeting,

Her eyes and speeches are magical

And baby-like laughter?

So what now? And where is all this?

And how long was the dream?

Alas, like northern summer,

He was a passing guest!

Fate's terrible sentence

Your love was for her

And undeserved shame

She laid down her life!

A life of renunciation, a life of suffering!

In her soul's depths

She was left with memories...

But they also changed.

And on earth she felt wild,

The charm is gone...

The crowd surged and trampled into the mud

What bloomed in her soul.

And what about the long torment?

How did she manage to save the ashes?

Evil pain, bitter pain,

Pain without joy and without tears!

Oh, how murderously we love!

As in the violent blindness of passions

We are most likely to destroy,

What is dearer to our hearts!..

N.A. Nekrasov.“The Poet and the Citizen” (excerpt “The son cannot look calmly...”)

The son cannot look calmly

On my dear mother's grief,

There will be no worthy citizen

I have a cold heart for my homeland,

There is no worse reproach for him...

Go into the fire for the honor of your fatherland,

For conviction, for love...

Go and die blamelessly.

You will not die in vain, the matter is strong,

When the blood flows underneath...

And you, poet! chosen one of heaven,

Herald of age-old truths,

Do not believe that he who has no bread

Not worth your prophetic strings!

Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;

God has not died in the souls of people,

And a cry from a believing chest

Will always be available to her!

Be a citizen! serving art,

Live for the good of your neighbor,

Subordinating your genius to feeling

All-embracing Love;

And if you are rich in gifts,

Don’t bother exhibiting them:

They themselves will shine in your work

Their life-giving rays.

Look: solid stone in fragments

The poor worker crushes

And from under the hammer it flies

And the flame splashes out on its own!

N.A. Nekrasov.“You and I are stupid people...”

You and I are stupid people:

In just a minute, the flash is ready!

Relief for a troubled chest

An unreasonable, harsh word.

Speak up when you're angry

Everything that excites and torments the soul!

Let us, my friend, be openly angry:

The world is easier and more likely to get boring.

If prose in love is inevitable,

So let's take a share of happiness from her:

After a quarrel, so full, so tender

Return of love and participation.

N.A. Nekrasov.“Who can live well in Rus'?” (excerpt)

You're miserable too

You are also abundant

You are mighty

You are also powerless

Mother Rus'!

Saved in slavery

Free heart -

Gold, gold

People's heart!

People's power

Mighty force -

Conscience is calm,

The truth is alive!

Strength with untruth

Doesn't get along

Sacrifice by untruth

Not called

Rus' does not move,

Rus' is like dead!

And she caught fire

Hidden spark

They stood up - unwounded,

They came out - uninvited,

Live by the grain

The mountains have been destroyed!

The army is rising

Countless!

The strength in her will affect

Indestructible!

You're miserable too

You are also abundant

You're downtrodden

You are omnipotent

Mother Rus'!

A.A.Fet.“Distant friend, understand my sobs...” (“A. L. Brzeskoy”)

Distant friend, understand my sobs,

Forgive me for my painful cry.

Memories bloom in my soul with you,

And I haven’t lost the habit of cherishing you.

Who will tell us that we did not know how to live,

Soulless and idle minds,

That kindness and tenderness did not burn in us

And we didn’t sacrifice beauty?

Where is all this? The soul is still burning

Still ready to embrace the world.

Vain heat! Nobody answers

Sounds will resurrect and die again.

Only you are alone! High excitement

There is blood on the cheeks and inspiration in the heart. -

Get away from this dream - there are too many tears in it!

It’s not a pity for life with languid breathing,

What is life and death? What a pity about that fire

That shone over the whole universe,

And he goes into the night and cries as he leaves.

A.K. Tolstoy.“In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance...”

In the middle of a noisy ball, by chance,

In the anxiety of worldly vanity,

I saw you, but it's a mystery

Your features are covered.

Like the sound of a distant pipe,

Like a playing shaft of the sea.

I liked your thin figure

And your whole thoughtful look,

And your laughter, both sad and ringing,

Since then it has been ringing in my heart.

In the lonely hours of the night

I love, tired, to lie down -

I see sad eyes

I hear cheerful speech;

And sadly I fall asleep like that,

And I sleep in unknown dreams...

Do I love you - I don't know

But it seems to me that I love it!

L.N. Tolstoy. "War and Peace" (excerpt)

In captivity, in a booth, Pierre learned not with his mind, but with his whole being, life, that man was created for happiness, that happiness is in himself, in the satisfaction of natural human needs, and that all unhappiness comes not from lack, but from excess; but now, in these last three weeks of the campaign, he learned another new, comforting truth - he learned that there is nothing terrible in the world. He learned that since there is no situation in which a person would be happy and completely free, there is also no situation in which he would be unhappy and not free. He learned that there is a limit to suffering and a limit to freedom, and that this limit is very close; that the man who suffered because one leaf was wrapped in his pink bed suffered in the same way as he suffered now, falling asleep on the bare, damp earth, cooling one side and warming the other; that when he used to put on his narrow ballroom shoes, he suffered in exactly the same way as now, when he walked completely barefoot (his shoes had long since become disheveled), with feet covered with sores. He learned that when he, as it seemed to him, of his own free will, married his wife, he was no more free than now, when he was locked in the stable at night. Of all the things that he later called suffering, but which he hardly felt then, the main thing was his bare, worn, scabby feet.

A. Rimbaud."Closet"

Here is an old carved cabinet, whose oak has dark streaks

I began to look like kind old men a long time ago;

The closet is thrown open, and darkness comes from all the secluded corners

The enticing smell flows like old wine.

Full of everything: a pile of junk,

Pleasant-smelling yellow underwear,

Grandmother's scarf, where there is an image

Griffin, lace, and ribbons, and rags;

Here you will find medallions and portraits,

A strand of white hair and a strand of a different color,

Children's clothes, dried flowers...

O closet of bygone days! Lots of stories

And you keep many fairy tales safely

Behind this door, blackened and creaky.