Albert Likhanov, the last cold weather, a brief retelling. Comments

Albert Likhanov

Last cold weather

I dedicate it to the children of the past war, their hardships and not at all children’s suffering. I dedicate it to today’s adults who have not forgotten how to base their lives on the truths of military childhood. May those lofty rules and undying examples always shine and never fade in our memory - after all, adults are just former children.

Remembering my first classes and my dear teacher, dear Anna Nikolaevna, now, when so many years have passed since that happy and bitter time, I can say quite definitely: our teacher loved to be distracted.

Sometimes, in the middle of a lesson, she would suddenly rest her fist on her sharp chin, her eyes would become misty, her gaze would sink into the sky or sweep through us, as if behind our backs and even behind the school wall she saw something happily clear, something we, of course, did not understand , and here is what is visible to her; her gaze became misty even when one of us was stomping around the blackboard, crumbling the chalk, groaning, sniffling, looking questioningly at the class, as if looking for salvation, asking for a straw to grab onto - and then suddenly the teacher became strangely quiet, her gaze softened, she forgot the respondent at the blackboard, forgot us, her students, and quietly, as if to herself and to herself, she uttered some truth that still had a direct relation to us.

“Of course,” she said, for example, as if reproaching herself, “I won’t be able to teach you drawing or music.” But the one who has God’s gift,” she immediately reassured herself and us too, “will be awakened by this gift and will never fall asleep again.”

Or, blushing, she muttered under her breath, again not addressing anyone, something like this:

– If anyone thinks that they can skip just one section of mathematics and then move on, they are sorely mistaken. In learning you cannot deceive yourself. You may deceive the teacher, but you will never deceive yourself.

Either because Anna Nikolaevna did not address her words to any of us specifically, or because she was talking to herself, an adult, and only the last donkey does not understand how much more interesting the conversations of adults about you are than teachers’ and parents’ moral teachings, or perhaps all this taken together had an effect on us, because Anna Nikolaevna had a military mind, and a good commander, as we know, will not take a fortress if he only attacks head-on - in a word, Anna Nikolaevna’s distractions, her general’s maneuvers, thoughtful, at the most unexpected moment, reflections turned out, surprisingly, to be the most important lessons.

In fact, I almost don’t remember how she taught us arithmetic, the Russian language, and geography, so it’s clear that this teaching became my knowledge. But the rules of life that the teacher pronounced to herself remained for a long time, if not for a century.

Perhaps trying to instill self-respect in us, or perhaps pursuing a simpler but important goal, spurring on our efforts, Anna Nikolaevna from time to time repeated one apparently important truth.

“This is all it takes,” she said, “just a little more - and they will receive a certificate of primary education.”

Indeed, colorful balloons were inflating inside us. We looked, satisfied, at each other. Wow, Vovka Kroshkin will receive the first document in his life. And me too! And, of course, excellent student Ninka. Anyone in our class can receive - what's called - a certificate of education.

At the time when I was studying, primary education was valued. After the fourth grade, they were given a special paper, and they could complete their studies there. True, this rule did not suit any of us, and Anna Nikolaevna explained that we had to complete at least seven years of education, but a document on primary education was still issued, and we thus became quite literate people.

– Look how many adults have only primary education! - Anna Nikolaevna muttered. “Ask your mothers, your grandmothers at home, who graduated from primary school alone, and think carefully after that.

We thought, asked questions at home and gasped to ourselves: a little more, and it turned out that we were catching up with many of our relatives. If not in height, if not in intelligence, if not in knowledge, then through education we were approaching equality with people we loved and respected.

“Wow,” sighed Anna Nikolaevna, “about a year and two months!” And they will get an education!

Who was she grieving for? Us? For yourself? Unknown. But there was something significant, serious, disturbing in these lamentations...

* * *

Immediately after spring break in the third grade, that is, without a year and two months of being a primary educated person, I received vouchers for extra food.

It was already the forty-fifth, ours were beating the Krauts in vain, Levitan announced a new fireworks display on the radio every evening, and in my soul in the early mornings, at the beginning of a day undisturbed by life, two lightning bolts crossed, blazing - a premonition of joy and anxiety for my father. I seemed to be all tense, superstitiously averting my eyes from such a murderously painful possibility of losing my father on the eve of obvious happiness.

It was in those days, or rather, on the first day after spring break, that Anna Nikolaevna gave me coupons for supplementary nutrition. After classes I have to go to cafeteria number eight and have lunch there.

We were given free food vouchers one by one - there wasn’t enough for everyone at once - and I had already heard about the eighth canteen.

Who didn’t know her, really! This gloomy, drawn-out house, an extension to a former monastery, looked like an animal that was sprawled, clinging to the ground. From the heat that made its way through the unsealed cracks in the frames, the glass in the eighth dining room not only froze, but was overgrown with uneven, lumpy frost. Frost hung like a gray fringe over the front door, and when I walked past the eighth dining room, it always seemed to me as if there was such a warm oasis with ficus trees inside, probably along the edges of the huge hall, maybe even under the ceiling, like in a market, there lived two or three happy sparrows who managed to fly into the ventilation pipe, and they chirp to themselves on the beautiful chandeliers, and then, emboldened, sit on the ficus trees.

This is how the eighth dining room seemed to me while I was just passing by it, but had not yet been inside. What significance, one might ask, do these ideas have now?

Even though we lived in a rear-facing city, even though my mother and grandmother sat down with all their might, not allowing me to go hungry, the feeling of insatiability visited me many times a day. Infrequently, but still regularly, before going to bed, my mother made me take off my T-shirt and bring my shoulder blades together on my back. Smiling, I obediently did what she asked, and my mother sighed deeply, or even began to sob, and when I demanded to explain this behavior, she repeated to me that the shoulder blades come together when a person is extremely thin, so I can count all my ribs It’s possible, and in general I have anemia.

I laughed. I don’t have any anemia, because the word itself means that there should be little blood, but I had enough of it. When I stepped on bottle glass in the summer, it gushed out as if from a water tap. All this is nonsense - my mother’s worries, and if we talk about my shortcomings, then I could admit that there is something wrong with my ears - I often heard in them some kind of additional, in addition to the sounds of life, a slight ringing, really , my head felt lighter and seemed to think even better, but I kept silent about it, didn’t tell my mother, otherwise he’d come up with some other stupid

The main theme in the work of Albert Likhanov is the relationship between a child and a teenager and the cruel world of adults. He devoted most of his works to the formation of the younger generation. The topic of military childhood also did not go unnoticed by this writer. Likhanov dedicated “The Last Cold” to the children of the war, their hardships and not at all childish suffering. A summary of this story is presented in the article.

Children and war

In military prose, Likhanov reflected the feelings he experienced in childhood. The writer was born in 1935, and witnessed the tragic events of the last war as a child. Children and war are a terrible and unnatural combination. This author’s works dedicated to his wartime childhood are journalistic and heartfeltly truthful. The most tragic of them was given a symbolic name by Likhanov - “The Last Cold”. The summary of this book is a story about the difficult trials that children had to endure during the war. Reading this work, you experience admiration and fear.

The story is told in first person. From the perspective of that boy who, decades later, was able to look at what he experienced through the eyes of an adult, and then tell his readers about heroism and courage. These children were capable of much in the most terrible moments of their lives.

Anna Nikolaevna

At the beginning of the story, the author turns to memories of his first school years. Likhanov talks about his first teacher with love and respect. “The Last Cold,” which briefly summarizes the hunger, cold and illnesses that accompany children of war, is not without good nostalgic descriptions.

The most striking image that will remain in the heart of the main character is Anna Nikolaevna - a primary school teacher. She combined lessons in arithmetic, Russian language and geography with wise life lessons, which at times, as if thinking about something, she presented to her students in an unobtrusive form. “In learning you cannot deceive yourself. You can lie to a teacher, but never to yourself,” she suddenly said quietly, as if she were talking to herself.

Food stamps

The main character of the work is called Kolya. The action takes place in a small town, deep in the rear. Children here, no matter what, continue to go to school, mothers continue to go to work. Fathers are somewhere far away fighting the enemy. But in reality, war is everywhere, even where there are no battles or battles. The last year of the war, which is discussed in the story, is its summary (A. A. Likhanov). “The Last Cold” is a story about the decisive battles for the homeland, which were fought not only by brave soldiers on the front line, but also by civilians in the rear. And even children.

During this period, the voice of announcer Levitan is heard from radio receivers everywhere, who solemnly announces another victory. But hunger and disease undermined people's health. Adolescents and children suffer especially hard deprivations. The main character, like other schoolchildren in this rear-facing city, is entitled to food stamps. The mother and grandmother do everything to ensure that the boy does not feel hungry. But the feeling of unsatisfaction still does not leave him.

Dining room No. 8

The writer Likhanov depicts life in the rear with great authenticity. “The Last Cold,” a brief summary of which is, first of all, the difficult conditions in which children find themselves, is a wise work. The description of the canteen where the boy receives additional food is given great attention. This diet, as the author himself puts it, was truly additional. It was impossible to call him the main one. Sour cabbage soup, tasteless oatmeal - such food did not please Kolya. Although already on the first day of visiting the canteen, he noticed that the children here had developed a peculiar attitude towards food. They ate quickly, with appetite and were very respectful of Aunt Grune, the local distributor.

Jackals

Kolya’s mother taught him to finish a tasteless lunch. And even in this cold dining room, he tried to swallow the sticky, unappetizing oatmeal due to his upbringing. He grew up among close people who loved him. But there are children in the world with a more difficult fate, which is what Albert Likhanov talks about in his work. “The Last Cold,” a brief summary of which makes it possible to realize the severity of the adversity that befell the child’s consciousness, is also a work about destinies that, even against a military background, seem extremely tragic.

Jackals. This was the name given to children in this rear city who were so hungry that they visited canteen No. 8 every day to beg for the remains of an insignificant lunch from children with a more prosperous fate. Kolya’s first meeting with such children made an indelible impression on him. He did not feel hostility or contempt for the “jackals”. He kept thinking about how many days and nights he could go without eating before he could start begging and eat up someone else’s leftovers...

Vadim and Marya

The need to understand and sympathize with a person even when his life is distant and completely different from yours is the main idea of the work and its summary. A. A. Likhanov wrote “The Last Cold” many years after the events that formed the basis of this story. In the book, he wanted to convey not only to children, but also to adults how important it is for a person to feel participation and support in difficult moments.

The main character was disgusted by the behavior of his new acquaintance, Vadim, one of the so-called jackals. But later Kolya realized how unfair he was in his thoughts. Vadim and his sister, Marya, became his friends.

Is he out there somewhere? Is there something wrong with him? God, how much I thought about this!.. In a word, both my grandmother and I, of course, immediately began to think about my father, feeling sad, and I decided that, perhaps, my mother had every right to cry.
We ate in silence. And my mother suddenly asked me:
- How is Vadik? How is Masha?
“They go to the bathhouse regularly,” I answered.
“You see,” said my mother, “what great fellows.” “She paused, not taking her eyes off me, and added: “Just heroes.” The real little heroes.
Her eyes watered again, as if from smoke, she lowered her face to the plate, then jumped out from the table and went to the kerosene stove.
From there she said in an emphatically animated voice:
- Kolya, let’s go see them today. I don't even know where they live.
“Come on,” I said, more surprised than happy. And he repeated more cheerfully: “Come on!”
- Mother! “She was the one who addressed her grandmother.” – Let’s get them some kind of gift, shall we? It’s inconvenient to visit empty-handed.
- Yes, I don’t have anything like that! - Grandma threw up her hands.
“It’s okay,” my mother said, rustling bags in the hallway and rattling cans. - Potatoes! A piece of butter. Sugar.
Grandmother reluctantly left the table, there, behind the wall, the women began to whisper, and mother repeated loudly:
- Nothing, nothing!
Mom entered Vadik and Marya’s room first and somehow very decisively. She was not surprised by the wretchedness, she didn’t even look at the guys very much, and this struck me. It's strange somehow! Mom began to carry water, took a rag, began to wash the floor, and at this time the kettle hissed, and mom washed all the dishes, although there were few of them and they turned out to be clean.
It seemed to me that my mother was torturing herself on purpose, inventing a job for herself that she didn’t have to do, because the floor in the room was quite decent. She didn't seem to know what to do. And she still didn’t look at Vadik and Marya, she turned her gaze away. Although she chatted incessantly.
“Mashenka, my dear,” my mother chattered, “can you darn?” Now, you yourself know how bad it is. You have to study, you have to study, baby, and it’s very simple: you take a wooden fungus, well, of course, it doesn’t have to be a fungus, you can use a burnt-out light bulb, you can even use a glass, pull on a sock, with the hole at the top, but also with a thread, first a seam along, then across, slowly, diligently, and you’ll get a thread darning, this will always come in handy...
In general, such a talk shop on women's topics, first about darning, then how to cook borscht, then how to wash your hair so that it is fluffy - and so on without a break, not just without a period, without a pause, but even without a semicolon.
And everything would have been fine if not for one important circumstance, however, known only to me. This circumstance was that my mother could not stand such chatter and gently but decisively interrupted such conversations if any woman who came to see us was involved in them. I listened and didn’t believe my ears.
Finally, the whole room was tidy and cleaned, the tea had boiled, and there was nothing left to do but sit down at the table.
Mom looked at Vadik and Marya for the first time all evening. She instantly fell silent and immediately lowered her head. Vadka understood this in his own way and began to thank him awkwardly but politely. Mom quickly glanced at him and laughed insincerely:
- Well, what are you, what are you!
I saw that she was thinking about something else. No, honestly, mom didn't seem like herself today. It's like something happened to her and she's hiding it. And she doesn't do it well.
We drank tea.
They drank it with bread, anointed with a thin, completely transparent layer of butter, and with sugar - in a completely festive way. There was not enough sugar, and we ate it in bites, no surprise. Drinking tea on the side was considered an unaffordable luxury during the war.
Sugar for tea was also military grade, grandma’s.
Having received her ration of sand, she poured it into a bowl, added water and patiently simmered it over low heat. When the brew cooled, the result was yellow spongy sugar, which was easy to prick with tongs. And most importantly, it became a little more. This is a military trick.
We drank tea, ate black bread with butter, bit sugar little by little, and the clock hands moved towards the edge of the last day of the war, after which peace began. How could I have thought that this would be our last tea in this uncomfortable room?..
Then we went outside. Vadik and Marya smiled after us.
They stood on the threshold of the room, waving their hands and smiling.
I also thought: as if they were leaving. They are standing on the carriage step, the train has not yet started, but is about to start. And they will go somewhere.
We went outside, and again I felt that something was wrong with my mother. Her lips did not tremble, but simply trembled.
We turned the corner and I shouted again:
- What's wrong with dad?
Mom stopped, turned me tightly towards her and uncomfortably pressed my head to her.
- Son! – she sobbed. - My dear! Sonny!
And I cried too. I was sure that my father was no longer alive.
She barely talked me out of it. She swore and swore. I calmed down with difficulty. I didn’t believe everything, I kept asking:
-What happened?
- Just! - Mom repeated, and her eyes filled with tears. - Such a stupid mood! Sorry! I upset you, stupid.

* * *

And then tomorrow came! The first day without war.
Of course, I didn’t understand how wars end - just think, without a year and one month of primary education! I just didn't know how to do it. True, I think my grandmother could not imagine, and my mother too, and many, many adults who were not in the war, and even those who were, could not imagine how this damned war ended there in Berlin.
Have you stopped shooting? Has it become quiet? Well, what else? After all, it can’t be that they stopped shooting and it was all over! Our military were probably shouting, huh? "Hooray!" screamed with all their might. Did they cry, hug, dance, fire rockets of all colors into the sky?
No, no matter what you come up with, no matter what you remember, everything will not be enough to express unprecedented happiness.
I was already thinking: maybe I should cry? Everyone, everyone, everyone should cry: girls, boys, women, and, of course, the military, soldiers, generals and even the Supreme Commander-in-Chief in the Kremlin. Everyone should stand up and cry, not being ashamed of anything - from a great, immense, like the sky and like the earth, happy joy.
Of course, tears always taste salty, even if a person cries for joy. And the grief, the grief in these tears - a cup full, immeasurable, steep...
Here is my mother - she washed me with her tears that day. I still fell, she grabbed me while I was sleeping, whispered something so as not to scare me, and her hot tears dripped onto my face: drip-drip, drip-drop.
- What's happened?
I jumped up, frightened, disheveled like a sparrow. The first thing that came to my mind was: I was right. Father! You can’t cry without serious reasons all evening and morning into the bargain!
But my mother whispered to me:
- All! All! End of the war!
“Why is she whispering? – I thought. “We need to shout about this!” And he barked with all his might:
- Hurray!
My grandmother and mother were jumping around my bed like little girls, laughing, clapping their hands and also shouting as if they were racing:
- Hurray!
- Hurray-hurray-hurray!
- And when? – I asked, standing on the bed in shorts and a T-shirt. Wow, from here, from above, our room seemed huge, just a whole world, and I, a simpleton, didn’t know about it.
– What – when? - Mom laughed.
– When did the end of the war come?
- They announced it early in the morning. You were still sleeping!
I boiled:
- And they didn’t wake me up?
- It was a pity! - Mom said.
- What do you say! – I shouted again. - How pathetic is that? When is this, when is this... - I didn’t know what word to use. What to call this joy? I never came up with it. - How, how?
Mom laughed. She understood me today, understood my vague questions perfectly.
- Well, my grandmother and I ran out into the street. The morning is just beginning, but there are a lot of people. Get up! You'll see for yourself!
Never in my life - neither before nor after - have I wanted to go outside so much. I frantically dressed, put on my shoes, washed, ate and flew out into the yard with my coat open.
The weather was grey, dull, as they say, dank, but even if a storm had raged and thunder had roared, this day would still have seemed bright and sunny to me.
The people moved straight along the cobblestone pavement, freed from snow. Not a single person was on the sidewalks. And you know what immediately came to my mind? The sidewalks are on the side of the road, on both sides. People walk on one side and the other on ordinary days, in two separate paths. And then the tracks became funny! Stupid as hell! People were drawn into the crowd, into the very middle of the road. How can you walk at a distance from each other? We need to connect in order to see smiles, say friendly words, laugh, shake hands with strangers!
What a joy it was!
As if everyone on the street were acquaintances or even relatives.
First a group of boys overtook me. They shouted “Hurray!”, and everyone hit me - some in the side, some on the shoulder, but not painfully, but in a friendly way, and I also shouted:
- Hurray!
Then I came across a stocky old man with a thick beard. His face seemed wet to me, and I thought that he was probably crying. But the old man barked in a cheerful voice:
- Congratulations on victory, grandson! - And he laughed.
On the road stood a young woman in a checkered scarf, just a girl. She held a bundle with a child in her hands and said loudly:
- Look! Remember! - Then she laughed happily and repeated again: - Look! Remember!
As if this unconscious baby could remember anything! He seemed to have no time for the holiday, he was screaming in his bag, this little one. And his mother laughed again and said:
- You're shouting correctly. Hooray! Hooray! – And she asked me: – Do you see? He shouts "Hurray!"
- Well done! – I answered.
And the woman shouted:
- Congratulations!
There was a disabled person standing on the corner, almost every woman who passed by gave him food - this used to be, in simpler days. He was missing his right arm and left leg. Instead, the sleeves and trouser legs are rolled up - tunics and riding breeches.
Usually he sat on a wooden block of wood, in front of him lay a winter hat with a star, coins were thrown into this hat, and the invalid himself was drunk, however, he was silent, he never said anything, he just looked at passers-by and ground his teeth. On the left side of his chest the medal “For Courage” gleamed faintly, but on the right half of his tunic, as if the shoulder straps had been sewn on with a long row of yellow and red stripes - for wounds.
Today the invalid was also drunk, and, apparently, he was firmly seated, but stood, leaning on a crutch on the side where his right hand should be. He held his left hand near his temple, saluting, and he had nowhere to put his alms today.
He might not have taken it. He stood on the corner like a living monument, and people approached him from four sides. Women who were bolder came up to him, kissed him, cried and immediately moved back. And he saluted each one. Still silent, as if mute. He just gnashed his teeth.
I moved on. And suddenly I almost sat down - there was such a roar. A man in major's uniform stood very close to me and fired from a pistol. Fuck-fuck-fuck! He released the entire clip and laughed. He was a wonderful major! The face is young, the mustache is like that of a hussar, and there are three orders on the chest. The shoulder straps glowed with gold, the orders jingled and shone, the major himself laughed and shouted:
– Long live our glorious women! Long live the heroic rear!
A crowd immediately gathered around him. The women, laughing, began to hang themselves on the major’s neck, and so many of them hung at once that the military man could not stand it and collapsed along with the women. And they shouted, screamed, laughed. Before I had time to blink, everyone stood up, and the major was lifted even higher, above the crowd, for a moment he was like this, above the women, then he fell, only not to the ground, but into their hands, they gasped and threw him into air. Now not only the major shone, but also his shiny boots. He barely persuaded him to stop, barely fought back. For this he was forced to kiss each one.
“In Russian,” shouted some lively woman. - Three times!
Something crazy was going on at school. People were running up the stairs, shouting, jostling merrily. We never allowed calf tenderness, it was considered indecent, but on happy Victory Day I hugged Vovka Kroshkin, and Vitka, and even Sack, even though he is a doofus of the king of heaven!
Everything was forgiven on this day. Everyone was equal - excellent students and poor students. Our teachers loved us all equally - the quiet ones and the bullies, the smart ones and the sleepyheads. All past scores seemed to be closed, as if they were offering us: now life should go differently, including for you.
Finally, the teachers, shouting above the noise and hubbub, ordered everyone to line up. By class, downstairs, in a small area where general gatherings were held. But it didn’t work out by class! Everyone jostled, wandered, and ran from place to place, from friend to friend from another class and back. At this time, the director Faina Vasilievna was rattling with all her might the famous school bell, which looked more like a medium-sized copper bucket. The ringing was terrible, I had to cover my ears with my palms, but today it didn’t help either. Faina Vasilyevna called for about ten minutes, no less, until the school became a little quiet.
- Dear children! – she said, and only then did we become silent. – Remember today. He will go down in history. Congratulations to all of us on the Victory!
It was the shortest rally in my life. We screamed, clapped our hands, shouted “Hurray!”, jumped as high as possible, and there was no control over us. Faina Vasilievna stood on the first step leading up. She looked at her raging, out-of-control school, first in surprise, then good-naturedly, and finally laughed and waved her hand.
The door swung open, we broke into streams and flowed into our classes. But no one could sit. Everything was shaking within us. Finally, Anna Nikolaevna calmed us down a little. True, the calm was unusual: some stood, some sat astride their desks, some settled right on the floor, near the stove.
“Well,” Anna Nikolaevna said quietly, as if she was repeating the question. “She liked to ask questions twice: once louder, once quietly. “Well,” she said again, “the war is over.” You found her as children. And although you did not know the worst thing, you still saw this war.
She raised her head and again looked somewhere above us, as if there, behind the school wall and beyond, behind the strongest wall of time, our future life, our future, was visible.
“You know,” the teacher said, hesitating a little, as if she had decided to tell us something very important and adult. – Time will pass, a lot, a lot of time, and you will become quite adults. You will not only have children, but also children’s children, your grandchildren. Time will pass, and everyone who was an adult when the war was going on will die. Only you, the current children, will remain. Children of the past war. – She paused. “Neither your daughters, nor your sons, nor your grandchildren, of course, will know the war. In all the land there will be only you who remembers it. And it may happen that new babies will forget our grief, our joy, our tears! So, don’t let them forget! Do you understand? You won’t forget, so don’t let others!
Now we were silent. It was quiet in our class. Excited voices were heard only from the corridor and from behind the walls.

* * *

After school, I didn’t rush to Vadka, he didn’t miss classes now, and how could anyone sit at home on such a day?
In general, I came to them at dusk.
The three-story communal house where they lived looked like a ship: all the windows glowed in different colors - it depended on the curtains. And although no noise or hubbub was heard, it was already clear that behind the colored windows people were celebrating their victory. Maybe some with wine, real, but most with sweeter tea or potatoes, for today’s occasion not just boiled, but fried. What is there! Without wine, everyone was drunk with joy!
In the cramped space under the stairs, fear touched me with its icy hand! Still would! The door to the room where Vadim and Marya lived was open a full palm, and there was no light in the room. At first it flashed in my head as if the room had been cleared by thieves. Where is their conscience, on a holiday...
But then I felt a dark ray hitting the half-open door.
It’s as if there, in the room, the black sun is baking hotly and now its rays are breaking through the crack, penetrating under the stairs. Nothing is visible, it's a strange sun. But you can hear it, but you feel it with all your skin, like the breath of a terrible and large beast.
I pulled the door handle. The hinges creaked protractedly, as if crying.
At dusk I saw that Marya was lying on the bed, dressed and wearing boots. And Vadim is sitting on a chair next to the cold stove.
I wanted to say that it was a great sin to be twilight on such an evening, I wanted to find the switch and flip it so that the strange black sun would disappear, melt away, because even an ordinary electric light bulb could handle it. But something kept me from turning on the light, speaking in a loud voice, grabbing Vadim from behind so that he would move, come to life in this darkness.
I walked into the room and saw that Marya was lying with her eyes closed. “Is he really sleeping?” – I was amazed. And he asked Vadim:
- What's happened?
He sat in front of the potbelly stove, his hands pressed between his knees, and his face seemed unfamiliar to me. Some changes have occurred in this face. It became sharper, shrunk a little, and the childishly plump lips stretched out into bitter strings. But the main thing is the eyes! They got bigger. And it was as if they had seen something terrible.
Vadim was lost in thought and didn’t even move when I entered, twirled in front of him and stared into his eyes.
- What's happened? – I repeated, not even imagining what Vadka might answer.
And he looked, thoughtfully, at me, or rather, looked through me and said with thin, wooden lips:
- Mom died.
I wanted to laugh, shout: what a joke! But would Vadka... So it’s true... How can this be?
I remembered what day it was today and shuddered. After all, the end of the war is a great holiday! And is it really possible that on a holiday, for this to happen on a holiday...
- Today? – I asked, still not believing. After all, my mother, my mother, on whom you can always rely, asked me to tell Vadik and Masha that things were getting better in the hospital.
And it turned out...
- For several days now... She was buried without us...
He spoke in a lifeless voice, my Vadim. And I just physically felt how with every word he said, black water opened up between us.
Wider and wider.
It’s as if he and Marya, on a small raft in their room, are sailing from the shore where I, a lop-eared little boy, am standing.
I know: a little more, and the black fast water will pick up the raft, and the black sun, which no longer burns with visible, but only felt warmth, shines on the unstable raft, escorting it on an unclear path.
– What’s next? – I asked Vadka in a barely audible voice.
He moved weakly.
“To the orphanage,” he answered. And for the first time, while we were talking, he blinked. He looked at me with a meaningful look.
And suddenly he said...
And suddenly he said something that I will never be able to forget.
“You know,” said the great and incomprehensible man Vadka, “you should get out of here.” And that is a sign. - He hesitated. “Whoever walks near trouble can touch it and become infected.” And your dad is at the front!
“But the war is over,” I breathed.
– You never know! – said Vadim. – The war is over, and you see how it happens. Go!
He got up from the stool and began to slowly turn around in place, as if seeing me off. Walking around him, I extended my hand to him, but Vadim shook his head.
Marya was still lying there, still sleeping in some kind of unreal, fairy-tale dream, only the fairy tale was not kind, not about a sleeping princess.
This fairy tale was without any hope.
- And Marya? – I asked helplessly. He didn’t ask, but stammered in a childish, plaintive voice.
“Marya is sleeping,” Vadim answered me calmly. - He’ll wake up and...
He did not say what would happen when Marya woke up.
Slowly backing away, I walked out into the space under the stairs. And he closed the door behind him.
The black sun no longer broke through here, into the understairs darkness. It remained there, in the little room, where the windows were still covered with strips of paper, just as at the very beginning of the war.

* * *

I saw Vadim again.
Mom told me which orphanage he was in. She came and said. I understood what her tears meant on the day before Victory.
I went.
But nothing came of it, no conversation.
I found Vadim in the orphanage yard - he was carrying an armful of firewood. The end of summer turned out to be cool, and the stove had apparently already been lit. Noticing me, he nodded silently, without a smile, disappeared into the open mouth of the large door, and then returned.
I wanted to ask him, how are you, but it was a stupid question. Isn't it clear how? And then Vadim asked me:
- How are you?
After all, the same question can look stupid and completely serious if asked by different people. Or rather, people in different situations.
“Nothing,” I answered. I couldn’t help but say “fine.”
“Soon we will be sent to the west,” said Vadim. – The entire orphanage is leaving.
-Are you happy? – I asked and lowered my eyes. No matter what question I asked, it turned out to be awkward. And I interrupted him with another: “How is Marya?”
“Nothing,” Vadim answered.
Yes, the conversation didn’t work out.
He stood in front of me, a much older, unsmiling guy, as if he wasn’t very familiar with me.
Vadim was wearing gray pants and a gray shirt, unknown to me, apparently from the orphanage. It’s strange, they separated Vadim from me even more.
And it also seemed to me that he felt some kind of awkwardness. Like he's guilty of something, or what? But what? What stupidity!
I just lived in one world, and he existed in a completely different one.
- Well, am I going? – he asked me.
Strange. Is that what they ask?
“Of course,” I said. And shook his hand.
- Be healthy! - he told me, watched me walk for a moment, then turned decisively and didn’t look back.
I haven't seen him since then.
In the building occupied by the orphanage, there was an artel that produced buttons. There weren’t even buttons during the war. The war was over, and buttons were urgently needed to sew them onto new coats, suits and dresses.

* * *

In the fall, I entered fourth grade and was again given extra food stamps.
The road to the eighth canteen was brightened by sunny autumn - maple branches, colored like multi-colored flags and festive leaves, swayed overhead.
I now saw and understood many things differently. My father was alive, and although he had not yet returned, because a new war was going on, with the Japanese, it no longer seemed as terrible as everything that had passed. I only had a few months left to study, and - please - a certificate of primary education in my pocket.
Everything is growing all around. Trees grow, and so do little people, everyone becomes smarter, and everything changes in our eyes. Absolutely everything!
Autumn was warm, there was no need to undress and dress people, and Aunt Grusha looked out of her window with a black, anthracite eye just like that, out of pure curiosity, immediately lowering her head - probably knitting.
And in general there were fewer people in the canteen. For some reason, no one was pushing at that hour.
I calmly received the food - again the glorious, always delicious peas, cutlet, compote - I took the spoon and, without looking around, was already clanking on the bottom of the iron bowl, when a boy appeared in front of me.
The war is over, thank God, and I have already forgotten everything - short memory. You never know why a boy could appear here! I had not thought at all about such a recent past.
A blue vein, like an accordion, trembled and pulsated on the boy’s temple, he looked at me very carefully, without taking his eyes off, and suddenly said:
- Boy, if you can, leave it!
I put down the spoon...
I lowered the spoon and looked at the boy. “But the war is over!” – I wanted to say, or rather, I wanted to ask.
And he looked at me with hungry eyes.
When they look at you like that, you can't turn your tongue.
I said nothing. I guiltily pushed the bowl towards him, and with a fork I made a border exactly in the middle of the cutlet.

* * *

Yes, wars end sooner or later.
But hunger retreats slower than the enemy.
And the tears don't dry for a long time.
And there are canteens with additional meals. And jackals live there. Small, hungry, innocent children.
We remember this.
Don't forget, new people.
Do not forget! This is what our teacher Anna Nikolaevna told me to do.

Albert Likhanov is a children's writer. Today we will present you one of his most famous works, or rather, its summary. "The Last Cold" is a story he wrote in 1984. The book makes a truly amazing impression. It describes the growing up of a person, as well as a terrible, cruel war. It can be assumed that it is on a military theme. Only it's not like that. This is a story not about people in the rear and the heroism of soldiers, this is a story about children in those terrible years.

The book begins with the boy Kolya remembering the teacher, Anna Nikolaevna, who taught him school lessons, as well as life lessons.

Then it was 1945, there was a war going on. The narrator was supposed to graduate from primary school in a year and 2 months.

Constant hunger

Further, the summary of the book “The Last Cold” talks about how you want to eat all the time. In general, all the guys could be divided into 3 groups: ordinary, punks and jackals. Ordinary guys were afraid of everyone else. The jackals took food from everyone, while the punks simply inspired fear with their entire appearance, and at the same time they evoked the feeling of a completely stupid crowd.

At some point, when Kolya was eating, he left the soup (an unthinkable thing for the narrator, since his mother taught him to always finish everything, even if he didn’t like the food very much). Unbeknownst to him, one of the jackals approached him and began to beg with his eyes for the remains of the soup. At this moment the narrator hesitated, although he gave him the food. He noticed this boy, silently calling him yellow-faced. In addition, he noticed one guy from the punks who made his way without a queue among the small ones. He nicknamed him Nose.

A few days later, while eating again, he again saw the yellow-faced man who stole bread from a very little girl, which caused a terrible scandal. After this, Nose’s gang decided to beat up the yellow-faced man, but it turned out that, in general, they don’t really know how to fight, they show off more. Then yellow-faced Nosa grabbed him by the throat and began to choke him. The gang fled in horror. And the yellow-faced man wandered towards the fence. There he fainted. Seeing this, Kolya began to call for help, and the boy was brought to his senses. It turned out that he had not eaten anything for 5 days, and was stealing bread for himself and his sister Marya. Then the narrator learned that the yellow-faced man’s name was Vadka.

Heroes

It is also necessary to talk about the heroes, compiling a brief summary for this story. “The Last Cold” shows us completely different children during the war years. So, the narrator lived with his grandmother and mother, his father fought. At home, his women “wrapped themselves in a cocoon,” as he said, and sheltered him from any troubles. In general, he did not go hungry, he was always shod and dressed, and did not miss classes.

But Marya and Vadka lived completely differently. Their father died at the very beginning of the war. Mom was in the hospital with typhus, and there was little hope for recovery. The girl lost her food coupons somewhere, so her brother was forced to go rogue and get food by his cunning. At the same time, they did not sink morally. The children constantly thought about their mother and always lied to her in their letters so that she would not worry at all. They lived in a very poor house. The narrator learned all this after talking with Vadka.

Help for children

Describing the summary (“The Last Cold”), it is worth noting that the narrator was drawn to Vadka like a magnet. He respected this strange, yellow-faced boy. At some point, it turned out that Vadka did not have enough money, and in order to survive in the cold, he asked the narrator for a jacket for a while. He went home and talked with his grandmother, to whom he told about Marya and Vadka, as well as about their difficult situation. But the grandmother did not allow him to give the jacket. But the narrator went against her will. He took the item of clothing and ran to the guys outside. A little later, the narrator's mother approached them. He told her what the matter was, but the mother, unlike the grandmother, treated the children with sympathy, fed them well, and they fell asleep right at the table from satiety.

Skipping school

Albert Likhanov described the life of these children very interestingly. “The Last Cold” is a story about true friendship. So, the next day the three children got ready to go to school. The girl went, and Kolya and Vadka skipped school for the first time. Yellowface and the narrator, who had tagged along with him, went to look for food. At first Kolya was very indignant, because Vadik was well-fed, and his grandmother and mother invited them to visit again in the evening, so why do they need to look for food? He asked the boy this question, and he said that the narrator’s relatives were not obliged to feed him. He acted nobly and did not want to sit on someone else’s neck.

Cake

Vadik and Kolya begged for some oil cake and went to the market. Yellowface spoke about his own “survival technology.”

Mothers

When compiling a summary of the story “The Last Cold,” you need to talk about the relationships of children with their mothers. So, when Kolya was with Vadim, he very actively compared them. The narrator was always under the protection of his mother, did not feel sorry for her, and was not afraid for her. But Vadik’s relationship with his mother was completely different: he himself said that he was very afraid for her, that after the death of their father she had changed a lot. This attitude towards a loved one speaks of the boy’s already emerging maturity; he, unlike Kolya, has already seen a lot in life. Even wrinkles appeared on his face, sometimes he looked like an old man.

Returning from school, Marya scolded Vadik for skipping classes and said that she had been given food stamps. The children finally ate in the dining room, but the girl’s second meal was taken away, after which her brother drove the offender away.

The main characters (“The Last Cold”) leave the dining room, laugh and joke. Vadik's coat was torn with a knife, the girl began to cry. Yellowface goes to school because he was called to the principal, while Kolya accompanies Marya home. Here they wrote a letter to her mother, and the not particularly talkative narrator was suddenly attacked by the spirit of writing, perhaps due to the fact that he imagined himself in the place of the children.

Then they went to Kolya’s house, did their homework there, and ate. A yellow-faced man came in with textbooks tied with a belt and a whole bag of food - it was handed to him through the teacher's director. Vadik accuses the narrator’s mother of being summoned to the director, as well as of these handouts. But mom says she has nothing to do with it. She seats the boy at the table, and he reluctantly agrees. They start talking about the bathhouse. It turned out that Vadik and Marya washed only once after their mother’s hospitalization because the girl was terribly embarrassed to go to the public bathhouse, and she herself could not wash, it was difficult. The narrator says about childhood that it seems like you are free, but this is not so, you are not free. At some point, you will definitely need to do something that your soul resists with all its might. And at the same time they tell you that this is necessary, and you, suffering, toiling, resisting, still do what is required.

When Marya and Vadka leave, Kolya’s mother scolds him for skipping classes, by the way, the first time in his life.

May 8

Some time later (May 8), Kolya notices a strange fuss in his mother’s behavior, and there are tears in her eyes. He assumes that something happened to his father. But she says that everything is fine, after which she invites him to go visit Vadka and Marya. There the mother also behaves unnaturally. The narrator's suspicions about dad intensify, only that everything is actually fine with him.

9th May

Victory Day has arrived. The whole country is rejoicing, people seem close to each other, since they are all united by great joy, as Likhanov described. “The Last Cold” (the content is briefly presented in this article) expresses with this description amazing pride in one’s country.

No one could sit still at school. Anna Nikolaevna told her students that some time would pass and they would all become adults. Everyone will have children, then grandchildren. More time will pass, and those who are now adults will die. Then only they will remain, the children of the past war. Their children and grandchildren will not know the war. Only they will remain on Earth, people who will still remember it. It may happen that the guys will forget this grief, this joy, these tears... And she asked them not to let this happen. Don’t forget yourself and don’t let others forget.

Mother's death

The narrator went to Marya and Vadim's house. There were no lights on in their apartment, but the door was open. The girl was lying in her clothes on the bed. Vadik was sitting next to her on the floor. He said that their mother died a few days ago, and they only found out about it today. May 9 was not a holiday for everyone.

They were sent to an orphanage. The narrator visited them once, but somehow their conversation did not go well. He has not seen them since then, because the children were transferred to another orphanage.

End of the work

The story “The Last Cold” ends with the words that sooner or later wars all end. But hunger is receding much more slowly than the enemy. And the tears don't dry for a long time. And canteens with additional food are open, where jackals live - hungry, small children who are innocent of anything. This must not be forgotten! This is what Anna Nikolaevna ordered.

“The Last Cold”: review

It's very difficult to leave a review for this product. We are well-fed people; we have never known war or famine. And it’s very scary to imagine the fear and despair of the people of those years, small, innocent of anything.