The name of Nobel Prize laureate M. A. Sholokhov is known to all of humanity. Sholokhov's works are like epochal frescoes. During the Great Patriotic War, the writer considered it his duty to strike the enemy with words of hatred and strengthen the love of the Motherland among the Soviet people. In the early spring of 1946, in the first post-war spring, Sholokhov accidentally met an unknown man on the road and heard his confession story. For ten years the writer nurtured the idea of the work, the events became the past, and the need to talk about them increased. And in 1956, the epic story “The Fate of Man” was completed in a few days.
This is a story about the great suffering and great resilience of an ordinary Russian person. The main character Andrei Sokolov lovingly embodies the traits of the Russian character: patience, modesty, a sense of human dignity, merged with a feeling of true patriotism, with great responsiveness to someone else's misfortune, with a sense of front-line camaraderie.
A story has three parts: exposition, hero's narrative, and ending. In the exhibition, the author talks about the signs of the first post-war spring, he seems to be preparing us for a meeting with the main character, Andrei Sokolov, whose eyes, “as if sprinkled with ashes, filled with inescapable mortal melancholy.” He recalls the past with restraint, wearily, before confession he “hunched over” and placed his large, dark hands on his knees. All this makes us feel that we are learning about a difficult, and perhaps tragic, fate.
And indeed, Sokolov’s fate is full of such difficult trials, such terrible losses that it seems impossible for a person to endure all this and not break down, not lose heart. This person is shown in extreme tension of mental strength. The hero's whole life passes before us. He is the same age as the century. From childhood I learned how much a “pound is worth”; during the civil war he fought against the enemies of Soviet power. Then he leaves his native Voronezh village for Kuban. Returning home, he worked as a carpenter, mechanic, driver, and started a family.
The war destroyed all hopes and dreams. From the beginning of the war, from its first months, Sokolov was wounded twice, shell-shocked and, finally, the worst thing - he was captured. The hero had to experience inhuman physical and mental torment, hardship, and torment. Sokolov was in fascist captivity for two years. At the same time, he managed to maintain human dignity and did not resign himself to his fate. He tries to escape, but is unsuccessful, he deals with a coward, a traitor who is ready, to save his own skin, to betray the commander. The hero's virtues were revealed with particular force in the moral duel between Sokolov and Muller. An exhausted, exhausted, exhausted prisoner is ready to face death with such courage and endurance that it amazes even the concentration camp commandant who has lost his human appearance.
Andrei still manages to escape and becomes a soldier again. But troubles do not leave him: his home was destroyed, his wife and daughter died from a fascist bomb, and Sokolov now lives with the hope of meeting his son. And this meeting took place - at the grave of his son, who died in the last days of the war. It would seem that everything is over, but life “distorted” a person, but could not break and kill the living soul in him. Sokolov's post-war fate is not easy, but he steadfastly and courageously overcomes his grief and loneliness, despite the fact that his soul is filled with a constant feeling of grief. This internal tragedy requires great effort and will of the hero. Sokolov wages a continuous struggle with himself and emerges victorious; he gives joy to a little man by adopting an orphan like him, Vanyusha, a boy with “eyes as bright as the sky.” The meaning of life is found, grief is overcome, life triumphs. “And I would like to think,” writes Sholokhov, “that this Russian man, a man of unbending will, will endure, and near his father’s shoulder will grow one who, having matured, will be able to withstand everything, overcome everything on his way, if his Motherland calls him to this.” .
Sholokhov's story is imbued with a deep, bright faith in man. At the same time, its title is symbolic, because this is not just the fate of the soldier Andrei Sokolov, but it is a story about the fate of the people. The writer feels obligated to tell the world the harsh truth about the enormous price the Russian people paid for humanity’s right to the future. “If you really want to understand why Russia won a great victory in the Second World War, watch this film,” one English newspaper once wrote about the film “The Fate of Man,” and therefore about the story itself.
Current page: 1 (book has 24 pages total) [available reading passage: 6 pages]
Mikhail Alexandrovich Sholokhov
The fate of man. Don stories
© M.A. Sholokhov, heirs, 2016
© AST Publishing House LLC, 2016
* * *
Man's destiny
Evgenia Grigorievna Levitskaya, member of the CPSU since 1903
The first post-war spring on the Upper Don was unusually friendly and assertive. At the end of March, warm winds blew from the Azov region, and within two days the sands of the left bank of the Don were completely exposed, snow-filled ravines and gullies in the steppe swelled up, breaking the ice, steppe rivers leaped madly, and the roads became almost completely impassable.
During this bad time of no roads, I had to go to the village of Bukanovskaya. And the distance is small - only about sixty kilometers - but overcoming them was not so easy. My friends and I left before sunrise. A pair of well-fed horses, pulling the lines to a string, could barely drag the heavy chaise. The wheels sank to the very hub into the damp sand mixed with snow and ice, and an hour later, on the horses’ sides and whips, under the thin belts of the harnesses, white fluffy flakes of soap appeared, and in the fresh morning air there was a sharp and intoxicating smell of horse sweat and warmed tar generously oiled horse harness.
Where it was especially difficult for the horses, we got off the chaise and walked. The soaked snow squelched under the boots, it was hard to walk, but along the sides of the road there was still crystal ice glistening in the sun, and it was even more difficult to get through there. Only about six hours later we covered a distance of thirty kilometers and arrived at the crossing over the Elanka River.
A small river, drying up in places in summer, opposite the Mokhovsky farm in a swampy floodplain overgrown with alders, overflowed for a whole kilometer. It was necessary to cross on a fragile punt that could carry no more than three people. We released the horses. On the other side, in the collective farm barn, an old, well-worn Willys, which had been left there in the winter, was waiting for us. Together with the driver, we boarded the dilapidated boat, not without fear. The comrade remained on the shore with his things. They had barely set sail when water began to gush out in fountains from the rotten bottom in different places. Using improvised means, they caulked the unreliable vessel and scooped water out of it until they reached it. An hour later we were on the other side of Elanka. The driver drove the car from the farm, approached the boat and said, taking the oar:
“If this damned trough doesn’t fall apart on the water, we’ll arrive in two hours, don’t wait earlier.”
The farm was located far to the side, and near the pier there was such silence as only happens in deserted places in the dead of autumn and at the very beginning of spring. The water smelled of dampness, the tart bitterness of rotting alder, and from the distant Khoper steppes, drowned in a lilac haze of fog, a light breeze carried the eternally youthful, barely perceptible aroma of land recently freed from under the snow.
Not far away, on the coastal sand, lay a fallen fence. I sat down on it, wanted to light a cigarette, but, putting my hand into the right pocket of the cotton quilt, to my great chagrin, I discovered that the pack of Belomor was completely soaked. During the crossing, a wave lashed over the side of a low-slung boat and doused me waist-deep in muddy water. Then I had no time to think about cigarettes, I had to abandon the oar and quickly bail out the water so that the boat would not sink, and now, bitterly annoyed at my mistake, I carefully took the soggy pack out of my pocket, squatted down and began to lay it out one by one on the fence damp, browned cigarettes.
It was noon. The sun was shining hotly, like in May. I hoped that the cigarettes would dry out soon. The sun was shining so hotly that I already regretted wearing military cotton trousers and a quilted jacket for the journey. It was the first truly warm day after winter. It was good to sit on the fence like this, alone, completely submitting to silence and loneliness, and, taking off the old soldier’s earflaps from his head, drying his hair, wet after heavy rowing, in the breeze, mindlessly watching the white busty clouds floating in the faded blue.
Soon I saw a man come out onto the road from behind the outer courtyards of the farm. He was leading a small boy by the hand, judging by his height, no more than five or six years old. They walked wearily towards the crossing, but when they caught up with the car, they turned towards me. A tall, stooped man, coming close, said in a muffled basso:
- Great, brother!
- Hello. “I shook the large, callous hand extended to me.
The man leaned towards the boy and said:
- Say hello to your uncle, son. Apparently, he is the same driver as your dad. Only you and I drove a truck, and he drives this little car.
Looking straight into my eyes with eyes as bright as the sky, smiling slightly, the boy boldly extended his pink, cold little hand to me. I shook her lightly and asked:
- Why is your hand so cold, old man? It's warm outside, but you're freezing?
With touching childish trust, the baby pressed himself against my knees and raised his whitish eyebrows in surprise.
- What kind of old man am I, uncle? I’m not a boy at all, and I don’t freeze at all, but my hands are cold because I was rolling snowballs.
Taking the skinny duffel bag off his back and wearily sitting down next to me, my father said:
- I'm in trouble with this passenger! It was through him that I got involved. If you take a wide step, he will already break into a trot, so please adapt to such an infantryman. Where I need to take one step, I step three times, and so we walk apart, like a horse and a turtle. But here he needs an eye and an eye. You turn away a little, and he’s already wandering across the puddle or breaking off an ice cream and sucking it instead of candy. No, it’s not a man’s business to travel with such passengers, and at a leisurely pace at that. “He was silent for a while, then asked: “What are you, brother, waiting for your superiors?”
It was inconvenient for me to dissuade him that I was not a driver, and I answered:
- We have to wait.
- Will they come from the other side?
– Do you know if the boat will come soon?
- In two hours.
- In order. Well, while we rest, I have nowhere to rush. And I walk past, I look: my brother, the driver, is sunbathing. Let me, I think, I’ll come in and have a smoke together. One is sick of smoking and dying. And you live richly and smoke cigarettes. Damaged them, then? Well, brother, soaked tobacco, like a treated horse, is no good. Let's smoke my strong drink instead.
He took out a worn raspberry silk pouch rolled into a tube from the pocket of his protective summer pants, unfolded it, and I managed to read the inscription embroidered on the corner: “To a dear fighter from a 6th grade student at Lebedyansk Secondary School.”
We lit a strong cigarette and were silent for a long time. I wanted to ask where he was going with the child, what need was driving him into such muddiness, but he beat me to it with a question:
- What, you spent the whole war behind the wheel?
- Almost all of it.
- At the front?
- Well, there I had to, brother, take a sip of goryushka up to the nostrils and above.
He placed his large dark hands on his knees and hunched over. I looked at him from the side, and I felt something uneasy... Have you ever seen eyes, as if sprinkled with ashes, filled with such an inescapable mortal melancholy that it is difficult to look into them? These were the eyes of my random interlocutor.
Having broken out a dry, twisted twig from the fence, he silently moved it along the sand for a minute, drawing some intricate figures, and then spoke:
“Sometimes you don’t sleep at night, you look into the darkness with empty eyes and think: “Why have you, life, maimed me so much? Why did you distort it like that?” I don’t have an answer, either in the dark or in the clear sun... No, and I can’t wait! - And suddenly he came to his senses: gently nudging his little son, he said: - Go, dear, play near the water, there is always some kind of prey for the children near the big water. Just be careful not to get your feet wet!
While we were still smoking in silence, I, furtively examining my father and son, noted with surprise one circumstance that was strange in my opinion. The boy was dressed simply, but well: in the way he was wearing a long-brimmed jacket lined with a light, worn tsigeyka, and in the fact that the tiny boots were sewn with the expectation of putting them on a woolen sock, and the very skillful seam on the once torn sleeve of the jacket - everything betrayed feminine care, skillful motherly hands. But the father looked different: the padded jacket, burnt in several places, was carelessly and roughly darned, the patch on his worn-out protective trousers was not sewn on properly, but rather sewn on with wide, masculine stitches; he was wearing almost new soldier's boots, but his thick woolen socks were moth-eaten, they had not been touched by a woman's hand... Even then I thought: “Either he is a widower, or he lives at odds with his wife.”
But then he, following his little son with his eyes, coughed dully, spoke again, and I became all ears:
“At first my life was ordinary. I myself am a native of the Voronezh province, born in 1900. During the Civil War he was in the Red Army, in the Kikvidze division. In the hungry year of twenty-two, he went to Kuban to fight the kulaks, and that’s why he survived. And the father, mother and sister died of hunger at home. One left. Rodney - even if you roll a ball - nowhere, no one, not a single soul. Well, a year later he returned from Kuban, sold his little house, and went to Voronezh. At first he worked in a carpentry artel, then he went to a factory and learned to be a mechanic. Soon he got married. The wife was brought up in an orphanage. Orphan. I got a good girl! Quiet, cheerful, obsequious and smart, no match for me. Since childhood, she learned how much a pound is worth, maybe this affected her character. Looking from the outside, she wasn’t that distinguished, but I wasn’t looking at her from the outside, but point-blank. And for me there was no one more beautiful and more desirable than her, there was not in the world and there never will be!
You come home from work tired, and sometimes angry as hell. No, she will not be rude to you in response to a rude word. Affectionate, quiet, doesn’t know where to sit you, struggles to prepare a sweet piece for you even with little income. You look at her and move away with your heart, and after a little you hug her and say: “Sorry, dear Irinka, I was rude to you. You see, my work isn’t going well these days.” And again we have peace, and I have peace of mind. Do you know, brother, what this means for work? In the morning I get up, disheveled, go to the factory, and any work in my hands is in full swing and fuss! This is what it means to have a smart wife-friend.
Once in a while after payday I had to have a drink with my friends. Sometimes it happened that you went home and made such pretzels with your feet that it was probably scary to look at from the outside. The street is too small for you, and even the coven, not to mention the alleys. I was a healthy guy then and strong as the devil, I could drink a lot, and I always got home on my own two feet. But it also happened sometimes that the last stage was at first speed, that is, on all fours, but he still got there. And again, no reproach, no shouting, no scandal. My Irinka only chuckles, and then carefully, so that I don’t get offended when I’m drunk. He takes me off and whispers: “Lie down against the wall, Andryusha, otherwise you’ll fall out of bed sleepy.” Well, I’ll fall like a sack of oats and everything will float before my eyes. I only hear in my sleep that she is quietly stroking my head with her hand and whispering something affectionate, she is sorry, that means...
In the morning, she will get me up on my feet about two hours before work so that I can warm up. He knows that I won’t eat anything when I’m hungover, well, he’ll get a pickled cucumber or something else light and pour a cut glass of vodka. “Have a hangover, Andryusha, but no more, my dear.” But is it possible not to justify such trust? I’ll drink it, thank her without words, kiss her with my eyes and go to work like a sweetheart. And if she had said a word to me, drunkenly, shouted or cursed, and I, like God, would have gotten drunk on the second day. This happens in other families where the wife is a fool; I've seen enough of such sluts, I know.
Soon our children left. First a little son was born, a year later two more girls... Then I broke away from my comrades. I bring all the pay home, the family has become a decent number, there is no time for drinking. On the weekend I’ll drink a glass of beer and call it a day.
In 1929 I was attracted by cars. I studied the car business, sat behind the steering wheel, and drove a truck. Then I got involved and no longer wanted to return to the plant. I thought it was more fun behind the wheel. He lived like that for ten years and didn’t notice how they passed. They passed as if in a dream. Why ten years! Ask any elderly person, did he notice how he lived his life? He didn't notice a damn thing! The past is like that distant steppe in the haze. In the morning I walked along it, everything was clear all around, but I walked twenty kilometers, and now the steppe was covered in haze, and from here you can no longer distinguish the forest from the weeds, the arable land from the grass cutter...
For these ten years I worked day and night. I made good money, and we lived no worse than other people. And the children were happy: all three studied with excellent marks, and the eldest, Anatoly, turned out to be so capable of mathematics that they even wrote about him in the central newspaper. Where he got such a huge talent for this science, I myself, brother, don’t know. But it was very flattering to me, and I was proud of him, so passionately proud!
Over the course of ten years, we saved up a little money and before the war we built ourselves a house with two rooms, a storage room and a corridor. Irina bought two goats. What more do you need? The children eat porridge with milk, have a roof over their heads, are dressed, have shoes, so everything is in order. I just lined up awkwardly. They gave me a plot of six acres not far from the aircraft factory. If my shack were in a different place, maybe life would have turned out differently...
And here it is, war. On the second day, a summons from the military registration and enlistment office, and on the third, please go to the train. All four of my friends saw me off: Irina, Anatoly and my daughters Nastenka and Olyushka. All the guys behaved well. Well, the daughters, not without that, had sparkling tears. Anatoly just shrugged his shoulders as if from the cold, by that time he was already seventeen years old, and Irina is mine... I have never seen her like this in all the seventeen years of our life together. At night, the shirt on my shoulder and chest did not dry out from her tears, and in the morning the same story... We came to the station, but I couldn’t look at her out of pity: my lips were swollen from tears, my hair had come out from under my scarf, and my eyes were cloudy , meaningless, like those of a person touched by the mind. The commanders announced the landing, and she fell on my chest, clasped her hands around my neck and was trembling all over, like a felled tree... And the kids tried to persuade her, and so did I - nothing helps! Other women are talking to their husbands and sons, but mine clung to me like a leaf to a branch, and only trembles all over, but cannot utter a word. I tell her: “Pull yourself together, my dear Irinka! Tell me at least a word goodbye." She says and sobs behind every word: “My dear... Andryusha... We won’t see you... you and I... anymore... in this... world...”
Here my heart breaks to pieces out of pity for her, and here she is with these words. I should have understood that it’s not easy for me to part with them either; I wasn’t going to my mother-in-law’s for pancakes. Evil got me here! I forcibly separated her hands and lightly pushed her on the shoulders. It seemed like I pushed lightly, but my strength was stupid; she backed away, took three steps back and again walked towards me in small steps, holding out her hands, and I shouted to her: “Is this really how they say goodbye? Why are you burying me alive ahead of time?!” Well, I hugged her again, I see that she’s not herself...
He abruptly stopped his story mid-sentence, and in the ensuing silence I heard something bubbling and gurgling in his throat. Someone else's excitement was transmitted to me. I looked sideways at the narrator, but did not see a single tear in his seemingly dead, extinct eyes. He sat with his head bowed dejectedly, only his large, limply lowered hands trembled slightly, his chin trembled, his hard lips trembled...
- Don’t, friend, don’t remember! “I said quietly, but he probably didn’t hear my words and, by some huge effort of will, overcoming his excitement, he suddenly said in a hoarse, strangely changed voice:
- Until my death, until my last hour, I will die, and I will not forgive myself for pushing her away then!..
He fell silent again for a long time. I tried to roll a cigarette, but the newsprint was torn and the tobacco fell onto my lap. Finally, he somehow made a twist, took several greedy drags and, coughing, continued:
“I broke away from Irina, took her face in my hands, kissed her, and her lips were like ice. I said goodbye to the kids, ran to the carriage, and already on the move jumped onto the step. The train took off quietly; I should pass by my own people. I look, my orphaned children are huddled together, waving their hands at me, trying to smile, but it doesn’t come out. And Irina pressed her hands to her chest; her lips are white as chalk, she whispers something with them, looks at me, doesn’t blink, and she leans all forward, as if she wants to step against a strong wind... That’s how she remained in my memory for the rest of my life: her hands pressed to her chest, white lips and wide open eyes, full of tears... For the most part, this is how I always see her in my dreams... Why did I push her away then? I still remember that my heart feels like it’s being cut with a dull knife...
We were formed near Bila Tserkva, in Ukraine. They gave me a ZIS-5. I rode it to the front. Well, you have nothing to tell about the war, you saw it yourself and you know how it was at first. I often received letters from my friends, but rarely sent lionfish myself. It happened that you would write that everything was fine, we were fighting little by little, and although we were retreating now, we would soon gather our strength and then let the Fritz have a light. What else could you write? It was a sickening time; there was no time for writing. And I must admit, I myself was not a fan of playing on plaintive strings and could not stand these slobbering ones that every day, to the point and not to the point, they wrote to their wives and sweethearts, smearing their snot on the paper. It’s hard, they say, it’s hard for him, and at any moment he’ll be killed. And here he is, a bitch in his pants, complaining, looking for sympathy, slobbering, but he doesn’t want to understand that these unfortunate women and children had it no worse than ours in the rear! The whole state relied on them! What kind of shoulders did our women and children have to have so as not to bend under such a weight? But they didn’t bend, they stood! And such a whip, a wet little soul, will write a pitiful letter - and a working woman will be like a ripple at her feet. After this letter, she, the unfortunate one, will give up, and work is not her job. No! That's why you're a man, that's why you're a soldier, to endure everything, to endure everything, if need calls for it. And if you have more of a woman’s streak in you than a man’s, then put on a gathered skirt to cover your skinny butt more fully, so that at least from behind you look like a woman, and go weed beets or milk cows, but at the front you are not needed like that, there there's a lot of stink without you!
But I didn’t even have to fight for a year... I was wounded twice during this time, but both times only lightly: once in the flesh of the arm, the other in the leg; the first time - with a bullet from an airplane, the second - with a shell fragment. The German made holes in my car both from the top and from the sides, but, brother, I was lucky at first. I was lucky, and I got to the very end... I was captured near Lozovenki in May of '42 in such an awkward situation: the Germans were advancing strongly at that time, and one of our one hundred and twenty-two-millimeter howitzer batteries turned out to be almost without shells; They loaded my car to the brim with shells, and while loading I myself worked so hard that my tunic stuck to my shoulder blades. We had to hurry because the battle was approaching us: on the left someone’s tanks were thundering, on the right there was shooting, there was shooting ahead. And it’s already starting to smell like something fried...
The commander of our company asks: “Will you get through, Sokolov?” And there was nothing to ask here. My comrades may be dying there, but I’ll be sick here? “What a conversation! - I answer him. “I have to get through and that’s it!” “Well,” he says, “blow!” Push all the hardware!”
I blew it. I’ve never driven like this in my life! I knew that I wasn’t carrying potatoes, that with this load, caution was needed when driving, but how could there be any caution when there were empty-handed guys fighting, when the entire road was being shot through by artillery fire. I ran about six kilometers, and soon I was about to turn onto a dirt road to get to the ravine where the battery stood, and then I looked - holy mother - our infantry was pouring across the open field to the right and left of the grader, and mines were already exploding in their formations. What should I do? Shouldn't you turn back? I'll push with all my might! And there was only a kilometer left to the battery, I had already turned onto a dirt road, but I didn’t have to get to my people, bro... Apparently, he placed a heavy one near the car for me from a long-range one. I didn’t hear a burst or anything, it was just as if something had burst in my head, and I don’t remember anything else. I don’t understand how I stayed alive then, and I can’t figure out how long I lay about eight meters from the ditch. I woke up, but I couldn’t get to my feet: my head was twitching, I was shaking all over, as if I had a fever, there was darkness in my eyes, something was creaking and crunching in my left shoulder, and the pain in my whole body was the same as, say, for two days in a row. They hit me with whatever they got. For a long time I crawled on the ground on my stomach, but somehow I stood up. However, again, I don’t understand anything, where I am and what happened to me. My memory has completely disappeared. And I'm afraid to go back to bed. I'm afraid that I'll lie down and never get up again, I'll die. I stand and sway from side to side, like a poplar in a storm.
When I came to my senses, I came to my senses and looked around properly - it was as if someone had squeezed my heart with pliers: there were shells lying around that I was carrying, nearby my car, all beaten to pieces, was lying upside down, and battle, battle already is coming behind me... How's that?
It’s no secret, it was then that my legs gave way on their own, and I fell as if I had been cut down, because I realized that I was already surrounded, or rather, captured by the Nazis. This is how it happens in war...
Oh, brother, it’s not an easy thing to understand that you are not in captivity of your own free will. Anyone who hasn’t experienced this on their own skin will not immediately penetrate into their soul so that they can understand in a human way what this thing means.
Well, so, I’m lying there and I hear: the tanks are thundering. Four German medium tanks at full throttle passed me to where I had left with the shells... What was it like to experience it? Then the tractors with guns pulled up, the field kitchen passed by, then the infantry came, not too many, so, no more than one beaten company. I’ll look, I’ll look at them out of the corner of my eye and again I’ll press my cheek to the ground, I’ll close my eyes: I’m sick of looking at them, and my heart is sick...
I thought that everyone had passed, I raised my head, and there were six of them machine gunners - there they were, walking about a hundred meters away from me. I look, they turn off the road and come straight towards me. They walk in silence. “Here,” I think, “my death is approaching.” I sat down, reluctant to lie down and die, then stood up. One of them, a few steps short, jerked his shoulder and took off his machine gun. And this is how funny a person is: I had no panic, no timidity of heart at that moment. I just look at him and think: “Now he’ll fire a short burst at me, but where will he hit? In the head or across the chest? As if it’s not a damn thing to me, what place will he sew in my body.
A young guy, so good-looking, dark-haired, with thin, thread-like lips and squinted eyes. “This one will kill and not think twice,” I think to myself. That’s how it is: he raised his machine gun - I looked him straight in the eyes, remained silent, and the other, a corporal, perhaps older than him in age, one might say elderly, shouted something, pushed him aside, came up to me, babbling -He also bends my right arm at the elbow, which means he’s feeling the muscle. He tried it and said: “Oh-oh-oh!” – and points to the road, to the sunset. Stomp, you little working beast, to work for our Reich. The owner turned out to be a son of a bitch!
But the dark one took a closer look at my boots, and they looked good, and he gestured with his hand: “Take them off.” I sat down on the ground, took off my boots, and handed them to him. He literally snatched them out of my hands. I unwound the footcloths, handed them to him, and looked up at him. But he screamed, swore in his own way, and again grabbed the machine gun. The rest are laughing. With that, they departed peacefully. Only this dark-haired guy, by the time he reached the road, looked back at me three times, his eyes sparkling like a wolf cub, he was angry, but why? It was as if I took his boots off, and not he took them off me.
Well, brother, I had nowhere to go. I went out onto the road, cursed with a terrible, curly, Voronezh obscenity and walked west, into captivity!.. And then I was a useless walker, no more than a kilometer an hour. You want to step forward, but you are rocked from side to side, driven along the road like a drunk. I walked a little, and a column of our prisoners, from the same division in which I was, caught up with me. They are being chased by about ten German machine gunners. The one who was walking in front of the column caught up with me and, without saying a bad word, backhanded me with the handle of his machine gun and hit me on the head. If I had fallen, he would have pinned me to the ground with a burst of fire, but our men caught me in flight, pushed me into the middle and held me by the arms for half an hour. And when I came to my senses, one of them whispered: “God forbid you fall! Go with all your strength, otherwise they will kill you.” And I tried my best, but I went.
As soon as the sun set, the Germans strengthened the convoy, threw another twenty machine gunners onto the cargo truck, and drove us on an accelerated march. Our seriously wounded could not keep up with the rest, and they were shot right on the road. Two tried to escape, but they didn’t take into account that on a moonlit night you were in an open field as far as you could see, well, of course, they shot them too. At midnight we arrived at some half-burnt village. They forced us to spend the night in a church with a broken dome. There is not a scrap of straw on the stone floor, and we are all without overcoats, wearing only tunics and trousers, so there is nothing to lay down. Some of them weren’t even wearing tunics, just calico undershirts. Most of them were junior commanders. They wore their tunics so that they could not be distinguished from the rank and file. And the artillery servants were without tunics. As they worked near the guns, spread out, they were captured.
At night it rained so hard that we were all soaked through. Here the dome was blown away by a heavy shell or bomb from an airplane, and here the roof was completely damaged by shrapnel; you couldn’t even find a dry place in the altar. So we loitered all night in this church, like sheep in a dark coil. In the middle of the night I hear someone touching my hand and asking: “Comrade, are you wounded?” I answer him: “What do you need, brother?” He says: “I’m a military doctor, maybe I can help you with something?” I complained to him that my left shoulder was creaking and swollen and hurt terribly. He firmly says: “Take off your tunic and undershirt.” I took all this off of me, and he began to probe my shoulder with his thin fingers, so much so that I didn’t see the light. I grind my teeth and tell him: “You are obviously a veterinarian, not a human doctor. Why are you pressing so hard on a sore spot, you heartless person?” And he probes everything and angrily answers: “It’s your job to keep quiet! Me too, he started talking. Hold on, it will hurt even more now.” Yes, as soon as my hand was jerked, red sparks began to fall from my eyes.
I came to my senses and asked: “What are you doing, you unfortunate fascist? My hand is smashed to pieces, and you jerked it like that.” I heard him laugh quietly and say: “I thought that you would hit me with your right, but it turns out you are a quiet guy. But your hand was not broken, but knocked out, so I put it back in its place. Well, how are you now, do you feel better?” And I really feel like the pain is going away somewhere. I thanked him sincerely, and he walked further in the darkness, quietly asking: “Are there any wounded?” This is what a real doctor means! He did his great work both in captivity and in the dark.
It was a restless night. They didn’t let us in until it was windy, the senior guard warned us about this even when they herded us into the church in pairs. And, as luck would have it, one of our pilgrims felt the urge to go out to relieve himself. He strengthened himself and strengthened himself, and then began to cry. “I can’t,” he says, “desecrate the holy temple! I am a believer, I am a Christian! What should I do, brothers?" And do you know what kind of people we are? Some laugh, others swear, others give him all sorts of funny advice. He amused us all, but this mess ended very badly: he started knocking on the door and asking to be let out. Well, he was interrogated: the fascist sent a long line through the door, its entire width, and killed this pilgrim, and three more people, and seriously wounded one; he died by morning.
We put the dead in one place, we all sat down, became quiet and thoughtful: the beginning was not very cheerful... And a little later we started talking in low voices, whispering: who was from where, what region, how they were captured; in the darkness, comrades from the same platoon or acquaintances from the same company became confused and began to slowly call out to each other. And I hear such a quiet conversation next to me. One says: “If tomorrow, before driving us further, they line us up and call out commissars, communists and Jews, then, platoon commander, don’t hide! Nothing will come of this matter. Do you think that if you took off your tunic, you can pass for a private? Will not work! I don't intend to answer for you. I'll be the first to point you out! I know that you are a communist and encouraged me to join the party, so be responsible for your affairs.” This is said by the person closest to me, who is sitting next to me, to the left, and on the other side of him, someone’s young voice answers: “I always suspected that you, Kryzhnev, are a bad person. Especially when you refused to join the party, citing your illiteracy. But I never thought that you could become a traitor. After all, you graduated from the seven-year school?” He lazily answers his platoon commander: “Well, I graduated, so what of this?” They were silent for a long time, then, in his voice, the platoon commander quietly said: “Don’t give me away, Comrade Kryzhnev.” And he laughed quietly. “Comrades,” he says, “remained behind the front line, but I’m not your comrade, and don’t ask me, I’ll point you out anyway. Your own shirt is closer to your body.”
They fell silent, and I got chills from such subversiveness. “No,” I think, “I won’t let you, son of a bitch, betray your commander! You won’t leave this church, but they’ll pull you out by the legs like a bastard!” It has just dawned a little - I see: next to me, a big-faced guy is lying on his back, with his hands behind his head, and sitting next to him in his undershirt, hugging his knees, is such a thin, snub-nosed guy, and very pale. “Well,” I think, “this guy won’t be able to cope with such a fat gelding. I’ll have to finish it.”
I touched him with my hand and asked in a whisper: “Are you a platoon commander?” He didn’t answer, he just nodded his head. “Does this one want to give you away?” - I point to the lying guy. He nodded his head back. “Well,” I say, “hold his legs so he doesn’t kick!” Come live!” – and I fell on this guy, and my fingers froze on his throat. He didn't even have time to shout. I held it under me for a few minutes and stood up. The traitor is ready, and his tongue is on his side!
Before that, I felt unwell after that, and I really wanted to wash my hands, as if I was not a person, but some kind of creeping reptile... For the first time in my life, I killed, and then my own... But what kind of one is he? He is worse than a stranger, a traitor. I stood up and said to the platoon commander: “Let’s get out of here, comrade, the church is great.”
Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov is the author of famous stories about the Cossacks, the Civil War, and the Great Patriotic War. In his works, the author talks not only about the events that took place in the country, but also about people, very aptly characterizing them. Such is Sholokhov’s famous story “The Fate of a Man.” will help the reader to gain respect for the main character of the book, to know the depth of his soul.
A little about the writer
M. A. Sholokhov - Soviet writer who lived in 1905-1984. He witnessed many historical events that took place at that time in the country.
The writer began his creative activity with feuilletons, then the author creates more serious works: “Quiet Don”, “Virgin Soil Upturned”. Among his works about the war one can highlight: “They Fought for the Motherland,” “Light and Darkness,” “The Fight Continues.” Sholokhov’s story “The Fate of a Man” is on the same topic. Analysis of the first lines will help the reader mentally transport himself to that setting.
Meeting Andrei Sokolov, who had a real prototype
The work begins with an introduction to the narrator. He was traveling on a chaise to the village of Bukhanovskaya. Swam across the river with the driver. The narrator had to wait 2 hours for the driver to return. He positioned himself not far from a Willys car and wanted to smoke, but the cigarettes turned out to be damp.
A man with a child saw the narrator and approached him. This was the main character of the story - Andrei Sokolov. He thought that the person trying to smoke was a driver, like him, so he went up to talk to his colleague.
This begins Sholokhov’s short story “The Fate of a Man.” Analysis of the meeting scene will tell the reader that the story is based on real events. Mikhail Alexandrovich was hunting in the spring of 1946 and there he got into a conversation with a man who told him his fate. Ten years later, remembering this meeting, Sholokhov wrote a story in a week. Now it is clear that the narration is conducted on behalf of the author.
Biography of Sokolov
After Andrei treated the person he met to dry cigarettes, they started talking. Or rather, Sokolov began to talk about himself. He was born in 1900. During the Civil War he fought in the Red Army.
In 1922, he left for Kuban in order to somehow feed himself during this time of hunger. But his entire family died - his father, sister and mother died of hunger. When Andrei returned to his homeland from Kuban, he sold the house and went to the city of Voronezh. He first worked here as a carpenter and then as a mechanic.
Next he talks about a significant event in the life of his hero M. A. Sholokhov. “The Fate of Man” continues with the young man marrying a good girl. She had no relatives, and she was brought up in an orphanage. As Andrei himself says, Irina was not particularly beautiful, but it seemed to him that she was better than all the girls in the world.
Marriage and children
Irina had a wonderful character. When the newlyweds got married, sometimes the husband would come home from work angry from fatigue, so he would lash out at his wife. But the smart girl did not respond to offensive words, but was friendly and affectionate with her husband. Irina tried to feed him better and greet him well. Having been in such a favorable environment, Andrei realized that he was wrong and asked his wife for forgiveness for his incontinence.
The woman was very flexible and did not scold her husband for sometimes drinking too much with friends. But soon he stopped even occasionally abusing alcohol, as the young couple had children. First a son was born, and a year later two twin girls were born. My husband began to bring his entire salary home, only occasionally allowing himself a bottle of beer.
Andrei learned to be a driver, began driving a truck, earning good money - the family’s life was comfortable.
War
So 10 years passed. The Sokolovs built a new house for themselves, Irina bought two goats. Everything was fine, but the war began. It is she who will bring a lot of grief to the family and make the main character lonely again. M. A. Sholokhov spoke about this in his almost documentary work. “The Fate of Man” continues with a sad moment - Andrei was called to the front. Irina seemed to feel that a big disaster was about to happen. Seeing off her beloved, she cried on her husband’s chest and said that they would not see each other again.
In captivity
After some time, 6 German machine gunners approached him and took him prisoner, but not him alone. First, the prisoners were taken to the west, then they were ordered to stop for the night in a church. Here Andrey was lucky - the doctor set his arm. He walked among the soldiers, asked if there were any wounded and helped them. These were the kind of people among Soviet soldiers and officers. But there were others too. Sokolov heard one man named Kryzhnev threatening another, saying that he would hand him over to the Germans. The traitor said that in the morning he would tell his opponents that there were communists among the prisoners, and they shot members of the CPSU. What did Mikhail Sholokhov talk about next? “The Fate of a Man” helps to understand how indifferent Andrei Sokolov was, even to the misfortune of others.
The main character could not bear such injustice; he told the communist, who was a platoon commander, to hold Kryzhnev’s legs and strangle the traitor.
But the next morning, when the Germans lined up the prisoners and asked if there were commanders, communists, or commissars among them, no one handed anyone over, since there were no more traitors. But the Nazis shot four who looked very much like Jews. They mercilessly exterminated the people of this nation in those difficult times. Mikhail Sholokhov knew about this. “The Fate of Man” continues with stories about Sokolov’s two captive years. During this time, the main character was in many areas of Germany, he had to work for the Germans. He worked in a mine, at a silicate plant and in other places.
Sholokhov, “The Fate of Man.” Excerpt showing the heroism of a soldier
When, not far from Dresden, together with other prisoners, Sokolov was extracting stones at a quarry, arriving at his barracks, he said that the output was equal to three cubes, and one was enough for each person’s grave.
Someone conveyed these words to the Germans, and they decided to shoot the soldier. He was called to the command, but even here Sokolov showed himself to be a real hero. This is clearly visible when you read about the tense moment in Sholokhov’s story “The Fate of a Man.” Analysis of the following episode shows the fearlessness of the ordinary Russian person.
When camp commandant Müller said that he would personally shoot Sokolov, he was not afraid. Müller invited Andrei to drink German weapons for the victory, the Red Army soldier did not, but agreed for his death. The prisoner drank a glass of vodka in two sips and did not eat, which surprised the Germans. He drank the second glass in the same way, the third more slowly and bit off quite a bit of bread.
The amazed Müller said that he was giving such a brave soldier life and rewarded him with a loaf of bread and lard. Andrei took the treat to the barracks so that the food could be divided equally. Sholokhov wrote about this in detail.
“The Fate of Man”: a soldier’s feat and irreparable losses
Since 1944, Sokolov began working as a driver - he drove a German major. When an opportunity presented itself, Andrei rushed to his people in a car and brought the major with valuable documents as a trophy.
The hero was sent to the hospital for treatment. From there he wrote a letter to his wife, but received an answer from a neighbor that Irina and her daughters died back in 1942 - a bomb hit the house.
One thing now only warmed the head of the family - his son Anatoly. He graduated from the artillery school with honors and fought with the rank of captain. But fate was willing to take away the soldier and his son; Anatoly died on Victory Day - May 9, 1945.
Named son
After the end of the war, Andrei Sokolov went to Uryupinsk - his friend lived here. By chance, in a tea shop, I met a grimy, hungry orphan boy, Vanya, whose mother had died. After thinking, after some time Sokolov told the child that he was his dad. Sholokhov talks about this very touchingly in his work (“The Fate of Man”).
The author described the heroism of a simple soldier, talking about his military exploits, the fearlessness and courage with which he met the news of the death of his loved ones. He will certainly raise his adopted son to be as unbending as himself, so that Ivan can endure and overcome everything on his way.
Municipal educational institution
"Basic secondary school in the village of Zipunovo."
on literature.
Completed
9th grade student
Peshin Alexander.
Babkina Evgenia Nikolaevna.
Chairman of the examination committee
Assistant
2007-2008 academic year year.
1. Introduction. page 3
2. Depiction of Russian folk character
in M. Sholokhov's story "The Fate of Man".
2.1 Features of the composition of the work. page 5
2.2 The best features are concentrated in the image of Andrei Sokolov
character of a Russian person. page 7
2.3 The strength of the main character is in close unity with the people. page 10
3. Conclusion. page 11
4. Literature. page 12
5. Application. page 13
Final certification work
on literature.
Depiction of Russian folk character in M. Sholokhov’s story “The Fate of a Man.”
Yes, here they are, Russian characters.
Seems like a simple man
and severe trouble will come,
in big or small ways, and
great power rises in him –human beauty.
A. N. Tolstoy.
Introduction.
During the Great Patriotic War, the main character of most works becomes a simple person, yesterday's hero of labor, who fought for the freedom and independence of his homeland.
For the Soviet people, the war became their life, their hard but necessary work. And that is why he, a Russian man, an eternal worker, did not flinch before the harsh face of trials.
The stories and narratives created during the Great Patriotic War literally absorbed the breath of the document, or even operational reports from the scene of events. Often, speculation gave way to a burning truth, which, moreover, was higher than any fantasy. The artist’s sense of historicism, extremely acute, made it possible to transform a document, operational summary, information into an artistic testimony of the life of the people in the fire of war.
In an everyday and outwardly inconspicuous fact, phenomenon, event, that significant and significant, special and enduring thing was revealed that constituted the essence of our life.
Organically connected with such works and at the same time qualitatively different from them is the story of Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov “The Fate of a Man”, created by the writer ten years after the victorious end of the Great Patriotic War. The story captured the war in its new dimension and awareness, when the foreground was not the task of mobilizing the spirit of compatriots in the battle with the enemy, but sincere compassion for the people's misfortune, divided into private human destinies. The ordinary person in Sholokhov's story turns out to be the main figure, the hero of the time and the people's tragedy. Filled with high humanism and compassion, the confessional story has become an outstanding phenomenon in Russian literature.
And the history of its creation, according to various testimonies, appears as such.
Arriving in Moscow on Saturday, December 8, 1956, Mikhail Aleksandrovich called Pravda straight from the station and warned that he would soon arrive at the editorial office with his new story. At six o'clock in the evening in the editor-in-chief's office, he began to read the beginning of the story to the assembled employees. Suddenly interrupting his reading, he remarked: “This is what I managed to write... And then it will be like this...” And he continued the coherent story without text, from memory. Having promised to complete the story before the New Year, he kept his word. On December 29, 1956, Sholokhov read the entire story to Pravda employees. And just a day later - December 31, 1956 - the first half of the story was published in Pravda, and on January 1, 1957 - its ending.
The idea itself arose in the first post-war year, when the writer met the prototype of Andrei Sokolov. With him was a boy whom he called son. And in the moments of waiting for the ferry across the Don, they - the author, who was mistaken by a new acquaintance for a “brother-driver”, and the stoop-shouldered man he met - began a conversation, from which the story “The Fate of a Man” matured in the artist’s soul.
The purpose of my certification work .
Studying the creative history of M.A. Sholokhov’s story “The Fate of a Man” and characterizing the significant, weighty image of a Man, a Warrior and a Worker.
Tasks:
a) note the features of Sholokhov’s mastery - the ability to convey the most complex emotional experiences of a person enduring hardships and hardships through external, sometimes barely noticeable manifestations - gestures, facial expressions, a short word;
b) having identified the meaning of the title of the story, analyze the courage, perseverance, tenacity in the struggle for life, the ability to love and be friends with the warrior and worker Andrei Sokolov.
Features of the composition of the work.
The composition of Sholokhov's work is unique. In its form, it represents a story within a story.
The narrator's narration is framed by the author's beginning and a short ending. The main drama of the story lies in the central part of the work - in the story of Andrei Sokolov. The author's beginning bears the features of an epic narrative, and the ending is a kind of lyrical digression, in which the author expresses a blood connection with the fate of his heroes.
The first-person narrative gives the work the character of a confession and allows the writer, while maintaining the flavor of everyday life, to penetrate into the depths of the hero’s spiritual world.
The frame in which the narrator’s voice sounds prepares a meeting with the hero, who puts us at a certain point of view, makes us see in life and people something that, perhaps, in other circumstances would not attract attention. Note also that from time to time the narrator interrupts the storyteller with a remark, a small lyrical digression, or a sketch of nature - as if a kind of lyrical accompaniment to the story.
Analyzing the introductory part of the work, let us pay attention to its rather dry, almost businesslike beginning. It takes place in the post-war spring, at the end of March 1946. The author travels to the village of Bukanovskaya, sixty kilometers away. Rides out with a friend before sunrise on a pair of horses. Six hours later, the travelers reached the crossing of the Elanka River, which, near the Mokhovsky farm, overflowed for a whole kilometer. After another hour of travel on a dilapidated boat, the narrator crossed to the other side of the Elanka. Sitting down on a fallen fence, he put his hand into the right pocket of his cotton quilt, found a sodden pack of Belomor and began to dry the damp, browned cigarettes in the sun...
As you can see, the story begins simply, “usually”, and is told slowly. The names of farms, rivers, and the number of kilometers covered are accurately indicated. For what?
Sholokhov strives for authenticity, for truthfulness, for creating the impression of everyday life, even the ordinaryness of what is happening. At the same time, we note the thoughtfulness of every detail of the picture.
The narrator talks about his clothes (soldier's wadded trousers, quilted jacket, old soldier's earflaps) and mentions the car that the driver drove from the farm. But it was precisely by his clothes and the fact that there was a car next to him that Andrei Sokolov mistook the author for “his brother, the driver” and openly talked with him.
Let's dwell on the lyrical motif that sounds twice in the introduction: “The water smelled of dampness, the tart bitterness of rotting alder(precision again: not just wood, but alder) , and from the distant Khoper steppes, drowning in the lilac haze of fog, a light breeze carried the eternally youthful, barely perceptible aroma of land recently freed from under the snow.” And: “It was the first truly warm day after winter. It’s good to sit on the fence like this, alone...” The introductory part of the story ends with this quiet motif, creating a mood of peace, quiet, and tranquility.
It is characteristic that the appearance of the hero in the story also does not seem to foreshadow anything special and does not disturb the color of ordinary life recreated by Sholokhov: “Soon I saw a man come out onto the road from behind the outer courtyards of the farm. He was leading a little boy by the hand, judging by his height, no more than five or six years old.” What's unusual here?
I would like to note that Andrey’s appearance is no different from many of his peers, except for his height and stoop. He has large dark hands - the hands of a worker. He is poorly dressed: in protective flight pants, in a burnt-out padded jacket, in moth-eaten socks, he has a “skinny” duffel bag - it’s clear that life is not sweet for the passer-by. He takes out a worn pouch, and from the embroidered inscription on the pouch we learn that this is obviously a former front-line soldier.
A striking artistic detail emphasizes that great human tragedies lie behind the commonplace, the ordinary, and the external inconspicuousness: “I looked at him from the side, and I felt something uneasy... Have you ever seen eyes, as if sprinkled with ashes, filled with such an inescapable mortal melancholy that it is difficult to look into them? These were the eyes of my random interlocutor...”
The best features are concentrated in the image of Andrei Sokolov
character of a Russian person.
The life of Andrei Sokolov before the war was typical for many millions of workers. Before his marriage, he was completely alone. In the first time after his marriage, sometimes he had to drink with his comrades, and drink a lot (a kind of “experience” later affected him during the duel with Muller); when children appeared, he found the strength to “break away” from his comrades and stop drinking; Andrei liked family life and awakened the best feelings in him.
Municipal educational institution
"Basic secondary school in the village of Zipunovo."
on literature.
Completed
9th grade student
Peshin Alexander.
Babkina Evgenia Nikolaevna.
Chairman of the examination committee
Assistant
2007-2008 academic year year.
1. Introduction. page 3
2. Depiction of Russian folk character
in M. Sholokhov's story "The Fate of Man".
2.1 Features of the composition of the work. page 5
2.2 The best features are concentrated in the image of Andrei Sokolov
character of a Russian person. page 7
2.3 The strength of the main character is in close unity with the people. page 10
3. Conclusion. page 11
4. Literature. page 12
5. Application. page 13
Final certification work
on literature.
Depiction of Russian folk character in M. Sholokhov’s story “The Fate of a Man.”
Yes, here they are, Russian characters.
Seems like a simple man
and severe trouble will come,
in big or small ways, and
great power rises in him –human beauty.
A. N. Tolstoy.
Introduction.
During the Great Patriotic War, the main character of most works becomes a simple person, yesterday's hero of labor, who fought for the freedom and independence of his homeland.
For the Soviet people, the war became their life, their hard but necessary work. And that is why he, a Russian man, an eternal worker, did not flinch before the harsh face of trials.
The stories and narratives created during the Great Patriotic War literally absorbed the breath of the document, or even operational reports from the scene of events. Often, speculation gave way to a burning truth, which, moreover, was higher than any fantasy. The artist’s sense of historicism, extremely acute, made it possible to transform a document, operational summary, information into an artistic testimony of the life of the people in the fire of war.
In an everyday and outwardly inconspicuous fact, phenomenon, event, that significant and significant, special and enduring thing was revealed that constituted the essence of our life.
Organically connected with such works and at the same time qualitatively different from them is the story of Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov “The Fate of a Man”, created by the writer ten years after the victorious end of the Great Patriotic War. The story captured the war in its new dimension and awareness, when the foreground was not the task of mobilizing the spirit of compatriots in the battle with the enemy, but sincere compassion for the people's misfortune, divided into private human destinies. The ordinary person in Sholokhov's story turns out to be the main figure, the hero of the time and the people's tragedy. Filled with high humanism and compassion, the confessional story has become an outstanding phenomenon in Russian literature.
And the history of its creation, according to various testimonies, appears as such.
Arriving in Moscow on Saturday, December 8, 1956, Mikhail Aleksandrovich called Pravda straight from the station and warned that he would soon arrive at the editorial office with his new story. At six o'clock in the evening in the editor-in-chief's office, he began to read the beginning of the story to the assembled employees. Suddenly interrupting his reading, he remarked: “This is what I managed to write... And then it will be like this...” And he continued the coherent story without text, from memory. Having promised to complete the story before the New Year, he kept his word. On December 29, 1956, Sholokhov read the entire story to Pravda employees. And just a day later - December 31, 1956 - the first half of the story was published in Pravda, and on January 1, 1957 - its ending.
The idea itself arose in the first post-war year, when the writer met the prototype of Andrei Sokolov. With him was a boy whom he called son. And in the moments of waiting for the ferry across the Don, they - the author, who was mistaken by a new acquaintance for a “brother-driver”, and the stoop-shouldered man he met - began a conversation, from which the story “The Fate of a Man” matured in the artist’s soul.
The purpose of my certification work .
Studying the creative history of M.A. Sholokhov’s story “The Fate of a Man” and characterizing the significant, weighty image of a Man, a Warrior and a Worker.
Tasks:
a) note the features of Sholokhov’s mastery - the ability to convey the most complex emotional experiences of a person enduring hardships and hardships through external, sometimes barely noticeable manifestations - gestures, facial expressions, a short word;
b) having identified the meaning of the title of the story, analyze the courage, perseverance, tenacity in the struggle for life, the ability to love and be friends with the warrior and worker Andrei Sokolov.
Features of the composition of the work.
The composition of Sholokhov's work is unique. In its form, it represents a story within a story.
The narrator's narration is framed by the author's beginning and a short ending. The main drama of the story lies in the central part of the work - in the story of Andrei Sokolov. The author's beginning bears the features of an epic narrative, and the ending is a kind of lyrical digression, in which the author expresses a blood connection with the fate of his heroes.
The first-person narrative gives the work the character of a confession and allows the writer, while maintaining the flavor of everyday life, to penetrate into the depths of the hero’s spiritual world.
The frame in which the narrator’s voice sounds prepares a meeting with the hero, who puts us at a certain point of view, makes us see in life and people something that, perhaps, in other circumstances would not attract attention. Note also that from time to time the narrator interrupts the storyteller with a remark, a small lyrical digression, or a sketch of nature - as if a kind of lyrical accompaniment to the story.
Analyzing the introductory part of the work, let us pay attention to its rather dry, almost businesslike beginning. It takes place in the post-war spring, at the end of March 1946. The author travels to the village of Bukanovskaya, sixty kilometers away. Rides out with a friend before sunrise on a pair of horses. Six hours later, the travelers reached the crossing of the Elanka River, which, near the Mokhovsky farm, overflowed for a whole kilometer. After another hour of travel on a dilapidated boat, the narrator crossed to the other side of the Elanka. Sitting down on a fallen fence, he put his hand into the right pocket of his cotton quilt, found a sodden pack of Belomor and began to dry the damp, browned cigarettes in the sun...
As you can see, the story begins simply, “usually”, and is told slowly. The names of farms, rivers, and the number of kilometers covered are accurately indicated. For what?
Sholokhov strives for authenticity, for truthfulness, for creating the impression of everyday life, even the ordinaryness of what is happening. At the same time, we note the thoughtfulness of every detail of the picture.
The narrator talks about his clothes (soldier's wadded trousers, quilted jacket, old soldier's earflaps) and mentions the car that the driver drove from the farm. But it was precisely by his clothes and the fact that there was a car next to him that Andrei Sokolov mistook the author for “his brother, the driver” and openly talked with him.
Let's dwell on the lyrical motif that sounds twice in the introduction: “The water smelled of dampness, the tart bitterness of rotting alder(precision again: not just wood, but alder) , and from the distant Khoper steppes, drowning in the lilac haze of fog, a light breeze carried the eternally youthful, barely perceptible aroma of land recently freed from under the snow.” And: “It was the first truly warm day after winter. It’s good to sit on the fence like this, alone...” The introductory part of the story ends with this quiet motif, creating a mood of peace, quiet, and tranquility.
It is characteristic that the appearance of the hero in the story also does not seem to foreshadow anything special and does not disturb the color of ordinary life recreated by Sholokhov: “Soon I saw a man come out onto the road from behind the outer courtyards of the farm. He was leading a little boy by the hand, judging by his height, no more than five or six years old.” What's unusual here?
I would like to note that Andrey’s appearance is no different from many of his peers, except for his height and stoop. He has large dark hands - the hands of a worker. He is poorly dressed: in protective flight pants, in a burnt-out padded jacket, in moth-eaten socks, he has a “skinny” duffel bag - it’s clear that life is not sweet for the passer-by. He takes out a worn pouch, and from the embroidered inscription on the pouch we learn that this is obviously a former front-line soldier.
A striking artistic detail emphasizes that great human tragedies lie behind the commonplace, the ordinary, and the external inconspicuousness: “I looked at him from the side, and I felt something uneasy... Have you ever seen eyes, as if sprinkled with ashes, filled with such an inescapable mortal melancholy that it is difficult to look into them? These were the eyes of my random interlocutor...”
The best features are concentrated in the image of Andrei Sokolov
character of a Russian person.
The life of Andrei Sokolov before the war was typical for many millions of workers. Before his marriage, he was completely alone. In the first time after his marriage, sometimes he had to drink with his comrades, and drink a lot (a kind of “experience” later affected him during the duel with Muller); when children appeared, he found the strength to “break away” from his comrades and stop drinking; Andrei liked family life and awakened the best feelings in him.
“I worked day and night for these ten years,” said Andrei Sokolov. “I earned good money, and we lived no worse than other people.” And the children were a joy, all three studied well, and the eldest, Anatoly, turned out to be so capable of mathematics that they even wrote about him in the central newspaper.”
Andrei speaks sparingly and reservedly about himself, but we feel the excitement that covers this seemingly stern man. His speech is interrupted, there are not enough words, and deep inner purity, chastity, modesty do not allow the hero to detect every movement of his soul. “I heard,” the author writes, “something bubbling and gurgling in his throat. Not a tear was visible in the seemingly dead “extinguished eyes.” “He sat with his head bowed dejectedly, only his large, limply lowered hands trembled slightly, his chin trembled, his hard lips trembled...” Andrei tried to roll a cigarette, but the newsprint was torn and the tobacco fell onto his lap...
Having noticed that the story about the hero’s life before the war and the episode of farewell to Irina occupy approximately the same number of pages, we clearly understand the importance the author attaches to this episode.
“Until my death, until my last hour, I will die, and I will not forgive myself for pushing her away then!..”- Andrey recalls about his wife Irina. These words contain bashful tenderness, spiritual sensitivity, and mercilessness towards oneself.
... Sokolov fought selflessly, always feeling like he was part of the great Soviet Army. At the most intense moment of the battle, the commander sent Sokolov to deliver ammunition to the front line. But a heavy shell hit the car, and shell-shocked Andrei was captured...
A decade after the end of the Great Patriotic War, many documents were found about the heroic behavior of Soviet prisoners of war in fascist death camps. In the camps of Sachsenhause, Ravensbrück and many others, groups of Soviet people were organized to help their comrades endure the horrors of captivity and survive.
A poetic expression of the powerful spirit of the Soviet people who found themselves in fascist captivity was the famous “Moabit Notebook” by Musa Jalil, created by him in a Nazi dungeon:
No, you're lying, executioner, I won't kneel,
At least throw him in a dungeon, at least sell him as a slave!
I will die standing, without asking for forgiveness, -
At least chop my head with an ax!
In Andrei Sokolov's story about captivity, the idea of the solidarity of Soviet people in captivity, their courage and heroism is constantly emphasized.
And the Nazis beat, killed, and burned Soviet people: “They beat you because you are Russian, because you still look at the world, because you work for them, the bastards. They beat you because you looked wrong, stepped wrong, turned wrong... They beat you simply, in order to someday kill you to death, so that you would choke on your last blood and die from the beatings...” But the enemies were powerless to kill the human dignity in the Soviet people, the faith in the immortality of their people.
In all post-war literature, there is, perhaps, no scene equal in power to the duel between Andrei Sokolov and the fascist Müller. In the scene of this fight, a hymn to the Soviet soldier-hero sounds, which evokes respect even from such a beast as Muller was.
It is characteristic that, going to certain death, Andrei, first of all, thinks not about himself, but about Irina and the children. It may seem that in the scene of his confrontation with Muller, Andrei did not show much heroism, at least in the “traditional” sense of the word. He did not get into a fight with the enemy, did not hide a military secret from him at the cost of his life, and he had nothing to hide. They poured him several glasses of vodka, and he, refusing at first, then drank everything that was offered to him. Is it right to talk about Sokolov’s heroism in this case?
It seems to me that the scene of the confrontation with Muller is a duel between enemies, a kind of psychological duel that requires incredible willpower and all physical and mental strength from the hero. On the one hand, there is an armed, well-fed, smug fascist, reveling in power, who has long been accustomed to the idea that everything is allowed to him. On the other hand, an unarmed, powerless prisoner of war, barely able to stand on his feet, deprived of even his name, No. 331. And now this man throws words about the cruel living conditions in the camp in the face of his insolent enemy. Hungry, unable to take his eyes off the rich dishes on the table of the feasting fascists, he refuses to drink to the victory of German weapons, and when he does agree to drink “for your death and deliverance from torment”, then he does not touch the bread: “I wanted to show them, the damned one, that although I’m dying of hunger, I’m not going to choke on their handouts, that I have my own, Russian dignity and pride, and that they didn’t turn me into a beast, no matter how hard they tried.”
The fascist monsters admitted that by the power of their mighty spirit they were defeated by this exhausted, exhausted Russian soldier. And Commandant Müller said: “... you are a real Russian soldier. You are a brave soldier. “I am also a soldier and I respect worthy opponents.”
Sholokhov, contrary to the opinion of some critics, avoids monotony and posterity in his depiction of enemies, which makes the truth of the artistic depiction deeper.
Leaving the Nazis and still waiting for a shot in the back, Sokolov thinks not about himself, but about his comrades. And when, with great difficulty, he reached the barracks, when asked how to divide the bread received from Muller, he answered: “Equally for everyone!”
The lines about how prisoners dying of hunger shared the bread and lard brought by Andrei with a harsh thread are touching to the depths of the soul. “Everyone got a piece of bread the size of a matchbox, every crumb was taken into account, well, and lard, you know, just to anoint your lips. However, they divided it without offense...”
Andrei Sokolov remained in captivity until 1944. By this time, “ours turned Germany’s cheekbone on one side” and prisoners of war began to be used in their specialty. Sokolov began working as a driver: he drove a German engineer to build roads and defensive structures. And here Sokolov does not abandon the thought of escape. When he was sent to the front line, he decided to carry out his intention. But even here he thinks about helping our troops - he decides to take with him a German officer with documents. The escape was accomplished. The information received from the Nazi major turned out to be very important. Sokolov was nominated for an award.
Returning from captivity, Andrei learns about the death of his wife and daughters. And on Victory Day, May 9, 1945, his son Anatoly died at the front. Parting with my son was difficult: “My comrades - friends of my Anatoly - are wiping away their tears, but my unshed tears, apparently, have dried up in my heart. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much.”
The strength of the main character is in close unity with the people.
Having gone through all the horrors of fascist captivity, having lost his family and home, Andrei Sokolov did not lose heart, his heart did not harden, and the tragedy of the people did not overshadow his personal grief.
After demobilization, in the small town of Uryupinsk, Sokolov meets a small, ragged boy, Vanya, and learns that he has no parents - his father was killed at the front, and his mother died on the road. “A burning tear began to boil inside me, and I immediately decided: “We mustn’t disappear separately!” I’ll take him as my child!”
It is impossible to read the lines where Sholokhov conveys the joy of the boy who heard Andrei Sokolov confess that he was his father without excitement and involuntary tears: “Oh my God, what happened here! He rushed to my neck, kissed me on the cheeks, on the lips, on the forehead, and he, like a waxwing, screamed so loudly and thinly that even in the booth it was muffled: “Dad, dear!” I knew! I knew you would find me! You'll find it anyway! I've been waiting so long for you to find me! ..."
In love for the boy, Andrei Sokolov found overcoming his personal tragedy. This love made his life meaningful and purposeful.
And this love inspires confidence that the little person raised by him will grow into a staunch fighter who can endure everything for the sake of the great love for his mother Motherland: “And I would like to think that this Russian man, a man of unbending will, will withstand everything, and near his father’s shoulder will grow one who, having matured, will be able to endure everything, overcome everything on his way.”
Conclusion.
"The Fate of Man."
It is no coincidence that Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov named his story this way.
Not the fate of Andrei Sokolov, but the fate of a person. In essence, this fact expresses the basic law of genuine artistic exploration of existence, which great artists professed and profess.
That is why in “The Fate of Man” there is almost no private story or any private incident. On the contrary, the private life of Andrei Sokolov absorbed what was deeply typical of the lives of millions of people, which allowed Sholokhov to comprehend the hero’s personal life in the light of the tragic creature of the era itself.
Note that at the end of the story, the author for a moment seems to distance himself from the data, specific characters, and this specific conflict: not Andrei Sokolov and Vanyushka, but "two orphaned people", set and abandoned by history in the face of a gigantic catastrophe, if you like - in front of eternity (“two grains of sand thrown into foreign lands by a military hurricane of unprecedented force”). Therefore, I think those literary scholars are right who believe that Sholokhov’s thought in the story moves from the fate of man to the fate of humanity.
But there is another meaning in the title of the story. We can rightfully say that in the person of Andrei Sokolov we see a real person in the noblest sense of the word, or, in Gorky’s language, a Man with a capital M.
Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov was a great humanist of his time, a writer of high artistic skill, who was able to penetrate into the very depths of people's life and with great love write down people's characters, embodying wonderful spiritual qualities in them. The images he created are full of vital truth and powerful expressiveness.
Literature
1. A.A. Zhuravleva. "Mikhail Sholokhov". Moscow 1975.
2. M.A. Sholokhov. "The Fate of Man" Moscow 1984.
3. Literature. Textbook-workshop. 9th grade. Moscow 2001.
4. T.A. Ladyzhenskaya. "Develop the gift of speech." Moscow. Enlightenment 1986.
5. M.A. Sholokhov. Stories. Moscow. 2002
7. Life and work of M. Sholokhov. Moscow 1980.
8. Collection "Stories and Tales about the Great Patriotic War." Moscow. "Fiction". 1989
Still from the film "The Fate of Man" based on the story by M. Sholokhov.
Staged by S. Bondarchuk. 1959
Andrey Sokolov – Sergey Bondarchuk, Vanyushka - P. Boriskin.
Andrei Sokolov with Commandant Muller.
Father and son.
"The Fate of Man." Artist O.G. Vereisky.