Nikolai Nikolaevich Aseev(present fam. - Stahlbaum; 1889-1963) - Russian Soviet poet , screenwriter, Russian activistfuturism. Winner of the Stalin Prize, first degree (1941). He was a friend of V.V. Mayakovsky, B.L. Pasternak.
N.N. Aseev born June 28 (July 10), 1889 in the city of Lgov (now Kursk region) in the family of insurance agent Nikolai Nikolaevich Shtalbaum. The poet's mother Elena Nikolaevna, née Pinskaya, died young, when the boy was not yet 8 years old. The father soon remarried. He spent his childhood years in the house of his grandfather, Nikolai Pavlovich Pinsky, an avid hunter and fisherman, a lover of folk songs and fairy tales, and a wonderful storyteller. Grandmother Varvara Stepanovna Pinskaya was a serf in her youth, redeemed from captivity by her grandfather, who fell in love with her during one of his hunting wanderings. She remembered a lot from the life of the old village.
The boy was sent to the Kursk Real School, from which he graduated in 1909. Then he studied at the economics department at the Moscow Commercial Institute (1909-1912) and at philological faculties Moscow and Kharkov University. In 1915 he was drafted into the army and went to the Austrian front. In September 1917, he was elected to the regimental Council of Soldiers' Deputies and, together with a train of wounded Siberians, was sent to Irkutsk. During Civil War ended up on Far East. He was in charge of the labor exchange, then worked at a local newspaper, first as a publisher, and later as a feuilletonist.
In 1920 he was summoned to Moscow by a telegram from A.V. Lunacharsky. Member of the “Creativity” group together with S. M. Tretyakov, D. D. Burliuk, N. F. Chuzhak. In 1922 he came to Moscow. From 1931 until his death he lived in the “House of the Writers’ Cooperative” on Kamergersky Lane, as is reminded by the sign installed on the building Memorial plaque. During the war, as a person not liable for military service due to his age, he was evacuated to Chistopol.
He actively helped promote young poets during the Khrushchev “thaw”. His letters to Victor Sosnora, written shortly before his death, have been preserved. The letters are full of lively participation in creative career young poet.
N. N. Aseev died on July 16, 1963. He was buried in Moscow at the Novodevichy Cemetery (site No. 6).
In her letter to B. L. Pasternak in 1956, M. I. Tsvetaeva’s daughter A. S. Efron calls him the killer of her mother (“For me Aseev- not a poet, not a man, not an enemy, not a traitor - he is a murderer, and this murder is worse than Dantes’s”). Having received a refusal to requests for help, even in providing a place as a dishwasher in the writers' canteen, and immediately after a conversation with Aseev, Marina Tsvetaeva committed suicide.
A street is named after the poet Aseeva in Moscow. Kursk regional science Library and one of the streets of Kursk is named after Aseeva. There is a literary and memorial museum of the poet in the city of Lgov; a street is named after him.
Began publishing in 1909. Since 1914 Aseev together with S.P. Bobrov and B.L. Pasternak, he was one of the leading representatives of the Lyrics circle, then the group Centrifuge”, professing futurism. The poet's first collection, Night Flute (1914), bore traces of the influence of symbolist poetry. Acquaintance with the works of V.V. Khlebnikov and his passion for ancient Slavic folklore were reflected in the collections “Zor” (1914), “Letorei” (1915). Creative communication with V.V. Mayakovsky (since 1913) helped the formation of talent Aseeva. Revolutionary motives intensify in his poetry. The collection “Bomb” (1921) was burned by the interventionists along with the destroyed printing house. “March of Budyonny” from the poem “Budyonny” (1922) became a popular song (music by A. A. Davidenko). Since 1923 he participated in literary group « LEF" Poem " Lyrical digression"(1924) caused heated discussions. Here Aseev laments concessions in the ideological sphere and critically depicts the distortion of the revolutionary idea in the new political situation NEP.
The poems “Sverdlovsk Storm” (1924), “Semyon Proskakov” (1928), poems about revolutionaries (“Blue Hussars”, 1926, “Chernyshevsky”, 1929), “Poem about the Twenty-Six Baku Commissars” (1925) are imbued with revolutionary romantic pathos. - a typical example of propaganda lyrics in the style of Mayakovsky). The poem “Mayakovsky Begins” (1940).
Translated poems by Mao Zedong.
Wife - Ksenia Mikhailovna (nee Sinyakova) (1900-1985)
Awards and prizes
- Stalin Prize, first degree (1941) - for the poem “Mayakovsky Begins”
- Order of Lenin (1939)
- Order of the Red Banner of Labor
Books by N. Aseev
- Nikolay Aseev. Night Flute: Poems. / Preface and region S. Bobrova.- M.: Lyrica, 1914. - 32 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. Zor. / Region M. Sinyakova.- M.: Liren, 1914. - 16 p.
- Nikolay Aseev, Grigory Petnikov. Letorey: Book. poems / Region M. Sinyakova.- M.: Liren, 1915. - 32 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. Oh horse meat dan okein! Book four poems. - M.: Liren, 1916. - 14 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. Oksana. - M.: Centrifuge, 1916. - 88 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. Bomb. — Vladivostok: Vost. Tribune, 1921. - 64 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. Siberian bass. — Chita, 1922
- Nikolay Aseev. Sofron at the front. - M., 1922
- Nikolay Aseev. Arzhany maternity leave. - M.: Giza, 1922. - 20 p.
- Council of the winds. - M., GIZ, 1923. - 56 p.
- Steel Nightingale. - M., Vkhutemas, 1922. - 26 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. October songs., M., Mol. Guard, 1925. - 32 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. Behind the row is a row. M., 1925 - 32 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. The Shot Land (stories). M., Ogonyok, 1925. - 44 p.
- Nikolay Aseev. Why and who needs poetry. 1961. - 315 p.
Scenarios
- The Extraordinary Adventures of Mr. West in the Land of the Bolsheviks, 1924.
- Battleship Potemkin, 1925, together with Nina Agadzhanova.
- Fedkina Pravda, 1925, together with Alexander Pereguda.
Yuri Bondarev
HOT SNOW
Chapter first
Kuznetsov could not sleep. The knocking and rattling on the roof of the carriage grew louder and louder, the overlapping winds struck like a blizzard, and the barely visible window above the bunks became more and more densely covered with snow.
The locomotive, with a wild, blizzard-piercing roar, drove the train through the night fields, in the white haze rushing from all sides, and in the thunderous darkness of the carriage, through the frozen squeal of the wheels, through the alarming sobs, the muttering of the soldiers in their sleep, this roar was heard continuously warning someone locomotive, and it seemed to Kuznetsov that there, ahead, behind the snowstorm, the glow of a burning city was already dimly visible.
After stopping in Saratov, it became clear to everyone that the division was urgently being transferred to Stalingrad, and not to Western Front, as originally intended; and now Kuznetsov knew that the journey remained for several hours. And, pulling the hard, unpleasantly damp collar of his overcoat over his cheek, he could not warm himself up, gain warmth in order to sleep: there was a piercing blow through the invisible cracks of the swept window, icy drafts walked through the bunks.
“That means I won’t see my mother for a long time,” thought Kuznetsov, shrinking from the cold, “they drove us past...”.
What was past life, - summer months at the school in hot, dusty Aktyubinsk, with the hot winds from the steppe, with the cries of donkeys on the outskirts suffocating in the sunset silence, so precise in time every night that platoon commanders in tactical training, languishing with thirst, not without relief, checked their watches and marches with them in the stupefying heat, tunics sweaty and scorched white in the sun, sand creaking on the teeth; Sunday patrol of the city, in the city garden, where in the evenings a military brass band played peacefully on the dance floor; then graduation from school, loading into the carriages on an alarming autumn night, a gloomy forest covered in wild snow, snowdrifts, dugouts of a formation camp near Tambov, then again, alarmingly at a frosty pink December dawn, hasty loading onto the train and, finally, departure - all this unsteady , temporary, someone-controlled life has faded now, remained far behind, in the past. And there was no hope of seeing his mother, and just recently he had almost no doubt that they would be taken west through Moscow.
“I’ll write to her,” Kuznetsov thought with a suddenly aggravated feeling of loneliness, “and I’ll explain everything. After all, we haven’t seen each other for nine months...”
And the whole carriage was sleeping under the grinding, squealing, under the cast-iron roar of the runaway wheels, the walls swayed tightly, the upper bunks shook at the frantic speed of the train, and Kuznetsov, shuddering, having finally vegetated in the drafts near the window, turned back his collar and looked with envy at the commander of the second platoon sleeping next to him. Lieutenant Davlatyan - his face was not visible in the darkness of the bunk.
“No, here, near the window, I won’t sleep, I’ll freeze until I reach the front line,” Kuznetsov thought with annoyance at himself and moved, stirred, hearing the frost crunching on the boards of the carriage.
He freed himself from the cold, prickly tightness of his place, jumped off the bunk, feeling that he needed to warm up by the stove: his back was completely numb.
In the iron stove on the side of the closed door, flickering with thick frost, the fire had long gone out, only the ash-blower was red with a motionless pupil. But it seemed a little warmer down here. In the gloom of the carriage, this crimson glow of coal faintly illuminated the various new felt boots, bowlers, and duffel bags under their heads sticking out in the aisle. The orderly Chibisov slept uncomfortably on the lower bunks, right on the soldiers’ feet; his head was tucked into his collar up to the top of his hat, his hands were tucked into the sleeves.
Chibisov! - Kuznetsov called and opened the door of the stove, which wafted out a barely perceptible warmth from inside. - Everything went out, Chibisov!
There was no answer.
Orderly, do you hear?
Chibisov jumped up in fear, sleepy, rumpled, his hat with earflaps pulled low and tied with ribbons under his chin. Not yet waking up from sleep, he tried to push the earflaps off his forehead, untie the ribbons, crying out incomprehensibly and timidly:
What am I? No way, fell asleep? It literally stunned me into unconsciousness. I apologize, Comrade Lieutenant! Wow, I was chilled to the bones in my drowsiness!..
“We fell asleep and let the whole car get cold,” Kuznetsov said reproachfully.
“I didn’t mean to, Comrade Lieutenant, by accident, without intent,” Chibisov muttered. - It knocked me down...
Then, without waiting for Kuznetsov’s orders, he fussed around with excessive cheerfulness, grabbed a board from the floor, broke it over his knee and began to push the fragments into the stove. At the same time, stupidly, as if his sides were itching, he moved his elbows and shoulders, often bending down, busily looking into the ash pit, where the fire was creeping in with lazy reflections; Chibisov's revived, soot-stained face expressed conspiratorial servility.
Now, Comrade Lieutenant, I’ll get you warm! Let's heat it up, it will be smooth in the bathhouse. I myself am frozen because of the war! Oh, how cold I am, every bone aches - there are no words!..
Kuznetsov sat down opposite the open stove door. The orderly's exaggeratedly deliberate fussiness, this obvious hint of his past, was unpleasant to him. Chibisov was from his platoon. And the fact that he, with his immoderate diligence, always trouble-free, lived for several months in German captivity, and from the first day of his appearance in the platoon he was constantly ready to serve everyone, which aroused wary pity for him.
Chibisov gently, womanishly, sank onto his bunk, his sleepless eyes blinking.
So we're going to Stalingrad, Comrade Lieutenant? According to the reports, what a meat grinder there is! Aren't you afraid, Comrade Lieutenant? Nothing?
“We’ll come and see what kind of meat grinder it is,” Kuznetsov responded sluggishly, peering into the fire. - What, are you afraid? Why did you ask?
Yes, one might say, I don’t have the fear that I had before,” Chibisov answered falsely cheerfully and, sighing, put his small hands on his knees, spoke in a confidential tone, as if wanting to convince Kuznetsov: “After our people freed me from captivity.” , believed me, Comrade Lieutenant. And I spent three whole months, like a puppy in shit, with the Germans. They believed... The war is so huge, different people is fighting. How can you immediately believe? - Chibisov glanced cautiously at Kuznetsov; he was silent, pretending to be busy with the stove, warming himself with its living warmth: he concentratedly clenched and unclenched his fingers over the open door. - Do you know how I was captured, Comrade Lieutenant?.. I didn’t tell you, but I want to tell you. The Germans drove us into a ravine. Near Vyazma. And when their tanks came close and surrounded us, and we no longer had any shells, the regimental commissar jumped onto the top of his “emka” with a pistol and shouted: “ Better death than to be captured by fascist bastards!” - and shot himself in the temple. It even splashed from my head. And the Germans are running towards us from all sides. Their tanks are strangling people alive. Here is... the colonel and someone else...
The action of the work takes place during wartime. Colonel Deev's division is sent to Stalingrad to repel the enemy group. Many days and nights there is a battle going on. During the battle, many German and Soviet soldiers die.
The new army is led by General Bessonov, Cruel person. He thinks that his son died during the battle and blames himself for this. Vesnin learns that the general's son is alive and is in a German hospital, but does not dare to inform Bessonov about this. Vesnin dies and the general does not know the truth about his child. Soviet soldiers still managed to repel the enemies. The general presented orders and medals to the soldiers for the courage and heroism they showed in battle.
The work teaches that it is necessary to remain human in any situation, to have a feeling of pity even in wartime. Teaches patriotism, devotion, camaraderie.
Read the summary Bondarev's Hot Snow
The events of the work take place during the Great Patriotic War in 1942. Colonel Deev's division was constantly sent to guard Stalingrad. The division included a battery under the close leadership of Lieutenant Drozdovsky. The platoon was led by Kuznetsov, who had previously studied with Drozdov at the same school.
The platoon consisted of 12 soldiers, among whom Nechaev, Chibisov and Ukhanov stood out.
Sergeant Ukhanov in pre-war time worked in the police, then received his education at the Aktobe School, where his commanders studied. Once Ukhanov left the platoon without permission and returned through the toilet window; the head of his division personally saw all this. After this, one could no longer dream of becoming an officer. Drozdovsky neglected Ukhanov, but Kuznetsov treated him well.
Nechaev in Peaceful time was a sailor and never missed a single skirt. Even while in the service, he shows sympathy for Zoya Elagina, the medical instructor of the battery. The girl was pretty and attracted the attention of many men. Especially during wartime, when there was a shortage of women.
Chibisov was captured by the Nazis, so many do not trust him and cast contemptuous glances at him.
One day he arrived at Deev’s platoon with some unfamiliar general. Later it turned out that this was General Bessonov Pyotr Aleksandrovich.
Because military kitchen lagged behind the soldiers, the military were forced to use snow instead of water.
By order of Stalin, the division led by Deev was to be sent south to fight the Germans. military group"Goth". Commander-in-Chief new army Bessonov P.A. was appointed.
The lieutenant general was very worried after the death of his only son, who died at the front. His wife Olga repeatedly urged him to take his son into her service, but the father did not want to impose himself. After what happened, of course, he was very sorry.
In November, the battle of the Stalingrad and Don fronts against the Nazis was fought. Hitler ordered Operation Winter Storm to begin. Its essence was to German troops They surrounded Don. After half a month, the enemies were 45 km from the city. Now Bessonov wanted to detain the Germans, who were very close to Stalingrad. The general's army received support from a tank division.
Deev's division was diligently preparing for the meeting with the fascists. Kuznetsov felt nostalgia for his native land, for close people. He imagined how he would bring Zoya to his cozy house.
The girl was left alone with Drozdovsky. There was love between them, but the commander carefully hid his relationship from others. Because he was afraid that Zoya might betray him, like his late parents did. He wanted his beloved to prove her devotion to him, but Zoya simply could not do some things.
Many of our soldiers died in the first battle. Despite this, General Bessonov ordered not to retreat, but to fight until victory, while he did not send new troops, leaving them in reserve to finish off the enemy. Vesnin now understood why Bessonov was considered a cruel person.
The general was informed that domestic army surrounded by fascist troops.
A man came from counterintelligence and gave Vesnin a letter from the Germans, which contained a photo of Bessonov’s son and indicated that he was in their hospital. But Vesnin could not believe the young man’s betrayal and did not yet convey the message to the lieutenant general.
Vesnin died while performing his official duties, and Bessonov never found out that his son was alive.
The battle began again. Chibisov killed a man, mistaking him for an enemy. Then it turned out that it was our intelligence officer.
After some time, Drozdovsky arrived with Zoya and Rubin. All together they went to help the scout. They were noticed by the Nazis, who began shelling. As a result, Zoya was injured, and Drozdovsky was shell-shocked. They wanted to save the girl, but did not have time. Kuznetsov was upset, he cried and blamed the commander for what happened.
In the evening, the general learned from a German intelligence officer that they had exhausted all their reserves. On the same day, Bessonov learned of Vesnin’s death.
The general gave the order to attack the Germans. At that moment, one of the soldiers found a photograph of Victor, Bessonov’s son, but was afraid to give it away.
The finishing moment has arrived. The Nazis began to retreat back, and Soviet troops surrounded them. Bessonov took the awards and went to present them to those heroes who courageously fought for their Motherland. All fighters of Kuznetsov's platoon received medals.
The fight continued. Kuznetsov’s friends sat and drank alcoholic drinks, putting medals in them...
Picture or drawing Hot snow
This story tells how Goncharov traveled for three long years from 1852 to 1855. First, the author describes how he wants to publish his diary entries, either as a traveler or as a navigator.
Yuri Bondarev
HOT SNOW
Chapter first
Kuznetsov could not sleep. The knocking and rattling on the roof of the carriage grew louder and louder, the overlapping winds struck like a blizzard, and the barely visible window above the bunks became more and more densely covered with snow.
The locomotive, with a wild, blizzard-piercing roar, drove the train through the night fields, in the white haze rushing from all sides, and in the thunderous darkness of the carriage, through the frozen squeal of the wheels, through the alarming sobs, the muttering of the soldiers in their sleep, this roar was heard continuously warning someone locomotive, and it seemed to Kuznetsov that there, ahead, behind the snowstorm, the glow of a burning city was already dimly visible.
After the stop in Saratov, it became clear to everyone that the division was urgently being transferred to Stalingrad, and not to the Western Front, as was initially assumed; and now Kuznetsov knew that the journey remained for several hours. And, pulling the hard, unpleasantly damp collar of his overcoat over his cheek, he could not warm himself up, gain warmth in order to sleep: there was a piercing blow through the invisible cracks of the swept window, icy drafts walked through the bunks.
“That means I won’t see my mother for a long time,” thought Kuznetsov, shrinking from the cold, “they drove us past...”.
What was a past life - the summer months at the school in hot, dusty Aktyubinsk, with hot winds from the steppe, with the cries of donkeys on the outskirts suffocating in the sunset silence, so precise in time every night that platoon commanders in tactical exercises, languishing with thirst , not without relief, they checked their watches, marches in the stupefying heat, tunics sweaty and scorched white in the sun, the creaking of sand on their teeth; Sunday patrol of the city, in the city garden, where in the evenings a military brass band played peacefully on the dance floor; then graduation from school, loading into the carriages on an alarming autumn night, a gloomy forest covered in wild snow, snowdrifts, dugouts of a formation camp near Tambov, then again, alarmingly at a frosty pink December dawn, hasty loading onto the train and, finally, departure - all this unsteady , temporary, someone-controlled life has faded now, remained far behind, in the past. And there was no hope of seeing his mother, and just recently he had almost no doubt that they would be taken west through Moscow.
“I’ll write to her,” Kuznetsov thought with a suddenly aggravated feeling of loneliness, “and I’ll explain everything. After all, we haven’t seen each other for nine months...”
And the whole carriage was sleeping under the grinding, squealing, under the cast-iron roar of the runaway wheels, the walls swayed tightly, the upper bunks shook at the frantic speed of the train, and Kuznetsov, shuddering, having finally vegetated in the drafts near the window, turned back his collar and looked with envy at the commander of the second platoon sleeping next to him. Lieutenant Davlatyan - his face was not visible in the darkness of the bunk.
“No, here, near the window, I won’t sleep, I’ll freeze until I reach the front line,” Kuznetsov thought with annoyance at himself and moved, stirred, hearing the frost crunching on the boards of the carriage.
He freed himself from the cold, prickly tightness of his place, jumped off the bunk, feeling that he needed to warm up by the stove: his back was completely numb.
In the iron stove on the side of the closed door, flickering with thick frost, the fire had long gone out, only the ash-blower was red with a motionless pupil. But it seemed a little warmer down here. In the gloom of the carriage, this crimson glow of coal faintly illuminated the various new felt boots, bowlers, and duffel bags under their heads sticking out in the aisle. The orderly Chibisov slept uncomfortably on the lower bunks, right on the soldiers’ feet; his head was tucked into his collar up to the top of his hat, his hands were tucked into the sleeves.
Chibisov! - Kuznetsov called and opened the door of the stove, which wafted out a barely perceptible warmth from inside. - Everything went out, Chibisov!
There was no answer.
Orderly, do you hear?
Chibisov jumped up in fear, sleepy, rumpled, his hat with earflaps pulled low and tied with ribbons under his chin. Not yet waking up from sleep, he tried to push the earflaps off his forehead, untie the ribbons, crying out incomprehensibly and timidly:
What am I? No way, fell asleep? It literally stunned me into unconsciousness. I apologize, Comrade Lieutenant! Wow, I was chilled to the bones in my drowsiness!..
“We fell asleep and let the whole car get cold,” Kuznetsov said reproachfully.
“I didn’t mean to, Comrade Lieutenant, by accident, without intent,” Chibisov muttered. - It knocked me down...
Then, without waiting for Kuznetsov’s orders, he fussed around with excessive cheerfulness, grabbed a board from the floor, broke it over his knee and began to push the fragments into the stove. At the same time, stupidly, as if his sides were itching, he moved his elbows and shoulders, often bending down, busily looking into the ash pit, where the fire was creeping in with lazy reflections; Chibisov's revived, soot-stained face expressed conspiratorial servility.
Now, Comrade Lieutenant, I’ll get you warm! Let's heat it up, it will be smooth in the bathhouse. I myself am frozen because of the war! Oh, how cold I am, every bone aches - there are no words!..
Kuznetsov sat down opposite the open stove door. The orderly's exaggeratedly deliberate fussiness, this obvious hint of his past, was unpleasant to him. Chibisov was from his platoon. And the fact that he, with his immoderate diligence, always reliable, lived for several months in German captivity, and from the first day of his appearance in the platoon was constantly ready to serve everyone, aroused wary pity for him.
Chibisov gently, womanishly, sank onto his bunk, his sleepless eyes blinking.
So we're going to Stalingrad, Comrade Lieutenant? According to the reports, what a meat grinder there is! Aren't you afraid, Comrade Lieutenant? Nothing?
“We’ll come and see what kind of meat grinder it is,” Kuznetsov responded sluggishly, peering into the fire. - What, are you afraid? Why did you ask?
Yes, one might say, I don’t have the fear that I had before,” Chibisov answered falsely cheerfully and, sighing, put his small hands on his knees, spoke in a confidential tone, as if wanting to convince Kuznetsov: “After our people freed me from captivity.” , believed me, Comrade Lieutenant. And I spent three whole months, like a puppy in shit, with the Germans. They believed... It’s such a huge war, different people are fighting. How can you immediately believe? - Chibisov glanced cautiously at Kuznetsov; he was silent, pretending to be busy with the stove, warming himself with its living warmth: he concentratedly clenched and unclenched his fingers over the open door. - Do you know how I was captured, Comrade Lieutenant?.. I didn’t tell you, but I want to tell you. The Germans drove us into a ravine. Near Vyazma. And when their tanks came close, surrounded, and we no longer had any shells, the regimental commissar jumped onto the top of his “emka” with a pistol, shouting: “Better death than being captured by the fascist bastards!” - and shot himself in the temple. It even splashed from my head. And the Germans are running towards us from all sides. Their tanks are strangling people alive. Here is... the colonel and someone else...
And what's next? - asked Kuznetsov.
I couldn't shoot myself. They crowded us into a heap, shouting “Hyunda hoh.” And they took...
“I see,” said Kuznetsov with that serious intonation that clearly said that in Chibisov’s place he would have acted completely differently. - So, Chibisov, they shouted “Hende hoch” - and you handed over your weapons? Did you have any weapons?
Chibisov answered, timidly defending himself with a tense half-smile:
You are very young, Comrade Lieutenant, you have no children, no family, one might say. Parents I guess...
What do children have to do with it? - Kuznetsov said with embarrassment, noticing the quiet, guilty expression on Chibisov’s face, and added: “It doesn’t matter at all.”
How can he not, Comrade Lieutenant?
Well, maybe I didn’t put it that way... Of course, I don’t have children.
Chibisov was twenty years older than him - “father”, “daddy”, the oldest in the platoon. He was completely subordinate to Kuznetsov on duty, but Kuznetsov, now constantly remembering the two lieutenant’s cubes in his buttonholes, which immediately burdened him with new responsibility after college, still felt insecure every time talking with Chibisov, who had lived his life.
Are you awake, lieutenant, or are you imagining things? Is the stove burning? - a sleepy voice sounded overhead.
A commotion was heard on the upper bunks, then senior sergeant Ukhanov, the commander of the first gun from Kuznetsov’s platoon, jumped heavily, like a bear, to the stove.
Freeze as hell! Are you warming yourself, Slavs? - Ukhanov asked, yawning protractedly. - Or do you tell fairy tales?
Shaking his heavy shoulders, throwing back the hem of his greatcoat, he walked towards the door along the swaying floor. He pushed the cumbersome door, which rattled, with one hand, and leaned against the crack, looking into the snowstorm. The snow swirled like a blizzard in the carriage and blew cold air, the ferry was carried along the legs; Along with the roar and frosty squealing of the wheels, the wild, threatening roar of the locomotive burst in.
Oh, and the wolf's night - no fire, no Stalingrad! - Ukhanov said, twitching his shoulders, and with a crash he pushed the door, which was lined with iron at the corners, closed.
Then, tapping his felt boots, grunting loudly and in surprise, he walked up to the already heated stove; His mocking, bright eyes were still filled with sleep, snowflakes were white on his eyebrows. He sat down next to Kuznetsov, rubbed his hands, took out a pouch and, remembering something, laughed, flashing his front steel tooth.
Chapter first
Kuznetsov could not sleep. The knocking and rattling on the roof of the carriage grew louder and louder, the overlapping winds struck like a blizzard, and the barely visible window above the bunks became more and more densely covered with snow. The locomotive, with a wild, blizzard-piercing roar, drove the train through the night fields, in the white haze rushing from all sides, and in the thunderous darkness of the carriage, through the frozen squeal of the wheels, through the alarming sobs, the muttering of the soldiers in their sleep, this roar was heard continuously warning someone locomotive, and it seemed to Kuznetsov that there, ahead, behind the snowstorm, the glow of a burning city was already dimly visible. After the stop in Saratov, it became clear to everyone that the division was urgently being transferred to Stalingrad, and not to the Western Front, as was initially assumed; and now Kuznetsov knew that the journey remained for several hours. And, pulling the hard, unpleasantly damp collar of his overcoat over his cheek, he could not warm himself up, gain warmth in order to sleep: there was a piercing blow through the invisible cracks of the swept window, icy drafts walked through the bunks. “That means I won’t see my mother for a long time,” thought Kuznetsov, shrinking from the cold, “we were driven past...”. What was a past life - the summer months at the school in hot, dusty Aktyubinsk, with hot winds from the steppe, with the cries of donkeys on the outskirts suffocating in the sunset silence, so precise in time every night that platoon commanders in tactical exercises, languishing with thirst , not without relief, they checked their watches, marches in the stupefying heat, tunics sweaty and scorched white in the sun, the creaking of sand on their teeth; Sunday patrol of the city, in the city garden, where in the evenings a military brass band played peacefully on the dance floor; then graduation from school, loading into the carriages on an alarming autumn night, a gloomy forest covered in wild snow, snowdrifts, dugouts of a formation camp near Tambov, then again, alarmingly at a frosty pink December dawn, hasty loading onto the train and, finally, departure - all this unsteady , temporary, someone-controlled life has faded now, remained far behind, in the past. And there was no hope of seeing his mother, and just recently he had almost no doubt that they would be taken west through Moscow. “I’ll write to her,” Kuznetsov thought with a suddenly aggravated feeling of loneliness, “and I’ll explain everything. After all, we haven’t seen each other for nine months...” And the whole carriage was sleeping under the grinding, squealing, under the cast-iron roar of the runaway wheels, the walls swayed tightly, the upper bunks shook at the frantic speed of the train, and Kuznetsov, shuddering, having finally vegetated in the drafts near the window, turned back his collar and looked with envy at the commander of the second platoon sleeping next to him. Lieutenant Davlatyan - his face was not visible in the darkness of the bunk. “No, here, near the window, I won’t sleep, I’ll freeze until I reach the front line,” Kuznetsov thought with annoyance at himself and moved, stirred, hearing the frost crunching on the boards of the carriage. He freed himself from the cold, prickly tightness of his place, jumped off the bunk, feeling that he needed to warm up by the stove: his back was completely numb. In the iron stove on the side of the closed door, flickering with thick frost, the fire had long gone out, only the ash-blower was red with a motionless pupil. But it seemed a little warmer down here. In the gloom of the carriage, this crimson glow of coal faintly illuminated the various new felt boots, bowlers, and duffel bags under their heads sticking out in the aisle. The orderly Chibisov slept uncomfortably on the lower bunks, right on the soldiers’ feet; his head was tucked into his collar up to the top of his hat, his hands were tucked into the sleeves. - Chibisov! - Kuznetsov called and opened the door of the stove, which wafted out a barely perceptible warmth from inside. - Everything went out, Chibisov! There was no answer. - Orderly, do you hear? Chibisov jumped up in fear, sleepy, rumpled, his hat with earflaps pulled low and tied with ribbons under his chin. Not yet waking up from sleep, he tried to push the earflaps off his forehead, untie the ribbons, incomprehensibly and timidly crying out: “What am I?” No way, fell asleep? It literally stunned me into unconsciousness. I apologize, Comrade Lieutenant! Wow, I was chilled to the bones in my drowsiness!.. “They fell asleep and chilled the whole carriage,” Kuznetsov said reproachfully. “I didn’t mean to, Comrade Lieutenant, by accident, without intent,” Chibisov muttered. - It knocked me down... Then, without waiting for Kuznetsov’s orders, he fussed around with excessive cheerfulness, grabbed a board from the floor, broke it on his knee and began to push the fragments into the stove. At the same time, stupidly, as if his sides were itching, he moved his elbows and shoulders, often bending down, busily looked into the ash pit, where the fire was creeping in lazy reflections; Chibisov's revived, soot-stained face expressed conspiratorial servility. - Now, Comrade Lieutenant, I’ll get you warm! Let's heat it up, it will be smooth in the bathhouse. I myself am frozen because of the war! Oh, how cold I am, every bone aches - there are no words!.. Kuznetsov sat down opposite the open stove door. The orderly's exaggeratedly deliberate fussiness, this obvious hint of his past, was unpleasant to him. Chibisov was from his platoon. And the fact that he, with his immoderate efforts, always reliable, lived for several months in German captivity, and from the first day of his appearance in the platoon was constantly ready to serve everyone, aroused wary pity for him. Chibisov gently, womanishly, sank onto his bunk, his sleepless eyes blinking. - So we’re going to Stalingrad, Comrade Lieutenant? According to the reports, what a meat grinder there is! Aren't you afraid, Comrade Lieutenant? Nothing? “We’ll come and see what kind of meat grinder it is,” Kuznetsov responded sluggishly, peering into the fire. - What, are you afraid? Why did you ask? “Yes, one might say, I don’t have the same fear that I had before,” Chibisov answered falsely cheerfully and, sighing, put his small hands on his knees, spoke in a confidential tone, as if wanting to convince Kuznetsov: “After our people came out of captivity, I They released me, they believed me, Comrade Lieutenant. And I spent three whole months, like a puppy in shit, with the Germans. They believed... It’s such a huge war, different people are fighting. How can you immediately believe? - Chibisov glanced cautiously at Kuznetsov; he was silent, pretending to be busy with the stove, warming himself with its living warmth: he concentratedly clenched and unclenched his fingers over the open door. - Do you know how I was captured, Comrade Lieutenant?.. I didn’t tell you, but I want to tell you. The Germans drove us into a ravine. Near Vyazma. And when their tanks came close, surrounded, and we no longer had any shells, the regimental commissar jumped onto the top of his “emka” with a pistol, shouting: “Better death than being captured by the fascist bastards!” - and shot himself in the temple. It even splashed from my head. And the Germans are running towards us from all sides. Their tanks are strangling people alive. Here and... the colonel and someone else... - And then what? - asked Kuznetsov. “I couldn’t shoot myself.” .They crowded us into a heap, shouting “Hyunda hoh”. And they led... “I see,” said Kuznetsov with that serious intonation that clearly said that in Chibisov’s place he would have acted completely differently. - So, Chibisov, they shouted “Hende hoch” - and you handed over your weapons? Did you have any weapons? Chibisov answered, timidly defending himself with a tense half-smile: “You are very young, Comrade Lieutenant, you don’t have children, you don’t have a family, one might say.” Parents, I suppose... - What do children have to do with it? - Kuznetsov said with embarrassment, noticing the quiet, guilty expression on Chibisov’s face, and added: “It doesn’t matter at all.” - How can he not, Comrade Lieutenant? - Well, maybe I didn’t put it that way... Of course, I don’t have children. Chibisov was twenty years older than him - “father”, “daddy”, the oldest in the platoon. He was completely subordinate to Kuznetsov on duty, but Kuznetsov, now constantly remembering the two lieutenant’s cubes in his buttonholes, which immediately burdened him with new responsibility after college, still felt insecure every time talking with Chibisov, who had lived his life. - Are you awake, lieutenant, or are you imagining things? Is the stove burning? came a sleepy voice overhead. A commotion was heard on the upper bunks, then senior sergeant Ukhanov, the commander of the first gun from Kuznetsov’s platoon, jumped heavily, like a bear, to the stove. - Frozen as hell! Are you warming yourself, Slavs? - Ukhanov asked, yawning protractedly. - Or do you tell fairy tales? Shaking his heavy shoulders, throwing back the hem of his greatcoat, he walked towards the door along the swaying floor. He pushed the cumbersome door, which rattled, with one hand, and leaned against the crack, looking into the snowstorm. The snow swirled like a blizzard in the carriage, cold air blew, and the steam rushed down our legs; Along with the roar and frosty squealing of the wheels, the wild, threatening roar of the locomotive burst in. - Oh, and the wolf's night - no fire, no Stalingrad! - Ukhanov said, twitching his shoulders, and with a crash he pushed the door, which was lined with iron at the corners, closed. Then, tapping his felt boots, grunting loudly and in surprise, he walked up to the already heated stove; His mocking, bright eyes were still filled with sleep, snowflakes were white on his eyebrows. He sat down next to Kuznetsov, rubbed his hands, took out a pouch and, remembering something, laughed, flashing his front steel tooth. - I dreamed about grub again. Either he was sleeping, or he wasn’t sleeping: it was as if some city was empty, and I was alone... I entered some bombed-out store - bread, canned food, wine, sausage on the shelves... Now, I think, I’m about to chop it up! But he froze like a tramp under a net and woke up. It's a shame... The store is full! Imagine, Chibisov! He turned not to Kuznetsov, but to Chibisov, clearly hinting that the lieutenant was no match for the others. “I don’t argue with your dream, Comrade Senior Sergeant,” Chibisov answered and inhaled warm air through his nostrils, as if the fragrant smell of bread was coming from the stove, looking meekly at Ukhanov’s tobacco pouch. - And if you don’t smoke at all at night, the savings come back. Ten twists. - Oh, you’re a huge diplomat, dad! - said Ukhanov, thrusting the pouch into his hands. - Roll it up at least as thick as a fist. Why the hell save? Meaning? He lit a cigarette and, exhaling the smoke, poked the board in the fire. “And I’m sure, brothers, that food on the front line will be better.” And there will be trophies! Where there are Krauts, there are trophies, and then, Chibisov, the whole collective farm won’t have to sweep up the lieutenant’s extra rations. - He blew on his cigarette, narrowed his eyes: - How, Kuznetsov, are the duties of a father-commander not difficult, huh? It’s easier for soldiers - answer for yourself. Don't you regret that there are too many gavriks on your neck? - I don’t understand, Ukhanov, why you weren’t awarded the title? - said Kuznetsov, somewhat offended by his mocking tone. - Maybe you can explain? He and Senior Sergeant Ukhanov finished military service together artillery school, but for unknown reasons Ukhanov was not allowed to take the exams, and he arrived in the regiment with the rank of senior sergeant and was assigned to the first platoon as a gun commander, which extremely embarrassed Kuznetsov. “I’ve been dreaming about it all my life,” Ukhanov grinned good-naturedly. - You misunderstood me, Lieutenant... Okay, maybe I should take a nap for about six hundred minutes. Maybe I’ll dream about the store again? A? Well, brothers, if anything, consider him not returning from the attack... Ukhanov threw the cigarette butt into the stove, stretched, stood up, walked clumsily to the bunk, jumped heavily onto the rustling straw; pushing the sleeping ones aside, he said: “Come on, brothers, free living space". And soon he calmed down upstairs. “You should also lie down, comrade lieutenant,” Chibisov advised, sighing. “The night will be short, apparently. Don’t worry, for God’s sake.” Kuznetsov, his face glowing from the heat of the stove, also stood up, With a practiced drill gesture he straightened the holster of his pistol, and in a commanding tone he said to Chibisov: “They would have performed the duties of an orderly better!” But, having said this, Kuznetsov noticed Chibisov’s timid, now bewildered look, felt the unjustification of his commanding harshness - he had been accustomed to a commanding tone for six months at school - and unexpectedly corrected himself in a low voice: - Just so that the stove, please, does not go out. Do you hear? - Clearly, comrade lieutenant. Don’t hesitate, one might say. Have a restful sleep... Kuznetsov climbed onto his bunk, into the darkness, unheated, icy, creaking, trembling from frantic running train, and here I felt that I would freeze again in the draft. And from different ends of the carriage came the snoring and sniffling of soldiers. Slightly pushing aside Lieutenant Davlatyan, who was sleeping next to him, who was sobbing sleepily and smacking his lips like a child, Kuznetsov, breathing into his raised collar, pressing his cheek against the damp, stinging pile, shivering with a chill, touched with his knees the large frost on the wall, like salt - and this made it even worse. colder. The compacted straw slid beneath him with a wet rustle. The frozen walls smelled iron-like, and everything wafted into my face like a thin and sharp stream of cold from the gray window clogged with blizzard snow overhead. And the locomotive, tearing apart the night with an insistent and menacing roar, rushed the train without stopping in impenetrable fields - closer and closer to the front.