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Evgeny Vitalievich Feyerabend(October 19, village of Shatrovo, now Kurgan region - March 14) - Soviet children's poet, member of the USSR Writers' Union.
Biography
Evgeny Vitalievich Feyerabend was born on October 19, 1926 in the village of Shatrovo, in the family of a topographer. He spent his childhood in Tyumen, and in 1934 he and his family moved to Sverdlovsk.
Evgeniy Vitalievich Feyerabend died on March 14, 1981.
Published books
Family
- Father - Vitaly Feyerabend, topographer, d. 1943
- Mother - Matryona Ivanovna
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Notes
An excerpt characterizing Feyerabend, Evgeniy Vitalievich
“I can show you how to go there if you want, of course.” You can see it whenever you want, but you have to be very careful.-Can you go there? – the girl was very surprised.
I nodded:
- And you too.
– Please forgive me, Isolde, but why is your world so bright? – Stella couldn’t contain her curiosity.
– Oh, it’s just that where I lived, it was almost always cold and foggy... And where I was born, the sun always shone, there was a smell of flowers, and only in winter there was snow. But even then it was sunny... I missed my country so much that even now I can’t enjoy it to my heart’s content... True, my name is cold, but that’s because I got lost when I was little, and they found me on the ice. So they called Isolde...
“Oh, it’s true – it’s made of ice!.. I would never have thought of it!..” I stared at her, dumbfounded.
“What’s that!.. But Tristan didn’t have a name at all... He lived his whole life anonymously,” Isolde smiled.
– What about “Tristan”?
“Well, what are you talking about, dear, it’s just “possessing three camps,” Isolde laughed. “His whole family died when he was still very small, so they didn’t give him a name, when the time came - there was no one.
– Why do you explain all this as if in my language? It's in Russian!
“And we are Russians, or rather, we were then...” the girl corrected herself. – But now, who knows who we’ll be...
– How – Russians?.. – I was confused.
– Well, maybe not exactly... But in your mind, they are Russians. It’s just that there were more of us then and everything was more diverse - our land, our language, our life... That was a long time ago...
- But how does the book say that you were Irish and Scots?!.. Or is this all not true again?
- Well, why isn’t it true? This is the same thing, it’s just that my father came from “warm” Rus' to become the ruler of that “island” camp, because the wars there never ended, and he was an excellent warrior, so they asked him. But I always longed for “my” Rus'... I always felt cold on those islands...
– Can I ask you how you really died? If it doesn't hurt you, of course. All the books write differently about this, but I would really like to know how it really happened...
“I gave his body to the sea, that was their custom... And I went home myself... But I never got there... I didn’t have enough strength.” I really wanted to see our sun, but I couldn’t... Or maybe Tristan “didn’t let go”...
- But how do they say in the books that you died together, or that you killed yourself?
– I don’t know, Svetlaya, I didn’t write these books... But people always loved to tell each other stories, especially beautiful ones. So they embellished it to stir my soul more... And I myself died many years later, without interrupting my life. It was forbidden.
– You must have been very sad to be so far from home?
– Yes, how can I tell you... At first, it was even interesting while my mother was alive. And when she died, the whole world darkened for me... I was too young then. But she never loved her father. He only lived by war, even I had only value for him that he could exchange me for marriage... He was a warrior to the core. And he died like that. But I always dreamed of returning home. I even saw dreams... But it didn’t work out.
– Do you want us to take you to Tristan? First we’ll show you how, and then you’ll walk on your own. It’s just...” I suggested, hoping in my heart that she would agree.
I really wanted to see this whole legend “in full”, since such an opportunity arose, and although I was a little ashamed, I decided this time not to listen to my very indignant “inner voice”, but to try to somehow convince Isolde to “take a walk” on the lower “floor” and find her Tristan there for her.
Is it necessary?
Is it worth it?
All my life my verse,
Infused with bitterness,
Invade life
to others?
Cast iron burden disease
Not for a day - forever,
Bent ahead of time -
I was forty
At seven o'clock.
The gift of peace was taken away!
But they called
Dahl
And up.
Then the disease struck -
And my legs went numb.
Summer day. A wooden house, more like a hut, on the factory outskirts of Sverdlovsk. There is a deck attached to the window. A man lies on it, exposing his pale face to the sun's rays. Sparrows chatter in the bushes. A large bird of prey is circling in the sky - a buzzard or kite. Shielding his eyes from the sun, the man watches her flight. Next to him on the floor there is a camera, a notebook, a pen, a flat pillow. After some time, he turns over with difficulty onto his stomach, rests his elbows on the pillow, and writes something in a notebook.
Evgeny Feyerabend. 1959
This is Evgeny Vitalievich Feyerabend, poet. He, as they used to say in Soviet times, has been “bedridden” since he was 9 years old.
I won't forget
The ground under your feet -
In the warm grasses
In velvet dust,
trails,
that forests and meadows
They led to the promised miracles.
River bottom
I feel with my feet
Pink pebbles and sand
forest soil,
permeated with roots,
Caress the mosses,
Bristling of sedges.
Flat asphalt flow,
Bald heads of gray cobblestones...
And the winds are calling!
How far away!
Need to live.
How can you live without them?
Zhenya was born on October 19, 1926, on the day when the anniversary of the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum is remembered. If you want, you can see this as an omen of his poetic gift. The first poems he wrote down were dedicated to an anthill. Then the boy was still healthy, and his father, a topographer by profession, who instilled in his son a love of nature, was also alive.
And then the disease struck. At night my spine hurt unbearably and it became difficult to walk. Parents had to take Zhenya for treatment from Tyumen to Sverdlovsk. Then he did not know that he was saying goodbye forever to the city of his childhood, to the spacious Tura, to the beautiful taiga nature, the memories of which remained with him forever. Says goodbye to his carefree childhood.
“On November 10, 1934, I was placed in a sanatorium. A new and strange life began. Walking was completely canceled, and even sitting was not allowed. Children of my restless age were pulled into canvas bodices, and the straps from them were tied to the bed so that we could not reach them with our hands. Lie on your back to prevent the hump from growing. And we even had lunch, placing a plate of soup on our chests... Every day everyone was taken out of the building onto the veranda, into the fresh air that the pine forest that stood very close breathed on us. Lessons were taught the same as in a regular school. But it was impossible to call anyone to the board.”
The boy spent several years in a children's tuba sanatorium, which at that time was located at the so-called “Agafurov dachas” (named after the Agafurov merchants).
A person, limited by the physical confines of a sick body, inevitably becomes a dreamer and observer. In his memoirs, Evgeniy Feyerabend writes that he composed his first poem at the age of 7, when he was still healthy and lived with his parents in the Tyumen region. At the sanatorium, Zhenya began to write down his poems. One of them was published in 1938 by the magazine “Koster”.
The treatment dragged on for a painfully long time, but in the end the children were taken out of the plaster cribs, transferred to a regular bed, and rehabilitation began - massage, physical therapy. There was hope for the restoration of at least some of the impaired functions.
But the irreparable happened: “In the same summer of 1936, I lost a significant part of my remaining health until then. I had a rough character, as they say, Siberian. Our teacher, a proud person, who at first praised me for my abilities and tried to turn me into an instrument of influence on other children, then took my disobedience as a personal insult and hated me.
One day, on a wooden veranda, my friend and I, having moved the beds closer, started a game of noses.
The winner will be the one who manages to grab the other person by the nose the most times. The teacher came up and, realizing what was going on, sat down on the neighbor’s bed. She grabbed my hands and told him: “Grab him, Vanya!”
Vanya obeyed and began to grab my nose and count. He began to gain an overwhelming advantage in the score. I was 9 years old, and I could not free my hands from the strong arms of an adult woman. Injustice exploded in me, and I began to tear with such force that, breaking the straps of my bodice, I fell out of bed.
An exacerbation of the disease began... A month later my legs were paralyzed. They put me in a plaster cast and forbade me to raise my head.
The period before complete paralysis of the legs was especially painful. The nerves in my legs were tickling. I wanted to move my legs all the time. And the power dried up too quickly.
I remember that then for the first time I experienced an acute feeling of my deprivation.
Children undergoing treatment at children's tuberculosis sanatorium No. 1. Photo from the archives of the Regional Museum of the History of Medicine
...For some reason, at that time, anyone’s sympathy was unpleasant to me, like salt corroding a wound. I would like, like a wounded animal, to hide in some hole and experience everything alone. But there is nowhere else to go except into yourself. It was probably then that the beginnings of isolation took the place of my former sociability.
But the illness arranged it in such a way that soon the general attention of the attendants was drawn to me. The paralysis turned out to be spastic. Powerless legs from time to time rebelled against immobility. Suddenly they were filled with wild, unbridled power, beyond my control. The knees were thrown up and, bending almost to the very stomach, they destroyed what they valued most in the sanatorium - the hairstyle. The flannel blanket on every bed should always lie in the correct envelope.
Two hefty nannies leaned on my legs from both sides and, blushing from tension, had difficulty straightening them. But what's the point! Ten minutes later everything happened again. And I still had to listen to undeserved criticism, because such paralysis is rare and not every nanny has encountered it.
The nurse came to the rescue and came up with a way out of the situation. She placed a sheet across her legs and tied it in a knot under the bed. The legs could not bend upward and went to the side, to the right. And the left leg was dislocated from the hip.
The next day, during a round, the doctor learned about what had happened. Scolded my sister. I tried to straighten the dislocation, but I couldn’t. The sheet was immediately removed. Instead, they arranged the so-called traction - a load was hung from each leg, thrown over a block. The weight gradually straightened his bent legs. But they removed the plaster bed and removed the boring bodice. Apparently they thought that I wouldn’t get far anyway.” (From the unpublished memoirs of Eugene Feyerabend, written in 1975.)
The parents took the boy home to a dilapidated wooden house on the factory outskirts of Sverdlovsk. Soon the war began.
“We were starving,” he later recalled, “there was no firewood. One winter the stove was not lit at all. The walls glistened with frost. The water froze in the dishes. I was lying in a coat and hat... In 1943, my father died... During the war, the Sverdlovsk poetess Elena Evgenievna Khorinskaya visited me..." (She came on Thursdays, lit the stove while my mother, Matryona Ivanovna, was at work, when she could, she brought a piece of bread. )
As a result of the cold and poor nutrition, Zhenya fell ill with pneumonia. The young man was saved by medical student Lena Tichachek. Every four hours, Lena gave injections and was on duty at Feyerabend’s bedside.
During the war, Zhenya's poems were chosen for a book about the life of children in those days. But, as Elena Khorinskaya recalled, the leading figures had concerns: how to publish poems by an author with a German surname. They tried to persuade him to take a pseudonym, but Zhenya categorically refused - he considered it a betrayal of his father. In the end, they abandoned him, and in the book he remained Zhenya Feyerabend.
He graduated from school in absentia and entered the Ural University in absentia to the Faculty of Philology.
In 1944, the 18-year-old poet began to be looked after by his peer, a student at the Mining Institute, Viktor Faleev (Rutminsky), a future translator, bibliophile, brilliant literary critic and educator, after whom one of the streets of Yekaterinburg is now named. Feyerabend recalled how Victor read to him from Yesenin and Pasternak, Mandelstam and Severyanin, Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva... These poets were not published then, there was nowhere to read their poems. Soon Victor was arrested, accused of anti-Soviet activities, and after four months of imprisonment he was sentenced to six years in the Kolyma camps.
In 1949, Evgeniy spent six months in the Sysert bone-tuberculosis sanatorium. His roommate Boris Chemanov (who later became a translator) said that Feyerabend then wrote a lot, lying on his stomach, propping up a tablet that replaced a desk - not only poetry, but also earned a little literary work.
One of the patients - a guy from Transcarpathia - did not know a word of Russian. Feyerabend taught him Russian - and after 3 months the guy already understood, spoke and even wrote in Russian.
At his home, so that people could come to him at any time, Zhenya came up with a “small mechanization”: he installed a special latch, the cord from which was passed through a drilled window jamb. He could now open the door to his guests from the hut himself. He also came up with a wooden flooring that he could climb onto independently through the window. The carpenter built a small plank veranda level with the window sill, and Zhenya spent all his warm days on it.
Winter is behind us.
Great, old plank flooring!..
I got out again
And he took me in.
And I'm stupefied by the wind,
While I was crawling out of the window,
And I went crazy from the sun,
Life is full of them here.
Only in 1964 did Evgeniy and his mother move from the already collapsing hut to a new apartment - thanks to the efforts of friends and, first of all, Elena Khorinskaya - she literally knocked out a decent home for the poet.
Before any furniture, Evgeniy Vitalievich asked to place bird cages in the apartment. They were hung from the ceiling, closer to his bed. Exceptcanaries, parrots, tits, goldfinches, There was also a tamed magpie, Sorik. Birds, cats (planted or picked up by the compassionate Matryona Ivanovna), books and icons - this is what those who visited Feyerabend remember.
He was bedridden for 46 years. His mother, Matryona Ivanovna, selflessly looked after him. All his activities - and he wrote not only poems, but also paintings, carved wood (his masterfully made wooden toys are kept in the collections of the Yekaterinburg Literary Museum), took photographs - they, of course, demanded her help and support.
Elena Khorinskaya recalled: “He had beautiful, strong hands that could truly be called golden. He knew how to repair any household appliance, make a bird cage or feeder, an elegant wooden house, carve a flower vase, a pencil holder from wood - these were real works of art.”
The spacious room glows with heat
Russian stove.
In front of her -
in inspiration - mom,
And her from troubles
nothing can distract you
Unless a telegram arrives.
Sweet juice
Chopped up
The apricots will splash,
The cream will rise
a cotton hat.
And the muslin hangs
from flashing hands
Then from the oven to the table,
then back.
A whole century -
A string of worries and worries.
The cups are tossing around
from place to place.
And Siberian fish
Dives into the pie -
Moving,
Immersed in dough.
And the floors are washed
before the guests arrive.
So that all the floorboards shine,
And the iron took a walk
According to the colors of the tablecloths,
So that during the hours of celebration
have not faded.
Finally, such a moment will come:
On the tables -
pies and pickles.
Wondering at the peace
Ready to fly
Mom's hands
lying on their knees.
And sometimes it's hard
chest rises
My arms and neck and shoulders ache.
Mother is happy.
She has nothing to reproach herself with:
Son's birthday -
Marked.
Now it’s hard for us to imagine what was behind the pathetic words of journalists about the courage and perseverance of the Ural poet. The impossibility of walking (the only trip to the Black Sea in his life was a joy), the lack of devices to make life easier for a bedridden patient, and simply financial problems.*
Crucified by disease
on the bed,
I'm lying
It's been a year now.
I can hear -
Ural snowstorms
Over-the-roof
They lead a round dance.
Behind the wall
Bright spring early,
The ice is broken by the first streams.
There
They're in a hurry to get to work
And on a date
And for a feat
My peers.
Let me go, sickness,
At least for a day
In town,
In field,
Whether to visit friends!
Or maybe
this is not necessary -
Joy will be mixed with pain.
In the 60s, Feyerabend was visited several times by Viktor Astafiev. The writer dedicated one of his “Zatesya” to this meeting: “Zhenya’s mother’s name was Matryona Ivanovna. And she, whom I am not ashamed to call now with a spoiled, dirty, irresponsibly hackneyed word - a heroine - did everything so that her boy, her bitter little blood, would live as full and interesting a life as possible, would not know the extreme need for anything, not so acutely experienced the burden of damage that destroys the flesh and essence of life.
When we met, he was nearly thirty. In an apartment on the ground floor in the center of Sverdlovsk, my wife and I were greeted by a vigorous, talkatively friendly woman with a masculine reach in her shoulders and a masculine, poised figure.
Come on, dears, go to Zhenya, and in the meantime I’ll sneak some snacks.
Zhenya shook our hands with a strong man's handshake, holding his hand slightly, as if expressing his goodwill and friendliness, but, most importantly, I realized that we should feel like we are not visiting a poor disabled person - the guy lives here in order, and treat him like with a man...
I didn’t visit Sverdlovsk very often, but I almost always found time to visit the Feyerabends. And, of course, I saw that, despite all the efforts of Matryona Ivanovna and Zhenya, things were getting more and more difficult and worse for them. Zhenya’s slightly swollen face turned pale yellow, his faded gaze, enlivened by the joy of the meeting, suddenly sank into partial shade and became motionless. It was with great difficulty that Zhenya cheered himself up, but he was still strong in spirit. He was baptized, and an icon appeared in his room. In Matryona Ivanovna’s room there was a whole iconostasis. A Russian woman stood for many hours in front of the icons, asking God for mercy for her sick son.
...Once I praised him for his rich life, filled with such interesting things, and said that other young and healthy Russian people ruin themselves, trample on their lives...
Zhenya suddenly fell silent, threw his hands behind his head, lay down, then gestured with his hand to everything that filled his room, all the living creatures, flowers, paintings, photographs, and, not complaining, but drawlingly, with long-worn and long-extinguished grief, he said:
Eh, Petrovich! I would give all this, everything, everything for one day, for just one day - to walk around the city on my own feet, to walk a little in the forest, in the park, to look at walking people, what they look like in life... And that’s all! And I would agree to die without regret, without looking back..."
The poet never saw his last book, “Piercing the Heart” - he died on March 18, 1981. Since then, his poems have not been published. Beautifully illustrated books for children - “Swallow’s Hut”, “Kingfisher”, “Barbel Beetle”, “Sea Carrier”, “Polar Bear”, “Gem”, “Mushroom Rain”, “Good Window”, “Flock of Birds” - have become bibliographic rarities. Visitors to the exhibition at the museum of dolls and children's books always ask: where to buy these books, but you don't sell them? Of course not, the employees disappoint...
And Astafiev recalls again: “I was already living far from the Urals when Zhenya passed away. There was a letter from Matryona Ivanovna, quiet, sorrowful, in which she, with all the considerable strength God had given her, tried to hold back a cry of pain and despair. She gave birth to a son and all her life, every day, she did the possible and the impossible for him, nursed him, or better yet, in Ukrainian - kohala.
The sick child was gone, and the meaning of the mother's life was lost. Visiting Sverdlovsk residents said that, having arranged Zhenya’s grave and tidied up his creative legacy, Matryona Ivanovna completely retired, began to drink heavily, when and how she retired, lay down next to her son - few people know.
Everything is our way, the Russian way...
When a poet and I were collecting an “Anthology of One Poem” by Russian poets, we chose “The Ant” from Evgeniy Feyerabend’s book. In my opinion, this poem is needed not only by poets who have left us forever, but also by all Russian people.”
Ant
He already smelled the smell of livestock,
But, the mine mowed down on the spot,
The soldier considered himself killed
And he didn’t even open his eyes.
And, stunned, he did not hear,
How the cannons fired across the river
And how the mice dug into the hole
Under the bloody cheek.
How the riders tore throats...
But here's an ant scout
I took my cap off my cap onto the soldier's forehead
And got lost between the eyebrows.
He rushed around there in fright
And, energetic, full of strength,
Tickled and trampled.
And suddenly he resurrected the soldier.
And the eyelids opened heavily,
And the pupils looked dimly,
And the light dawned in man,
Floated on top of his melancholy.
He sighed deeply and heavily,
And the sky poured into my eyes.
And gave me goosebumps to the ground
Big round tear.
* Benefits for disabled children began to be given only in the 60s, and they were miserable - 16 rubles with the established minimum wage of 60 rubles per month.
:sunflower: Interesting facts
:small_orange_diamond: A poet was born into the family of a topographer. He spent his childhood in Tyumen, and in 1934 he and his family moved to Sverdlovsk.
:small_orange_diamond: In 1935, at less than nine years old, the boy fell ill with polio, his spine failed and his legs were paralyzed. For all eight years, Zhenya was in a sanatorium, tied to a plaster bed form. It was then that he began to create and became interested in writing poems. One of them was even published in the magazine “Koster”.
:small_orange_diamond: One day, trying to escape from the hands of the teacher who had insulted him, Zhenya tore off the straps of his bodice and fell out of bed. Since then my legs have been completely paralyzed.
The parents took the boy home to a house on the factory outskirts of Sverdlovsk. Soon the war began. “We were starving,” he later recalled, “there was no firewood. For one winter the stove was not heated at all. The walls glistened with frost. The water froze in the dishes. I lay in my coat and hat... In 1943, my father died... She visited me in the military It's time for the Sverdlovsk poetess Elena Evgenievna Khorinskaya..."
Thanks to the care of his mother Matryona Ivanovna and Khorinskaya, Evgeniy graduated from high school and university in absentia.
He wrote about space flights and migratory birds, about elephants and swordfish, about Spain and Ireland, about the Siberian taiga and the bazaar in Mogadishu... Who could have thought that the author of these poems traveled only from bed to window. Feyerabend's poems have not been published for a long time - since he died in 1981. His beautifully illustrated books for children "Swallow's Hut", "Kingfisher", "Barbel Beetle", "Sea Carrier", "Good Window" have become a bibliographic rarity. You are unlikely to be able to find them anywhere...
:small_orange_diamond: Viktor Petrovich Astafiev called his fate “exceptional in misfortune and greatness.” Astafiev considered Feyerabend’s poem “The Ant” to be one of the best in Russian poetry of the twentieth century and included it in his anthology...
━━━━━》❈《 ━━━━━
He already sensed -
Smells like livestock
But, the mine mowed down on the spot,
The soldier considered himself killed
And he didn’t even open his eyes.
And, stunned,
He didn't hear
How the cannons fired across the river
And how the mice dug into the hole
Under the bloody cheek.
How the riders tore throats...
But here's an ant scout
I took my cap off my cap onto the soldier's forehead
And got lost between the eyebrows.
He rushed around there in fright
And, energetic, full of strength,
Tickled and trampled.
The soldier was resurrected.
And the eyelids opened heavily,
And the pupils looked dimly,
And the light dawned in man,
Floated on top of his melancholy.
He sighed deeply and heavily,
And the sky poured into my eyes.
And gave me goosebumps to the ground
Big round tear.
━━━━━》❈《 ━━━━━
Sverdlovsk
“In my opinion,” wrote Viktor Petrovich, “all Russian people need this poem...” He believed that the memory of such “quiet” poets who did not have loud fame, like Evgeniy Feyerabend, is an indicator of the state of the people’s soul. If they are remembered, read, republished and commemorated with kindness, it means that all is not lost with us..."
:bird: Creativity
:white_flower: “Source of inspiration.” - Sverdlovsk, 1954
:white_flower: “The mallards were surprised.” - Sverdlovsk book publishing house, 1959
:white_flower: “Wonderful treasure.” - Moscow, publishing house "Detgiz", 1962
:white_flower: “Poems taste the heart.” - Sverdlovsk, 1963
:white_flower: “Apple of my eye.” - Sverdlovsk, 1964, 1974
:white_flower: “Swallow’s Hut.” - Moscow, publishing house “Malysh”, 1965
:white_flower: “Kingfisher”. - Sverdlovsk book publishing house, 1966
:white_flower: “Barbel beetle.” - Sverdlovsk book publishing house, 1966
:white_flower: “Sea carrier.” - Moscow, Children's Literature Publishing House, 1966
:white_flower: “Polar bear.” - Perm book publishing house, 1967
:white_flower: “Ray”. - Moscow, publishing house "Young Guard", 1968
:white_flower: “Mushroom rain.” - Moscow, Children's Literature Publishing House, 1970
:white_flower: “Good window.” - Sverdlovsk, Middle Ural book publishing house, 1972
:white_flower: “Bird flock.” - Perm book publishing house, 1973
:white_flower: “Alarm clock.” - Sverdlovsk, Middle Ural book publishing house, 1975
:white_flower: “Favorites.” - Sverdlovsk, 1976
:white_flower: “Fidgets.” - Moscow, 1977
:white_flower: “And there are no wonders!” - Sverdlovsk, Middle Ural book publishing house, 1979
:white_flower: “Piercing the heart with joy and pain.” - Sverdlovsk, Middle Ural book publishing house, 1981
:white_flower: “Adonis.” - Moscow, 1982
Many people know the modern competition "Kniguru". But seventy-five years ago a mountain in the Urals received a similar name, and it was then deciphered as “The Book of the Ural Children.” The book, after which the mountain was named, was the same result of children's collective creativity as the collection “We are from Igarka”, and even the compiler of these publications was the same person - Anatoly Matveevich Klimov (1910-1945).
The life of Anatoly Klimov is amazing, cut short so early, at only 34 years old, not at the front, but from a serious illness.
He gave 8 years to the North. "At the call of the Komsomol in 1931, the future writer left to explore the Arctic. Before leaving, volunteers were invited to the Komsomol Central Committee, presented with a camera, a vest with eider down, a warm scarf. "In the Arctic... did everything that was assigned: organized the first national councils, organized collective farms... I flew with Molokov, Vodopyanov, Golovin, Alekseev on the first air routes of the North." From a letter to a friend: "In total I traveled across... the tundra more than five thousand miles. Dangerous and interesting... I thought about death several times (I wrote farewell letters twice, but somehow I managed to get out of it)...".
Georgy Kublitsky spoke very warmly about Klimov: “Tosha was somewhat reminiscent of the heroes of Jack London. They said: once, getting lost in the tundra, Klimov wandered in the snow for eight days until he came to a Nenets camp. It was worth learning from him a romantic, pure attitude towards life ".
Klimov became a brilliant journalist, editor of the first newspaper in the Arctic and correspondent for Pravda. It was he who inspired the collection “We are from Igarka”, took it to Samuil Marshak, but even before its publication, he was arrested in 1937 and spent several months in prison. After his release, he returned to his native place, to the Urals, and, although his health was hopelessly undermined, he began a new grandiose publishing project - a book by Ural children. (You can read more about the biography of A. Klimov).
It was a discovery for me that other personalities known to us also took part in the work on the collection - the artist Viktor Tauber and the Sverdlovsk poet Evgeniy Feyerabend (bedridden all his life, we talked about his fate).
The memoirs of Viktor Tauber are rare biographical material about the Ural period of his life and work (in them, in particular, it is mentioned that Pavel Bazhov ordered the artist drawings for the collection “The Key-Stone” and “Tales of the Germans”).
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Evgeniy Feyerabend was a boy at that time, but news of the collective book reached the sanatorium near Sverdlovsk, where he was being treated. At the “dead hour”, almost covering his head with a sheet, he composed the poem “We are the children of the Urals.” And soon I received a letter from Klimov, who suggested setting the poem to music.
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His father was a topographer and took his son on expeditions every summer. While traveling through the forests and steppes of Western Siberia, Zhenya gained extensive knowledge of geology, botany and zoology as a preschooler. The first poem I wrote was about an anthill. Many years later he would call one of his best poems “Ant”. Viktor Petrovich Astafiev, with whom the poet corresponded and was friends, considered this poem one of the best in Russian poetry of the twentieth century.
At the age of nine, the boy fell ill with polio. At twelve his legs were paralyzed. An endless wandering around hospitals and sanatoriums began. Books and poems saved me from melancholy and loneliness.
In 1938, Zhenya Feyerabend's first poem appeared in the magazine "Koster". In 1940, his poems were included in “Knigurr” - the famous “Book of Ural Children”. Because of the war, the book was published only in 1944, when many of the boys who participated in it were at the front.
Zhenya Feyerabend met the war in Sverdlovsk in the village of the Verkh-Isetsky plant. He recalled: “They were starving. There was no firewood. For one winter the stove was not lit at all...”
It is imperative to name the names of those who saved the talented young man bedridden. This, of course, is mother Matryona Ivanovna, who devoted her whole life to her son. Every Thursday, Zhenya was visited by the poetess Elena Khorinskaya. She recalled that “it was terrible cold in the hut, Zhenya was lying in a fur coat and hat...”
The surviving autograph of the poet. Photo: From the archives of the family of Eugene Feyerabend
Medical student Lena Tichachek saved the young man from pneumonia. Her brother, the young poet Arian Tichachek, died at the front in 1943. Every four hours, Lena gave injections and was on duty at Feyerabend’s bedside.
In 1944, 18-year-old Zhenya began to be looked after by his peer, a student at the Mining Institute, Viktor Faleev (Rutminsky), a future translator, bibliophile, teacher, and brilliant biographer of Russian poets. Feyerabend recalled how Victor walked towards him “along the roads, and then read to me for memory Yesenin and Pasternak, Mandelstam and Severyanin, Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva...” There was nowhere to read these poets then. Soon disaster struck: Victor was arrested, accused of anti-Soviet activities, and after four months of imprisonment he was sentenced to six years in the Kolyma camps. Victor returned to Sverdlovsk only in the mid-1950s.
Feyerabend lived in a dilapidated nine-meter hut for a long time. Only in 1964 did he receive an apartment where, before any furniture, the poet asked to place bird cages. They were hung from the ceiling, closer to his bed. Birds, books and icons - that's what those who visited Feyerabend remember. “In Matryona Ivanovna’s room,” recalled Astafiev, “there was a whole iconostasis. The Russian woman stood for many hours in front of the icons, asking God for mercy for her sick son...”
The prisoner of four walls was a surprisingly free man. Feyerabend was not burdened by the social order, he was not tempted by high fees, he did not know what the intrigues around foreign trips and secretarial posts were. He could afford what many successful writers only dreamed of - to write about his loved one. And for those whom I loved.
In 1976, after 40 years of immobility, the poet published his twenty-eighth book, “Favorites.” In March 1981 he died. On October 19, Evgeniy Vitalievich Feyerabend would have turned 90 years old.
The story of one gift
Several years ago we already wrote about Eugen Feyerabend. Among the responses we received then was a letter from Yekaterinburg from the pediatrician Lyudmila Moiseevna Korshunova: “I am sending you what I have left from meeting Evgeniy Vitalievich Feyerabend. I am his age. Our acquaintance was not close, but warm. I respected Evgeniy Vitalievich for his life and the grief that befell him in adolescence - he was chained to his bed. I bought his books. Once I bought six books and gave them all away. And one day my sister sewed a fishing cat - the hero of Feyerabend's children's poems. We decided to give poet of this rag cat. I baked some delicious things and went to him. He lived with his mother in the center of Sverdlovsk. I didn’t get to see him then: his mother Matryona Ivanovna went out somewhere, there was no one to open the door. I left gifts for the neighbors so that they gave them to the poet..."
In a reply letter, Evgeniy Feyerabend wrote:
"October 31, 1976. Thank you for the gift. The fishing cat, so lively and playful, caused my mother and I to burst into delight. This is a real work of art. What a craftswoman your sister is! The cat stands on my shelf and with its cheerful appearance does not tell you to lose heart ". And the flowers, fresh and white, as if a simultaneous symbol of the past summer and the approaching winter, delight with their beauty... All the best to you! Evgeniy Feyerabend."
From the poems of Eugene Feyerabend
Are you sad about me at least
a little?
Even if she didn’t love her, but still?..
You used to look
through the window -
And you will look away proudly.
But I was still thinking something!
And I remember there was no day
So that when you return
From the job,
Forgot to look at me.
I left on a cold evening
To the neighboring urban area -
And it’s as if we were divided
The immeasurable distance of the sea!
And never see again
And I will remember a thousand times,
Anxious and affectionate at once
That dark velvet look
eye.
And I am not able to justify myself,
And what can I say in defense?
What do they say, where did they put it?
I've been lying there for years.
I don't even know who you are.
But I think again about
What are you, coming back
From the job,
You pass by as usual
way.
And the same houses. And the path.
And the hubbub at the entrance to the cinema.
And only in a familiar window
You won't see me for a long time.
I've been hollowing out a hollow all day
And the wood is so dense,
What's under the birch mallet
The chisel moans like
string.
But birds fly to the south,
And I will leave in my turn.
And only a hollow
With a round eye
He will look after you
On top of the gate.
And he will swing on his pole,
Bowing your head.
She will probably wait for the birds,
Will you wait for me?..