“Conscience is the best moralizing book we have, it should be looked into most often,” said B. Pascal. What is conscience? Is she really our best adviser?

In the above text, VF Tendryakov raises the problem of conscience and its influence on a person. I would like to note the relevance of this problem, because it is the conscience that helps us to exercise moral self-control, to evaluate the actions we perform.

Arguing over the problem, the writer tells that he had to do bad things many times: he lied to teachers, did not restrain given word, and once on a fishing trip he took a chub off someone else's rope, but each time the narrator managed to find an excuse for himself. However, the case described in the above fragment made him think seriously. The lyrical hero was in a reserve regiment across the Volga. Volunteering to get bread with the foreman, he stole half a loaf of bread, which he later regretted for a long time. And if every time he found an excuse for himself, now the hero did not look for excuses: "I am a thief, and now ... this will become known ... to those who, like me, have not eaten anything for five days."

The narrator suddenly noticed how beautiful those soldiers from whom he stole. The realization came to him that this beauty is spiritual: “Among beautiful people- I'm ugly. Long years the author experienced pangs of conscience for what he had done, sought to gain self-respect by doing good deeds. The case described in the text became a real lesson for the narrator, who allowed himself to commit a bad deed and acted out of conscience.

The author seeks to convey to the reader the idea that by committing bad deeds, a person goes against an important moral feeling - against conscience. I fully agree with the opinion of VF Tendryakov, because it is not easy for people who have chosen the path of dishonor in life.

Awareness of the moral significance of the actions taken is often expressed in the form of emotional experiences - feelings of guilt or "remorse". So, in the story of V.P. Astafiev “The Horse with a Pink Mane”, the reader is presented with a boy who has committed a bad deed and sincerely repented.

Having gone for berries, he, under the influence of his friends, decides to deceive his grandmother. Instead of strawberries, the boy puts grass on the bottom of the basket, and this deception is not immediately revealed. But the conscience torments the child immediately after the act. The hero firmly decides to confess, but does not have time to do so before his grandmother leaves for the city. Upon the return of his grandmother, the boy runs away from home, weeps bitterly and repents of his deed. Seeing the sincere repentance of her grandson, the grandmother gives him a gingerbread - a horse with a pink mane, which he really dreamed about. The narrator recalls this moment as one of the brightest in his life. Therefore, the described case became the main one for the boy. moral lesson in life, and the hero owes this lesson not only to the generosity of his grandmother, but also to his conscience.

So, conscience is a moral category, without it it is impossible to imagine a real person. It is no coincidence that the theme of conscience is touched upon in the works of the classics of world literature. So, in the epic novel L.N. Tolstoy's "War and Peace" Dolokhov, on the eve of the Battle of Borodino, makes an unexpected act - he apologizes to Pierre. He asks to forgive him for everything that happened between them. At the most crucial moments of his life, Dolokhov “takes off his mask”, exposing all his best spiritual qualities. It is obvious that he now realizes how important purity of conscience is for a person, especially in difficult times. war time. In addition, the hero manifests himself as a decent person during the release of prisoners, among whom is Pierre. Thus, during the period of the general tragedy in Dolokhov, in this cruel man, prone to bragging and crazy antics, a conscience wakes up that ennobles him.

Summing up, I would like to say that if wrong behavior leads a person to a "troubled conscience", then the honest fulfillment of one's duties, one's duty, on the contrary, leads to moral satisfaction with oneself and to a special state called "clear conscience".

Updated: 2018-02-04

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Real USE text 2018. Tendryakov. About bread. main wave. Russian texts exam language 2018. exam options in Russian language 2018. The real text of the exam in the Russian language 2018.

We all spent a month in a reserve regiment across the Volga. We, this is so, are the remnants of the units defeated beyond the Don, which have reached Stalingrad. Someone was again thrown into battle, and we were taken to the reserve, it would seem - lucky, some kind of rest from the trenches. Rest ... two heavy lead biscuits a day, cloudy water instead of stew. Sending to the front was greeted with joy.

Another farm on our way. The lieutenant, accompanied by the foreman, went to clarify the situation.

Half an hour later the foreman returned.

Guys! he announced enthusiastically. - I managed to knock out: two hundred and fifty grams of bread and fifteen grams of sugar on the snout!
Who will get bread with me?.. Come on! - I was lying next to him, and the foreman pointed his finger at me.
a thought flashed in my mind ... about resourcefulness, cowardly, nasty and dull.
Right on the porch, I spread out a raincoat, and loaves began to fall on it - seven and half more.
The foreman turned away for a second, and I put half a loaf under the porch, wrapped the bread in a raincoat, and put it on my shoulder.
Only an idiot would expect the foreman not to notice the disappearance of a loaf cut in half. No one touched the resulting bread, except for him and me. I am a thief, and now, right now, in a few minutes this will become known ... Yes, to those who, like me, have not eaten anything for five days. As I!
In my life, I happened to do bad things - I lied to teachers so that they would not put a deuce, more than once I gave my word not to fight and did not hold back my words, once while fishing I stumbled upon someone else's confused line, on which a chub was sitting, and took it off the hook ... But every time I found an excuse for myself: I didn’t learn the task - I had to finish reading the book, I fought again - so he himself climbed first, removed the chub from someone else’s rope - but the rope was swept away by the current, mixed up, the owner himself would never have found him ...
Now I'm not looking for excuses. Oh, if only I could go back, get the hidden bread, put it back in the cape!
From the side of the road towards us with an effort - every bone aches - the soldiers began to rise. Gloomy, dark faces, bent backs, lowered shoulders.

The sergeant-major opened his cape, and the heap of bread was greeted with respectful silence.

In this respectful silence, a bewildered voice was heard:

And where? .. There was half a loaf!

There was a slight movement, dark faces turned towards me, from all sides - eyes, eyes, a terrible alertness in them.

Hey, you! Where?! I ask you!

I was silent.
An elderly soldier, whitened blue eyes, wrinkled cheeks, a gray chin from stubble, a voice without malice:

It will be better, boy, if you confess.
There is a grain of strange, almost unbelievable sympathy in the voice of the elderly soldier. And it is more unbearable than swearing and amazement.

Why talk to him! One of the guys raised his hand.

And I involuntarily twitched. And the guy just adjusted his cap on his head.

Don't be afraid! he said contemptuously. - Beat you ... Get your hands dirty.

And suddenly I saw that the people around me were strikingly beautiful - dark, exhausted by the campaign, hungry, but their faces were somehow faceted, clearly stuccoed. Among beautiful people - I'm ugly.
Nothing is worse than feeling unable to justify yourself to yourself.
I was lucky, in the communications company of the Guards Regiment, where I ended up, there was no one who would have seen my shame. Over and over again, with petty deeds, I won self-respect - I climbed first on a line break under heavy fire, tried to take on a heavier cable spool , if he managed to get an extra pot of soup from the cook, he did not consider it his prey, he always shared it with someone. And no one noticed my altruistic "exploits", they thought it was normal. And this is what I needed, I did not pretend to exclusivity, I did not even dare to dream of becoming better than others.
I never stole again in my life. Somehow I didn't have to.

That was the first quiet night in broken Stalingrad. A quiet moon rose over the ruins, over the snow-covered ashes. And I couldn’t believe that there was no longer any need to be frightened by the silence that flooded the long-suffering city to the brim. This is not a lull, peace has come here - a deep, deep rear, guns are thundering somewhere hundreds of kilometers away.

The writing

Very often a person manages to maintain a kindness of heart and a pure and sincere desire to help his neighbor even in the most difficult situations.

In this text, V. D. Tendryakov makes us think about what makes a person a person? How to preserve humanity in the most terrible conditions?

The author recalls an episode from his military past, when a German hospital caught fire on one of the rare quiet nights. The writer draws our attention to the fact that at that terrible moment when the wooden building caught fire, there was not a single indifferent person: both Russian and German soldiers were united by a common desire to help. All borders were erased, at that moment there were no enemies: Russian and German soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder and together “let out a single sigh”. And in the eyes of everyone, "the same expression of pain and submissive helplessness" froze. One of the heroes of the story, Arkady Kirillovich, noticing a crippled German trembling with fear and cold, gave him his sheepskin coat. And later he shares what he himself did not see, but what impressed him: in a fit of humanity, one of the Germans rushed into the fire with a cry, and a Tatar rushed after him, both were seized with a thirst to help and both died at the same moment.

Vladimir Fedorovich Tendryakov believes that absolutely in every person, no matter who he is, no matter what situation he is in and no matter what he has experienced, there are unspent reserves of humanity. And nothing can kill a person in a person - "neither the dislocations of history, nor the fierce ideas of mad maniacs, nor epidemic madness."

I fully agree with the author's opinion and also believe that it is impossible to destroy the spark of mercy, kindness, compassion in a person - everything that includes the concept of "humanity", it can only be extinguished for a while. And it is this sincere feeling that can unite people and correct all the "dislocations of history."

The protagonist of the novel M.A. Sholokhov "The Fate of Man" possessed a huge amount of unspent love, tenderness, kindness and compassion. The author introduces us to a huge layer of Andrei Sokolov's life, and we are convinced that fate has prepared for him many cruel trials. War, captivity, hunger, wounds, the hero lost all the people close to him and plunged into complete loneliness, but even all this could not kill a person in Andrei Sokolov. Sokolov gives his unspent love and tenderness to the homeless child, little Vanya, whose fate was similar to the fate of the protagonist: life was also not generous to him. Andrei Sokolov was able to dig out a grain of humanity in his charred heart and give it to the boy. Vanya became the meaning of life for him, the hero began to take care of Vanya and give him all the kindest and purest that remained in the soul of the main character.

In the story of A.S. Pushkin " Captain's daughter“humanity united all classes. Whatever each hero is, no matter what position he is in, he always finds a place in his soul for a good and bright feeling. Pyotr Grinev does not take revenge on Shvabrin for any of his atrocities. And this despite the fact that an atmosphere of impunity and cruelty reigned around, and Shvabrin caused the hero enough harm. Also, Pugachev, despite the huge number of murders to achieve his goal, did not kill Peter, and not only because he once did not let him die, but also out of a sense of humanity in relation to Savelich. And Maria, in all her actions, was also guided only by kindness and a desire to help - including when she asked the empress for mercy on her beloved. Although the girl had recently lost her parents and found herself in difficult circumstances. All the heroes, despite the difficult situation around their lives, were able to keep in their souls those feelings, thanks to which they continued to remain human.

Thus, we can conclude that what makes a person such is the desire to do good, to be merciful and responsive to the misfortune of others. And even if this feeling is hidden deep behind fear and vague moral guidelines, it still exists and is still capable of exploding "the ice of hostility and indifference around itself."

Why, then, have you not matured in this crowd? And in general, don’t you think that you are killing a person with your reasoning? A person lives in an environment of other people, as a rule, lined up in some order, which means that they influence an individual, directing his actions. But does a person ever act as he wants? Does it happen by itself? Does it have the right to be called a person?
11
Personality is a topic that frightens me more than one with its unbearable complexity. Formation of personality, its susceptibility, dependence, emotional and rational features... great minds wandered here, as if in a forest, not getting to reserved answers.
No, I don’t dare to get into the personality and I can compensate for my dense incompetence with one thing - to tell a case that, it seems to me, significantly “corrected” my “I”.
The case is outwardly insignificant, but shameful to me. There was a time - I thought that I would not tell it to my mother, or my brother, or my wife, or my children, I would forget it myself, I would bury it in the depths of my soul. But now, consider that I have lived a life, and it seems that it gives me the right to be extremely sincere - to discover what burned with shame for myself.
The marching company went to the front. The dull, dried-up, hopelessly boundless steppe was covered by the faded immense sky. Sometimes a "frame" appeared in it - a German twin-fuselage spotter. Slowly, without hiding, with masterly efficiency, breaking the quiet melancholy of the autumn air with the interior rumbling of engines, the "frame" circled above the ground. A hundred soldiers strung out along the road, tangled in rough rolls, did not attract her attention - not the deployment of troops, not the transfer of equipment, so-so thrashing around.
We all spent a month in a reserve regiment across the Volga in the village of Pologoe Zaimishche. We, this is so, are the garbage of the retreat, the remnants of the units defeated behind the Don, which have reached Stalingrad. Someone was again thrown into battle, and we were taken to the reserve, it would seem - lucky, some kind of rest from the trenches. Rest ... two heavy lead biscuits a day, muddy water instead of stew, wadded legs and dizziness from hunger, and from morning to evening unnecessary marching with wooden guns roughly hewn from planks:
Get up, great country,
Get up for a mortal battle! ..
Sending to the front was greeted with joy.
The lieutenant, to whom the marching company was handed over, lost his way, for the sixth day we wandered around the steppe, and the stations where we were supposed to get food remained somewhere, God knows, on the sidelines. For a long time NZ was eaten, the fourth day no one ate anything. They walked, and the falling platoon commanders raised their boots ...
Back in Pologiy Zaimishche, I made friends with a senior sergeant. He treated me patronizingly, haughtily, and for that I was grateful to him. A personnel service soldier, about thirty years old, for me a highly experienced old man. He liked to teach me worldly wisdom, which was all contained in one word - "resourcefulness." It meant the ability to deceive, and mainly the foreman. The current opinion is that there is no such foreman in all the armed forces who would not rob soldiers. I had no resourcefulness at all, suffered from it, despised myself.
No, no, during the campaign, the senior sergeant was not next to me, did not lead me. Exhausted, moving like shadows, we were no longer able to show attention to each other, each fought for himself alone.
Another farm on our way, inhabited not by civilians, but by the military. We all ended up on the side of the road, and our stupid lieutenant, accompanied by the foreman, went to clarify the situation.
Half an hour later the foreman returned.
“Guys!” he announced with inspiration. - I managed to knock out: two hundred and fifty grams of bread and fifteen grams of sugar on the snout!
Of course, the message of the foreman did not cause delight. Everyone dreamed that in the end they would give us for all the hungry days - eat to satiety. And here, as alms, a piece of bread.
- All right, all right! We must understand - people have torn themselves away from themselves, they had the right to send us to mother ... Who will receive bread with me? .. Come on! - I was lying next to him, and the foreman pointed his finger at me.
House with a low porch. Right on the porch, I spread out a raincoat, and loaves began to fall on it - seven and half more. Soft smelling bread!
At that moment, when the foreman pointed his finger at me - "Come on!" - a thought flashed in my mind ... about resourcefulness, cowardly, nasty and dull. I myself did not believe her - where can I ...
I dragged myself behind the foreman with a cape, and the little thought lived and filled me with poison. I spread my raincoat on the trampled porch, and my hands trembled. I hated myself for this vile trembling, hated for cowardice, for soft-bodied integrity, for constant unhappiness - not resourceful, I don’t know how to live, I’ll never learn! I hated it and in those same seconds I managed to dream: I’ll bring bread to the senior sergeant, he will slap me on the shoulder, say: “Uh, you, brother, are not a bast shoe!”
The foreman turned away for a second, and I put half a loaf under the porch, wrapped the bread in a raincoat, and put it on my shoulder.
A stout, short, slightly bow-legged foreman strode ahead of me with the tread of a savior, and I trudged along behind him, bending under my raincoat, and with each step I became more and more clearly aware of the senselessness and monstrosity of my act. Only an idiot would expect the foreman not to notice the disappearance of a loaf cut in half. No one touched the resulting bread, except for him and me. Military ingenuity, no - I'm a thief, and now, now, in a few minutes it will become known ... Yes, to those who, like me, have not eaten anything for five days. As I!
In my life, I happened to do bad things - I lied to teachers so that they wouldn’t put a deuce, more than once I gave my word not to fight with my street enemy Igor Ryavkin, and I didn’t hold back my word, once while fishing I stumbled upon someone else’s confused line, on which sat a fat one, like a log , a chub yellowed from old age, and took it off the hook ... But every time I found an excuse for myself: I lied to the teacher that I was sick, I didn’t learn the task - I had to finish reading the book that they gave me for one day, I fought again with Igor , so he himself climbed first, removed a chub from someone else's rope - fishing theft! - but the line was swept away by the current, mixed up, the owner himself would never have found it ...
Now I'm not looking for excuses. Oh, if only I could go back, get the hidden bread, put it back in the cape! But, straightening his shoulders, wringing his cap, the foreman-breadwinner paced, not one step behind him.
I would be glad if German planes flew in now, a stray fragment - and I'm gone. Death is so familiar, something more terrible is waiting for me now.
From the side of the road towards us with an effort - every bone aches - the soldiers began to rise. Gloomy, dark faces, bent backs, lowered shoulders.
The sergeant-major opened his cape, and the heap of bread was greeted with respectful silence.
In this respectful silence, a bewildered voice was heard:
- And where? .. There was half a loaf!
There was a slight movement, dark faces turned towards me, from all sides - eyes, eyes, a terrible alertness in them.
- Hey, you! Where?! I ask you!
I was silent.
- Do you think I'm a fool?
I wanted more than anything in the world to return the stolen bread: may it be thrice cursed! return, but how? To lead people behind this hidden bread, to take it out in front of everyone, to do what has already been done, only in reverse order? No I can not! But they will still demand: explain - why, make excuses ...
- Where?!
Cheeky face of the foreman, angry twitching of aimed pupils. I was silent. And dusty people with dark faces surrounded me.
- I remember, brothers! I still haven’t survived from my mind - there was half a loaf here! Pressed on the go!
An elderly soldier, whitened blue eyes, wrinkled cheeks, a gray chin from stubble, a voice without malice:
- It will be better, boy, if you confess.
I was petrified silent.
And then the young ones exploded:
- Who are you tearing, nit?! You tear at your comrades!
- From the throat of the hungry!
He wants to eat more than us!
- Such people are born in the world ...
I myself would have shouted the same thing and in the same astonished-hating voice. I have no forgiveness, and I do not feel sorry for myself at all.
- Well, raise your face! Look into our eyes!
And I looked up, and it's so difficult! I must raise, I must endure my shame to the end, they are right to demand this from me. I looked up, but this only aroused new indignation:
- Look: staring, not ashamed!
- Yes, what a shame this is!
Well, there are people...
- Not people - lice, someone else's blood is full!
- Guy, obey, it will be better.
There is a grain of strange, almost unbelievable sympathy in the voice of the elderly soldier. And it is more unbearable than swearing and amazement.
- Why talk to him! One of the guys raised his hand.
And I involuntarily twitched. And the guy just adjusted his cap on his head.
"Don't be afraid!" he said contemptuously. "To beat you... to get your hands dirty."
And I wanted retribution, if I had been beaten, if only!.. It would have been easier. I twitched out of habit, the body lived apart from me, it got scared, not me.
And suddenly I saw that the people around me were strikingly beautiful, dark, exhausted by the campaign, hungry, but their faces were somehow faceted, clearly stuccoed, especially the guy who adjusted his cap: "Beat you - get your hands dirty!" Each of those surrounding me is handsome in his own way, even the old soldier with his blue eyes in red eyelids and a gray chin. Among beautiful people - I'm ugly.
- Let him choke on our bread, let's share what we have.
The foreman shook his strong fist in front of my nose.
- You will not take the hidden, I will not take my eyes off you! And here you - do not wait - will not break away.
He turned back to the cape.
God! Could I now eat that criminal bread that lay under the porch - it is worse than poison. And I did not want to count on bread rations. Though small, but punish yourself!
For a second, a familiar senior sergeant flashed in front of me. He stood all this time behind everyone - his face is impassive, consider that he also condemns. But he understood better than others what had happened, perhaps better than myself. The senior sergeant also seemed handsome to me now.
When the bread was divided, and I forgot to stand aside, two people approached me sideways: a peasant in a sprawling cap, a button nose, flabby lips in a wet smile, and an angular Caucasian, half of the physiognomy immersed in gloomy unshaven, velvet eyes.
- Brother, - in a careful whisper, - you're wasting your time. Three to the nose everything will pass.
- Right, but done. Ma-la-dets!
- You tell us where? You something inconvenient, and we - instantly.
- Delim for three, for conscience!
I sent them as best I could.
We walked for more than a day. I didn't eat anything, but I didn't feel hungry. I didn't feel tired either. A lot of different people passed me by these days. And most struck me with their beauty. Almost everyone ... But there were also ugly ones.
A peasant with flabby lips and an unshaven Caucasian - yes, jackals, but still they are better than me - have the right to calmly talk with other people, joke, laugh, I don’t deserve it.
In the oncoming column, two embittered and tired soldiers are dragging a third - young, torn to pieces, his face striped from dirt, from tears, from loose snot. Raskis in the campaign, "labushit" - this is more often not from physical infirmity, from the horror of the approaching front. But this one, too, is better than me - "gets better", mine is irreparably.
On the wagon, the rear foreman - chrome boots, ryakha, like a piece raw meat, - of course, steals, but not like me, cleaner, and therefore more honest than me.
And on the side of the road near the dead horse, the killed rider (he was bombed) is happier than me.
Then I was less than nineteen years old, thirty-three years have passed since then, everything has happened in my life. Oh no, I was not always pleased with myself, I did not always act with dignity, how often I was annoyed with myself! But to feel disgust for myself - I don’t remember this.
Nothing is worse than feeling unable to justify yourself to yourself. The one who carries it in himself is a potential suicide.
I was lucky, in the communications company of the Guards Regiment, where I ended up, there was no one who would see my shame. But for some time I did not fall to the ground at the sound of an approaching shell, I walked under the bullets, straightening up to my full height - they will kill, let it not be a pity at all. Suicide at the front - why, when and so easy to find death.
Over and over again, by petty deeds, I won self-respect for myself - I climbed first on a line break under heavy fire, tried to take on a heavier cable spool, if I managed to get an extra bowl of soup from the cook, I didn’t consider it my prey, I always shared it with someone . And no one noticed my altruistic "feats", they thought it was normal. And this is what I needed, I did not pretend to exclusivity, I did not even dare to dream of becoming better than others.
Strange, but finally cured of self-contempt, I only when ... stole a second time. Our offensive stopped under the farm Starye Rogachi. In the middle of a snow-covered field, we began to hollow dugouts. I went to the kitchen with the pots. And near this smoking kitchen, harnessed by sad horses, I noticed a windshield from a German car leaning against the wheel. One of the soldiers got hold of it, helpfully brought it to the cook for an extra pot of kulesh, a ration of bread, perhaps for a glass of vodka. Soup was poured into the pots for me, and, going to my own, I grabbed a windshield. My conscience was completely at peace this time. The cook was already endowed with blessings that we could only dream of, he did not crawl along the front line, did not risk his life every day, did not eat from the common cauldron and did not gouge the dugout himself, it was done for him by the well-wishers whom he fed. And the cook paid for this glass from our soldier's koshta, our fat, our vodka. The obliging soldier got his glass - he could not be offended - and the cook himself had no more rights to glass than I, than my comrades. I asserted myself in my eyes: I feel what is possible and what is impossible, I will not commit meanness, but I will not miss my luck, I am no longer shy before life.
In the defense near Starye Rogachi, we lived in a bright, with a window - my glass - in the roof, a dugout - a luxury not even available to officers.
I never stole again in my life. Somehow I didn't have to.
12
Bread stolen from hungry comrades is a case for me personally, probably even more significant than the terrible episode at the icy well. Uncle Pasha and Yakushin made me think anxiously, the stolen half a loaf of bread, perhaps, determined my life. I learned what it means - contempt for yourself! Lynching without justification, a suicidal feeling - you are worse than anyone you meet, manure among people! Is it possible to experience the joy of being? And to exist without joy - to eat, drink, sleep, meet women, even work, bring some benefit and be poisoned by your insignificance - is sickening! Here the only way out is a hook in the ceiling.
I became a writer, I did not consider myself an opportunist, but every time, thinking over the idea of ​​a new story, I weighed - it will pass, it will not pass, I did not lie directly, I only kept silent about what was forbidden. Silent writer think about it! - a dairy cow that does not give milk.
And I felt how disrespect for myself begins to accumulate.
If the story of the stolen bread had not happened, I probably would not have been alert right away, continued to justify my obsequious silence before myself, until one unfortunate day I discovered to myself that my life is petty and aimless, I pull it through force.
Life teaches us all through the small to be aware of the big: through the fallen apple - the law of universal gravitation, through the childish "please" - the norms of human communication.
He teaches everyone, but, really, not everyone is equally capable of learning.
13
Another pompous meeting of writers was taking place in Moscow, it seems like another congress. I was getting ready to hang on to him in order to hang around in the corridors of the Hall of Columns, to meet acquaintances, I had already put on my overcoat, pulled on my hat, and moved towards the door, when the bell rang.
On the threshold stood a short man - dressed quite decently, a solid consumer-grade coat, a boy's cap, a motley muffler. And the face, wide, high-cheeked, with a barely perceptible Asian tint, the darting look of black eyes. From the depths of my biography, from the thickness of years, shaky, still formless memories floated on me.
- Do you know? - he asked.
- Shura! Shuburov!
- I. Hello, Volodya.
Nothing less than thirty years ago in the village of Podosinovets, we sat with him at the same school desk. He soon dropped out of school and disappeared from the village.
And a few years later, a rumor leaked out - he walks around the cities, vomits that he lies badly.
In the first days of the war, one of my acquaintances, who was returning to the village through Moscow, met Shurka at the Kazan station. He was excited, did not even want to talk, appeared and disappeared several times, spun around a heavy man with a small shabby suitcase.
Finally, Shurka disappeared for a long time, reappearing only in the evening, in his hands was a worn suitcase.
- Went!
He led me into a dark corner, stood facing the wall.
- Look, do not blather. Milked the boar.
He opened the lid, the suitcase was full of wads of money.
My friend liked to compose. A suitcase full of money is a traditional deafening detail of the walking myth of the lucky thief. Most likely, there was no fabulous suitcase. Shurka Shuburov worked more modestly.
Here he is with sleek hair, in a tight jacket - modest and decent - sitting in front of me. And a light scar on the cheekbone under the eye - familiar to me since childhood.
- I stopped a long time ago. I have a family, two children, an apartment in Kirov, but there is no life, they eat it, they don’t believe that I can live like a human being.
He sparingly said that he went through all the camps:
- I used to walk knee-deep in blood...
About eight years ago, he served his last term and ... nowhere to live, nothing to live on, they don’t hire anywhere, they don’t give registration. He wandered around Moscow, not knowing where to lean his head - they were driven from the railway stations, he decided out of desperation: he came to Red Square and went straight to the Spassky Gates of the Kremlin. He was stopped by security.
- Where?
- To Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev. Don't miss it - I'll lie down here, I have nowhere to go. Or take it back where you came from.
They didn’t let him lie down under the Spassky Gates, they didn’t dare to take him back - he served time for the old guilt, he hasn’t acquired a new one yet. They began to transfer him from one security authority to another, and everywhere he repeated one thing:
- I want to meet with Nikita Sergeevich. Except, like him, I can't find the truth.
A repentant criminal, eager to set foot on the path of virtue, aroused sympathy even at a time when the "black crows" roamed, passed through our literature, passed off as a model of high philanthropy: "Not a single flea is bad!" Cruelty is rarely without sentimentality. And this helped Shurka Shuburov. The security agencies were so sympathetic that they reported it, former thief wishing to become an honest Soviet citizen, Khrushchev. And he threw over his shoulder: help! And Shurka is affectionately, almost honorably sent to main city the area where he was born, an apartment is waiting for him there, a job is provided. But...
- They eat. They can't forgive - Khrushchev helped me.
It is impossible not to believe - now everything connected with the overthrown head causes distrust and enmity. It is impossible to forget that I sat at the same desk with him, the scar on his cheekbone is not a trace of camp life, I remember him from childhood.
But how can you help? I'm not Khrushchev, throw over your shoulder - help! - I can not. But there are some acquaintances in Kirov, why not try to act through them?
- You know, I'm penniless. Here is the wife and kids...
At this moment I have only twenty-five rubles in my wallet. We arrange a meeting - I'll find out, enlist support, go back, well, don't worry about money for the road.
A childhood friend, pulling on his cap, walks away from me.
An hour later I am in the Hall of Columns, meeting with a writer from Kirov, whose help I count on. He already knows about the appearance of Shurka Shuburov in Moscow, Shurka's wife found him at a meeting, complained about the lack of money, took ... twenty-five rubles.
My wife and kids come to my house the next day, but they don't find me. My family, as best they could, caressed her, sat her at the table, were touched by the kids, gave her money again.
And after another day or two, I receive a notice by mail - report to the investigator at the eleventh police station, which is located next to GUM.
The police investigator, a young man with a badge of a law school in his buttonhole, announces: Shchuburov was arrested in GUM - he got into his pocket. Petty theft is complicated by the thieves' past.
- Province, - the investigator does not hide his contempt. - In GUM began to trade. A lot of people, a flea market - it’s convenient, but if you don’t know what is somewhere, and then they are watching with might and main - you won’t turn around. Money was found in his pocket - eighteen rubles, points to you - you gave it.
- Dal.
I tell about our meeting, sign the protocol, ask the investigator: without violating the law, show condescension and human understanding - two children in my arms and, quite possibly, he was forced to return to his former path by the persecution he was subjected to in his native city.
The investigator promises me, but without much enthusiasm:
“Really, I can’t help much. Caught on a crime, a case is opened - you can’t cover it. Allow me to sign the agenda, otherwise you won't be let out of here.
And indeed, a policeman with a monumental figure and a gloomy physiognomy, standing at the exit, meticulously and suspiciously looks me over from head to toe. Not the place to be trusted.
I felt dirty, as if Shurka had tried to rob not some unknown buyer in GUM, but me. Why did he need it? He had some money, he was not hungry, he knew that we would meet soon, he could count on my help.
In the crowd of passers-by on the crowded Oktyabrskaya Street, feeling annoyed and bewildered, I suddenly thought: Shurka must have been caught more than once, like me with stolen bread, and he repeated the same number again and again. It means that he did not feel suicidal contempt for himself - he passed by, did not hurt at all.
Life teaches to be aware of the big through the small: through the fallen apple - the law of universal gravitation...
And what really surprises me: out of many millions, only one person turned out to be so sensitive that he noticed in a fallen apple a world-wide scale. Is this available to me? Oh, No.
All people are similar to each other, no one can boast that they have more sense organs, a fundamentally different structure of the brain, anyone can say to himself: "Nothing human is alien to me." But how different these people are, how differently they look at the world, how they feel differently, act differently.
Let's not get into the elementary: a person perceives the world in his own way.
How many personalities - so many worlds!
I would like to know: how did the incident at the icy well affect Uncle Pasha? Has he changed since his butchery? Maybe he became a sadist or, on the contrary, executes himself for what he did?
Most likely, it has remained the same. If he survived the war, then now he is a respectable old man. He lived his life, relatives and friends probably did not consider him an evil person.
14
Something personal was revealed in me only after I, hungry, collided with hungry comrades for half a loaf of bread.
Who am I? What are my personal qualities? I can only know this when I get in touch with the environment, I feel its influence on myself.
It is pointless to talk about personality, tearing it away from environment. Without it, personality simply will not manifest itself.
And for anyone and everyone, the most essential part of the environment is his human environment, always built in some way.
Everyone reacts to it in their own way, not like others.
And everyone is dependent on him.
Dependency does not mean depersonalization. On the contrary, the influence of the human environment reveals the unique characteristics of the individual.
You give birth to me among the masses. I am among others - you.
So far, we have considered cases where the masses have a bad influence on the individual. However, the opposite also happens.
At the end of August 1947, I was returning from my village, where I spent my holidays, again to the institute. In Kirov - transfer to the Moscow train.
The country had not yet calmed down after the war, the evacuees and the demobilized still continued to return, and parties of recruited workers rolled - some to the east, to Siberia, others to the west, to the war-torn regions, and scattered families united, and the flight from the hungry had already begun. villages, and streams of seconded ... great country roamed, filling the stations with motley people, sleeping side by side, rushing about, starving, getting drunk, passionately dreaming of one thing - a ticket for the right train!
A huge queue lined up at the ticket office window, across the entire station square, anxiously swaying and at the same time doomedly patient, seized by shaky hopes. Everyone could not hope - the queue is too long, too few tickets were thrown out. The stretched tail buzzed from restrained voices, legends were composed there: “They can let the Five Hundred Merry, an additional train with freight cars, then we’ll all leave ...” They created legends and immediately refuted them: “Five Hundred Merry” to the capital ?. Don't wait, Moscow lets the "fun" trains pass by." The tail of the queue was noisy, easily abandoned hopes, and the head was resignedly silent, frozen motionless. life, who spent sleepless nights in this line, many times fell into despair, tormented, exhausted, holding on with the last of his strength, full of doubts, no longer believes in luck. overcoats with torn shoulder straps, scarves, caps, fur hats out of season, bulky bags, suitcases, roomy, like chests, chests adapted for suitcases.
Finally, the head of the queue, which was standing near the window in a detached rigor, shuddered, leaned forward, and a shudder went through the entire long queue, suppressing laughter, washing away smiles, cutting off conversations in mid-sentence. The box office has opened! And a rolling murmur from beginning to end, surprised and dissatisfied - the cashier posted the number of places intended for sale. There was no need to grumble, no point, without that everyone knew that there would not be enough for everyone. And the murmur quickly gave way to a business stir.
The middle of the queue, its plentiful torso, immediately sent its volunteer delegates forward to inspect and not let in tricksters who want to seep into the coveted window. Immediately among the heel of resolute delegates, in those moments while they were walking towards the head, the ataman stood out - a hefty guy, a kuban crowns a chopped physiognomy, a forelock, impudent eyes, a golden spark of a tooth in his mouth.
- Line up! Get in order! - he began to command the assertive senior tenor. - You, citizen, were standing here or just glued? And then we can for the elbow. We have a fast! ..
But he immediately had to respectfully step back in front of his shoulder with a crimson epaulette, in front of a cap with a crimson top - a railway policeman with a drowsy, displeased face unceremoniously pushed the queue and nodded to the young woman:
- Here!
Pushed her third from the window.
The woman was beggarly dressed, from a spacious, from a man's shoulder, a worn padded jacket stretched a thin, defenseless neck, cheeks in an unhealthy green, sunken eyes in a dry, restless gleam, hands shiveringly hidden in long sleeves.
- Do you guard delinquents, brother? - knowingly inquired the guy in the Kubanka.
The policeman did not consider it necessary to raise even an eyebrow in his direction, but with the same drowsy displeasure on his face, expressing, however, conviction in his strength and greatness, he left.
The guy studied the woman who was blindly looking in front of him for a long time and appraisingly, and finally explained authoritatively:
- Camp slut, from the conclusion. They try to fuse as quickly as possible so that they don’t scam at the station.
- And it is profitable, brothers, to be a swindler.
- Take care.
- We've been hanging around here for the fourth day, someone would have let us down by the hand.
An unfriendly saying flowed from head to tail throughout the queue:
- Try too ... to earn authority.
- Try it, then they will send it to the state account.
Just not in the direction you're aiming.
- What happened there?
- Yes, a batch of camp girls were put in line.
- Well, now we still have to sit.
- The camp bitches will go for us!
- Ah, mother-peremat! There is no life for an honest man!
And the guy in the Kubanka spoke, warmed up:
She'll get someone's ticket! Maybe mine, maybe yours! .. I shed blood for the motherland, and she did harm to the state. In vain they wouldn’t put them in the camps. And now they protect her, but I don’t give a damn! ..
The woman was silent, tensely straightened, with a pale thin neck stretched out of a padded jacket, a thin face lifelessly closed, her eyes hidden in their sockets, only in unnaturally raised shoulders it was felt - she hears everything, experiences hostility.
Finally, the two people who stood in front of her, who did not participate in the condemnation, received their tickets, disappeared with agility. The woman leaned over to the checkout window. And everyone around fell silent, only ate with their eyes her back in a voluminous padded jacket, they no longer found words to express their hostility and resentment. Even the guy in the Kubanka only spat in his hearts.
But something happened near the window, the woman lingered, worried, stifledly explained.
- Well, what's there? Take it and get out! - the guy could not stand it.
A peasant with a fox-like physiognomy and a heavy sidor on his hump, which, however, did not interfere with quick mobility, poked his side, listened and rolled out in jubilation:
- And she, guys, has no money! Traded - not enough for a ticket!

In both chambers of the Russian parliament, they became interested in a resonant story with the sentencing of an elderly resident of the Privolzhsky district of the Ivanovo region. A 70-year-old pensioner from hunger and lack of money stole food, and Themis sentenced her to a one-year suspended prison sentence. Parliamentarians believe that a woman should go to work if she does not have enough pension, writes Ivanovo News.

“Maybe this person is still able to work. Maybe he can recommend getting some kind of job that would allow you to financially supplement something in the family,” said the chairman of the Federation Council Committee on Social Policy, chairman of the All-Russian public organization"Union of Pensioners of Russia" Valery Ryazansky.

In the event that the convict can no longer work, "we must try to support her in the ways that exist," the senator added. He proposes to provide the woman with benefits on utility bills, to exempt her from contributions for repairs.

At the same time, Valery Ryazansky advised the Russians, even in a situation of extreme need, not to stoop to theft and other immoral and illegal acts. "As for the reasons why she (convicted. - Note. website) was forced to do this business - probably, yes, a low pension. Although there are people who, even in this situation, do not stoop to theft. In the end, they will ask ... "- the senator concluded.

The State Duma is turning to supervisory authorities with a request to analyze what happened. “I will ask the prosecutor of the Ivanovo region to pay attention, check this story, all the details of what happened,” said Yaroslav Nilov, chairman of the State Duma Committee on Labor, Social Policy and Veterans Affairs. “From an emotional point of view, the situation is unpleasant, but it is impossible to evaluate the court decision, not knowing the details of the case. The decision of the court is the decision of the court. But the situation looks outrageous and ridiculous."

As follows from the materials of the scandalous criminal case, the convicted pensioner Nadezhda Shakurova, who lives in the village of Fedorishchi, Privolzhsky District, committed thefts from the neighbors' house. In August 2016, a woman stole ketchup and some sugar from someone else's kitchen. The damage was estimated at 70 rubles.

In early December, two cans of stew, a package of pasta, sugar, cookies and 17 tea bags became the thief's prey. This time the damage amounted to 560 rubles.

These actions of the pensioner were qualified by the investigators as serious crimes, Denis Grachev, senior assistant to the prosecutor of the Volga region, explained. An aggravating circumstance was that the attacker entered the neighbor's house by opening the front door with the key in the keyhole. Despite the curiously small size of thefts, the pensioner was threatened with a six-year term of imprisonment.

In court, the accused explained that she committed crimes because of poverty. The woman receives a pension of 7,300 rubles. More than half of this money (4.5 thousand rubles) goes to repay the loan for the purchased refrigerator (Nadezhda's old refrigerator broke down). You also have to pay for utilities. As a result, only one thousand rubles a month remains for groceries.

Moreover, with this money, the pensioner has to feed her common-law spouse. Although the man works on a local farm, he has not been paid a salary since June 2016.

According to Alexei Dubov, chairman of the Volga Bar Association, it is impossible to find a job in the village of Fedorishchi. Therefore, a pensioner is doomed to exist on a meager pension.

The needy pensioner Nadezhda Shakurova was obliged to help social services, NTV reports. But social security experts say that the women did not know about the problems. Allegedly, they did not help, since she did not apply to them with a statement.

In court, Nadezhda Shakurova repented and compensated the damage to her neighbor, who has no claims against her. "I beg you, don't put me in jail. I don't know what's going on with me," the defendant addressed the participants in the meeting.

The prosecutor's office asked to be limited to a suspended sentence. As a result, the woman was given a year of imprisonment on probation with a similar probationary period.

The district court says this is not the first time that locals have committed hunger theft. One man stole 18 loaves of bread for 180 rubles. He was sentenced to corrective labor, it was said in reporting TV company "Bars".

The convict was given a job on a farm. He receives a salary of 6.5 thousand rubles, and 5 percent of this amount, in accordance with the verdict, goes to the state. Another starving villager stole sausages, bread and pasta from neighbors several times. In the village, he could not find a permanent job and was interrupted by odd jobs. After the verdict, the man was placed in a municipal enterprise to serve his sentence.