ny. He was also known abroad. Even Napoleon, regarding the peace with Turkey concluded by Kutuzov, which was beneficial for Russia, could not refrain from a flattering though rude opinion, calling Kutuzov "an old Russian fox."

And when the news of the death of Smolensk spread, when the French army of six hundred thousand strong rushed irresistibly towards the ancient Russian capital, the eyes of all with hope turned to the great commander. And no matter how opposed the government, it still had to give in to public opinion and appoint Kutuzov commander-in-chief of the Russian army. And the people were not mistaken in their choice.

Kutuzov was a Russian patriot in the fullest, in the most sublime sense of the word. Russia, its interests, its honor and glory, its historical past and its political future, this is what has always lived in his soul, this is what aroused his thought, controlled his feelings, directed his will.

(According to E.V. Tarle)

1. Title the text.

2. Outline the first sentence of the third paragraph.

3. Find words with unpronounceable consonants.

477. Rewrite, opening brackets and putting the necessary punctuation marks; replace the dots with the missing letters.

The infantry regiments, taken by surprise, ran out of the forest, mingling with each other, the companies left (into) the breakdown in disorderly crowds. One soldier (on the move) in fright uttered the terrible and meaningless word “cut off” in the war, and after (following) that word, together with a feeling of fear, was communicated to the whole mass.

Bypassed Cut off Disappeared shouted (in) half muffled by the artillery rumbles of the voices of the fleeing.

The regimental commander at the very moment he heard the growing shooting and the cry from behind realized that something terrible had happened to his regiment and, forgetting about the danger and sense of self-preservation, he ran to the regiment under a hail of bullets.

He wanted to correct one thing for whatever (whatever) it was .. was a mistake so as not to be guilty of him n .. in what (not) noticed an exemplary officer.

Having happily galloped between the French, he galloped to the (e) cat ..th meadow behind the forest through which ours ran and, not listening to commands, descended downhill.

But at that moment the French, who were advancing on ours, suddenly, for no apparent reason, ran back, disappeared, and, closing in the forest, Russian riflemen appeared. It was Timokhin's company, which, alone in the forest, kept itself in order and, having sown in a ditch near the forest, unexpectedly attacked the French.

(According to L. N. Tolstoy)

1. Title the text.

2. Make a syntactic analysis of the first sentence, draw up a diagram.

3. Highlight adverbial phrases.

478. Rewrite, opening brackets and putting punctuation marks; replace the dots with the missing letters where necessary.

Once, about twenty years ago, I went to Lake Kubenskoye for fish. I remember .. the (pre) spring heavenly depths, the March clarity of the air and the bluish summers of the snow fields edging .. the (dark) green spruce forests. In the eyes and still (now) a dirt road to the village of Nikolsky. The smell of the first melt water, or rather, snow ready for melting, was reminiscent of the smell of freshly caught fish. And I was sure that I would (not) return to Vologda without fish. Yes, and in fish

what's the matter? My soul craved (not) so much fresh .. soup as spring .. his communication with real and not amateur fishermen.

Expecting to drink tea from (not) chlorinated water, I stopped (at) against a village of five maybe six houses. I turned off the car and went to the first house. The porch has no (n..) trace. Went to the second castle. The third house has no lock on the gate, but the glass in the windows is broken. The village was devastated ... and abandoned ... but I (did not) want to believe it, I ran to the last last house. No, this house is empty! The gates turned out to be open in the passage (in) be .. a pitchfork, an aspen hollow, a grip and a broken basket were lying in a row. I entered the hut. There, in the left corner, everything was unfolded .. but. Tourists get icons in this way. Pech .. however, there was a whole .. ka. The closet in the hearth was wide open.. some dishes were still standing on the shelves. The floor in the gor..tse was full of .. blockage ..n with tax obligations and receipts. I picked up a photograph of some (some) military man from the floor. Started and (long) long sat warming up.

(V. I. Belov)

1. Title the text.

2. Find in the text full and short participles; highlight the suffixes in them.

3. Highlight adverbs; explain their spelling.

479. Read carefully both texts. Convey their main meaning in your own words. Explain the placement of punctuation marks.

I. A WORD ABOUT BREAD.

Bread... Our language is rich, it contains hundreds of thousands of words. But try to find in it one more thing, just as vital, used more often than others, just as

a big word! Is that the word "earth". And it is not for nothing that our grandfathers and great-grandfathers in a well-known saying put them kindred - side by side: mother earth and bread-ba-tushka.

For centuries and centuries bread has been, as it were, synonymous with life itself. We still say to this day: “earn our bread,” although by this we mean not only bread as such, but our entire life’s prosperity.

"Bread is the head of everything!" - says the old native wisdom. No matter how much you think better than bread you can't think of anything. “Bread on the table and the table is a throne, but not a piece of bread and the table is a board ...”

(S. Shurtakov)

P. Let us bow to him [the man who grew bread] and be honest and conscientious before his great feat, great and modest at the same time; before leaving the bakery with a loaf or a brick of warm bread, let us once again remember with pious heartfelt concern about the hands that sowed and grew this bread ... And at the same time, we will always remember the wise saying that came to us from the depths centuries, born of folk experience: "May the hand wither, throwing at least a crumb of bread under your feet."

(M. N. Alekseev)

480. Read the text. Title it. Indicate what the combination of high artistry and publicism is expressed in it.

The largest, most enduring contribution of Sever to the treasury national culture- this word. A living folk-poetic word, in which the soul of a northerner, his character, is most fully and brightly captured. The word that today has preserved the structure and spirit of the Russian language of ancient times, times

Lord Veliky Novgorod, and this alone makes it the edge of our origins, our spiritual beginnings, for the language of the people is its mind and wisdom, its ethics and philosophy, its history and poetry.

In the North, from ancient times, all life, both everyday and festive, was permeated with multicolored eloquence, whether it was ordinary everyday speech, or in the local “speaking”, either a song or a fairy tale, or a heroic epic and sparkling buffoon, or cocky and fierce ditty.

otherwise? How to live in this harsh land without relying on the miraculous power of the word? Let's say, a hunter's artel was brought into the pitch ice of a formidable ocean - well, and how, if not with a word, strengthen the shaky spirit, brighten up an unbearable life?

In southern and central Russia, such mammoths of the Russian national epic as the bylina and the historical song died out long ago, but here, in the North, back in the twentieth century, they lived their full-blooded lives, and the little, illiterate old woman from Pinega amazed and conquered the enlightened capital with her famous antiquities, poetic legends, as if splashed out from the depths of centuries ...

The folk poetic creativity of the North has always lived in friendship with book culture. The peasants of the North, who were more literate than their counterparts in other provinces, were often the owners of personal libraries, and it is no coincidence that the torch of learning in Russia was lit by a peasant son from Kholmogory, Mikhailo Lomonosov.

In early spring, when the northern rivers and lakes surge in floods, innumerable flocks of birds return to their homeland from the south, from warm lands and countries. And there, when the green grass dries up a little and sprouted, you look, all wandering people will stretch to the North.

What for? Why do spoiled townspeople often endure off-road for weeks, would there be various inconveniences?

Is it not in order to join the life-giving sources of national culture, in order to elevate one's soul, one's spirit with the beauty and word of the North?!

(F. A. Abramov)

1. Find difficult words, explain their spelling.

2. Highlight complex sentences; Determine the types of connection of simple sentences in a complex one.

3. Find homogeneous members of the sentence; determine their types and the nature of the relationship between them.

REPETITION OF THE DEVELOPMENT OF CONNECTED SPEECH.

§ 65. Plan. Abstracts. Abstract.

481. Read the following excerpts from the article by V. G. Belinsky "Eugene Onegin" and a possible version of their recording in the form of a plan (a list of main issues), theses (basic provisions with their motivation) and an abstract (a concise coherent presentation of the content ).

"Onegin" is Pushkin's most sincere work, the most beloved child of his imagination, and one can point to too few works in which the personality of the poet would be reflected with such fullness, light and clearly, as Pushkin's personality was reflected in "Onegin". Here is all life, all soul, all his love; here his feelings, concepts, ideals. To evaluate such a work means to evaluate the poet himself in the entire scope of his creative activity. Not to mention the aesthetic merit of Onegin, this poem is of great historical and social significance for us Russians.

First of all, in Onegin we see a poetically reproduced picture of Russian society taken at one of the most interesting moments in its development. From this point of view, "Eugene Onegin" is a historical poem in the full sense of the word, although among his

there are no heroes historical person. The historical merit of this poem is all the higher because it was in Russia and the first and brilliant experience of this kind. In it, Pushkin is not only a poet, but also a representative of a public self-consciousness that has awakened for the first time: an immeasurable merit! Before Pushkin, Russian poetry was nothing more than a quick-witted and perceptive student of the European muse, and therefore all works of Russian poetry before Pushkin somehow looked more like sketches and copies than like free works of original inspiration.

Pushkin's "Eugene Onegin" was the first... national artistic work. In this determination of the young poet to present the moral physiognomy of the most Europeanized class in Russia, one cannot fail to see proof that he was, and deeply conscious of himself, a national poet. He realized that the time of epic poems had long since passed and that for the image modern society in which the prose of life has penetrated so deeply into the very poetry of life, a novel is needed, not an epic poem. He took this life as it is, without diverting from it only poetic moments; took it with all the coldness, with all its prose and vulgarity. And such boldness would have been less surprising if the novel had been conceived in prose; but to write such a novel in verse at a time when there was not a single decent novel in prose in the Russian language - such courage, justified by a huge success, was an undoubted evidence of the genius of the poet.

< ...> Onegin is highly original

and national Russian work. Together with Griboedov's contemporary work of genius, Woe from Wit, Pushkin's verse novel laid a solid foundation for new Russian poetry, new Russian literature.

		Abstract
	1. "Eugene	In "Eugene Onegin"
"Evgenia	Onegin	my sincere work
Onegin" in	has a special month	Denia Pushkin, with
creativity	then in creativity	more complete reflection
	Pushkin: in	the personality of the poet was
	this product	his feelings, concepts,
	nii with the most	ideals. This work
	neck fullness	has a great deal for us
	reflected lich	historical and social
	the ness of the poet.	vein meaning.
2. Reflection	2. In "Eugene	"Eugene Onegin" is
nie in "Evge	Onegin	is a work of history
Research Institute of Onega	produced	rhyme in full sense
not' life	Russian life	le words, because in it
Russian about	society into one	poetically reproduced
	of the important	on the life of the Russian community
one of the	riods of his times	stva in one of interest
riods of it	whitia what's up	the most recent periods of his times
development.	no work	orgy. pushkin ledge
	historical.	em in it not only as
		poet, but also imagine
		tel first time waking up
		current public
		self-awareness.
3. Meaning	3. Pushkin you	"Eugene Onegin" appeared
"Evgenia	stepped into "Evge	the first Russian national
Onegin"	Onegin Research Institute	national artistic
like the first	as a national	work, and Push
Russian into-	poet, from	kin - ingenious on
rationally	taking the most	national poet,
artistic	more successful	brazil life in common
military pro	form for iso	stva such as it is.
publications.	modern fermentation	For this, the poet chose
	about him	special artistic
	creatures - ro	form - a novel in verse,
	man in verse.	and at such a time
		when in Russian
		there hasn't been one yet The end of the table. Abstract 4. "Eugene 4. "Eugene "Eugene Onegin" - about Onegin" as Onegin" vme publication in the highest ste basis for ste with comedy peni original and further Griboyedov "Go national-Russian. Together development re crazy" polo those with the creation of Griboyedo lived a strong va "Woe from Wit" culture. new poetry novel by Russian letter laid down a solid foundation Russian poetry, but howling Russian literature. 482. Make a plan for the given text. Orally state its content point by point. THE PHENOMENON OF VERNADSKY. V. I. Vernadsky discovered the noosphere of spiritual culture in all its many colors, in a variety of forms and national characteristics because he himself was open to this infinite world. He was receptive to everything lofty, harmonious, reasonable, he developed - by his environment and his own efforts - a culture of thinking, the ability to separate the wheat from the chaff. He was also open to the natural world. He was not a "paper scientist" and a philosopher. He always remained a geologist, knowing the amazing life of minerals, transformations rocks, the structure of the Earth, the depths of its history, the gas breathing of the planet, the fate of natural waters, the organic interaction of geospheres and living matter in the field of life. He was a geologist, and therefore primarily a natural historian. Making excursions, conducting expeditions, he traveled tens of thousands of kilometers on trains and in carts, crossing along and across Europe, the Caucasus, the Urals. Walked hundreds, thousands of kilometers on foot, studying the soils of Ukraine and Central Russia; mines and quarries in Poland, Germany; ancient volcanoes of France

There is nothing, there is nothing! .. - Tsypliakov shouted hysterically, and, falling on the sofa, began to cry.

Stepan grimaced in disgust.

Why are you crying, Matthew? I'll leave.

Yes, yes ... Go away, I beg you ... - Tsypliakov rushed about. Everything is dead, you see. Kornakov was hanged... Bondarenko was tortured... And I told Kornakov, I said: strength breaks straw. What are you hiding? Go, go to the Gestapo! Show up. Forgive me. And I’ll tell you, Stepan, - he muttered, - as a friend ... Because I love you ... Whoever comes to them of his own free will and gets registered, they don’t touch him ... I also became ... Party card buried, and he himself got ... registered ... And you bury, I beg you ... immediately ... Save yourself, Stepan!

Stop, stop! Stepan repulsed him disgustingly. - And why did you bury your membership card? Once you have renounced, so tear it, tear it, burn it ...

Tsypliakov lowered his head.

Ah! Stepan laughed angrily. - Look! Yes, you do not believe us and the Germans. Do not believe that they will stand on our land! So who do you trust, Cain?

And who to believe? Who to believe? screamed Tsypliakov. Our army is retreating. Where's she? For Don? The Germans are hanging. And the people are silent. Well, they hang us, they hang us all, but what's the use? And I want to live! he cried out and clutched at Stepan's shoulder, breathing hotly into his face. “After all, I didn’t betray anyone, I didn’t change ...” he whispered pleadingly, looking for Stepan’s eye. - And I will not serve with them ... I just want, understand me, to survive! Survive, survive.

Podlyuka! Stepan punched him in the chest. Tsypliakov fell on the sofa. - Wait for what? Ah! Wait until our return! And then you will open your membership card, clean off the dirt from the garden and come out instead of us, the hanged, to meet the Red Army? So lie, you bastard! We will come from the gallows, we will tell the people about you ... - He left, slamming the door hard behind him, and that same night he was already far from the village. Somewhere ahead, a soapy rope had already been laid up for him, and a gallows had already been made for him. Well! He did not evade the gallows.

But Tsyplyakov's whisper kept aching in his ears: "They hang us uselessly; but to believe in what?"

He walked along the roads and country roads of tormented Ukraine and saw: the Germans harnessed the peasants to the yoke and plowed on them. And the people are silent, only turn their necks tightly. Thousands of ragged, exhausted prisoners are being driven along the road - dead are falling, and the living are wandering, dutifully wandering over the corpses of their comrades further, to hard labor. Polonyankas cry in lattice cars, cry so that the soul is torn - and they go. The people are silent. And they swing on the gallows the best people... Maybe uselessly?

He was now walking along the Don steppes ... This was the northernmost corner of his district. Here Ukraine met Russia, the border was not visible either in the steppe feather grasses, equally silvery on both sides, or in people ...

But before turning west, along the ring of the region, Stepan, grinning, decided to visit another familiar person. Here, away from the main roads, in a quiet wooded ravine, the apiary of grandfather Panas hid, and Stepan, being in these parts, would definitely turn here to eat. fragrant honey, lie on the fragrant hay, hear the silence and smells of the forest and rest your soul and body from worries.

And now Stepan needed to rest - from the eternal fear of the chase, from the long journey on foot. Straighten your back. Lie down under the high sky. Think about your doubts and worries. Or maybe not think about them, just eat golden honey in the apiary.

Is there still an apiary? - He doubted, already approaching the beam.

But there was an apiary. And there was fragrant hay, lying in a pile. And, as always, it smelled sweetly here of the aching smells of the forest, lime blossom, mint and, for some reason, pickled pears, just like in childhood - or did it seem to Stepan? And a thin transparent silence trembled all around, only the bees buzzed together and busily. And, as always, smelling the guest, the dog Serko ran forward, followed by a thin, white, little grandfather Panas in a linen shirt with blue patches on his shoulder and shoulder blades.

BUT! Good health! he shouted in his thin, bee-like voice. - Please! Please! Haven't been with us for a long time! Offend!

And he placed before the guest a plate of honey in combs and a sieve of wild berries.

There’s still your bottle left,” he added hurriedly. - A whole bottle of chimpana. So you do not doubt - intact.

Ah! Stepan smiled sadly. - Well, give me a bottle!

The old man brought cups and a bottle, dusting it with his sleeve as he went.

Well, to come back good life ours and all the warriors go home healthy! said the grandfather, carefully taking a full cup from Stepan's hands. Closing his eyes, he drank, licked the cup and coughed. - Oh, delicious!

They drank the whole bottle together, and grandfather Panas told Stepan that this summer had been rich, generous, productive in everything - both in the bee and in the berry, and the Germans had not yet looked into the apiary here. God saves, and they don't know the way.

And Stepan thought about his own.

Here’s what, grandfather, ”he said suddenly,“ I’ll write a paper here, put it in this bottle and bury it.

So, so ... - not understanding anything, he agreed.

And when our people return, you give them this bottle.

Aha! Good good...

“Yes, I need to write,” thought Stepan, taking a pencil and a notebook out of his pocket. “Let at least the news reach our people about how we ... died here.

And he began to write. He tried to write with restraint and dryness, so that they would not notice a trace of doubt in his lines, would not take bitterness for panic, would not shake their heads mockingly over his anxieties. Everything will seem different to them when they return. And he never doubted that they would return. “Maybe they won’t find our bones in the ditches, but they will return!” And he wrote to them strictly and restrainedly, like a warrior to warriors, about how the best people died in dungeons and on the gallows, spitting in the face of the enemy, how cowards crawled in front of the Germans, how traitors betrayed, failed underground and how the people were silent. Hated, but kept silent. And every line of his letter was a testament. “And do not forget, comrades,” he wrote, “I ask you, do not forget to erect a monument to the Komsomol member Vasily Pchelintsev, and the old miner Onisim Bespaly, and the quiet girl Claudia Pryakhina, and my friend, secretary of the city party committee Alexei Tikhonovich Shulzhenko, they died like heroes. And I also demand from you that, in the joy of victory and in the hustle and bustle of construction, you do not forget to punish the traitors Mikhail Filikov, Nikita Bogatyrev and all those whom I wrote about above. And if Matvey Tsypliakov comes to you with a party card - do not believe his party card, it is stained with mud and our blood."

It was necessary to add more, Stepan thought, and about those who, not sparing themselves, gave shelter to him, an underground worker, and fed him, and sighed over him when he fell asleep in a short and sensitive sleep, and also about those who locked him in front of him door, drove him from his doorstep, threatened to let the dogs loose. But you can't write everything.

He pondered and added: "As for me, I continue to carry out the task entrusted to me." He suddenly wanted to add a few more words, hot as an oath, - that, they say, he is not afraid of either the gallows or death, that he believes in our victory and is glad to give his life for it ... But then he thought that this was not necessary. This is what everyone knows about him.

He signed, folded the letter into a tube and put it into a bottle.

Well, - he said, smiling, - a message to eternity. Give me a shovel, grandfather.

They buried the bottle under the third beehive, near the young lime tree.

Remember the place, old man?

But how? I remember all the places here...

In the morning at dawn, Stepan said goodbye to the beekeeper.

You have good honey, grandfather, - he said and went towards his lonely death, towards his gallows.

That night he decided to stay in the village, in Olkhovatka, with his distant relative Uncle Savka. Savka, a nimble, disheveled, lively peasant, was always proud of his noble relative. And now, when Stepan came to him at dusk, Uncle Savka was delighted, fussed and began to drag everything from the oven onto the table, as if Stepan from the city was still an honored guest for him.

B. Gorbatov - the story "Unconquered". The main idea of ​​Gorbatov's story "The Unsubdued" was determined by the author's desire to show how a person's attitude to war changes, how his consciousness and activity grow, how his understanding of his place, his role in life changes and deepens. romantic type artistic generalization, clearly expressed in the story, was not something accidental for the writer. Back in 1927, in a letter to A. Efremova, he outlined his program: “The big wind and small people are the basis of the works that I will write when I learn to write.”

People in a great whirlwind of historical upheaval - such is the theme of "The Unbowed". History is viewed here through the prism of the human soul, through the lives of ordinary people.

The plot is the difficult life of people under occupation in the Donbass. In the center of the story is the family of Taras Yatsenko. This hero does not immediately come to the realization of everything that is happening. At first, he does not want to interfere anywhere, he exists in his own little world, limited by home and relatives. And the writer emphasizes this desire of the hero with certain artistic details: tightly closed shutters, closed door, deathly silence in the house. The owner makes locks and bolts, as if trying to isolate them from the whole world.

Gradually, Taras comes to realize the importance of everything that happens, it is then that he decides for himself the main thing - not to submit. And when he is called to the labor exchange and offered a job to a talented master, he refuses to work for the Germans. Then Taras is made a laborer.

Risking the life of his family, he hides a six-year-old girl in his house. And Taras does not leave the feeling of the absurdity of everything that is happening. “Really,” he chuckled, “will the German state collapse if a six-year-old girl lives on earth?” But the police continued to search the houses. They have a hunting passion. They sniffed out the trail like dogs. The street didn't give up. Every evening, the girl, wrapped in a dark scarf, was carried to a new place from neighbor to neighbor. In every house a chest was set free for her and a bed in it. The girl lived and ate and slept in a chest; when alarmed, the lid of the chest was slammed shut. The child got used to his shelter, it no longer seemed to him like a coffin. The girl now smelled of naphthalene and mold, like an ancient old woman. Break the whole house of Taras, the girl is found and taken away by the Germans. And the hero forever remembered the big and frightened eyes of his granddaughter, Mariyka.

An important episode for the hero is the meeting with the youngest son Andrei, who got out of German captivity. But Taras is not at all happy about this meeting. He sees in his son a traitor and a deserter and feels a sense of shame. "You fooled everyone! And Russia, and my wife, and me, the old fool, and my expectation,” he says to his son. And he begins to realize the hopelessness of his situation. “No, he did not escape from captivity! Here it is - barbed wire. As before, he is a prisoner, and his family is a prisoner, and the whole city is a prisoner of the Germans. His soul is in captivity. Everything is entangled with barbed wire. The thorns dug into the soul. And the old man, the father, has a free soul. You can't put it in chains. You cannot entangle her with barbed wire, the immortal, hardened soul of Taras. And the son suddenly envied his father bitterly. And Andrei leaves his father's house, deciding to atone for his guilt with blood.

The next stage in the spiritual development of the hero is his trip to the villages in the hope of exchanging his belongings for food. And Taras saw thousands of people with wheelbarrows and sleds, saw fires in the night steppe. “Cars, cars, cars - as far as the eye could see, only cars and backs bent under them. Backs and wheelbarrows - there was nothing else, as if it were a convict road. Wheelbarrows rolled over the stones, creaking and rattling, dragging exhausted, sweaty, dust-blackened people behind them. It seemed that it was not people walking, but the cars themselves with human hands chained to them…”. So, from small details in the story, an image of time is formed, a time that is dramatic and heroic at the same time.

The culmination of the hero's spiritual movements is his meeting with his eldest son, Stepan. Stepan is the head of the underground, he is looking for volunteers who could conduct reconnaissance and remove some of the Nazis. The author clearly sympathizes with this hero, showing the reader how important his activity as an underground worker is, how he raises the morale of people. And Taras feels a sense of pride in his son, having learned about his work.

The daughter of Taras, Nastya, is also an underground worker. Taras did not know his daughter, she was a mystery to him. He did not have faith in Nastya's mental stamina, he meticulously looked at her and her girlfriends. “Where are they! They studied for daddy’s money, they didn’t see grief, they didn’t go on a campaign with Alexander Yakovlevich Parkhomenko, they don’t know how much a pound is dashing. But Nastya fulfilled her duty with honor. M. Svetlov wrote about her:

Our girls girded their overcoats with a strap,

With a song fell under the knife

They burned on high fires.

The Germans hanged the girl in the central square, and Taras silently experienced his grief.

In the finale, we see the sons of Taras returning home. Andrei received the medal "For Courage". Nikifor, after being wounded, returns on crutches. But he still does not give up, he does not feel like a wounded and tired soldier, but a young and strong builder, a creator of the future: “Oh, how much work! Work! What about crutches? Down with crutches soon! And we'll smoke. Be kind!"

Thus, the city withstood and withstood the onslaught of the German invaders, its inhabitants did not break, but remained “unconquered”. And the author admires his heroes, finding heroics and poetry in everyday life itself. Because the everyday became exceptional during the war.

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Gorbatov Boris Leontievich Unbowed

Boris Leontyevich Gorbatov

Boris Leontyevich Gorbatov

Unbowed

The collection includes works Soviet writer Boris Leontievich Gorbatov (1908 - 1954), telling about the fearlessness and courage of the Soviet people during the Great Patriotic War.

PART ONE

Everything to the east, everything to the east ... If only one car to the west!

Wagon trains, wagons with hay and empty cartridge boxes, ambulance carts, square houses of radio stations passed by; exhausted horses trod heavily; holding on to gun carriages, the soldiers, gray with dust, wandered - all to the east, all to the east, past Sharp Grave, to Krasnodon, to Kamensk, beyond the Northern Donets ... They passed and disappeared without a trace, as if they were swallowed by green and evil dust.

And everything around was seized with anxiety, filled with screams and groans, the creak of wheels, the gnashing of iron, hoarse swearing, the screams of the wounded, the crying of children, and it seemed that the road itself creaked and groaned under the wheels, rushing about in fright between the slopes ...

Only one person at the Sharp Grave was seemingly calm on this July day in 1942 - old Taras Yatsenko. He stood, leaning heavily on a stick, and with a heavy, motionless look looked at everything that was going on around him. He didn't say a word all day. With dull eyes from under gray, frowning brows, he watched the road writhing and tossing about in alarm. And from the side it seemed - this stone man was indifferent to everything that happened.

But, probably, among all the people rushing about on the road there was no person whose soul would rush about, ache and cry like Taras's. "What is it? What is it, comrades?" he thought.

Cars rushed past him in clouds of dust, all east, all east; dust settled on stunted poplars, they became gray and heavy.

“What should I do? Stand on the road and shout, spreading my arms: “Stop! Where are you?.. Where are you going?" Fall on your knees in the middle of the road, in the dust, kiss the soldiers' boots, beg: "Don't leave! Don't you dare leave when we old people and small children are staying here..."?"

And the convoys went on and on - all to the east, all to the east - along the dusty humpbacked road, to Krasnodon, to Kamensk, beyond the Northern Donets, beyond the Don, beyond the Volga.

But while the string of carts was stretching along the humpbacked road, in old Taras everything flickered, hope smoldered. Suddenly, towards this stream of people from somewhere in the east, columns will appear from clouds of dust, and brave guys in mighty tanks they will rush to the west, crushing everything in their path. If only the thread would stretch, if only it would not dry out ... But the thread became thinner and thinner. It would break off, and then... But Taras was afraid to even think about what would happen then. On one side Taras will remain with the infirm women and grandchildren, and somewhere on the other - Russia, and the sons who are in the army, and everything that he lived and for which he lived sixty years he Taras. But it's better not to think about it. Don't think, don't hear, don't speak.

Already at dusk Taras returned to his place at Kamenny Brod. He walked through the whole city - and did not recognize him. The city was empty and silent. It now looked like an apartment from which they hastily left. Broken wires dangled telegraph poles. There was a lot of broken glass on the streets. There was a smell of burning, and the ashes of burnt papers floated in the air and settled on the roofs.

But in Kamenny Brod everything was, as always, quiet. Only the thatched roofs of the huts sullenly ruffled. Laundry dangled on ropes in the yards. On the white shirts, the sunset stains looked like blood. A samovar was being blown up on the neighbor's porch, and in the air, reeking of burning and gunpowder, there was suddenly a strange and sweet smell of samovar smoke. As if not from Ostraya Mogila, but from work, old Taras was returning from the factory. In the front gardens, toward dusk, mattioli bloomed - flowers that smell only in the evening, flowers of working people.

And, inhaling these familiar smells from infancy, Taras suddenly thought sharply and unexpectedly: "But one must live! .. One must live!" - and went in.

The whole family silently rushed towards him. He took a wide look at her - everyone, from the old wife Evfrosinya Karpovna to little Mariyka, the granddaughter, and understood: there is no one now, they have no one on earth now, except him, the old grandfather; he alone answers to the world and people for his entire family, for each of them, for their lives and for their souls.

He put the stick in the corner in its usual place and said as cheerfully as he could:

Nothing! Nothing! Will live. Somehow ... - and ordered to store water, close the shutters and lock the doors.

Then he looked at his thirteen-year-old grandson Lenka and added sternly:

And so that no one - no one! Don't go outside without asking!

At night the cannonade began. It went on for many hours on end, and all this time the dilapidated house in Kamenny Brod was trembling, as if in a chill. The iron roof rattled thinly, the panes groaned plaintively. Then the cannonade ended, and the worst thing came - silence.

Lenka appeared from somewhere in the street, without a hat, and shouted in fright:

Oh, didu! Germans in the city!

But Taras, warning the cries and weeping of women, sternly shouted at him:

Shh! - and shook his finger. - We are not concerned!

It doesn't concern us.

The doors were locked, the shutters tightly closed. Daylight streamed sparingly through the cracks and shivered on the floor. There was nothing on earth - no war, no Germans. The smell of mice in the closet, kneading in the kitchen, iron and pine shavings in Taras's room.

Saving lamp oil, Euphrosyne lit the lamp in front of the icons only at dusk, and each time she sighed: "Forgive me, Lord!" An ancient clock with a portrait of General Skobelev on horseback slowly ticked off the time and, as before, lagged behind a day by half an hour. In the mornings, Taras moved the arrows with his finger. Everything was as always - no war, no German.

But the whole house was filled with disturbing squeaks, sighs, rustles. Muffled whispers and stifled sobs reached Taras from all corners. It was Lyonka who brought news from the street and whispered to the women in the corners so that grandfather would not hear. And Taras pretended not to hear anything. He wanted to hear nothing, but he couldn't help but hear. Through all the cracks of the dilapidated house crawled into his ears: they shot ... tortured ... stolen ... And then he exploded, appeared in the kitchen and shouted, splashing with saliva:

Quote you damn women! Who was killed? Who was shot? Not us. It doesn't concern us. And, slamming the door, he went to his room.

He now spent whole days alone, in his room: he planed, sawed, glued. He was used to making things all his life - locomotive wheels or company mortars, it doesn't matter. He could not live without labor, just as one cannot live without tobacco. Work was the need of his soul, a habit, a passion. But now no one needed Taras's golden hands, there was no one to make wheels and mortars for, and he did not know how to do useless things.

And then he came up with the idea of ​​making mouthpieces, combs, lighters, needles, the old woman exchanged them in the market for grain. There was no baked bread or flour in the city. At the bazaar, only grain was sold - in glasses, as seeds used to be. To grind this grain, Taras made a hand mill from a board, a gear and a shaft. “A unit!” he smiled bitterly, looking at his creation. He gave the mill to the old woman and said at the same time: - Take care! Ours will return - we will show. Let's take it to the museum. In the department of the cave age.

The only things he made with passion and inspiration were locks and bolts. Every day he invented more and more cunning, more and more intricate and reliable locks for shutters, chains, locks and bolts on the door. I removed yesterday's ones, installed new ones, tried, doubted, invented others. He perfected his system of constipation, the way soldiers in the trenches improve their defenses - every day. The old woman collected outdated locks and took them to the market. Sold out instantly. Life was like a wolf's, and everyone wanted to lock himself more securely in his lair.

And when one evening a neighbor knocked on Taras, Taras long and sternly tried to find out through the door what kind of person he had come and on what business, and only then reluctantly began to unlock: the locks opened with a creak, chains fell with a clang, bolts moved away with a thud.

Dot, - said, entering and looking at the constipation, a neighbor. - Well, purely pillbox, not your apartment, Taras. - Then he went into the rooms, greeted the women. - And the garrison is serious. And this one, - he pointed to Lenka, - is the main warrior in the garrison?

Taras did not like this neighbor. For forty years they lived side by side, roof to roof, for forty years they quarreled. He was too lively, fast, noisy and long-winded for Taras. Taras loved slow, sedate people. And now he did not want to see people at all. What to interpret now? He sighed and prepared to listen.

But the neighbor sat down at the table and was silent for a long time. It can be seen that he was crushed, and he quieted down.

Did you take up the defense, Taras? he finally asked.

Taras silently shrugged his shoulders.

Oh well! So are you going to stay in the house?

So I will.

Oh well! So you haven't seen a living German, Taras?

No. Did not see.

I have seen. God forbid and look! He waved his hand and fell silent again. He sat, shook his head, blew his nose.

The city is full of policemen,” he suddenly said. - Where did they come from! All people are unknown. We didn't see any of those.

This does not concern us, - Taras muttered.

Yes... I'm just saying: a lot of vile people showed up.

They think how to save their lives, but they should think how to save their souls.

Again, both were silent for a long time. And both thought about one thing: how to live? What to do?

People are chatting, - the neighbor said quietly and reluctantly, - the Germans will restore the plant ...

What plant? Taras started up in fear. - Our? ...

Carrots, potatoes, beets, cucumbers, and these are not all the crops that bloom and smell fragrant in the garden of our heroine, a resident of the village of Belaya Pashnya - Valentina Bryukhanova. In her garden you can find melons, watermelons, and many different exotic fruit and vegetable crops grown by yourself. Moreover, they are as kind and nice as the hostess herself.

It was Valentina Sergeevna who became the absolute winner of the "Generous Summer" holiday-competition, the results of which were summed up on August 7 in cultural center village council.

All gardeners and gardeners, both old and young, everyone who is related to Mother Earth, became participants in the harvest holiday. And this is no coincidence, it turns out that such a good tradition is rooted in the distant past. It was remembered by her descendants - the inhabitants of Belaya Pashnya.

Valentina MALYSHEVA, member of the village council: My mother also told me that earlier such holidays were often celebrated by the whole village - cheerfully and amicably. I proposed, and the village council supported it. We thought, developed a script and held a festive meeting. People responded and took part with pleasure. Moreover, they have something to show.

The summer holiday of amateur gardeners came just in time - 2013 was declared the Year of Ecology. public initiative The Belopashentsev to hold an ecological holiday was supported by the oil company "LUKOIL-PERM".

The oilmen not only supported financially, but also became members of the jury. It was difficult to choose the best among gardeners, but still the winners were determined, and even in several categories.

Olga Sharapova won in the nomination "Breadwinner Garden", and Irina Meshchekhina, for example, became the best landscape designer, showing Creative skills on his backyard. Galina Ovchinnikova surprised everyone with exotic plants. She really has a Garden of Eden! Nina Viktorovna Bezgodova became the most stylish mistress of her site. She has more than enough "stylish things"! The jury especially liked the fabulous sculptures.

According to the jury, Nadezhda Poperechnaya was the best place to stay. In her cozy oasis there is everything to relax both soul and body after working in the garden. Well, Valentina Malysheva pleased the guests with fruits grown on her estate. Pears, plums, apples and cherries are all very tasty, environmentally friendly, cherished with care and love.

The main winner of the competition was Valentina Bryukhanova not only for the beautiful flowers that have been pleasing fellow villagers for many years, but also for the wonderful fountain on the site. Everyone agreed that she had not only vegetable crops, flowers, ornamental plants and fruit and berry bushes, but also a house and a plot - everything was done with her soul. Her home, by the way, for more than 150 years - beautifully decorated. Valentina Sergeevna also received the Audience Choice Award. Honorable mentions went to Galina Vlasova, Alevtina Pomortseva, Lyubov Melekhina and Tamara Baranova.

Valentina BRYUKHANOVA: All the villagers present here will agree with me that such village events are needed. They are very informative, interesting and beautiful. And most importantly, we share our experience with our example. And young people have a lot to learn. It's good when your hard work is appreciated by someone. You can be proud of the result of your work.

Representatives of OOO LUKOIL-PERM were surprised: Belaya Pashnya not only lives, but thrives. The oilmen believe that the initiatives of public, interesting and creative people should be supported and developed. The summer holiday of a small village on the beautiful Yaiva River was a success. And it all ended with a berry table and delicious and healthy herbal tea. Truly environmentally friendly! Well, not far off is another holiday - a generous autumn.