The last bow Victor Astafyev stories. Astafiev Viktor Petrovich Last Bow

27.09.2019

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"The writer who often resorted to the topic of war and the Motherland in his works, these topics are traced in the book of Astafieva" Last Bow ".

Astafiev Last Bow Summary

First, we suggest familiarizing yourself with the work of Astafieva "Last Bow" in the brief content to get acquainted with the essence and be able to write without any problems.

So, in the work of the "Last Bow" of Viktor Astafieva, we are talking about the boy who had to live at her grandmother, as his father threw his family and left, and his mother was drowned in the Yenisei River. Grandma and engaged in raising her grandson. The baby's life was, like all the guys from the village. He helped at the farm, in his spare time he was sissing, fishing, walked on mushrooms, berries.

His life was interesting until it was time to go to school. Due to the fact that in the village there was no school, he travels to the Father in the city and here his life is not changing at the better. Here he had to escape from death, hunger, in other words, not to live, but to survive. And only with the help of patience, forgiveness, the ability to see even in a bad galley of good, what taught his grandmother, the boy managed to survive. But after, hitting the city, he was among solitude. He realized that he didn't need anyone that he was in the world of heartlessness. The boy is not happy, becomes rude, but the grandmotherpiece takes the top. He managed in urban survival conditions, starving and experiencing pain, keep his soul. Next, he gets into an orphanage.

The stories of Astafieva are in favor of the boy's youth, about his school studies, further participation in the war and his return. And the first thing the hero of the work goes to the grandmother, where everything was, as before and even grandmother sat at the table, as usual, winding threads in the ball.

Then hero leaves to work on the Urals, where he received the news of the Grandmother's death, but he could not get to the funeral, since he did not let the bosses, although his grandmother asked him to come. I could not forgive this myself, and if you could return time, he would have threw everything and rushed there, where he was very good at his time. He did not forgive himself, but I am sure that the grandmother has forgiven and did not hold evil, as he loved his grandson very much.

Astafiev Last Bow Analysis

Working on the work of Astafieva "Last Bow" and making his analysis, I will say that the author portrays the life of the village, that native land, where the author grew up and grew, and grew up among harsh climates, among wildlife, beautiful rivers, among the mountains and thick taiga . It all was depicted in the work of Astafieva "Last Bow." Also, the author also affects the topic of war.

The "last bow" is a biographical work that consists of individual stories, which are connected by one topic. In the work, the author writes about his life, shares his memories, where a separate case from his life is described in each story. So Astafyev shared memories with us about his homeland - the Siberian village, which was hardworking and not spoiled. She showed us how beautiful nature is that surrounded him. Astafyev portrayed the urgent problems of people that they lived in difficult periods of life.

Astafiev Last Bow Heroes

The main character of the work "Last Bow" is Vitya - a boy, which became an orphan. Different tests fell on his share, but he stood it all and this is due to his grandmother who taught love, good, taught to find a good even where it is not. The boy's childhood passed in the village, after which Victor goes to the city to the Father, where he sees his betrayal, where he experiences all the burns of the poor teenager, including care for the war, her ending, and returning to a small homeland.

Grandmother in the work of Astafieva "Last Bow" is also a heroine that played a considerable role in the life of the boy. This is "General in Skirt." She could be a grumbling, Grozny, was kind. He loved everyone, he cared for everyone, always wanted to be all useful. It appears in front of us not only as a boys tutor, but also as a doctor as a healer. At the same time, the main character is the prototype of the grandmother's grandmother, and the main character, this is the prototype of Astafieva himself.

"Last Bow"

"Last Bow" - Power Work in Creativity V.P. Astafieva. It paired two main topics for the writer: rustic and military. In the center of the autobiographical story - fate early left without mother of the boy, whom the grandmother is raising.

Decency, reverent attitude to bread, neat

For money - all this with tangible poverty and modesty in combination with hard work helps the family survive even in the most difficult moments.

With love V.P. Astafyev draws in the story of the paintings of children's pants and fun, simple home conversations, everyday worries (among which the lion's share of time and effort is given to garden work, as well as a simple peasant food). Even the first new pants become a great joy for the boy, since he is all the time with their older.

In the figurative structure, the central is the image of a grandmother of the hero. She is a respected man on the village. Her big working hands in the veins once again emphasize the diligence of the heroine. "In any case, not the word, but the hands of the whole head. Hands do not need to regret. Hands, they are all skis and do, "says Grandma. The most common affairs (cleaning the hut, cake with cabbage) in the grandmother's performance gives the surrounding people so much warmth and care that they are perceived as a holiday. In difficult years, it helps the family to survive and have a piece of bread an old sewing machine, on which the grandmother managed to sneak.

The most heartfelt and poetic fragments are devoted to Russian nature. The author displays the finest details of the landscape: the scaled roots of the tree, which tried to pass a plow, flowers and berries, describes a picture of the merger of two rivers (manna and Yenisei), ice-bearing on Yenisei. Majestic Yenisei is one of the central images of the story. All the life of people takes place on his shore. And the panorama of this majestic river, and the taste of her student water from childhood and is imprinted for all his life in the memory of every resident of the village. In this very, Yenisei and drowned once the mother of the main character. And after many years on the pages of his autobiographical story, the writer courageously told the world about the last tragic moments of her life.

V.P. Astafyev emphasizes the breadth of native expanses. The writer often uses in the landscape sketches of the image of a sounding world (the rustling of chips, the crash of the cart, the knock of the hoofs, the song of the shepherd dull), transmits characteristic smells (forests, herbs, vocal grain). In a leisurely narration, the case invades the element of lyricism: "A fog washed in the meadow, and there was a wet wet grass, Nicli Dolu flowers of chicken blindness, chamomile brought white eyelashes on yellow pupils."

These landscape sketches have such poetic finds that can serve as a basis for calling separate fragments to the presence of poems in prose. This personification ("Quietly died over the river fogs"), metaphors ("Red strawberry lights ran into the sun in Rusky grass"), comparisons ("We pierced the heads standing in the fog and swim up, Brere on it, as if soft, Supportful water, slow and silent ").

In selflessly admission by the beauty of the native nature, the hero of the work sees first of all the moral support.

V.P. Astafyev emphasizes how deeply rooted in the life of a simple Russian person pagan and Christian traditions. When the hero is painful with malaria, the grandmother treats him by all those who are existing ones: it's herbs, and conspiracies on aspen and prayers.

Through the children's memories of the boy, a difficult era is evaporated when there were no parties or notebooks in schools. Only one letter yes one red pencil for the entire first class. And in such difficult conditions, the teacher manages the lessons.

Like each writer-villagers, V.P. Astafiev does not bypass the topic of opposition to the city and the village. It is especially strengthened in hungry years. The city was a hospital, while consuming rural products. And with empty hands, he met the men reluctantly. With pain V.P. Astafev writes about how the men suffered and women with Kotomoki things and Zolotishko in "Torgsins". Gradually passed the grandmother of the boy and knitted festive tablecloths, and clothes stored for mortality, and in the shortest day - earrings of the boy's dead mother (the last commemorative thing).

V.P. Astafyev creates in the story of colorful images of rural residents: Vasi-Pole, which in the evenings plays the violin, the folk craftsman of Kechi, masterful sleigh and clamps, and others. It is in the village where the whole life of a person passes on the eyes of the fellow villagers, every unsightly act is visible, every incorrect step.

V.P. Astafyev emphasizes and chants a humane beginning in man. For example, in the chapter "Geese in the Polieuer", the writer tells about how the guys risking life, they save the remaining during the ice-bearing on Yenisei geese. For boys, it is not just another children's desperate identity, but a small feat, a human test. And although the further fate of Gusen still developed sadly (some of the dogs were spent, others have eaten a fellow village in the hungry time) the exam on the courage and the not indifferent heart of the guys still asked with honor.

Collecting berries, children learn for patience and accuracy. "Grandmother said: the main thing in the berries is to close the bottom of the sudine," notes V.P. Astafiev. In plain lifetime with its simple joys (fishing, lapto, ordinary rustic food from native garden, walks in the forest) V.P. Astafiev sees the most happy and organic ideal of human existence on Earth.

V.P. Astafyev argues that a person should not feel the orphan at home. He also teaches philosophically to replace generations on earth. However, the writer emphasizes that people need to carefully communicate with each other, for each person is unique and unique. The work "Last Bow" carries in itself, thus affluent pathos. One of the key scenes of the story is the scene in which the boy of Vitya plant along with her grandmother larch. The hero thinks that the tree will grow soon, it will be great and beautiful and bring a lot of joy and birds, and the sun, and the people, and the river.

Last Bow

Viktor Astafiev

* Book first

* Far and close fairy tale

On the backyards of our village among the grassy glade stood on the piles a long log room with a stitching from the board. It was called "Manthazina", to which the brown was also adjacent, - here the peasants of our village were overlooking the seed inventory and seeds, it was called this "common fund." If the house burns away. If it burns even the whole village, the seeds will be well and, it means that people will live, because, Rudis has seeds, there is a Pashnya, in which you can throw them and grow bread, he is a peasant, the owner, and not Nishchebrhod.
Load from the browning - Karaowka. She pressed under a stone fission, in the Testracy and the Eternal Shadow. Over the caulist, highly on Hona, grew by larch and pine. From behind it smoked from stones with a blue smoke key. He raised along the foot of Honor, denoting himself with a thick Russian and the colors of Tolody in the summer, in the winter - a quiet fleet from under the snow and a jacket on the shrubs with respect to the ruffles.
There were two windows in the caulier: one beyond the door and one side towards the village. That window, that to the village, was dragged by the Cherochnichnik broken from the key, Zhalitz, hop and varying vigorous. The roofs have no roofs. Hop stolen her so that she reminded her one-eyed rude head. From Hmely, the pipe was tilted with a tipped bucket, the door opened immediately into the street and sharpened raindrops, bumps of hops, cherry berries, snow and icicles depending on the time of year and weather.
He lived in the Karake Vasya-Pole. He was a small, chrome on one leg, and he had glasses. The only person in the village who had glasses. They caused a gravity courtesy not only with us, children, but also in adults.
Vasya lived quietly and peacefully, evil did not hurt anyone, but rarely who went to him. Only the most desperate kids stones looked into the boxing window and could not discern anyone, but they were afraid of something and with screams ran away.
The deliveries of the children pushed from early spring and until the autumn: they played hide and covered in a belly under the log entrance to the gate of the delivered either burned under the high sex for pile, and they were hiding in Sousseca; Cuts to grandmother, in Chiku. Teshev tag was beaten by panks - bits, pouring lead. When strikes, Gulko distinguished himself under the villages, a sparrow perolet flashed inside it.
Here, near the brown, I was acquainted with the work - he twisted in turns with the kids the flower and here for the first time in his life heard music-scripping ...
The violin is rarely, very, however, rarely, I played Vasya-Pole, the mysterious, not from the world of this man who necessarily comes to the life of every guy, every girl and remains in memory forever. Such a mysterious person seems to be and supposed to live in the hut in the bitter legs, in Morchl, under respect, and so that the light in it was barely grudging, and in order to laugh at the nervous at night, Filin laugh at her drunk, and so that the key was smoked. And so that no one else knew what was being done in the hut and what the owner thinks about.
I remember, I came once to my grandmother and asked something in his nose. Grandma put Vasya to drink tea, brought dry herbs and began to brew her in the cast-iron. She looked frankly on Vasya and sighed.
Vasya drank tea is not in our opinion, not in principle and not from a saucer, straight from the glass saw, laid out a teaspoon on the saucer and did not drop it on the floor. His glasses were terrible, the staring head seemed small, with a trouser. Along the black beard slammed the gray. And all it is as if confirmed, and the large salt shed him.
He eaten it mightlessly, drank only one cup of tea and, how many grandmother did neither persuade him, there was nothing more, the ceremoniously spoke and took the clay crinke with Navar from the grass in one hand, in the other - a cherochuchi stick.
- Lord, Lord! - Sighs the grandmother, covering the door behind you. -Donal you grave ... blind man.
In the evening I heard Vasin violin.
There was an early autumn. Gate bridge open hole. A drafts walked in them, moved chips in Souski renovated for grain. The smell of ferred, plump grain pulled into the gate. A flock of kids who are not taken for arable land because of the youngsters, played in the robbers detectives. The game went sluggishly and soon completely sharply. In the fall, not the fact that in the spring, somehow plays badly. One one by one dispersed the guys along the houses, and I stretched out on a warm log entrance and began to pull the grain sprouted in the grain. I was waiting for the carts on Hona to graze our pashnya, ride home, and there, you look, the horse will give the horse on the water.
Behind Yeniseem, behind the guard bull, darkened. In the collapse of the Karaulki rivers, waking up, blocked once or another big star and began to glow. She was like a bump of repay. For Hona, over the tops of the mountains, stubbornly, not an autumn trel of the strip of dawn. But the darkness was punished for her. I pretended to the dawn, as if shuttering shutters. Until morning.
Made quietly and lonely. Barakes are not visible. She hidden in the shadow of the mountain, merged with the dark, and only the borrowed leaves were slightly chosen under the mountain, in the recess, washed out the key. Because of the shadows, they began to turn off the bats, it is necessary to make me, to fly into the opened gates of Venchi, flies there and night butterflies, not otherwise.
I was afraid to breathe loudly, squeezed in the trowel trust. According to Russia, the carts were stamped over Vasina, hooves stood up: people returned from the fields, with borrowing, from work, but I never decided to turn off the rough logs, and could not overcome the paralyzing fear that had rolled me. The windows lit up on the village. For Yenisei, there were smokes from pipes. In the thickets of Fokinsky river, someone was looking for a cow and called her in a gentle voice, he scolded his last words.
In the sky, next to the star, which is still lonely glowing over the guard river, someone cherished the moon's grizzle, and she, as if the blurred half of the apple, did not rolling anywhere, the faceless, orphan, zyabko glass, and from her everything around. He delivered the shadow to the entire Polyana, and the shadow, narrow and nosed, also fell from me.
Behind the Fokinsky river - hand to file - the crosses were headed on the cemetery, creaked something in the delivered - cold crawled under the shirt, on the back, under the skin. To heart. I'm already leaned with my hands about the logs, in order to push off, fly up to the most gate and get it with a junk so that all dogs awake on the village.
But from Uda, from the plexuses of Hop and the blacks, music arose from the deep latter of the earth and nailed me to the wall.
There was still worse: the left cemetery, the front was in front of the hut, to the right of a lot of white bones and where it was long ago, my grandmother said, a man was crushed, a dark veneer, the village behind her, the villages embraced by Chertopol Black smoke clubs.
One, one, one, circling such a thing, and still music - violin. At all, a very lonely violin. And she does not threaten at all. Complains. And there is nothing terrible at all. And there is nothing to be afraid. Fool-fool! Do you can be afraid of music? Fool-fool, never listened to one thing, so ...
Music pours quieter, transparent, I hear, and I let go of my heart. And no music is, but the key flows from the mountain. Someone sailed to the water with lips, drinks, drinks and can't get drunk - so he won in his mouth and inside.
For some reason, it's a quiet in the night of Yenisei, the rafts with a light on it. From the raft, an unknown person screams: "What is the village-ah? " - What for? Where is he sailing? And still the traffic on Yenisei is seen, long, creaking. He also leaves somewhere. Dog running on the side of the banner. Horses go slowly, drowsily. And the crowd is also seen on the shore of the Yenisei, the wet something, closed with tina, rustic people around the coast, grandmother, on the head of the hair tank.
This music is about the sad, about my illness about mine says, as I have a whole summer with malaria, I was scared when I stopped hearing and thought that I would be deaf, like Aleshka, my brother, and how was to me in me Mom's feverish dream, applied cold hand with blue nails to forehead. I shouted and did not hear my scream.
In the hollow all night burned the brief lamp, the grandmother showed me the corners, shone the lamp under the oven, under the bed, they say, there is no one.
I still remember the sweat girl, white, having fun, her hand dries. Obniki to the city of her was taken to treat.
And again, the traffic arose.
He all goes somewhere, goes hiding in the studuy torus, in the frosty fog. Horses are less and less, so the last fog scratched. Lonely, somehow empty, ice, air and fixed dark cliffs with fixed forests.
But did not become Yenisei, nor winter or summer; Again the living suck of a key behind a vasine hut. The key began to fully fully, and not one is the key, two, three, the formidable stream flies out of the cliff, rolls the stones, breaks the trees, turns them with roots, carries, turns. He is about to meet the hut under the mountain, it can be browsed and wrapped everything from the mountains. Thunder will hit the sky, sparkling with lightning, the mysterious fern flowers flare away from them. The forest will be lit. the forest will light, earth will not be lit, and not to fill over this fire even by Yeniseem - nothing to stop the terrible such storm!
"What is it?! Where are the people? What do they look?! Tied Vasya! "
But the violin herself extended everything. Again, one person hurts, again something sorry, someone goes again somewhere, maybe, maybe, maybe on a raft, maybe there is a walk in Dali Far.
The world has not burned down, nothing struck. Everything is in place. Moon with star in place. The village, already without lights, in place, a cemetery in eternal silence and peace, Karaulka under respect, argued by corrosive birds and a quiet string violin.
All-all in place. Only my heart, which took place from grief and delight, as it was entrusted, as he jumped, so beats at the throat, wounded for the whole life with music.
What did the music tell me about me? About Toms? About dead mom? About a girl who dries his hand? What did she complain about? Who was angry? Why is it so worried and bitter me? Why is it sorry for yourself? And those won it is a pity that they sleep with an incomplete sleep in the cemetery. Among them, under the hill, my mother is lying, next to her two sisters, whom I did not even see: they lived to me, they lived a little, - and mother went to them, left me alone in this world, where he fears in the window of the elegant traurny whose -This heart.
The music ended unexpectedly, exactly someone lowered the powerful hand on the shoulder of the violinist: "Well, enough! »On the hemispberry cleaner, the violin, a smalclick, without crushing, and exhausted the pain. But already, in addition to her, in his will, another violin was built above, above and fading pain, squeezed in the teeth groaning broke into the swellings ...
I sat for a long time in the corner of imported, licking large tears who rolled into the lips. There was no strength to climb and leave. I wanted here in a dark corner, near the rough logs, die all abandoned and forgotten. The violin was not heard, the light in a vasine hut was not burning. "Whether Vasya died? "I thought and carefully myself snuck into the caulier. My feet picked in a cold and viscous chernozem, broken with the key. My faces touched the tenacious, always student leaves of hops, over her heads were dryly coyed bumps smelling with key water. I lifted the hungry of the hop over the window and looked out the window. Slightly Merzay, drove the iron stove in the hut. By heating light, she denoted a table at the wall, Topchak in the corner. At the topchains, Vasya was headed, covered with her eyes with her left hand. His glasses up the paws were lying on the table and then flashed, then Gasley. A violin was resting on Vasya's chest, the long wand was clamped and his right hand.
I quietly opened the door, stepped into the cauly. After Vasya drank tea, especially after music, it was not so scary to go here.
I sat on the threshold, did not break off on my hand, in which a smooth wand was clamped.
- Play, Uncle, still.
- What do you, boy, play?
I guess vote: Vasya was not surprised at all that someone was here, someone came.
- What do you want, uncle.
Vasya sat down on topchains, rotator wooden pins violin, touched the string bow.
- rub the firewood into the stove.
I performed his request. Vasya waited, did not move. In the stove clicked once, the other, the burned side of it was marked with red roots and blades, the flambery of fire was swinging, fell on Vasya. He threw the violin to his shoulder and began to play.
There was a considerable time while I recognized the music. She was the same, which I heard from the delivered, and at the same time completely different. Softer, kinder, anxiety and pain only guess in her, the violin was no longer moaning, her soul had no blood, did not raise the fire around and stones did not collapse.
Flutter and fluttered the light in the stove, but maybe, behind the hut, the fern lit up. They say, if you find the Fern Flower -newimka, you will take away all the riches of the rich and give them to the poor, to paint the wonderful and return it to Ivanushka, you can even get it on the cemetery and revive your own mother.
The firewood of the sliced \u200b\u200bblades - pine was broke out, it ranging to the lilac of the knee of the pipe, smelled of a hot tree, whipped resin on the ceiling. The hut was filled with heat and heavy red light. I flew the fire, having fun rushed the broken stove, shooting large sparks on the go.
The shadow of the musician, broken from the wax, rushed on the hut, stretched along the wall, became transparent, as if reflected in the water, then the shadow was moved into the corner, disappeared in it, and then there was a living musician living there, the live musician. The shirt on it was disposable, the legs of the bosie, the eyes in the dark intensities. Pedoja Vasya lay on the violin, and it seemed to me, so he was the rest, more convenient and hears herself in a violin, which I never hear.
When the stove trucked, I was glad that I could not see a vasin face, a pale clavicle, speaking from under the shirt, and the right leg, kiguza, Kutya, as if blunting tongs, eyes, tightly, to pain squeezed in black foxes of the wrist. Wasi's eyes should have been afraid of even such a small light, which splashed out of the stove.
In the semitime, I tried to look only for a shudder, a broken or smoothly sliding bow, on a flexible, dimly swinging together with a violin shadow. And then Vasya again began to see for me something like a wizard from a distant fairy tale, and not a lonely cripple, to which there is no one. I was so inspired, so he heard that he shuddered when Vasya spoke.

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Viktor Petrovich Astafiev

Last Bow

Astafiev Viktor Petrovich

Last Bow

Viktor Astafiev

Last Bow

Tale in stories

Sing, squabble,

Burn, my mud,

Sveti, star, above the traveler in the steppe.

Al. Domnin

First book

Far and close fairy tale

Zorkina song

Trees grow for everyone

Geese in Polyanya

Smell Sayna

Horse with pink mane

Monk in new pants

Guardian angel

Boy in a white shirt

Autumn sadness and joy

The photo on which I do not

Babushkin Holiday

Book Second

Gori, right

Straypukhina joy

Dark night night

Legend of Glass Krinka

Pestruha

Uncle Philip - Ship Mechanic

The chipmuncture on the cross

Karasina perfection

Without shelter

Book Three

Premonition of the lagow

Plumber

Somewhere threatening war

Love potion

Soy candy

Pier after victory

Last Bow

Babid head

Evening meditation

Comments

* Book first *

Far and close fairy tale

On the backyards of our village among the grassy glade stood on the piles a long log room with a stitching from the board. It was called "Manganzina", to which the brown was also adjacent, - here the peasants of our village were overlooking the seven inventory and seeds, it was called this "common fund." If the house burns away. If it burns even the whole village, the seeds will be well and, it means that people will live, because, Rudis has seeds, there is a Pashnya, in which you can throw them and grow bread, he is a peasant, the owner, and not Nishchebrhod.

Load from the browning - Karaowka. She pressed under a stone fission, in the Testracy and the Eternal Shadow. Over the caulist, highly on Hona, grew by larch and pine. From behind it smoked from stones with a blue smoke key. He raised along the foot of Honor, denoting himself with a thick Russian and the colors of Tolody in the summer, in the winter - a quiet fleet from under the snow and a jacket on the shrubs with respect to the ruffles.

There were two windows in the caulier: one beyond the door and one side towards the village. That window, that to the village, was dragged by the Cherochnichnik broken from the key, Zhalitz, hop and varying vigorous. The roofs have no roofs. Hop stolen her so that she reminded her one-eyed rude head. From Hmely, the pipe was tilted with a tipped bucket, the door opened immediately into the street and sharpened raindrops, bumps of hops, cherry berries, snow and icicles depending on the time of year and weather.

He lived in the Karake Vasya-Pole. He was a small, chrome on one leg, and he had glasses. The only person in the village who had glasses. They caused a gravity courtesy not only with us, children, but also in adults.

Vasya lived quietly and peacefully, evil did not hurt anyone, but rarely who went to him. Only the most desperate kids stones looked into the boxing window and could not discern anyone, but they were afraid of something and with screams ran away.

The deliveries of the children pushed from early spring and until the autumn: they played hide and covered in a belly under the log entrance to the gate of the delivered either burned under the high sex for pile, and they were hiding in Sousseca; Cuts to grandmother, in Chiku. Teshev tag was beaten by panks - bits, pouring lead. When strikes, Gulko distinguished himself under the villages, a sparrow perolet flashed inside it.

Here, near the brown, I was acquainted with the work - he twisted in turns with the kids the flower and here for the first time in his life heard music-scripping ...

The violin is rarely, very, however, rarely, I played Vasya-Pole, the mysterious, not from the world of this man who necessarily comes to the life of every guy, every girl and remains in memory forever. Such a mysterious person seems to be and supposed to live in the hut in the bitter legs, in Morchl, under respect, and so that the light in it was barely grudging, and in order to laugh at the nervous at night, Filin laugh at her drunk, and so that the key was smoked. And so that no one else knew what was being done in the hut and what the owner thinks about.

I remember, I came once to my grandmother and asked something in his nose. Grandma put Vasya to drink tea, brought dry herbs and began to brew her in the cast-iron. She looked frankly on Vasya and sighed.

Vasya drank tea is not in our opinion, not in principle and not from a saucer, straight from the glass saw, laid out a teaspoon on the saucer and did not drop it on the floor. His glasses were terrible, the staring head seemed small, with a trouser. Along the black beard slammed the gray. And all it is as if confirmed, and the large salt shed him.

He eaten it mightlessly, drank only one cup of tea and, how many grandmother did neither persuade him, there was nothing more, the ceremoniously spoke and took the clay crinke with Navar from the grass in one hand, in the other - a cherochuchi stick.

Lord, Lord! - Sighs the grandmother, covering the door behind you. -Donal you grave ... blind man.

In the evening I heard Vasin violin.

There was an early autumn. Gate bridge open hole. A drafts walked in them, moved chips in Souski renovated for grain. The smell of ferred, plump grain pulled into the gate. A flock of kids who are not taken for arable land because of the youngsters, played in the robbers detectives. The game went sluggishly and soon completely sharply. In the fall, not the fact that in the spring, somehow plays badly. One one by one dispersed the guys along the houses, and I stretched out on a warm log entrance and began to pull the grain sprouted in the grain. I was waiting for the carts on Hona to graze our pashnya, ride home, and there, you look, the horse will give the horse on the water.

Behind Yeniseem, behind the guard bull, darkened. In the collapse of the Karaulki rivers, waking up, blocked once or another big star and began to glow. She was like a bump of repay. For Hona, over the tops of the mountains, stubbornly, not an autumn trel of the strip of dawn. But the darkness was punished for her. I pretended to the dawn, as if shuttering shutters. Until morning.

Made quietly and lonely. Barakes are not visible. She hidden in the shadow of the mountain, merged with the dark, and only the borrowed leaves were slightly chosen under the mountain, in the recess, washed out the key. Because of the shadows, they began to turn off the bats, it is necessary to make me, to fly into the opened gates of Venchi, flies there and night butterflies, not otherwise.

I was afraid to breathe loudly, squeezed in the trowel trust. According to Russia, the carts were stamped over Vasina, hooves stood up: people returned from the fields, with borrowing, from work, but I never decided to turn off the rough logs, and could not overcome the paralyzing fear that had rolled me. The windows lit up on the village. For Yenisei, there were smokes from pipes. In the thickets of Fokinsky river, someone was looking for a cow and called her in a gentle voice, he scolded his last words.

In the sky, next to the star, which is still lonely glowing over the guard river, someone cherished the moon's grizzle, and she, as if the blurred half of the apple, did not rolling anywhere, the faceless, orphan, zyabko glass, and from her everything around. He delivered the shadow to the entire Polyana, and the shadow, narrow and nosed, also fell from me.

Behind the Fokinsky river - hand to file - the crosses were headed on the cemetery, creaked something in the delivered - cold crawled under the shirt, on the back, under the skin. To heart. I'm already leaned with my hands about the logs, in order to push off, fly up to the most gate and get it with a junk so that all dogs awake on the village.

But from Uda, from the plexuses of Hop and the blacks, music arose from the deep latter of the earth and nailed me to the wall.

There was still worse: the left cemetery, the front was in front of the hut, to the right of a lot of white bones and where it was long ago, my grandmother said, a man was crushed, a dark veneer, the village behind her, the villages embraced by Chertopol Black smoke clubs.

One, one, one, circling such a thing, and still music - violin. At all, a very lonely violin. And she does not threaten at all. Complains. And there is nothing terrible at all. And there is nothing to be afraid. Fool-fool! Do you can be afraid of music? Fool-fool, never listened to one thing, so ...

Music pours quieter, transparent, I hear, and I let go of my heart. And no music is, but the key flows from the mountain. Someone sailed to the water with lips, drinks, drinks and can't get drunk - so he won in his mouth and inside.

For some reason, it's a quiet in the night of Yenisei, the rafts with a light on it. A unknown person screams from the fleet: "What a village is, ah?" -- What for? Where is he sailing? And still the traffic on Yenisei is seen, long, creaking. He also leaves somewhere. Dog running on the side of the banner. Horses go slowly, drowsily. And the crowd is also seen on the shore of the Yenisei, the wet something, closed with tina, rustic people around the coast, grandmother, on the head of the hair tank.

This music is about the sad, about my illness about mine says, as I have a whole summer with malaria, I was scared when I stopped hearing and thought that I would be deaf, like Aleshka, my brother, and how was to me in me Mom's feverish dream, applied cold hand with blue nails to forehead. I shouted and did not hear my scream.

In the hollow all night burned the brief lamp, the grandmother showed me the corners, shone the lamp under the oven, under the bed, they say, there is no one.

I still remember the sweat girl, white, having fun, her hand dries. Obniki to the city of her was taken to treat.

And again, the traffic arose.

He all goes somewhere, goes hiding in the studuy torus, in the frosty fog. Horses are less and less, so the last fog scratched. Lonely, somehow empty, ice, air and fixed dark cliffs with fixed forests.

But did not become Yenisei, nor winter or summer; Again the living suck of a key behind a vasine hut. The key began to fully fully, and not one is the key, two, three, the formidable stream flies out of the cliff, rolls the stones, breaks the trees, turns them with roots, carries, turns. He is about to meet the hut under the mountain, it can be browsed and wrapped everything from the mountains. Thunder will hit the sky, sparkling with lightning, the mysterious fern flowers flare away from them. The forest will be lit. the forest will light, earth will not be lit, and not to fill over this fire even by Yeniseem - nothing to stop the terrible such storm!

"What is it?! Where are the people? What do they look?! I would have tied Vasya!"

But the violin herself extended everything. Again, one person hurts, again something sorry, someone goes again somewhere, maybe, maybe, maybe on a raft, maybe there is a walk in Dali Far.

The world has not burned down, nothing struck. Everything is in place. Moon with star in place. The village, already without lights, in place, a cemetery in eternal silence and peace, Karaulka under respect, argued by corrosive birds and a quiet string violin.

All-all in place. Only my heart, which took place from grief and delight, as it was entrusted, as he jumped, so beats at the throat, wounded for the whole life with music.

What did the music tell me about me? About Toms? About dead mom? About a girl who dries his hand? What did she complain about? Who was angry? Why is it so worried and bitter me? Why is it sorry for yourself? And those won it is a pity that they sleep with an incomplete sleep in the cemetery. Among them, under the hill, my mom is lying, next to her two sisters, whom I did not even see: they lived before me, there were little, - and the mother went to them, left me alone in this world, where he was high in the window of an elegant mourning Which heart.

The music ended unexpectedly, exactly someone lowered the powerful hand on the shoulder of the violinist: "Well, enough!" On the hemispberry cleaner, the violin, a smalclone, without shouting, and exhausted the pain. But already, in addition to her, in his will, another violin was built above, above and fading pain, squeezed in the teeth groaning broke into the swellings ...

I sat for a long time in the corner of imported, licking large tears who rolled into the lips. There was no strength to climb and leave. I wanted here in a dark corner, near the rough logs, die all abandoned and forgotten. The violin was not heard, the light in a vasine hut was not burning. "Whether Vasya died?" - I thought and carefully sneaked to the caulier. My feet picked in a cold and viscous chernozem, broken with the key. My faces touched the tenacious, always student leaves of hops, over her heads were dryly coyed bumps smelling with key water. I lifted the hungry of the hop over the window and looked out the window. Slightly Merzay, drove the iron stove in the hut. By heating light, she denoted a table at the wall, Topchak in the corner. At the topchains, Vasya was headed, covered with her eyes with her left hand. His glasses up the paws were lying on the table and then flashed, then Gasley. A violin was resting on Vasya's chest, the long wand was clamped and his right hand.

I quietly opened the door, stepped into the cauly. After Vasya drank tea, especially after music, it was not so scary to go here.

I sat on the threshold, did not break off on my hand, in which a smooth wand was clamped.

Play, Uncle, still.

What do you want, uncle.

Vasya sat down on topchains, rotator wooden pins violin, touched the string bow.

Scope of firewood into the stove.

I performed his request. Vasya waited, did not move. In the stove clicked once, the other, the burned side of it was marked with red roots and blades, the flambery of fire was swinging, fell on Vasya. He threw the violin to his shoulder and began to play.

There was a considerable time while I recognized the music. She was the same, which I heard from the delivered, and at the same time completely different. Softer, kinder, anxiety and pain only guess in her, the violin was no longer moaning, her soul had no blood, did not raise the fire around and stones did not collapse.

Flutter and fluttered the light in the stove, but maybe, behind the hut, the fern lit up. They say, if you find the Fern Flower -newimka, you will take away all the riches of the rich and give them to the poor, to paint the wonderful and return it to Ivanushka, you can even get it on the cemetery and revive your own mother.

The firewood of the sliced \u200b\u200bblades - pine was broke out, it ranging to the lilac of the knee of the pipe, smelled of a hot tree, whipped resin on the ceiling. The hut was filled with heat and heavy red light. I flew the fire, having fun rushed the broken stove, shooting large sparks on the go.

The shadow of the musician, broken from the wax, rushed on the hut, stretched along the wall, became transparent, as if reflected in the water, then the shadow was moved into the corner, disappeared in it, and then there was a living musician living there, the live musician. The shirt on it was disposable, the legs of the bosie, the eyes in the dark intensities. Pedoja Vasya lay on the violin, and it seemed to me, so he was the rest, more convenient and hears herself in a violin, which I never hear.

When the stove trucked, I was glad that I could not see a vasin face, a pale clavicle, speaking from under the shirt, and the right leg, kiguza, Kutya, as if blunting tongs, eyes, tightly, to pain squeezed in black foxes of the wrist. Wasi's eyes should have been afraid of even such a small light, which splashed out of the stove.

In the semitime, I tried to look only for a shudder, a broken or smoothly sliding bow, on a flexible, dimly swinging together with a violin shadow. And then Vasya again began to see for me something like a wizard from a distant fairy tale, and not a lonely cripple, to which there is no one. I was so inspired, so he heard that he shuddered when Vasya spoke.

This music was written by a person who was deprived of the most expensive. - Vasya thought out loud, not ceasing to play. "If a person has no mother, there is no father, but there is a homeland," he is not an orphan yet. - For some time, Vasya thought to himself. I was waiting. - Everything passes: love, regretful about her, bitterness of loss, even pain from the RAS passes, but never goes and does not go out in the homeland ...

The violin again touched those the most strings that they were increasing with a renewal game and have not been cooled. Vasin's hand again shuddered against pain, but immediately resigned, the fingers collected in the fist were kept.

This music was written by my countryman Ohinsky in Korchme - this is the name of our house, - continued Vasya. - wrote on the border, saying goodbye to his homeland. He sent her the last hello. For a long time there is no composer in the world. But his pain, longing him, love for his native land, which no one could take away, alive still.

Vasya fell silent, the violin said, the violin sang, the violin faded. Her voice became quieter. His quieter, he stretched in the dark with a thin bright patch. The web trembled, swung and almost silently broke off.

I removed my hand from my throat and exhaled that inhale that kept my chest, because I was afraid to break the bright tintka. But still she cut off. The stove was extinct. Blooming, covered in it coals. Vasi is not visible. Violin is not heard.

Silence. Darkness. Sadness

It's too late, "said Vasya from the darkness. -- Go home. Grandma will worry.

I brought from the threshold and, if I had not grabbed a wooden bracket, it would have fell. The legs were all in needles and as if not my.

Thank you, Uncle, - I whispered.

Vasya moved in the corner and laughed embarrassed or asked "for what?".

I do not know what ...

And jumped out of the hut. I talked with touched tears, I walked Vasya, this world night, sleeping village, sleeping behind him. I even was not scary to go past the cemetery. Nothing is scary now. At these moments there was no evil around me. The world was kind and lonely - nothing, nothing evil in it could not fit.

Trusting kindness, spilled by the weak celestial light throughout the village and throughout the land, I went to the cemetery, stood on the grave of the mother.

Mom, this is me. I forgot you, and you no longer dream.

Having dropped to the ground, I fell asleep to the Holloch. Mother did not answer. Everything was quiet on Earth and in the ground. Little rowan, planted by me and grandmother, pounded the beggar wings on the motherboard. In the neighboring graves of birch displaced the threads with a yellow leaf to the earth itself. There was no longer on top of the birches of the sheet, and the naked rods used the Moon's grizzle, which was now over the most graveyard. Everything was quiet. Dew has fascinated on the grass. There was a complete cresturity. Then with the Uvarov significantly pulled a snack chill. Curious flew from birch leaves. Rosa glass on the grass. My feet froze from the breakdown of dew, one sheet rolled under the roaring, Znobko became, and I walked from the cemetery into the dark streets of the village between sleeping houses to Yenisei.

I somehow did not want home.

I do not know how much I spent on the steep to Yar around above Yenisei. He was noisy at the leaning, on stone bulls. Water, shot down with a smooth course by bulls, knitted into the nodes, turned heavy near the shores and circles, the funnels rolled back to the straggle. Restless our river. Some forces always disturbing it, in the eternal struggle, she herself with them with her cliffs, squeezed her on both sides.

But this is her ambassibility, it was not excited by her an ancient rust, but calmed me. Because there was probably autumn, the moon above the head, rocky from the dew grass and nettle on the shores, not at all similar to the Duman, rather on some risen plants; And yet, it is probably that Vasin's music about indestructible love for homeland sounded in me. And Yenisei, not sleeping even at night, a steep bull on the side, the saw of fir vertices over the distant pass, silent village behind my back, the grasshopper, from the last forces working in the autumn in Nheat, it seems to be one in the world, the grass, as it were Molded from metal - it was my homeland, close and disturbing.

Deaf at night I returned home. The grandmother must have guess to my face that in my soul something happened, and did not bother me.

Where are you so long? - Only she asked. - Dinner on the table, eat and lie down.

Baba, I heard the violin.

Ah, - Grandma responded, - Vasya-Pole Alien, Batyushko, plays, incomprehensible. From his music women cry, and men drink and buffet ...

Who is he?

Vasya? Who? - Dailed grandmother. -- Human. Would you sleep. I wake up early to the cow. "But she knew that I would still not leave back:" I go to me, climb under the blanket. "

I pressed to my grandmother.

Stupny What! And the legs are wet! Will hurt again. - Grandma pushed the blanket under me, stroked her head. - Vasya - a man without a kind of tribe. Father and his mother had from the distant power - Poland. People do not speak there, they pray not as we. The king is called the king. Polish seized the Russian king, something they did not share something with the king ... are you sleeping?

I would sleep. I'm getting up with roosters. "Grandma, to rather get away from me, told the run that people against the Russian king were rebelled in Earth, and they were rebeling to us, Siberia. Vasi's parents were also driven here. Vasya was born at the vein, under Tulupov Convoir. And his name is not at all, and become Stanislav in their world. These are ours, rustic, reinstalled. -- Do you sleep? Grandmother asked again.

And so that you! Well, Vasina Parents died. They got climbed, glared on someone else's side and died. First mother, then father. Did you see a big such black cross and grave with flowers? Their grave. Vasya protects her, cares in the forest than behind him. And he himself aimed, when - did not notice. Oh Lord, forgive, and we are not young! So I lived vasya near the mangazine, in worship. They did not take war on the war. He also had a wet baby, his foot stumbled on the stern ... So it lives ... to die soon ... and we too ...

Grandmother said all quieter, faintly and moved to sleep with a sigh. I did not disturb her. I lay, I thought, trying to comprehend human life, but I did not work from this venture.

A few years later, after that memorable night, the manganine ceased to be used, because the elevator was built in the city, and there was a need for manhasic. Vasya remained not from affairs. Yes, and by the land, he could no longer be finally and guarded. For some time, he was still collecting alms on the village, but then he could not walk, then my grandmother and other old women began to go to Vasin's hut.

Once the grandmother came concerned, put out the sewing machine and began to sew satin shirt, pants without cuts, pillowcase with ties and a sheet without a seam in the middle - so sew for the dead.

The door it was opened. Near the hut crowded the people. People came to her without hats and left there sighing, with Croes, saddened faces.

Vasya carried in a small, as if a boyish coffin. The face of the deceased was covered with a cloth. There were no colors in home, people did not carry wreaths. Behind the coffin was dragged by a few old women, nobody said. Everything was happening in the business silence. The Temmer Study, the former elder of the church, on the go I read prayers and mowed a cold appearance on the abandoned, with a fallen gate, torn from the roof with a mangazine and condemnedly shook my head.

I went to the caravel. The iron stove from the middle was removed. The hole was chloride in the ceiling, on the coil roots of herbs and hops fell drops in it. On the floor scattered chips. The old simple bed was sund on the head of the Nar. Wrapped under the scratching watchdog beater. Broom, ax, shovel. On the window, at the table top, a clay bowl was visible, a wooden mug with a broken handle, a spoon, a comb, and somehow not noticed by me at once a water cloud. In him, the branch of the cherry with swollen and already burst the kidneys. From the tabletop lonely looked at me with empty glasses.

"And where is the violin?" - I remembered, looking at glasses. And immediately saw her. Violin hung over the headboard nar. I put glasses in my pocket, took off the violin from the wall and rushed to catch up with the funeral procession.

Men with home and old women, woven with a bunch behind her, switched on the logs of the Fokinsky river, climbed from the spring flood, climbed to the cemetery on Kosoyar, with a green foggy of wrecking herbs.

I pulled my grandmother's sleeve and showed her violin, bow. Grandmother strictly frowned and turned away from me. Then he took a step wider and whispered with the darkness of the old woman:

Expenses ... invoice ... Senker does not hurt ...

I already knew how to understand something and guessed that the old woman wants to sell the violin to commemorate the funeral expenses, clinging to the grandmother's sleeve and when we were behind, gloomily asked:

Violin whose?

Vasin, Batyushko, Vasina, - Grandmother took his eyes from me and stared at the back of the old woman. "In the house, then ... myself! .. -Howed my grandmother whispered quickly, adding a step.

Before people gathered to cover Vasya with the lid, I squeezed forward and, not a word, I put a violin and bow on his chest, I threw a few live flowers for machemia, torn by me at the peroxide bridge.

Nobody died nothing to tell me, only the old woman pierced me with a sharp look and immediately, he had his eyes to the sky, stunned: "Hermit, Lord, the soul of the deceased Stanislav and his parents, forgive their sins free and unwanted ..."

I watched how the coffin was smaller - is firmly? The first threw a handful of land in the grave of Vasi, as if his closen his relative, and after people disassembled their shovels, towels and scattered along the trails of the cemetery to oversee the grave of relatives, long sat near the Vasina grave, smashed with his fingers, I waited. And he knew that nothing would wait, but still to rise and there was no strength and desire.

For one summer, empty Vasin Karaowka is singing. The ceiling was collapsed, he shoved himself, gave the hut in the thick of Zhalites, Hop and Chernobyl. From Byriana, the blade masters were focused for a long time, but they were gradually covered with dope; The key thread struck a new course and drove along the place where the hut was standing. But the key soon began to christmas, and in the arid summer of the thirty-third year at all. And immediately began to blacken the cherry, Hop degenerated, and disinterested Durnina.

Man left, and life stopped in this place. But the village lived, the kids grow up, to replace those who left the earth. While Vasya-Pole was alive, fellow villagers belonged to him in different ways: others did not notice him, as an excess person, others even teased, scared them by the children, other spiers of the wretched man. But I died Vasya-Pole, and Selu became something to miss something. The incomprehensible to blame the people overwhelmed, and there was no such house, such a family in the village, where they would not remember his good word in the parent day and in other quiet holidays, and it turned out that in a lifelong life was Vasya-Pole like the righteous and helped people humility , respect to be better, kindly to each other.

Here, near the brown, I was acquainted with the work - he twisted in turns with the kids the flower and here the music heard the violin for the first time in his life ...

- Lord, Lord! - Sighs the grandmother, covering the door behind you. - Share you are serious ... blind man.

In the evening I heard Vasin violin.

But from Uda, from the plexuses of Hop and the blacks, music arose from the deep latter of the earth and nailed me to the wall.

For some reason, it's a quiet in the night of Yenisei, the rafts with a light on it. A unknown person screams from the flesh: "What is the village-ah?" - What for? Where is he sailing? And still the traffic on Yenisei is seen, long, creaking. He also leaves somewhere. Dog running on the side of the banner. Horses go slowly, drowsily. And the crowd is also seen on the shore of the Yenisei, the wet something, closed with tina, rustic people around the coast, grandmother, on the head of the hair tank.

In the hollow all night burned the brief lamp, the grandmother showed me the corners, shone the lamp under the oven, under the bed, they say, there is no one.

I still remember the sweat girl, white, having fun, her hand dries. Obniki to the city of her was taken to treat.

And again, the traffic arose.

"What is it?! Where are the people? What do they look?! I would like Vasya! "

But the violin herself extended everything. Again, one person hurts, again something sorry, someone goes again somewhere, maybe, maybe, maybe on a raft, maybe there is a walk in Dali Far.

All-all in place. Only my heart, which took place from grief and delight, as it was entrusted, as he jumped, so beats at the throat, wounded for the whole life with music.

What did the music tell me about me? About Toms? About dead mom? About a girl who dries his hand? What did she complain about? Who was angry? Why is it so worried and bitter me? Why is it sorry for yourself? And those won it is a pity that they sleep with an incomplete sleep in the cemetery. Among them, under the hill, my mother is lying, next to her two sisters, whom I did not even see: they lived to me, they lived a little, - and mother went to them, left me alone in this world, where he fears in the window of the elegant traurny whose -This heart.

I sat for a long time in the corner of imported, licking large tears who rolled into the lips. There was no strength to climb and leave. I wanted here in a dark corner, near the rough logs, die all abandoned and forgotten. The violin was not heard, the light in a vasine hut was not burning. "Does I don't die?" - I thought and carefully sneaked to the caulier. My feet picked in a cold and viscous chernozem, broken with the key. My faces touched the tenacious, always student leaves of hops, over her heads were dryly coyed bumps smelling with key water. I lifted the hungry of the hop over the window and looked out the window. Slightly Merzay, drove the iron stove in the hut. By heating light, she denoted a table at the wall, Topchak in the corner. At the topchains, Vasya was headed, covered with her eyes with her left hand. His glasses up the paws were lying on the table and then flashed, then Gasley. A violin was resting on Vasya's chest, the long wand was clamped and his right hand.

I quietly opened the door, stepped into the cauly. After Vasya drank tea, especially after music, it was not so scary to go here.

I sat on the threshold, did not break off on my hand, in which a smooth wand was clamped.

- Play, Uncle, still.

- What do you want, uncle.

Vasya sat down on topchains, rotator wooden pins violin, touched the string bow.

- rub the firewood into the stove.

Flutter and fluttered the light in the stove, but maybe, behind the hut, the fern lit up. They say if you find a fern flower - you will become invisible, you can pick up all the riches of the rich and give them to the poor, to paint the wonderful and return her to Ivanushka, you can even get it on the cemetery and revive your own mother.

- This music was written by a person who was deprived of the most expensive. - Vasya thought out loud, not ceasing to play. "If a person has no mother, there is no father, but there is a homeland," he is not an orphan yet. - For some time, Vasya thought to himself. I was waiting. - Everything passes: love, regretful about her, bitterness of loss, even pain from the RAS passes, but never goes and does not go out in the homeland ...

"This music was written by my countryman Ohinsky in Korchme - this is the name of our houses with us," continued Vasya. - wrote on the border, saying goodbye to his homeland. He sent her the last hello. For a long time there is no composer in the world. But his pain, longing him, love for his native land, which no one could take away, alive still.

Silence. Darkness. Sadness

"It's too late," said Vasya from the dark. - Go home. Grandma will worry.

I brought from the threshold and, if I had not grabbed a wooden bracket, it would have fell. The legs were all in needles and as if not my.

"Thank you, Uncle," I whispered.

Vasya moved in the corner and laughed embarrassed or asked "for what?".

- I do not know what ...

Trusting kindness, spilled by the weak celestial light throughout the village and throughout the land, I went to the cemetery, stood on the grave of the mother.

- Mom, that's me. I forgot you, and you no longer dream.

I somehow did not want home.

I do not know how much I spent on the steep to Yar around above Yenisei. He was noisy at the leaning, on stone bulls. Water, shot down from a smooth stroke by bulls, knitted into the nodes, turned rapidly near the shores and circles, the funnels rolled back to the straggle. Restless our river. Some forces always disturbing it, in the eternal struggle, she herself with them with her cliffs, squeezed her on both sides.

Deaf at night I returned home. The grandmother must have guess to my face that in my soul something happened, and did not bother me.

- Where are you so long? - Only she asked. - Dinner on the table, eat and lie down.

- Baba, I heard the violin.

"Ah," the grandmother responded, "Vasya-Pole is someone else, Batyushko, plays, incomprehensible. From his music women cry, and men drink and buffet ...

- Who is he?

- Vasya? Who? - Dailed grandmother. - Human. Would you sleep. I wake up early to the cow. "But she knew that I would still not retard:" Go to me, climb under the blanket. "

I pressed to my grandmother.

- What a student? And the legs are wet! Will hurt again. - Grandma pushed the blanket under me, stroked her head. - Vasya - a man without a kind of tribe. Father and his mother had from the distant power - Poland. People do not speak there, they pray not as we. The king is called the king. Polish seized the Russian king, something they did not share something with the king ... are you sleeping?

- I would sleep. I'm getting up with roosters. "Grandma, to rather get away from me, told the run that people against the Russian king were rebelled in Earth, and they were rebeling to us, Siberia. Vasi's parents were also driven here. Vasya was born at the vein, under Tulupov Convoir. And his name is not at all, and become Stanislav in their world. These are ours, rustic, reinstalled. - Do you sleep? Grandmother asked again.

- And to you! Well, Vasina Parents died. They got climbed, glared on someone else's side and died. First mother, then father. Did you see a big such black cross and grave with flowers? Their grave. Vasya protects her, cares in the forest than behind him. And he himself aimed, when - did not notice. Oh Lord, forgive, and we are not young! So I lived vasya near the mangazine, in worship. They did not take war on the war. He also had a wet baby, his foot stumbled on the stern ... So it lives ... to die soon ... and we too ...

Grandmother said all quieter, faintly and moved to sleep with a sigh. I did not disturb her. I lay, I thought, trying to comprehend human life, but I did not work from this venture.

Once the grandmother came concerned, put out the sewing machine and began to sew satin shirt, pants without cuts, pillowcase with ties and a sheet without a seam in the middle - so sew for the dead.

The door it was opened. Near the hut crowded the people. People came to her without hats and left there sighing, with Croes, saddened faces.

I pulled my grandmother's sleeve and showed her violin, bow. Grandmother strictly frowned and turned away from me. Then he took a step wider and whispered with the darkness of the old woman:

- Expenditures ... Assigning ... Senior Council is not hurt ...

- Violin whose?

"Vasina, Batyushko, Vasina," the grandmother took his eyes away and stared at the back of the old woman. "In home, then ... myself! .. - leaned toward me and quickly whispered grandmother, adding step.

Nobody died nothing to tell me, only the old woman pierced me with a sharp look and immediately, I had a glance toward the sky, stuck: "Homes, Lord, the soul of the deceased Stanislav and his parents, forgive their sins of free and invalid ..."

In a war, some Lyamery began to steal crosses from the village cemetery to the firewood, he was the first to be rudely tested the fospital cross from the grave of Vasi-Pole. And his grave was lost, but the memory did not disappear about him. To this day, the female of our village is not-no Yes, and remember him with a sad long sigh, and it felt that remembering him and benevolent, and bitterly.

I stood the last military autumn as a post near the guns in a small, broken Polish city. It was the first foreign city that I saw in my life. He did not differ from the destroyed cities of Russia. And it smelled in it just as: Garo, corpses, dust. Mean of mutilated houses on the streets, littered with breakdown, circled foliage, paper, soot. The dome of the fire was gloomily stood over the city. He weakened, descended to the houses, fell into the streets and alleys, crushed to the tired fires. But he was heard a long, deaf explosion, the dome threw up into a dark sky, and everything around was illuminated by heavy buggy light. The leaves from the trees broke, circled with heat at the top, and there they were elapsed.

On the last minute ruins, the artillery or mortar hoist, Nudili in the height of the aircraft, was unevenly drawn by the German rockets in the city, sinking from the darkness and the raging fireball, where he was writhing in the latest convulsions.

I wondered - I am alone in this corrosive city and nothing alive remained on Earth. This sensation is constantly in the night, but especially opposite it at the sight of a dispersion and death. But I learned that quite nearby - just jump through a green hedge, appealed to fire, - our calculations sleep in a blank hollow, and it calmed me a little.

In the afternoon, we took the city, and in the evening, from somewhere, like from under the ground, people with nodes began to appear, with suitcases, with trolleys, more often with kids in her arms. They cried at the ruins, pulled out something out of the fiction. The night was covered by homeless people with their grief and suffering. And only fire fires could not.

Suddenly, the sounds of the body broke out in the house that standing across the street. From the house of this with the bombing angle fell off, revealing the walls with the saint and madonans drawn on them, looking through smoking with blue mournful eyes. These saints and Madonns on me were glad to dot. I was awkward for myself for myself, for people, under the stakeholders of the saints, and at night there is no no yes, it snatched firefights of fires with damaged heads on long necks.

I was sitting on the boat booster with a carabium squeezed in your lap and shake his head, listening to the lonely among the war organ. Once, after I listened to the violin, I wanted to die from incomprehensible sadness and delight. Stupid was. Small was. I saw so much later deaths, which was not a smaller, damned word for me than "death." And therefore, there must be the music I listened to in my childhood, broke into me, and what scarecrow in childhood was not afraid, the life of such horrors, such fears ...

Yes, the music is the same, and I seem to be the same, and my throat squeezed, gritted, but there is no tears, there is no children's delight and pity, childhood pity. The music unfolded the soul, as the fire of war unfolded at home, exposing that saints on the wall, then the bed, the rocking chair, the piano, the rags of the poor man, kojoy the housing of the beggar, hidden from the human eye - poverty and holiness, all-all revealed, from all Torn clothes, everything is subjected to humiliation, everything is turned off with a dirty inside, and because, apparently, the old music turned other to me, sounded an ancient martial tide, called somewhere, forced something to do so that these fires would be fat They did not focus on burning ruins, so that they went into their home, under the roof, close and loved ones, so that the sky, eternal as the sky, did not throw up the explosions and did not sneeze his adware fire.

The music thundered over the city, jammed the breaks of shells, the hum of aircraft, crackling and rustling of burning trees. The music ruled over the discovered ruins, the same music, which, as if the sigh of his native land, kept a man in his heart, who never saw his homeland, but all his life hesitated about her.