My name is Ivan to read the story. Karpov Evgeniy “My name is Ivan

The fate of a person ... Each has its own. He was born, studied, married, worked in the field, raised children ... And suddenly there was a war! It doesn't matter what: Civil or Great Patriotic ... It breaks a person, makes him different, it changes the fate of people ... Our writers and poets write about this, historians and publicists argue.

So, in a short story by I. Babel, "Prischepa" tells about the Red Army soldier Prischep. The author does not give him a name, does not say a word about his pre-war fate, only notes that Prishchepa was an indefatigable boor and a leisurely liar. We can conclude that this guy from the Kuban, cheerful and mischievous, loved to lie, and he also loved his father's house, mother and father. If the war had not happened, and Prishchepa would have lived, like thousands of his fellow villagers, merrily and measuredly. But the bloody massacre divided the former villagers in two: some went to the Reds, and someone fought for the Whites.

I. Babel shows how mercilessly this merry fellow takes revenge on his fellow countrymen who dared to destroy his home after the tragic death of his parents. As a heartless judge and executioner, at the same time, he pronounces his verdict on those villagers, in whose houses he finds things from his home. The heart of a man scorched by the war knows neither pity nor sympathy: “the bloody print of his soles” followed him. Prishchepa spared neither old men, nor old women, nor cats, nor dogs ... And how subtly he took revenge on his former neighbors: he hung dead dogs over the well, knowing that after that the owners would not use the water ... on them. For three days the village waited with fear for another reprisal. And Prishchepa drank and cried ... At the end of the story, the hero sets fire to his home, throws a lock of hair into it and leaves the village forever ... Here it is, the broken fate of a man!

The hero of B. Ekimov's story "My name is Ivan" is a participant in another war, the Great Patriotic War ... Before Semyon went to the front, he had his own house, and a birdhouse on a birch, and rabbits, and songs that he sang wonderfully ... strict father and loving mother. The guy studied well, his parents dreamed that Semka would receive an education, start a family, become a breadwinner ... He did not ... The war broke everything in his life. At the very end of the war, Semyon Avdeev barely got out of the burning tank. Barely got to his own: went blind ... This blindness became the reason that Stepan, not wanting to be a burden to his mother, did not go home ... He wandered along the trains, where he sang his wonderful songs ... There he will meet his mother, recognize by his voice, rush to his son ... And Semyon will push Anna Filippovna away and call herself by a different name. Having come to his senses, he will come running to that carriage, but it's too late: his mother will already be dead. I can imagine what the blind soldier experienced ... And who is to blame for this tragedy? Of course, the war.

My name is Ivan

At the very end of the war, the Germans set fire to a tank in which Semyon Avdeev was a tower shooter.
For two days, blind, burned, with a broken leg, Semyon crawled among some ruins. It seemed to him that the blast wave threw him out of the tank into a deep hole.
For two days, one step at a time, half a step, one centimeter per hour, he climbed out of this smoky pit towards the sun, into the fresh wind, dragging his broken leg, often losing consciousness. On the third day, sappers found him barely alive on the ruins of an ancient castle. And for a long time, surprised sappers wondered how a wounded tanker could have gotten to this ruin that no one needed ...
In the hospital, Semyon's leg was taken off to the knee and then they drove for a long time to famous professors so that they would restore his sight.
Only nothing came of it ...
While Semyon was surrounded by comrades like him, crippled, while a smart, kind doctor was with him, while nurses carefully looked after him, he somehow forgot about his injury, lived like everyone else lives. For laughter, for a joke, he forgot grief.
But when Semyon left the hospital on the city street - not for a walk, but completely, into life, he suddenly felt the whole world completely different from the one that surrounded him yesterday, the day before yesterday, and all his past life.
Although Semyon was told a few weeks ago that his vision would not return, he still held hope in his heart. And now everything has collapsed. It seemed to Semyon that he again found himself in that black hole where the blast wave had thrown him. Only then did he passionately want to get out into the fresh wind, to the sun, he believed that he would get out, but now there was not that certainty. Anxiety crept into my heart. The city was incredibly noisy, and the sounds were somehow elastic, and it seemed to him that if he took even one step forward, these elastic sounds would throw him back, hurt him painfully against the stones.
The hospital is behind. Together with everyone, Semyon scolded him for boredom, did not expect how to get out of him, and now he suddenly became so expensive, so necessary. But you will not return there, although he is still very close. We must go forward, but it’s scary. Afraid of a seething, cramped city, but most of all, he is afraid of himself:
He brought Semyon Leshko Kupriyanov out of his torpor.
- Oh, and the weather! Now if only with the girl for a walk! Yes, in the field, yes, to collect flowers, but to run.
I like to fool around. Well let's go! Why are you stuck?
They went.
Semyon heard how the prosthesis creaked and clapped, how Leshka breathed heavily, with a hiss. These were the only familiar, close sounds, and the clang of trams, screams of cars, children's laughter seemed alien, cold. They parted in front of him, ran around. The stones of the pavement, some posts got tangled underfoot, interfered with walking.
Semyon knew Leshka for about a year. Small in stature, he often served him as a crutch. Sometimes, Semyon lay on the bed and shouted: "Nurse, give me a crutch," and Leshka would run up and squeak, fooling around:
“I’m here, Count. Give your whitest pen. Place it, my lordship, on my unworthy shoulder.
So they walked in an embrace. Semyon was well aware of Leshkino's round, armless shoulder, and the cut, cut head. And now he put his hand on Leschke's shoulder and his soul immediately became more calm.
They sat all night, first in the dining room, and then in the restaurant at the station. When they walked to the dining room, Leshka said that they would drink a hundred grams each, have a good supper and leave with the night train. We drank as agreed. Leshka suggested repeating it. Semyon did not refuse, although he rarely drank. The vodka went surprisingly easily today. The hops were pleasant, did not stupefy the head, but aroused good thoughts in it. True, it was impossible to concentrate on them. They were nimble and slippery, like fish, and, like fish, they slipped out and disappeared into the dark distance. This made my heart feel melancholy, but the melancholy did not linger for a long time. It was replaced by memories or naive but pleasant fantasies. It seemed to Semyon that one morning he would wake up and see the sun, grass, a ladybug. And then suddenly a girl appeared. He clearly saw the color of her eyes, hair, felt soft cheeks. This girl fell in love with him, with a blind man. They talked a lot about them in the ward and even read a book aloud.
Lesha did not have his right hand and three ribs. The war, as he spoke with a laugh, cut him into a nut. In addition, he was wounded in the neck. After the operation of the throat, he spoke intermittently, with a hiss, but Semyon was used to these, not very similar to human sounds. They annoyed him less than the accordion players who played waltz than the flirtatious cooing of the woman at the next table.
From the very beginning, as soon as they began to serve wine and snacks on the table, Leshka chatted merrily, laughed contentedly:
- Eh, Senka, I like nothing in the world so much as a well-arranged table! I love to have fun - especially to devour! Before the war, we used to go to the Bear Lakes in the summer with the whole plant. Brass band and buffets! And I - with an accordion. There is a company under every bush, and in every company I, like Sadko, are a welcome guest. "Stretch out, Alexey light-Nikolaevich." And what not to stretch if they ask and the wine is already poured. And some blue-eyed ham on a fork brings me ...
They drank, ate, drank, savoring, cold thick beer. Leshka continued to enthusiastically talk about his Moscow region. There, his sister lives in his own house. She works as a technician at a chemical plant. Sister, as Leshka assured, will surely fall in love with Semyon. They will get married. Then they will have children. Children will have as many toys as you want and whatever you want. Semyon will make them himself in the artel, where they will work.
Soon it became difficult for Leshka to speak: he was tired, and, it seemed, he stopped believing in what he was talking about. They were silent more, they drank more ...
Semyon remembers how Leshka wheezed: "We are lost people, it would be better if they kill us completely." He remembers how the head became heavier, how it darkened in it - the bright visions disappeared. Cheerful voices and music completely pissed him off. I wanted to beat everyone, smash, Leshka hissed:
- Don't go home. Who needs you there like that?
Home? Where is home? A long time ago, a long time ago, maybe
a hundred years ago he had a house. And there was a garden, and a birdhouse on a birch, and rabbits. Small, with red eyes, they confidently jumped towards him, sniffed at his sa-pogi, and funny moved their pink nostrils. Mother ... Semyon was called an "anarchist" because, although he studied well at school, he desperately hooligans, smoked, for organizing merciless raids on gardens and vegetable gardens with the lads. And she, mother, never scolded him. Father mercilessly flogged, and mother only timidly asked not to be a hooligan. She herself gave money for cigarettes and in every possible way hid Semyonov's tricks from her father. Semyon loved his mother and helped her in everything: chopping wood, carrying water, cleaning the barn. The neighbors were jealous of Anna Filippovna, looking at how cleverly their son handled the household,
“There will be a breadwinner,” they said, “and the seventeenth will wash away the boyish nonsense.
The drunken Semyon remembered this word - "breadwinner" - and repeated to himself, gritting his teeth so as not to burst into tears. What kind of breadwinner is he now? Collar for the mother's neck.
The comrades saw how Semyon's tank burned, but no one saw how Semyon got out of it. A notice was sent to the mother that her son had died. And now Semyon thought, should she remind her of her worthless life? Should I resent her tired, broken heart with new pain?
An intoxicated woman was laughing nearby. Leshka kissed her with wet lips and hissed something incomprehensible. The dishes rattled, the table turned over, and the earth turned over.
We woke up in the woodshed at the restaurant. Someone caring laid them straw, gave them two old blankets. The money has been spent on everything, the requirements for tickets have been lost, and it’s six days' drive to Moscow. I didn't have enough conscience to go to the hospital, to say that they were robbed.
Leshka offered to go without tickets, in the position of beggars. Semyon was even afraid to think about it. He suffered for a long time, but there is nothing to do. We must go, we must eat. Semyon agreed to go through the cars, but he will not say anything, he will pretend to be dumb.

We entered the carriage. Leshka briskly began his speech in his hoarse voice:
- Brothers and sisters, help the unfortunate cripples ...
Semyon walked bent over, as if through a cramped black dungeon. It seemed to him that sharp stones hung over his head. From afar came the rumble of voices, but as soon as he and Leshka approached, this rumble disappeared, and Semyon heard only Leshka and the clinking of coins in the pi-tray. Semyon shivered from this jingle. He lowered his head lower, hiding his eyes, forgetting that they were blind, unable to see reproach, anger, or regret.
The further they went, the more unbearable Leshka's crying voice became for Semyon. It was stuffy in the carriages. There was already absolutely nothing to breathe, when suddenly from the open window the wind smelled in his face, fragrant, meadow, and Semyon was frightened of him, recoiled, hurt his head painfully on the shelf.
We went through the whole train, collected more than two hundred rubles and got off at the station for lunch. Leshka was pleased with the first success, boastfully talking about his happy "planid". Semyon wanted to cut off Leshka, hit him, but even more wanted to get drunk as soon as possible, to get rid of himself.
They drank cognac in three stars, ate crabs, cakes, since there was nothing else in the buffet.
Having got drunk, Leshka found friends in the neighborhood, danced with them to the accordion, bawled songs. Semyon cried at first, then somehow forgot himself, began to stamp, and then sing along, clap his hands and finally began to sing:
And we do not sow, but we do not plow, And an ace, an eight and a jack, And wave a handkerchief from prison, Four on the side - and yours are not ...,
... They again were left without a penny of money at someone else's distant station.
Friends traveled to Moscow for a month. Leshka had become so accustomed to begging that sometimes he even made a joke, singing vulgar jokes. Semyon no longer felt any remorse. He reasoned simply: you need money to get to Moscow - do not steal? And what they drink is temporary. He will come to Moscow, get a job in an artel and take his mother to him, be sure to take her, and maybe even marry. And well, happiness falls out for other cripples, and so does he ...
Semyon sang front-line songs. He held himself confidently, proudly raising his head with dead eyes, shaking his long, thick hair to the beat of the song. And it turned out that he was not asking for alms, but condescendingly taking the remuneration due to him. He had a good voice, the songs came out sincere, the passengers generously served the blind singer.
The passengers especially liked the song, in which it was told how a soldier was quietly dying in a green meadow, an old birch bent over him. She stretched out her arms to the soldier, as if she were a mother. The soldier tells the birch that his mother and the girl are waiting for him in a distant village, but he will not come to them, because he is betrothed to "a white birch forever", and that she is now his "bride and mother". In conclusion, the soldier asks: "Sing, my birch, sing, my bride, about the living, about the kind, about people in love - I will sweetly sleep to this song."
It happened that in another carriage Semyon was asked to sing this song several times. Then they carried away with them in their caps not only silver, but also a bunch of paper money.
Upon arrival in Moscow, Leshka flatly refused to go to the artel. Wandering on electric trains, as he said, is not dusty and monetary work. Only and worries to sneak away from the policeman. True, this is not always a success. Then he was sent to a nursing home, but he safely escaped from there the very next day.
Visited the home for the disabled and Semyon. Well, he said, it was both satisfying and comfortable, the supervision was good, the artists came, and everything seemed as if you were buried in a mass grave. I was also in the artel. "They took it like a thing that they don't know where to put it, and put it on the bench." All day he sat and spanked - stamped some cans. Right and left, the presses clapped, dryly, annoyingly. An iron box rattled across the concrete floor, in which the workpieces were dragged and the finished parts were dragged away. The old man, who was carrying this box, several times approached Semyon and whispered, breathing a tobacco fume:
- You are here for a day, sit another, and ask for another job. If only for a quickdraw. You will earn there. And here the work is hard ", and the earnings are a little ... Don't be silent, but step on your throat, otherwise ... It would be better to take a liter and drink with the master. ...
Semyon listened to the angry talk of the shop, the teachings of the old man and thought that he was not needed here at all, and everything here was alien to him. Especially clearly he felt his restlessness during lunch.
The cars fell silent. I heard the talk and laughter of people. They sat down on workbenches, on boxes, untied their knots, rattling pots, rustling paper. It smelled of homemade pickles, garlic cutlets. Early in the morning, these nodules were collected by the hands of mothers or wives. The working day will end and all these people will go home. There they are awaited, there they are dear. And he? Who cares about him? Nobody will even take you to the dining room, sit without lunch. And so Semyon wanted home warmth, someone's affection ... Go to his mother? “No, it's too late now. Go to waste everything. "
- Comrade, - someone touched Semyon on the shoulder. - Why did you embrace the stamp? Come and eat with us.
Semyon shook his head.
- Well, as you wish, otherwise let's go. Don’t blame.
It always happens like this again, and then you get used to it.
Semyon would have gone home at the same moment, but he did not know the way. Leshka brought him to work and in the evening he had to come for him. But he didn’t come. Semyon was waiting for him for an hour. He was escorted home by a changed watchman.
My hands ached out of habit, my back was breaking. Without washing, without having supper, Semyon went to bed and fell asleep in a heavy, anxious sleep. Leshka woke up. He came drunk, with a drunken company, with bottles of vodka. Semyon began to drink greedily ...
The next day I didn't go to work. Again we walked through the carriages.
A long time ago, Semyon stopped pondering over his life, ceased to be upset by his blindness, lived as God would put it on his soul. He sang badly: he broke his voice. Instead of songs, it was a continuous scream. He did not have the same confidence in his gait, pride in the manner of holding his head, there was only impudence. But the generous Muscovites gave it anyway, so they read money from their friends.
After several scandals, Leshka's sister left for an apartment. A beautiful house with carved windows has turned into a den.
Anna Filippovna has aged greatly in recent years. During the war, a husband died somewhere while digging trenches. The announcement of the death of her son finally knocked her down, I think it would not rise, but somehow everything worked out. After the war, her niece Shura came to her (she had just graduated from college at that time, she got married), came and said: “Why, aunt, are you going to live here as an orphan, sell the house and come to me”. Neighbors condemned Anna Filippovna, they say, it is most important for a person to have his own corner. Whatever happens, but your house and live neither damned nor crumpled. And then you sell the hut, the money will fly by, and then who knows how it will turn out.
It may be that people spoke the truth, but only the niece from an early age got used to Anna Filippovna, treated her like her own mother, and sometimes lived with her for several years, because they did not get along with her stepmother. In a word, Anna Filippovna made up her mind. I sold the house and went to Shura's, lived for four years and didn’t complain. And she really liked Moscow.
Today she went to see the dacha, which the young people rented for the summer. She liked the dacha: a garden, a small vegetable garden.
Thinking that the boys need to fix their old shirts, trousers for the village today, she heard a song. In some ways she was familiar to her, and in what way, not to understand. Then I realized - a voice! Understood and shuddered, turned pale.
For a long time she did not dare to look in that direction, she was afraid that the painfully familiar voice would disappear. And yet she looked. She looked ... Senka!
Mother, as if blind, stretched out her hands and went to meet her son. Now she is already next to him, put her hands on his shoulders. And Senkina's shoulders, with sharp little bumps. I wanted to call my son by name and could not - there was no air in my chest and there was not enough strength to breathe.
The blind man fell silent. He felt the woman's hands and was alert.
The passengers saw how the beggar turned pale, how he wanted to say something and could not - he suffocated. Have seen

passengers, as a blind man put his hand on a woman's hair and immediately pulled her back.
"Senya," the woman said softly, weakly.
The passengers got up and awaited his answer in awe.
The blind man at first only moved his lips, and then muffledly said:
- Citizen, you are mistaken. My name is Ivan.
- How! - exclaimed the mother. - Senya, what are you ?! The blind man pushed her aside and with a quick uneven gait
went on and did not sing any more.
The passengers saw how the woman looked after the beggar and whispered: "He, he." There were no tears in her eyes, only pleading and suffering. Then they disappeared, and anger remained. The terrible anger of the offended mother ...
She lay in a heavy swoon on the sofa. An elderly man was bending over her, probably a doctor. The passengers in a whisper asked each other to disperse, to give access to fresh air, but did not disperse.
“Maybe she was wrong?” Someone asked hesitantly.
- Mother will not be mistaken, - the gray-haired woman answered,
- So why didn't he confess?
- But how can one admit it?
- Silly...
A few minutes later, Semyon entered and asked:
- Where is my mother?
“You no longer have a mother,” the doctor replied.
Wheels knocked. For a minute, Semyon, as if he had received his sight, saw people, was frightened of them and began to back away. The cap fell out of my hands; crumbled, rolled on the floor, a little, cold and useless tinkling ...

What arguments can you take from this interesting story?
First, of course, you need to write about the role of the mother in a person's life.It is possible that Semyon offended his mother, repented, but it was too late ...
Secondly, about the role of friends in our life. If this front-line soldier had not been next to Semyon, maybe he would have returned home to his mother ...
Thirdly, you can write about the harmful role of drunkenness ...
Fourthly, we can give an example in condemning the war, which so breaks human destinies.

Kassil Lev "The Tale of the Absent"

A. Gelasimov in his creation raises an important problem of misunderstanding of family relations.

The author tells how the hero met his mother and sister after a long time of their absence, but did not find the words to talk to them, and only at the end it is told that the character, having already gone down the subway, suddenly realized whom he had lost.

Andrei Valerievich is trying to convey to the reader that a mother is a creature dear to everyone, which we should not forget about in any case.

I completely agree with him, because indeed, spiritual kinship, understanding between family members should be maintained throughout their life.

A striking example is the work of Evgeny Karpov "My name is Ivan", which tells about a son who betrayed his mother: the son, who was blinded in the war, did not return to his home, to his mother. An unexpected meeting on the train, when Semyon shouts another name in the face of his mother, who recognized him by his voice, does his job. The son's betrayal, bitterness and resentment stop the heart of a loving mother ...

An opposite example of the behavior of a son can be seen in "The Son's Duty" by Irina Kuramshina. The main character, Maxim, donates his own kidney to a sick mother, despite the fact that she was, as the text says, a "bad mother"

Thus, we can conclude that it is the understanding, the spiritual relationship between children and parents that play an important role in the life of every person.

Updated: 2017-10-30

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Works from the Bookshelf that you can use when writing an essay 2014-2015

Preview:

Sets of topics for the SUMMARY COMPOSITION 2014-2015 academic year.

Developed by N.A. Mokryshev with the assistance of L.M. Bendeleva, O.N. Belyaeva, I.V. Mazalova.

The classification of topics is taken from the collection of I.K. Sushilina, T.A. Shchepakova "Methodological instructions and control tasks in literature (preparation for an essay)". Moscow State University, 2001

Preview:

Preparation for essay

Algorithm for preparing for the final essay

1. Choose a direction. The first direction is the most knowledge-intensive and requires precise knowledge. (For future philologists).

The rest of the directions in this respect are similar, although the most advantageous, in my opinion, is about the war.

1. Read (where you can find, there are many of them on different sites) sample topics within the chosen direction and divide them into groups.

In the direction about the war, there are about three of them:

1) war is a tragedy;

2) feat, courage, heroism in war;

3) patriotism.

1. Write a "basic" essay on one specific topic.

I propose to write according to the following scheme, the simplest one looks like this:

introduction - "1st argument" - "2nd argument" - personal opinion - conclusion.

"Arguments" should be understood as an analysis of the selected works.

4. And now we play "Lego". Just as one and the same cubes can be used to assemble an airplane and a horse, completely different texts can be composed from the basic parts of essays. You just need to be able to highlight accents. How to do it?

4.1. It is necessary to prepare several introductions of different types (in our case, three), which will contain the statement of problems for each group. How to do this, read the Alexandrovs' (although it will be possible to "meet" again)

4.2. Now we are working with the text. Typically, every good war book has material for every group of topics. But you can make it even easier: the same episode can be given different ratings depending on the topic. For example, if a hero dies while completing a task, then this deserves praise (heroism, patriotism), and negative assessment (war takes the best people).

4.3. But what if you have prepared an excellent composition, and the topic has fallen out completely "left"? For example, you prepared essays about the war for all three groups, and suggested the theme "Love in War". How to be? Play Lego between directions! An essay about feat and courage can be easily altered for the 5th direction ("How people live ..."), if the topic is about the meaning of life, moral values ​​or personal qualities ...

5. When writing, do not be lazy to re-read the essay after each paragraph, preferably in a whisper (and not to yourself). This helps you stay on topic and notice the tautology in time.

6. With the conclusion - everything is as usual. You repeat the main ideas, add a little "pathos". Just a little, don't be cunning!

To write this essay, you need to imagine how they used to live, what they thought, what was the main thing for them, then you can find out their morality and views on moral values. And in contrast to put Oblomov, whose name has already become a household name. Draw parallels between the great figures of that time and the life of Oblomov himself, see what Oblomov could achieve and why he became so indifferent. A person by himself does not become inert, it is clear that his aspirations were shattered at the very beginning of his youth, or maybe he just silently contemplated what was happening and drew conclusions. because sometimes you don't want to do anything when you understand that there is no point.

The conclusion may be in a general description of the characteristics of that environment and how it all can end, where will come a society in which soullessness and inertia of views flourish, is it time to wake up to loudly clap your hands, thereby waking up the thought and consciousness of others. The topic of morality is always acute in society, and you can tell your own philosophical views in an essay. how do you see what is happening, what is bad and why it should not be so. At the same time, after all, Oblomov was not such a bad person, is not kindness part of the indifference to the struggle

So, how to write an essay on the topic: "how people live guided by" the novel "OBLOMOV". First, this is of course an introduction. (Briefly describe the issues that you will cover in your essay, but do it beautifully) Secondly: as I call it the main part of the essay. (Draw a parallel between the current aspects of society, which in your opinion is guided by this very society and what is described in the work. Indicate the points of contact and differences between these two worlds. Give modern examples of our time - Oblomovism. Even modern actors, critics, artists, which the press describes in the context of Oblomovism) And thirdly: the final part (summarize all of the above, express your opinion, both negative and sometimes compassionate. That is, make it clear to the teacher that you not only read the novel, but also really understand what he (even if this is not so) that you understand what drove Oblomov and that you feel sorry for him in some way: narrow-mindedness, selfishness and, as a result, hold on to nothing for anything, etc.)

As an introduction, I would say about the current relevance of this novel in terms of modern lazy people who also spend their whole lives on the couch in front of the TV. Then the main part would go, a comparison of Oblomov's life and the general state of the moral and ethical foundations of that time. Oblomov, like other heroes, turned out to be a hero of his time, since he was not alone, not sucked from the finger, it was a general trend. I would consider the question of Oblomov's happiness and unhappiness. As a conclusion, one can speculate about the general reasons for fleeing into the illusory world, falling out of reality. Express your thoughts on why people begin to feel redundant, are losing or not looking for the meaning of life, and why this happens at all times. Do not forget about the role of intelligence, because a simple peasant will not be sybaritic, he will simply die of hunger.

To write an essay on the topic"Than people live" , first you need to draw up his plan, and then reveal each point, carefully re-reading the novel itself"Oblomov" ... I can sketch out a plan, and you will already develop the idea further.

• Introduction. Here you can write about what the situation was at the time of writing the novel.
• Main part. In this part, describe the qualities of Oblomov and why such an intelligent, kind, honest person suddenly turned out to be unnecessary for society (laziness, instead of an active life - daydreaming, inaction). Write that a person does not live by dreams alone, you also need to do something, for yourself, for the people around, for nature, etc.
• In conclusion, write that you do not need to wait for someone to come and do something good, you need to have an active life position yourself.

In general, this is so brief.

In an essay on the topic "How do people live?" it is necessary to reveal the philosophical component of the life of mankind, if we take Goncharov's novel Oblomov as a basis, the thought should be developed in the direction of how urgent the problem of people like Ilya Ilyich is today. To speculate on the meaninglessness of the life of idlers, who, by their unwillingness to do something, to change something, make their life unbearably gray and empty. To write that a person's life is constant growth, action, spiritual development. As soon as a person ceases to be interested in life, he wraps himself up in his cozy robe and grows roots to the sofa, he begins to degrade.

Option 3

Is war capable of destroying human reserves in a person? Or is it human nature to love even the enemy?It seems to me that it is these problematic issues that V. Tendryakov raises in his text. It is this moral problem that worries the author, and therefore he seeks to involve us in joint reasoning.

In his text V. Tendryakov describesfire in a German hospital. Despite the hostilities, at least a drop of compassion and empathy remains in people. “The tragedy taking place in plain sight was no stranger to anyone,” the author writes. Tendryakov gives specific examples of how former enemies are able to help each other. For example, the captain of the guard, Arkady Kirillovich, noticing how “a German with his head wrapped around his shoulder was trembling,” took off his warm sheepskin coat and handed it to the German.Also, the author tells us aboutthe feat of a Tatar soldier who threw himself into the fire to save a disabled German.

Agreeing with this point of view of the author, I want to rememberthe work of V. Zakrutkin "Human Mother", which describes the events of the Second World War. Having occupied the farm where Maria lived, the main character of the story, her son Vasya and her husband Ivan, the Nazis ruined everything, burned down the farm, drove people to Germany, and Ivan and Vasyatka were hanged. Maria alone managed to escape. Lonely, she had to fight for her life and for the life of her unborn child. Experiencing a burning hatred of the Nazis, Maria, having met a wounded young German, throws herself at him with a pitchfork, wanting to avenge her son and husband. But the German, a defenseless boy, shouted: “Mom! Mama!" And the heart of the Russian woman trembled.

Speaking about the problem of the text, it comes to minda scene from Leo Tolstoy's epic novel "War and Peace", where the Russians and the French, who were at that time the worst enemies, made fun of and talked to each other. “After that, it seemed, it was necessary to unload the guns, detonate the charges and disperse as soon as possible for everyone to go to their homes,” the author says. But this does not happen, and Tolstoy regrets that the "reserves of the human" remained unused.

In conclusion, I want to say that the text of V. Tendryakov proposed for analysis prompted me to think aboutthat in every person there is a human, only someone has more of it, someone less, and in difficult situations this human will always manifest itself.

The question in the title of this essay is taken from the story of Leo Tolstoy. This question is, perhaps, relevant at all times. Especially in critical, crisis times. When some try to talk about some kind of "golden age" of Russian history, they simply do not know this story properly.

Everything in Russia has always been relative - with respect to people, politics, external and internal relations. And in general, everything depends on the inner attitude of each person: if you stand for good, if you want to bring peace and light to people, then good people will mainly gather around you. If on the contrary, then there will be more evil.

How are people alive today? Society is stratified into rich and poor. There is no full-fledged middle class. This leaves an imprint on the entire nation, on the entire people. But even in this not quite normal situation, there are always those who are content with their simple lot, who strive to live, not survive.

For example, those who are found in the provinces. This is a very specific environment: relations between people are still kinder and more cordial, the pull of the earth is stronger, and the breath of progress is felt much weaker than in capitals and centers. Here people are busy with their own household, spend a lot of time in the fresh air - they pick mushrooms and berries in the forest, then harvest them for the winter.

Communication may seem primitive: everyone knows each other, they meet often, several times a day. There are also feasts on the occasion of some holidays or even without them, when those gathered at the table sing in chorus old Soviet or Russian folk songs. This is how people live - by the memory of soul and heart, care for their neighbors, ineradicable optimism.

As for the rich, their lives seem to be more varied, but in reality they are much more boring. Money, as they say, chickens do not bite, there is enough for everything, the house is a full cup. And happiness - simple, human - as it was not, and is not. And all the entertainment and travel is just a way to dispel the melancholy of loneliness. And when it fails, the usual everyday drunkenness begins, and after it the degradation of the personality.

The middle class has a lot to lose. They achieved everything in life almost exclusively on their own, without bending or bowing. Therefore, they value what they have and are not going to part. They live mainly from paycheck to paycheck, but if they set themselves a goal, they can accumulate capital within a year for a trip abroad. And so - mainly work and home. There is a catastrophic lack of time for self-education, to read books that have long been postponed.

Adolescents and young people are often on their own. Parents have little idea of ​​what their child lives and breathes. It's good if there is a senior mentor nearby who can ignite and captivate - cycling, for example, or sports in general. Then the guys will not waste time. But for the most part, the younger generation learns through a stump-deck - because parents need it, they join bad habits, they have no clear moral principles.

People of creative professions live most interestingly. For those who are busy with their own creativity, it does not matter what is happening around. First, he “cooks in his own juice,” then goes out to people. And if there is a response, a dialogue arises - it means that a person is talented, he has something to say to others, to leave a particle of himself in this world.

A person is so constructed that he will never be satisfied with what he already has. Because otherwise - spiritual death much earlier than physical, as in the well-known story of Chekhov "Ionych". While we are alive, we worry, rejoice, grieve. There is always something that makes us be active.

Generational dispute: together and apart

At all times, on all continents, among other material and spiritual values ​​inherited from generation to generation, there is one that you really want to get rid of, as from an unhealed wound, because you cannot call it a value. This is a generational conflict. And it becomes a disaster if reason gives in to pride. How to build bridges between maturity and youth and cut the sword of Damocles of cold, strained (sometimes hateful) relationship between fathers and children? How to go through life: together or apart?

The answer to this question is painfully sought in the family by parents, whose children are moving further and further, while suffering no less than them. And, of course, writers are trying to penetrate into the most remote corners of human suffering from a lack of understanding of the closest people. Among the masters of the word, this is I.S. Turgenev, who told us about the grief of the parents of his only beloved son, Enyushka. This is the fate of the author himself, whose mother was a despotic woman who did not reckon either with her son's writing abilities or with his own point of view on anything, including personal life. Of course, L.N. Tolstoy, I.A. Bunin, who told us about the problems of adolescence. Among my contemporaries, my beloved English writer Nicholas Sparks, whose book will be discussed in my discussions on this problem.

Generational dispute: together and apart

(based on the novel by the English writer Nicholas Sparks "The Last Song")

At all times, on all continents, among other material and spiritual values ​​inherited from generation to generation, there is one that you really want to get rid of, as from an unhealed wound, because you cannot call it a value. This is a generational conflict. And it becomes a disaster if reason gives in to pride. How to build bridges between maturity and youth and cut the sword of Damocles of cold, strained (sometimes hateful) relationship between fathers and children? How to go through life: together or apart?

The answer to this question is painfully sought in the family by parents, whose children are moving further and further, while suffering no less than them. And, of course, writers are trying to penetrate into the most remote corners of human suffering from a lack of understanding of the closest people. Among the masters of the word, this is I.S. Turgenev, who told us about the grief of the parents of his only beloved son, Enyushka. This is the fate of the author himself, whose mother was a despotic woman who did not reckon either with her son's writing abilities or with his own point of view on anything, including personal life. Of course, L.N. Tolstoy, I.A. Bunin, who told us about the problems of adolescence. Among my contemporaries, my beloved English writer Nicholas Sparks, whose book will be discussed in my discussions on this problem.

The novel "The Last Song" is a hymn to love that manifests itself in everything: in a look, in a gesture, in a word, in music - and spreading to family, friends, and our smaller brothers. But you need to grow up to such love, making your way, and sometimes wading through the unexpected obstacles that life throws at you at every step. To reach, discarding arrogance and pride, learning to listen and understand the language of people close to you. As the heroine of the novel Ronnie did. Eight months ago, an eighteen-year-old girl, who dreamed of a vacation with friends in Manhattan, had to go at the request of her mother for all summer holidays to her father in North Carolina, all the same, what to hell on the middle of nowhere. On the way there she asked herself questions: "why ... her mother and father hate her so much," "why did she have to go to her father, to this hopeless southern wilderness, to hell with the horns?" She didn’t even want to listen to her mother’s arguments that it was necessary that her daughter had not seen her father for three years, that she did not answer the phone when her father called, etc.

So I touched on Ronnie's first mental trauma - the divorce of his parents. How could it be explained that the mother fell in love with another? There were no such words in the soul of the closest person, but she easily referred to the failure of her father, to his "failure" in life. "As a result, the marriage broke up, the daughter runs away from him like from fire, and the son grows up without a father." The daughter considered her father's departure a betrayal for one single reason: the mother did not find the courage and wisdom to tell the whole truth. As a result, two children suffer: growing up daughter Ronnie and wonderful little boy John.

And now, three years later, the daughter and father are again together in a god-forsaken place, where drafts roamed in the father's house as well as in their souls. “Hello, honey. I'm glad to see you". But instead of the sun there was not the old "typical American girl", but a young woman with a purple strand in long brown hair, black nail polish and dark clothes, "who did not deign to him with her attention. And for almost all three summer months, this shocking girl, what she seemed to me at first, to the friendly words of her father, to his concern for her food, to the desire not to interfere with her (if only she was there) responded with either silent coldness or heart-wounding antics. She ran away from home, spoke with hatred of the piano, plugged her ears when my father played it. And once she even rapped out, setting a condition not to interfere in her life: “I will not just go home. I won't talk to you anymore in my life. "

And in return - love. As if there were no these words, there was no cop, there was no her insolent behavior. There was a fenced-off piano, the belief that the daughter could not steal, and more often - a silent presence, multiplied by the care and affection for their children suffering from divorce. Such is the power of the love of a wise man who understood that the whole truth of human existence lies "in the love that he feels for children, in the pain that torments him when he wakes up in a quiet house and realizes that they are not here." There is also another pain that children do not know about - he has not long to live. What courage Steve had to have in order not to throw the burden of his physical suffering on his son and daughter, but to take care of them with such dedication that only a loving heart is capable of.

There will be many victims on the part of the father. Highly! But the most important thing will be the last song. A melody composed by him and completed by his talented daughter. Music that has become a bridge of love and friendship in their destiny. How important it is to understand in time that parental love and faith in their children is the force that can melt any ice of relationships, as, fortunately, happened with the main characters of the novel by Nicholas Sparks.

Russian language and literature teacher

Tsarakova Nadezhda Radionovna, 2014

MCOU "School No. 15, item Svetly"

Mirny district of the Republic of Sakha (Yakutia)

Preview:

Artistic and expressive
means of poetic speech (tropes)

Varieties of epithet

Functions of artistic and expressive means (tropes):

• RHYME
• Rhyme (Greek rhythmos - proportionality, rhythm, consistency) - sound repetition in two or more poetic lines, mainly in poetic endings.
• TYPES OF RHYMAS
  by the place of the last stressed syllable in the line

• TYPES OF RHYMS
• by consonance of line endings

• STANZA
• Stanza - (Greek strophe - circle, turn) - a group of a certain number of poetic lines repeated in a work, united by a common rhyme and representing a rhythmic-syntactic whole, sharply separated from adjacent verse combinations by a large pause.
• TYPES OF STROPHES

Analysis of a lyric work

1. The history of the creation of a lyric work.

2. Features of the genre of this lyric work.

3. Ideological and thematic originality of the lyric work.

4. Features of the lyrical hero of the work.

5. Artistic and expressive means used in the work; their role in revealing the poet's intention.

6. Lexical means used in the poem; their ideological and artistic significance.

7. Syntactic figures used in a lyric work; their ideological and artistic role.

8. Phonetic means of expression used in the poem, their role.

9. The poetic size of the lyric work.

10. The place and role of the work in the context of the poet's work, in the literary process as a whole.

Episode analysis

1. The location of this episode in the text of a literary work.

2. The significance of this episode within the framework of a work of art.

3. Type of episode.

4. Events depicted in the episode.

5. Characteristics of the characters of the episode.

• Appearance, clothing.
• Demeanor.
• The actions of the heroes.
• Speech characteristics of the characters.
• Interaction of heroes in this episode.

6. Artistic and expressive, lexical means used in this episode, their meaning.

7. Features of the use of compositional elements in the episode.

• Landscape.
• Diary.
• Internal monologues.

8. The role of this episode in the context of a complete literary work.

Analysis of the literary image

1. Type of literary hero.

2. The place of the hero in the system of images and his role in the disclosure of the author's intention.

3. Typical character of a literary hero; presence or absence of a prototype.

4. Characteristics of the literary hero.

5. Means of creating a literary image.

Preview:

Analysis of the final rehearsal composition

for literature from 13.11. 2017

The final rehearsal essay on literature was completed by all 11 grade students - 10 people, which is 100%. The topics presented to the students reflected all 5 directions of the final essay. As a result, the essay of three students did not meet requirement # 2 (independent writing of the work), so their work, in general, was not credited. Typical mistakes made by students (4 people) in the work are logical (criterion number 3). According to criterion # 4 (literacy), tests were given to everyone, with the exception of Tatiana Sergienko.

Conclusions:

1. Continue work on preparing for the final essay in five areas.
2. To work on the mistakes made in the work.
3. Draw the students' attention to the conclusions after the example arguments in accordance with the chosen topic.
4. Conduct one more rehearsal final essay, taking into account the correctional work.

Teacher Kachanova O.V.

Preview:

To use the preview, create yourself a Google account (account) and log into it: https://accounts.google.com I can prove my point of view by referring to the works (work) of fiction (journalistic) literature.

For evidence, we turn (turn) to works of fiction

Reflecting on the fact that ..., I can not help but refer to the work of the name, in which ...

To be convinced of the correctness of the stated thesis, it is enough to give an example from fiction.

This is easy to verify by referring to fiction.

In the work (name) I found (found) a reflection (confirmation) of my thoughts ...

Fiction convinces me of the correctness of this point of view.

If the thesis is formulated in the main part, then the "bridges" should be different.

1. To be convinced of the correctness of the stated thesis, it is enough to give an example from fiction (written in the first paragraph, that is, in the introduction).

2. Each thesis begins:

First, (thesis + argument)

Second, (thesis + argument)

1. Written in the first paragraph, that is, in the introduction:

This is easy to verify by referring to fiction (journalistic) literature

2. Each thesis begins:

For example , (thesis + argument)

Besides, (thesis + argument)

2. Inside the main body (transition from one argument to another)

Let's remember another work, which also says (the question is raised) that ...

Another example can be cited.

I will give another example that proves my point of view - this is a work (name, title) ...

As the first argument confirming my idea of ​​..., I will take the work ...

As a second argument proving the thesis put forward by me, I will cite a story ...

The same topic is considered in the work ...

3. Brace connecting the main part and the conclusion

What conclusion did I come to (came to), reflecting on the topic "..."? I think we should ...

Finally, I would like to say that ...

Concluding my essay, I want to turn to the words of a famous Russian writer who said: "..."

In conclusion, one cannot but say about the relevance of the raised topic, which still sounds modern, because ...

In conclusion, I want to call people ...

Summing up what has been said, I would like to express the hope that

At the very end of the war, the Germans set fire to a tank in which Semyon Avdeev was a tower shooter.
For two days, blind, burned, with a broken leg, Semyon crawled among some ruins. It seemed to him that the blast wave threw him out of the tank into a deep hole.
For two days, one step at a time, half a step, one centimeter per hour, he climbed out of this smoky pit towards the sun, into the fresh wind, dragging his broken leg, often losing consciousness. On the third day, sappers found him barely alive on the ruins of an ancient castle. And for a long time, surprised sappers wondered how a wounded tanker could have gotten to this ruin that no one needed ...
In the hospital, Semyon's leg was taken off to the knee and then they drove for a long time to famous professors so that they would restore his sight.
Only nothing came of it ...
While Semyon was surrounded by comrades like him, crippled, while a smart, kind doctor was with him, while nurses carefully looked after him, he somehow forgot about his injury, lived like everyone else lives. For laughter, for a joke, he forgot grief.
But when Semyon left the hospital on the city street - not for a walk, but completely, into life, he suddenly felt the whole world completely different from the one that surrounded him yesterday, the day before yesterday, and all his past life.
Although Semyon was told a few weeks ago that his vision would not return, he still held hope in his heart. And now everything has collapsed. It seemed to Semyon that he again found himself in that black hole where the blast wave had thrown him. Only then did he passionately want to get out into the fresh wind, to the sun, he believed that he would get out, but now there was not that certainty. Anxiety crept into my heart. The city was incredibly noisy, and the sounds were somehow elastic, and it seemed to him that if he took even one step forward, these elastic sounds would throw him back, hurt him painfully against the stones.
The hospital is behind. Together with everyone, Semyon scolded him for boredom, did not expect how to get out of him, and now he suddenly became so expensive, so necessary. But you will not return there, although he is still very close. We must go forward, but it’s scary. Afraid of a seething, cramped city, but most of all, he is afraid of himself:
He brought Semyon Leshko Kupriyanov out of his torpor.
- Oh, and the weather! Now if only with the girl for a walk! Yes, in the field, yes, to collect flowers, but to run.
I like to fool around. Well let's go! Why are you stuck?
They went.
Semyon heard how the prosthesis creaked and clapped, how Leshka breathed heavily, with a hiss. These were the only familiar, close sounds, and the clang of trams, screams of cars, children's laughter seemed alien, cold. They parted in front of him, ran around. The stones of the pavement, some posts got tangled underfoot, interfered with walking.
Semyon knew Leshka for about a year. Small in stature, he often served him as a crutch. Sometimes, Semyon lay on the bed and shouted: "Nurse, give me a crutch," and Leshka would run up and squeak, fooling around:
“I’m here, Count. Give your whitest pen. Place it, my lordship, on my unworthy shoulder.
So they walked in an embrace. Semyon was well aware of Leshkino's round, armless shoulder, and the cut, cut head. And now he put his hand on Leschke's shoulder and his soul immediately became more calm.
They sat all night, first in the dining room, and then in the restaurant at the station. When they walked to the dining room, Leshka said that they would drink a hundred grams each, have a good supper and leave with the night train. We drank as agreed. Leshka suggested repeating it. Semyon did not refuse, although he rarely drank. The vodka went surprisingly easily today. The hops were pleasant, did not stupefy the head, but aroused good thoughts in it. True, it was impossible to concentrate on them. They were nimble and slippery, like fish, and, like fish, they slipped out and disappeared into the dark distance. This made my heart feel melancholy, but the melancholy did not linger for a long time. It was replaced by memories or naive but pleasant fantasies. It seemed to Semyon that one morning he would wake up and see the sun, grass, a ladybug. And then suddenly a girl appeared. He clearly saw the color of her eyes, hair, felt soft cheeks. This girl fell in love with him, with a blind man. They talked a lot about them in the ward and even read a book aloud.
Lesha did not have his right hand and three ribs. The war, as he spoke with a laugh, cut him into a nut. In addition, he was wounded in the neck. After the operation of the throat, he spoke intermittently, with a hiss, but Semyon was used to these, not very similar to human sounds. They annoyed him less than the accordion players who played waltz than the flirtatious cooing of the woman at the next table.
From the very beginning, as soon as they began to serve wine and snacks on the table, Leshka chatted merrily, laughed contentedly:
- Eh, Senka, I like nothing in the world so much as a well-arranged table! I love to have fun - especially to devour! Before the war, we used to go to the Bear Lakes in the summer with the whole plant. Brass band and buffets! And I - with an accordion. There is a company under every bush, and in every company I, like Sadko, are a welcome guest. "Stretch out, Alexey light-Nikolaevich." And what not to stretch if they ask and the wine is already poured. And some blue-eyed ham on a fork brings me ...
They drank, ate, drank, savoring, cold thick beer. Leshka continued to enthusiastically talk about his Moscow region. There, his sister lives in his own house. She works as a technician at a chemical plant. Sister, as Leshka assured, will surely fall in love with Semyon. They will get married. Then they will have children. Children will have as many toys as you want and whatever you want. Semyon will make them himself in the artel, where they will work.
Soon it became difficult for Leshka to speak: he was tired, and, it seemed, he stopped believing in what he was talking about. They were silent more, they drank more ...
Semyon remembers how Leshka wheezed: "We are lost people, it would be better if they kill us completely." He remembers how heavier the head became, how it darkened in it - the bright visions disappeared. Cheerful voices and music completely pissed him off. I wanted to beat everyone, smash, Leshka hissed:
- Don't go home. Who needs you there like that?
Home? Where is home? A long time ago, a long time ago, maybe
a hundred years ago he had a house. And there was a garden, and a birdhouse on a birch, and rabbits. Small, with red eyes, they confidently jumped towards him, sniffed at his boots, and funny moved their pink nostrils. Mother ... Semyon was called an "anarchist" because, although he studied well at school, he desperately hooligans, smoked, for organizing merciless raids on gardens and vegetable gardens with the lads. And she, mother, never scolded him. Father mercilessly flogged, and mother only timidly asked not to be a hooligan. She herself gave money for cigarettes and in every possible way hid Semyonov's tricks from her father. Semyon loved his mother and helped her in everything: chopping wood, carrying water, cleaning the barn. The neighbors were jealous of Anna Filippovna, looking at how cleverly their son handled the household,
“There will be a breadwinner,” they said, “and the seventeenth will wash away the boyish nonsense.
The drunken Semyon remembered this word - "breadwinner" - and repeated to himself, gritting his teeth so as not to burst into tears. What kind of breadwinner is he now? Collar for the mother's neck.
The comrades saw how Semyon's tank burned, but no one saw how Semyon got out of it. A notice was sent to the mother that her son had died. And now Semyon thought, should she remind her of her worthless life? Should I resent her tired, broken heart with new pain?
An intoxicated woman was laughing nearby. Leshka kissed her with wet lips and hissed something incomprehensible. The dishes rattled, the table turned over, and the earth turned over.
We woke up in the woodshed at the restaurant. Someone caring laid them straw, gave them two old blankets. The money has been spent on drink, the requirements for tickets have been lost, and it’s six days' drive to Moscow. I didn't have enough conscience to go to the hospital, to say that they were robbed.
Leshka offered to go without tickets, in the position of beggars. Semyon was even afraid to think about it. He suffered for a long time, but there is nothing to do. We must go, we must eat. Semyon agreed to go through the cars, but he will not say anything, he will pretend to be dumb.

We entered the carriage. Leshka briskly began his speech in his hoarse voice:
- Brothers and sisters, help the unfortunate cripples ...
Semyon walked bent over, as if through a cramped black dungeon. It seemed to him that sharp stones hung over his head. From afar came the rumble of voices, but as soon as he and Leshka approached, this rumble disappeared, and Semyon heard only Leshka and the clinking of coins in his cap. Semyon shivered from this jingle. He lowered his head lower, hiding his eyes, forgetting that they were blind, unable to see reproach, anger, or regret.
The further they went, the more unbearable Leshka's crying voice became for Semyon. It was stuffy in the carriages. There was already absolutely nothing to breathe, when suddenly from the open window the wind smelled in his face, fragrant, meadow, and Semyon was frightened of him, recoiled, hurt his head painfully on the shelf.
We went through the whole train, collected more than two hundred rubles and got off at the station for lunch. Leshka was pleased with the first success, boastfully talking about his happy "planid". Semyon wanted to cut off Leshka, hit him, but even more wanted to get drunk as soon as possible, to get rid of himself.
They drank cognac in three stars, ate crabs, cakes, since there was nothing else in the buffet.
Having got drunk, Leshka found friends in the neighborhood, danced with them to an accordion, bawled songs. Semyon cried at first, then somehow forgot himself, began to stamp, and then sing along, clap his hands and finally began to sing:
And we do not sow, but we do not plow, And an ace, an eight and a jack, And wave a handkerchief from prison, Four on the side - and yours are not ...,
... They again were left without a penny of money at someone else's distant station.
Friends traveled to Moscow for a month. Leshka had become so accustomed to begging that sometimes he even made a joke, singing vulgar jokes. Semyon no longer felt any remorse. He reasoned simply: you need money to get to Moscow - do not steal? And what they drink is temporary. He will come to Moscow, get a job in an artel and take his mother to him, be sure to take her, and maybe even marry. And well, happiness falls out for other cripples, and so does he ...
Semyon sang front-line songs. He held himself confidently, proudly raising his head with dead eyes, shaking his long, thick hair to the beat of the song. And it turned out that he was not asking for alms, but condescendingly taking the remuneration due to him. He had a good voice, the songs came out sincere, the passengers generously served the blind singer.
The passengers especially liked the song, which told about how a soldier was quietly dying in a green meadow, an old birch bent over him. She stretched out her arms to the soldier, as if she were a mother. The soldier tells the birch that a mother and a girl are expecting him in a distant village, but he will not come to them, because he is engaged to "a white birch forever", and that she is now his "bride and mother". In conclusion, the soldier asks: "Sing, my birch, sing, my bride, about the living, about the kind, about people in love - I will sweetly sleep with this song."
It happened that in another carriage Semyon was asked to sing this song several times. Then they carried away with them in their caps not only silver, but also a bunch of paper money.
Upon arrival in Moscow, Leshka flatly refused to go to the artel. Wandering on electric trains, as he said, is not dusty and monetary work. Only and worries to sneak away from the policeman. True, this was not always possible. Then he was sent to a home for the disabled, but he escaped from there safely the next day.
Visited the home for the disabled and Semyon. Well, he said, it was both satisfying and comfortable, the supervision was good, the artists came, and everything seemed as if you were buried in a mass grave. I was also in the artel. "They took it like a thing that they don't know where to put it, and put it on the bench." All day he sat and spanked - stamped some cans. Right and left, the presses clapped, dryly, annoyingly. An iron box rattled across the concrete floor, in which the workpieces were dragged and the finished parts were dragged away. The old man, who was carrying this box, several times approached Semyon and whispered, breathing a tobacco fume:
- You are here for a day, sit another, and ask for another job. If only for a quickdraw. You will earn there. And here the work is hard ", and the earnings are a little ... Don't be silent, but step on your throat, otherwise ... It would be better to take a liter and drink with the master. ...
Semyon listened to the angry talk of the shop, the teachings of the old man and thought that he was not needed here at all, and everything here was alien to him. Especially clearly he felt his restlessness during lunch.
The cars fell silent. I heard the talk and laughter of people. They sat down on workbenches, on boxes, untied their knots, rattling pots, rustling paper. It smelled of homemade pickles, garlic cutlets. Early in the morning, these nodules were collected by the hands of mothers or wives. The working day will end and all these people will go home. There they are awaited, there they are dear. And he? Who cares about him? Nobody will even take you to the dining room, sit without lunch. And so Semyon wanted home warmth, someone's affection ... Go to his mother? “No, it's too late now. Go to waste everything. "
- Comrade, - someone touched Semyon on the shoulder. - Why did you embrace the stamp? Come and eat with us.
Semyon shook his head.
- Well, as you wish, otherwise let's go. Don’t blame.
It always happens like this again, and then you get used to it.
Semyon would have gone home at the same moment, but he did not know the way. Leshka brought him to work and in the evening he had to come for him. But he didn’t come. Semyon was waiting for him for an hour. He was escorted home by a changed watchman.
My hands ached out of habit, my back was breaking. Without washing, without having supper, Semyon went to bed and fell asleep in a heavy, anxious sleep. Leshka woke up. He came drunk, with a drunken company, with bottles of vodka. Semyon began to drink greedily ...
The next day I didn't go to work. Again we went to the carriages.
A long time ago, Semyon stopped pondering over his life, ceased to be upset by his blindness, lived as God would put it on his soul. He sang badly: he broke his voice. Instead of songs, it was a continuous scream. He did not have the same confidence in his gait, pride in the manner of holding his head, there was only impudence. But the generous Muscovites gave it anyway, so they read money from their friends.
After several scandals, Leshka's sister left for an apartment. A beautiful house with carved windows has turned into a den.
Anna Filippovna has aged greatly in recent years. During the war, a husband died somewhere while digging trenches. The announcement of the death of her son finally knocked her down, I thought she would not rise, but somehow everything worked out. After the war, her niece Shura came to her (she had just graduated from college at that time, she got married), came and said: “Why, aunt, are you going to live here as an orphan, sell the house and come to me”. Neighbors condemned Anna Filippovna, they say, it is most important for a person to have his own corner. Whatever happens, but your house and live neither damned nor crumpled. And then you sell the hut, the money will fly by, and then who knows how it will turn out.
It may be that people spoke the truth, but from an early age her niece got used to Anna Filippovna, treated her like her own mother, and sometimes lived with her for several years, because they did not get along with her stepmother. In a word, Anna Filippovna made up her mind. I sold the house and went to Shura's, lived for four years and didn’t complain. And she really liked Moscow.
Today she went to see the dacha, which the young people rented for the summer. She liked the dacha: a garden, a small vegetable garden.
Thinking that the boys need to fix their old shirts, trousers for the village today, she heard a song. In some ways she was familiar to her, and in what way, not to understand. Then I realized - a voice! Understood and shuddered, turned pale.
For a long time she did not dare to look in that direction, she was afraid that the painfully familiar voice would disappear. And yet she looked. She looked ... Senka!
Mother, as if blind, stretched out her hands and went to meet her son. Now she is already next to him, put her hands on his shoulders. And Senkina's shoulders, with sharp little bumps. I wanted to call my son by name and could not - there was no air in my chest and there was not enough strength to breathe.
The blind man fell silent. He felt the woman's hands and was alert.
The passengers saw how the beggar turned pale, how he wanted to say something and could not - he suffocated. The passengers saw how the blind man put his hand on the woman's hair and immediately pulled it back.
"Senya," the woman said softly, weakly.
The passengers got up and awaited his answer in awe.
The blind man at first only moved his lips, and then muffledly said:
- Citizen, you are mistaken. My name is Ivan.
- How! - exclaimed the mother. - Senya, what are you ?! The blind man pushed her aside and with a quick uneven gait
went on and did not sing any more.
The passengers saw how the woman looked after the beggar and whispered: "He, he." There were no tears in her eyes, only pleading and suffering. Then they disappeared, and anger remained. The terrible anger of the offended mother ...
She lay in a heavy swoon on the sofa. An elderly man was bending over her, probably a doctor. The passengers whispered to each other to disperse, to give access to fresh air, but did not disperse.
“Maybe she was wrong?” Someone asked hesitantly.
- Mother will not be mistaken, - the gray-haired woman answered,
- So why didn't he confess?
- But how can one admit it?
- Silly...
A few minutes later, Semyon entered and asked:
- Where is my mother?
“You no longer have a mother,” the doctor replied.
Wheels knocked. For a minute, Semyon, as if he had received his sight, saw people, was frightened of them and began to back away. The cap fell out of my hands; crumbled, rolled on the floor, a little, cold and useless tinkling ...

German Sadulaev

VICTORY DAY

Old people sleep little. In youth, time seems like an irredeemable ruble, the time of an elderly person is a copper trifle. Wrinkled hands are carefully stacked in piles minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day: how much is left? Sorry every night.

He woke up at half past five. There was no need to get up so early. Even if he did not get out of his bed at all, and sooner or later it should have happened, no one would notice. He could not get up at all. Moreover, so early. In recent years, he increasingly wanted not to wake up one day. But not today. Today was a special day.

Alexey Pavlovich Rodin got up from an old creaking bed in a one-room apartment on the street ... in old Tallinn, went to the toilet, relieved his bladder. In the bathroom I began to tidy myself up. He washed, brushed his teeth, and took a long time to scrape the stubble from his chin and cheeks with a battered razor. Then he washed his face again, rinsing off the remaining soap suds, and refreshed his face with aftershave lotion.

Walking into the room, Rodin stood in front of a wardrobe with a cracked mirror. The mirror reflected his well-worn body in old scars, dressed in faded underpants and a T-shirt. Rodin opened the closet door and changed the linen. For another couple of minutes he looked at his ceremonial tunic with order medals. Then he took out the shirt ironed the day before and put on his uniform.

Immediately, as if twenty years fell off the shoulders. In the dim light of the chandelier, dim with time, the captain's shoulder straps burned brightly.

Already at eight o'clock, Rodin met at the front of his house with another veteran, Vakha Sultanovich Aslanov. Together with Vakha, they went through half-wars, in the same reconnaissance company of the First Belorussian Front. By 1944, Vakha was already a senior sergeant and had a medal "For Courage". When the news of the eviction of the Chechens came, Vakha was in the hospital after being wounded. Immediately from the hospital he was transferred to the penal battalion. No guilt, ethnicity. Rodin, then a senior lieutenant, went to the authorities, asked to return Vakha. The intercession of the commander did not help. Vakha ended the war in a penal battalion and immediately after demobilization was sent to settle in Kazakhstan.

Rodin was demobilized in 1946, with the rank of captain, and was assigned to serve in Tallinn as an instructor in the city party committee.

Then there was only one "n" in the name of this city, but my computer has a new spell checking system, I will write Tallinn with two "l" and two "n" so that the text editor does not swear or underline this word with a red wavy line ...

After the rehabilitation of the Chechens in 1957, Rodin found his front-line comrade. He made inquiries, taking advantage of his official position - by this time Rodin was already the head of the department. The homeland was even more successful than just finding Vakha, he procured his summons to Tallinn, found him a job, helped with an apartment and a residence permit. Vakha has arrived. Rodin, starting his troubles, feared that Vakha would not want to leave his native land. He made sure that Vakha was able to move his family.

But Vakha arrived alone. He had no one to transport. The wife and child died during the eviction. They contracted typhus in a boxcar and died suddenly. Parents died in Kazakhstan. Vakha has no close relatives left. This is probably why it was easy for him to leave Chechnya.

Then there was ... life. Life? .. probably then there was a whole life. There was good and bad in her. True, a lifetime. After all, sixty years have passed. As many as sixty years have passed since the end of that war.

Yes, it was a very special day. Sixtieth anniversary of the victory.

Sixty years is all life. Even more. For those who did not return from the war, who remained twenty years old, these are three lives. It seemed to the homeland that he was living these lives for those who did not return. No, this is not just a metaphor. Sometimes he thought: for these twenty years I have been living for Sergeant Savelyev, who was blown up by a mine. For the next twenty years I will live for Private Talgatov, who died in the first battle. Then Rodin thought: no, I won't be able to do much this way. Better for ten years. After all, living to thirty is no longer so bad. Then I will have time to live for three more of my dead soldiers.

Yes, sixty years is a lot! A lifetime or six appendages to the tattered lives of dead soldiers.

And yet this is ... if not less, then probably the same as four years of war.

I don’t know how to explain it, others have already explained it much better before me. A person lives for four years in the war, or six months in the Arctic wintering, or a year in a Buddhist monastery, then he lives for a long time, another whole life, but that period of time remains the longest, the most important for him. Maybe because of emotional stress, because of the simplicity and brightness of sensations, maybe it is called something else. Maybe our life is measured not by time, but by the movement of the heart.

He will always remember, he will check his present with that time, which will never turn into the past for him. And the comrades who were next to him then will remain the closest, most loyal.

And not because good people will never meet again. It's just that those others ... they won't understand much, no matter how you explain it. And with your own people, you can even just keep quiet with them.

As with Vakha. Sometimes Rodin and Vakha drank together, sometimes they argued and even quarreled, sometimes they just kept silent. Life was different, yes ...

Rodin got married and lived in marriage for twelve years. His wife received a divorce and left for Sverdlovsk, to her parents. Rodin had no children. But Vakha probably had many children. He himself did not know how much. But Vakha did not marry. Vakha was still that reveler.

Neither one nor the other have made a great career. But in Soviet times, respected people retired on a decent pension. They stayed in Tallinn. Where were they to go?

Then everything began to change.

Rodin did not want to think about it.

It's just that everything has changed. And he ended up in a foreign country, where it was forbidden to wear Soviet orders and medals, where they, who had fed the earth with their blood from Brest to Moscow and back to Berlin, were called occupiers.

They were not invaders. Better than many other Rodins, he knew about everything that was wrong that was happening in that country that had sunk into oblivion. But then, those four years ... no, they were not invaders. Rodin did not understand this anger of prosperous Estonians, who even under Soviet rule lived better than the Russian people somewhere in the Urals.

After all, even Vakha, Rodin was ready that after the eviction, after that monstrous injustice, the tragedy of his people, Vakha would begin to hate the Soviet Union and especially the Russians. But it turned out that this is not the case. Vakha saw too much. In the penal battalion there are Russian officers who heroically escaped from captivity and for this were demoted to the rank and file, overcrowded zones and prisons. Once Rodin asked bluntly whether Vakha blamed the Russians for what had happened.

Vakha said that the Russians suffered more from all this than other peoples. And Stalin was generally Georgian, although that doesn't matter.

And Vakha said that together, together, they not only sat in the zones. Together they defeated the fascists, sent a man into space, built socialism in a poor and devastated country. All this was done together, and all this - and not just the camps - was called: the Soviet Union.

And today they donned front-line orders and medals. Today was their day. They even went into a bar and took a hundred grams of frontline, yes. And there, in a bar, young men in fashionable military uniforms with stripes stylized as "SS" symbols called them Russian pigs, old drunkards, and tore off their awards. They also called Vakha a Russian pig. The knife, it was just lying on the counter, probably the bartender was chopping ice with it.

Vakha thrust him between the ribs of the young Estonian with a precise blow.

There was also a telephone on the counter, and Rodin threw its cord like a noose around the neck of another SS man. There is no longer that strength in the hands, but it is not even needed, every movement of the old scout has been worked out to automatism. The foolish boy wheezed and fell to the floor.

They returned to that present time. They were again Soviet intelligence officers, and there were enemies around. And everything was right and simple.

They were young for another five minutes.

While they were kicked to death on the wooden floor.

And I don't feel sorry for them at all. I just dare not humiliate them with my pity.

IN Krupin AND YOU SMILE!

On Sunday, a very important issue was to be decided at a meeting of our housing cooperative. They even collected signatures so that there was a turnout. But I could not go - I could not take the children anywhere, and my wife was on a business trip.

I went for a walk with them. Although it was winter, it was melting, and we began to sculpt a snow woman, but it was not a woman who came out, but a snowman with a beard, that is, dad. The children demanded to sculpt their mother - then themselves, then the relatives went further away.

There was a wire mesh fence next to us for hockey, but there was no ice in it, and the teenagers were playing football. And they drove very recklessly. So that we were constantly distracted from our sculptures. The teenagers had a saying: "And you smile!" She stuck to them all. Either they took it from which film, or invented it themselves. The first time she flashed was when one of the teenagers was hit in the face with a wet ball. "It hurts!" he shouted. "And you smile!" - They answered him with a friendly laugh. The teenager flushed, but pulled himself back - a game, at whom to be offended, but I noticed that he began to play more angrily and more secretly. He would lay in wait for the ball and hit, sometimes not passing to his own people, but slapping into rivals.

Their game was cruel: the boys had seen enough TV. When someone was knocked down, pressed to the wire, pushed aside, they shouted triumphantly: "Power reception!"

My children quit sculpting and watched. The guys have a new passing fun - throwing snowballs. Moreover, they did not immediately start aiming at each other, at first they aimed at the ball, then at the leg at the moment of impact, and soon, as they shouted, "a power struggle all over the field" began. They, it seemed to me, were fighting - so rough and fierce were the collisions, blows, snowballs rushed with all their might at any place of the body. Moreover, the teenagers were happy when they saw that the opponent was hit, and it hurt. "And you smile!" - shouted to him. And he smiled and responded in kind. It was not a fight, because it was covered with a game, sports terms, score. But what was it?

Then the people reached out from the meeting of the housing cooperative. Parents took the teenagers to dinner. The chairman of the ZhSK stopped and chided me for not attending the meeting.

You can't stand aside. We discussed the issue of adolescents. You see, there are so many cases of teenage cruelty. We need to distract, we need to develop sports. We decided to make another hockey field.

"And you smile!" - I suddenly heard the cry of my children. They shot snowballs fashioned from snow and dad, and mom, and themselves, and all their relatives.

Ray Bradbury "And Thunder Came"