Erich Maria remarque on the Western Front read. No change on the Western Front

No change on the Western Front

Year and place of first publication: 1928, Germany; 1929, USA

Publishers: Impropilaen-Verlag; Little, Brown and Company

Literary form: novel

He was killed in October 1918, on one of those days when it was so quiet and calm along the entire front that military reports consisted of only one phrase: “No change on the Western Front.”

He fell face forward and lay in a sleeping position. When they turned him over, it became clear that he must not have suffered for long - he had such a calm expression on his face, as if he was even pleased that everything ended that way. (Hereinafter, the translation “All Quiet on the Western Front” - Yu. Afonkina.)

The final passage of Remarque's popular novel not only conveys the absurdity of the death of this unknown soldier, but also ironizes the reports of official wartime sources that no changes were taking place at the front, while thousands of people continued to die every day from their wounds (the German title of the novel is " Im Western Nicht Neues" translates as "nothing new in the West"). The last paragraph emphasizes the ambiguity of the title, it is the quintessence of the bitterness that fills the entire work.

Many nameless soldiers are on both sides of the trenches. They are just bodies, dumped in shell craters, mutilated, scattered haphazardly: “A naked soldier was stuck between a trunk and one branch. He still has a helmet on his head, but he has nothing else on him. There, up there, sits only half a soldier, the upper torso, without legs.” The young Frenchman fell behind during the retreat: “They cut his face with a blow from a shovel.”

Unknown soldiers - background, background. The main characters of the novel are Paul Bäumer, the narrator, and his comrades in the second company, mainly Albert Kropp, his close friend, and the group leader Stanislaus Katczynski (Kat). Katchinsky is forty years old, the rest are eighteen to nineteen. These are ordinary guys: Müller, who dreams of passing the exams; Tjaden, mechanic; Haye Westhus, peat worker; Detering, peasant.

The action of the novel begins nine kilometers from the front line. Soldiers "rest" after two weeks on the front line. Of the one hundred and fifty people who went on the attack, only eighty returned. Former idealists, they are now filled with anger and disappointment; The catalyst is a letter from Kantorek, their old school teacher. It was he who convinced everyone to volunteer for the front, saying that otherwise they would turn out to be cowards.

“They should have helped us, eighteen years old, enter the time of maturity, into the world of work, duty, culture and progress, and become mediators between us and our future. […]...deep down in our hearts we believed them. Recognizing their authority, we mentally associated knowledge of life and foresight with this concept. But as soon as we saw the first killed, this belief dissipated into dust. […] The very first artillery shelling revealed our delusion to us, and under this fire the worldview that they instilled in us collapsed.”

This motif is repeated in Paul's conversation with his parents before his departure. They demonstrate complete ignorance of the realities of war, living conditions at the front and the ordinariness of death. “The food here, of course, is worse, this is quite understandable, of course, but how could it be otherwise, the best is for our soldiers...” They argue about which territories should be annexed and how military operations should be conducted. Paul is unable to tell them the truth.

Brief sketches of soldier's life are given in the first few chapters: the inhumane treatment of recruits by corporals; the terrible death of his classmate after amputation of his leg; bread and cheese; terrible living conditions; flashes of fear and horror, explosions and screams. Experience forces them to mature, and it is not only the military trenches that cause suffering to naive recruits unprepared for such tests. The “idealized and romantic” ideas about war have been lost. They understand that “... the classical ideal of the fatherland, which our teachers painted for us, has so far found real embodiment here in such a complete renunciation of one’s personality...” They have been cut off from their youth and the opportunity to grow up normally, they do not think about the future.

After the main battle, Paul says: “Today we would wander around our native places like visiting tourists. A curse hangs over us - the cult of facts. We distinguish between things like traders and understand necessity like butchers. We stopped being careless, we became terribly indifferent. Let us assume that we remain alive; but will we live?

Paul experiences the full depth of this alienation during his leave. Despite recognition of his merits and a strong desire to join life behind the lines, he understands that he is an outsider. He can't get close to his family; Of course, he is unable to reveal the truth about his horror-filled experience, he only asks them for consolation. Sitting in a chair in his room, with his books, he tries to grasp the past and imagine the future. His front-line comrades are his only reality.

The terrible rumors turn out to be true. They are accompanied by stacks of brand new yellow coffins and extra portions of food. They come under enemy bombing. The shells shatter fortifications, crash into embankments and destroy concrete coverings. The fields are pitted with craters. Recruits lose control of themselves and are restrained by force. Those going on the attack are covered with machine gun fire and grenades. Fear gives way to anger.

“We are no longer powerless victims, lying on the scaffold awaiting our fate; now we can destroy and kill in order to save ourselves, in order to save ourselves and avenge ourselves... Huddled into a ball, like cats, we run, caught up in this wave that irresistibly carries us along, which makes us cruel, turns us into bandits, murderers, I would say - into devils, and, instilling fear, rage and thirst for life in us, increases our strength tenfold - a wave that helps us find the path to salvation and defeat death. If your father had been among the attackers, you would not have hesitated to throw a grenade at him too!”

Attacks alternate with counterattacks, and “more and more dead gradually accumulate on the crater-filled field between the two lines of trenches.” When it's all over and the company gets a break, only thirty-two people remain.

In another situation, the “anonymity” of trench warfare is broken. While scouting enemy positions, Paul is separated from his group and finds himself on French territory. He hides in an explosion crater, surrounded by exploding shells and the sounds of an advance. He is exhausted to the extreme, armed only with fear and a knife. When a body falls on him, he automatically plunges a knife into it and after that shares the crater with the dying Frenchman, he begins to perceive him not as an enemy, but as just a person. Tries to bandage his wounds. He is tormented by guilt:

“Comrade, I didn’t want to kill you. If you had jumped here again, I would not have done what I did - of course, if you had behaved prudently. But before you were just an abstract concept for me, a combination of ideas that lived in my brain and prompted me to make my decision. It was this combination that I killed. Now only I see that you are the same person as me. I only remembered that you had weapons: grenades, a bayonet; now I look at your face, think about your wife and see what we both have in common. Forgive me, comrade! We always see things too late."

There is a respite in the battle, and then they are taken out of the village. During the march, Paul and Albert Kropp are wounded, Albert seriously. They are sent to the hospital, they are afraid of amputation; Kropp loses his leg; he does not want to live as a “disabled person.” Recovering, Paul limps around the hospital, enters the wards, looking at the mutilated bodies:

“But this is only one infirmary, only one department of it! There are hundreds of thousands of them in Germany, hundreds of thousands in France, hundreds of thousands in Russia. How meaningless is everything that is written, done and thought about by people, if such things are possible in the world! To what extent is our thousand-year-old civilization deceitful and worthless if it could not even prevent these flows of blood, if it allowed hundreds of thousands of such dungeons to exist in the world. Only in the infirmary do you see with your own eyes what war is.”

He returns to the front, the war continues, death continues. One by one, friends die. Detering, house-crazed and dreaming of seeing the cherry tree in blossom, tries to desert but is caught. Only Paul, Kat and Tjaden remain alive. At the end of the summer of 1918, Kat is wounded in the leg, Paul tries to drag him to the medical unit. In a semi-fainting state, stumbling and falling, he reaches the dressing station. He comes to his senses and learns that Kat died while they were walking, he was hit in the head by a shrapnel.

In the fall, talk about a truce begins. Paul reflects on the future:

“Yes, they won’t understand us, because before us there is an older generation who, although they spent all these years with us at the front, already had their own family home and profession and will now again take their place in society and forget about the war, and behind them is growing a generation that reminds us of what we used to be; and for it we will be strangers, it will push us astray. We don’t need ourselves, we will live and grow old - some will adapt, others will submit to fate, and many will not find a place for themselves. Years will pass and we will leave the stage.”

CENSORSHIP HISTORY

The novel “All Quiet on the Western Front” was published in Germany in 1928, by which time the National Socialists had already become a powerful political force. In the socio-political context of the post-war decade, the novel was extremely popular: 600 thousand copies were sold before it was published in the United States. But it also caused considerable resentment. The National Socialists considered it an insult to their ideals of home and fatherland. The outrage resulted in political pamphlets directed against the book. In 1930 it was banned in Germany. In 1933, all of Remarque's works went to the infamous bonfires. On May 10, the first large-scale demonstration took place in front of the University of Berlin, students collected 25 thousand volumes of Jewish authors; 40 thousand “unenthusiastic” people watched the action. Similar demonstrations took place at other universities. In Munich, 5 thousand children took part in a demonstration during which books branded as Marxist and anti-German were burned.

Remarque, undeterred by the vicious protests against his books, published a continuation of the novel in 1930, “The Return.” In 1932, he fled Nazi persecution to Switzerland and then to the United States.

Bans also took place in other European countries. In 1929, Austrian soldiers were forbidden to read the book, and in Czechoslovakia it was removed from military libraries. In 1933, the translation of the novel was banned in Italy for anti-war propaganda.

In 1929, in the United States, the publishers Little, Brown and Company agreed with the recommendations of the Book of the Month Club jury, who chose the novel as the book of June, to make some changes to the text; they crossed out three words, five phrases and two entire episodes: one about a temporary restroom and a scene in a hospital when a married couple, who have not seen each other for two years, make love. The publishers argued that “some words and expressions are too crude for our American edition” and without these changes there could be problems with federal and Massachusetts laws. A decade later, another case of text censorship was made public by Remarque himself. Putnam refused to publish the book in 1929, despite its enormous success in Europe. As the author says, “some idiot said that he would not publish the book of the Hun.”

However, All Quiet on the Western Front was banned in 1929 in Boston on the grounds of obscenity. That same year, in Chicago, US Customs seized copies of the English translation of the book, which had not been “edited.” In addition, the novel is listed as banned in the People for the American Way's study of school censorship, "Assaults on Freedom of Education, 1987-1988"; The reason here was “indecent language.” Censors are being asked to change tactics and use these protests instead of traditional accusations such as “globalism” or “far-right scare talk.” Jonathan Green, in his Encyclopedia of Censorship, names All Quiet on the Western Front as one of the “especially frequently” banned books.

"All Quiet on the Western Front"(German: Im Westen nichts Neues - “ No change in the West") is a novel by Erich Maria Remarque, published in 1929. In the preface the author says: “This book is neither an accusation nor a confession. This is only an attempt to tell about the generation that was destroyed by the war, about those who became its victims, even if they escaped from the shells.” The title of the novel is a slightly modified formula from German reports on the progress of military operations on the Western Front.

The anti-war novel tells about everything experienced at the front by the young soldier Paul Bäumer, as well as his front-line comrades in the First World War. Like Ernest Hemingway, Remarque used the concept of “lost generation” to describe young people who, due to mental trauma they received in the war, were unable to settle into civilian life. Remarque's work thus stood in sharp contradiction with the right-wing conservative military literature that prevailed during the era of the Weimar Republic, which, as a rule, tried to justify the war lost by Germany and glorify its soldiers.

Remarque describes the events of the war from the perspective of a simple soldier.

Publication history

The writer offered his manuscript “All Quiet on the Western Front” to the most authoritative and famous publisher in the Weimar Republic, Samuel Fischer. Fisher confirmed the high literary quality of the text, but refused publication on the grounds that in 1928 no one would want to read a book about the First World War. Fischer later admitted that this was one of the most significant mistakes of his career.

Following the advice of his friend, Remarque brought the text of the novel to the publishing house Haus Ullstein, where, by order of the company's management, it was accepted for publication. On August 29, 1928, a contract was signed. But the publisher was also not entirely sure that such a specific novel about the First World War would be a success. The contract contained a clause according to which, if the novel was not successful, the author must work off the costs of publication as a journalist. To be on the safe side, the publishing house provided advance copies of the novel to various categories of readers, including veterans of the First World War. As a result of critical comments from readers and literary scholars, Remarque is urged to rework the text, especially some particularly critical statements about the war. A copy of the manuscript that was in the New Yorker speaks about the serious adjustments to the novel made by the author. For example, the latest edition lacks the following text:

We killed people and made war; we cannot forget about this, because we are at an age when thoughts and actions had the strongest connection with each other. We are not hypocrites, we are not timid, we are not burghers, we keep our eyes open and do not close our eyes. We do not justify anything by necessity, idea, Motherland - we fought people and killed them, people we did not know and who did nothing to us; what will happen when we return to our previous relationships and confront people who interfere with us and hinder us?<…>What should we do with the goals that are offered to us? Only memories and my vacation days convinced me that the dual, artificial, invented order called “society” cannot calm us down and will not give us anything. We will remain isolated and we will grow, we will try; some will be quiet, while others will not want to part with their weapons.

Original text (German)

Wir haben Menschen getötet und Krieg geführt; Das ist für uns nicht zu vergessen, denn wir sind in dem Alter, wo Gedanke und Tat wohl die stärkste Beziehung zueinander haben. Wir sind nicht verlogen, nicht ängstlich, nicht bürgerglich, wir sehen mit beiden Augen und schließen sie nicht. Wir entschuldigen nichts mit Notwendigkeit, mit Ideen, mit Staatsgründen, wir haben Menschen bekämpft und getötet, die wir nicht kannten, die uns nichts taten; was wird geschehen, wenn wir zurückkommen in frühere Verhältnisse und Menschen gegenüberstehen, die uns hemmen, hinder und stützen wollen?<…>Was wollen wir mit diesen Zielen anfangen, die man uns bietet? Nur die Erinnerung und meine Urlaubstage haben mich schon überzeugt, daß die halbe, geflickte, künstliche Ordnung, die man Gesellschaft nennt, uns nicht beschwichtigen und umgreifen kann. Wir werden isoliert bleiben und aufwachsen, wir werden uns Mühe geben, manche werden still werden und manche die Waffen nicht weglegen wollen.

Translation by Mikhail Matveev

Finally, in the fall of 1928, the final version of the manuscript appeared. November 8, 1928, on the eve of the tenth anniversary of the armistice, Berlin newspaper "Vossische Zeitung", part of the Haus Ullstein concern, publishes a “preliminary text” of the novel. The author of “All Quiet on the Western Front” appears to the reader as an ordinary soldier, without any literary experience, who describes his experiences of the war in order to “speak out” and free himself from mental trauma. The introduction to the publication was as follows:

Vossische Zeitung feels “obligated” to open this “authentic”, free and thus “genuine” documentary account of the war.

Original text (German)

Die Vossische Zeitung fühle sich „verpflichtet“, diesen „authentischen“, tendenzlosen und damit „wahren“ dokumentarischen über den Krieg zu veröffentlichen.

Translation by Mikhail Matveev

This is how the legend about the origin of the novel’s text and its author arose. On November 10, 1928, excerpts of the novel began to be published in the newspaper. The success exceeded the wildest expectations of the Haus Ullstein concern - the newspaper's circulation increased several times, the editor received a huge number of letters from readers admiring such an “unvarnished portrayal of the war.”

At the time of the book's release on January 29, 1929, there were approximately 30,000 pre-orders, which forced the concern to print the novel in several printing houses at once. All Quiet on the Western Front became Germany's best-selling book of all time. As of May 7, 1929, 500 thousand copies of the book had been published. The book version of the novel was published in 1929, after which it was translated into 26 languages, including Russian, in the same year. The most famous translation into Russian is by Yuri Afonkin.

After publication

The book caused a heated public debate, and its film adaptation, thanks to the efforts of the NSDAP, was banned in Germany on December 11, 1930 by the Film Control Board; the author responded to these events in 1931 or 1932 with the article “Are My Books Tendentious?” With the Nazis coming to power, this and other books by Remarque were banned, and on May 10, 1933 they were publicly burned by the Nazis. In his 1957 essay “Sight is very deceptive,” Remarque wrote about curiosity:

Main characters

Paul Beumer- the main character on whose behalf the story is told. At the age of 19, Paul was voluntarily drafted (like his entire class) into the German army and sent to the Western Front, where he had to face the harsh realities of military life. Died on October 11, 1918.

Albert Kropp- Paul’s classmate, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “short Albert Kropp is the brightest head in our company.” Lost my leg. Was sent to the rear. One of those who went through the war.

Muller the Fifth- Paul’s classmate, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “... still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing preferential exams; under hurricane fire he crams the laws of physics.” He was killed by a flare that hit him in the stomach.

Leer- Paul’s classmate, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “wears a thick beard and has a weakness for girls.” The same fragment that tore off Bertinka’s chin rips open Leer’s thigh. Dies from loss of blood.

Franz Kemmerich- Paul’s classmate, who served with him in the same company. Before the events of the novel, he is seriously injured, leading to the amputation of his leg. A few days after the operation, Kemmerich dies.

Joseph Boehm- Bäumer's classmate. Bem was the only one from the class who did not want to volunteer for the army, despite Kantorek's patriotic speeches. However, under the influence of his class teacher and loved ones, he enlisted in the army. Bem was one of the first to die, three months before the official draft deadline.

Stanislav Katchinsky (Kat)- served with Beumer in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “the soul of our squad, a man with character, smart and cunning - he is forty years old, he has a sallow face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders and an extraordinary nose for when the shelling will begin, where he can to get hold of food and how best to hide from the authorities.” The example of Katchinsky clearly shows the difference between adult soldiers who have extensive life experience behind them, and young soldiers for whom war is their whole life. In the summer of 1918 he was wounded in the leg, shattering the tibia. Paul managed to take him to the orderlies, but on the way Kat was wounded in the head and died.

Tjaden- one of Bäumer’s non-school friends, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “a mechanic, a frail young man of the same age as us, the most gluttonous soldier in the company - he sits down for food thin and slender, and after eating, he stands up pot-bellied like a sucked bug.” Has urinary system disorders, which is why he sometimes pees in his sleep. He went through the war to the end - one of 32 survivors from the entire company of Paul Bäumer. Appears in Remarque's next novel, "Return".

Haye Westhus- one of Bäumer’s friends, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “our peer, a peat worker who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask, “Well, guess what’s in my fist?” Tall, strong, not particularly smart, but a young man with a good sense of humor. He was carried out from under fire with a torn back. Died.

Detering- one of Bäumer’s non-school friends, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife.” Deserted to Germany. Was caught. Further fate is unknown.

Kantorek- class teacher of Paul, Leer, Müller, Kropp, Kemmerich and Böhm. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “a stern little man in a gray frock coat, with a face like a mouse.” Kantorek was an ardent supporter of the war and encouraged all his students to volunteer for the war. Later he himself ended up in the army, and even under the command of his former student. Further fate is unknown.

Bertink- Paul's company commander. Treats his subordinates well and is loved by them. Paul describes him as follows: “a real front-line soldier, one of those officers who are always ahead of any obstacle.” While saving the company from a flamethrower, he received a through wound in the chest. My chin was torn off by a shrapnel. Dies in the same battle.

Corporal Himmelstoss- commander of the department in which Bäumer and his friends underwent military training. Paul describes him as follows: “He was reputed to be the most ferocious tyrant in our barracks and was proud of it. A small, stocky man who had served for twelve years, with a bright red, curled mustache, a former postman.” He was especially cruel to Kropp, Tjaden, Bäumer and Westhus. Later he was sent to the front in Paul's company, where he tried to make amends. He helped carry out Haye Westhus when his back was torn, and then he replaced the cook who went on vacation. Further fate is unknown.

Joseph Hamacher- one of the patients of the Catholic hospital in which Paul Beumer and Albert Kropp were temporarily housed. He is well versed in the work of the hospital, and, in addition, has “absolution of sins.” This certificate, issued to him after being shot in the head, confirms that at times he is insane. However, Hamacher is completely mentally healthy, and uses the evidence to his advantage.

Publications in Russia

In the USSR, it was first published in Roman-Gazeta No. 2 (56) for 1930, translated by S. Myatezhny and P. Cherevin under the title “All Quiet in the West.” Because of Radek's preface, after 1937 editions of this translation ended up in the Spetskhran. In the 1959 edition (translated by Yu. Afonkin), the novel is titled “All Quiet on the Western Front.”

Film adaptations

The work has been filmed several times.

Soviet writer Nikolai Brykin wrote a novel about the First World War, entitled “Changes on the Eastern Front” (1975).

“War spares no one.” This is true. Whether it is a defender or an aggressor, a soldier or a civilian, no one, looking into the face of death, will remain the same. No one is prepared for the horrors of war. Perhaps this is what Erich Remarque, the author of the work “All Quiet on the Western Front,” wanted to say.

History of the novel

There was a lot of controversy surrounding this work. Therefore, it would be correct to start with the history of the birth of the novel before presenting a summary. “All Quiet on the Western Front” Erich Maria Remarque wrote as a participant in those terrible events.

He went to the front in the early summer of 1917. Remarque spent several weeks on the front line, was wounded in August and remained in the hospital until the end of the war. But all the time he corresponded with his friend Georg Middendorf, who remained in position.

Remarque asked to report in as much detail as possible about life at the front and did not hide the fact that he wanted to write a book about the war. The summary begins with these events (“All Quiet on the Western Front”). Fragments of the novel contain a cruel but real picture of the terrible trials that befell the soldiers.

The war ended, but the lives of none of them returned to their previous course.

The company is resting

In the first chapter, the author shows the real life of soldiers - unheroic, terrifying. He emphasizes the extent to which the cruelty of war changes people - moral principles are lost, values ​​are lost. This is the generation that was destroyed by the war, even those who escaped the shells. The novel “All Quiet on the Western Front” begins with these words.

Rested soldiers go to breakfast. The cook prepared food for the entire company - 150 people. They want to take extra helpings of their fallen comrades. The main concern of the cook is not to give out anything beyond the norm. And only after a heated argument and the intervention of the company commander does the cook distribute all the food.

Kemmerich, one of Paul's classmates, was hospitalized with a thigh wound. The friends go to the infirmary, where they are informed that the guy’s leg has been amputated. Muller, seeing his strong English boots, argues that a one-legged man does not need them. The wounded man writhes in unbearable pain, and, in exchange for cigarettes, his friends persuade one of the orderlies to give their friend an injection of morphine. They left there with heavy hearts.

Kantorek, their teacher who persuaded them to join the army, sent them a pompous letter. He calls them “iron youth.” But the guys are no longer touched by words about patriotism. They unanimously accuse the class teacher of exposing them to the horrors of war. This is how the first chapter ends. Its summary. “All Quiet on the Western Front” reveals chapter by chapter the characters, feelings, aspirations, and dreams of these young guys who find themselves face to face with the war.

Death of a friend

Paul remembers his life before the war. As a student, he wrote poetry. Now he feels empty and cynical. All this seems so far away to him. Pre-war life is a vague, unrealistic dream that has no relation to the world created by the war. Paul feels completely cut off from humanity.

At school they were taught that patriotism requires the suppression of individuality and personality. Paul's platoon was trained by Himmelstoss. The former postman was a small, stocky man who tirelessly humiliated his recruits. Paul and his friends hated Himmelstoss. But Paul now knows that those humiliations and discipline toughened them up and probably helped them survive.

Kemmerich is close to death. He is saddened by the fact that he will never become the chief forester, as he dreamed. Paul sits next to his friend, comforting him and assuring him that he will get better and return home. Kemmerich says he is giving his boots to Müller. He becomes ill, and Paul goes to look for a doctor. When he returns, his friend is already dead. The body is immediately removed from the bed to make room.

It would seem that the summary of the second chapter ended with what cynical words. “All Quiet on the Western Front,” from chapter 4 of the novel, will reveal the true essence of the war. Once you come into contact with it, a person will not remain the same. War hardens, makes you indifferent - to orders, to blood, to death. She will never leave a person, but will always be with him - in memory, in body, in soul.

Young replenishment

A group of recruits arrives at the company. They are a year younger than Paul and his friends, which makes them feel like grizzled veterans. There is not enough food and blankets. Paul and his friends remember the barracks where they were recruits with longing. Himmelstoss's humiliations seem idyllic compared to real war. The guys remember the drill in the barracks and discuss the war.

Tjaden arrives and excitedly reports that Himmelstoss has arrived at the front. They remember his bullying and decide to take revenge on him. One night, as he was returning from the pub, they threw bedclothes over his head, took off his trousers and beat him with a whip, muffling his screams with a pillow. They retreated so quickly that Himmelstoss never found out who his offenders were.

Night shelling

The company is sent at night to the front line for sapper work. Paul reflects that for a soldier the land takes on a new meaning at the front: it saves him. Here ancient animal instincts awaken, which save many people if you obey them without hesitation. At the front, the instinct of the beast awakens in men, Paul argues. He understands how much a person degrades, surviving in inhuman conditions. This is clearly evident from the summary of “All Quiet on the Western Front.”

Chapter 4 will shed light on what it was like for young, unexamined boys to find themselves at the front. During the shelling, a recruit lies next to Paul, clinging to him, as if seeking protection. When the shots died down a little, he admitted with horror that he had defecated in his pants. Paul explains to the boy that many soldiers face this problem. You can hear the painful neighing of wounded horses struggling in agony. The soldiers finish them off, saving them from suffering.

The shelling begins with renewed vigor. Paul crawled out of his hiding place and saw that the same boy who was clinging to him out of fear was seriously wounded.

Terrifying reality

The fifth chapter begins with a description of the unsanitary living conditions at the front. The soldiers sit, stripped to the waist, crushing lice and discussing what they will do after the war. They calculated that out of twenty people from their class, only twelve remained. Seven are dead, four are wounded, and one has gone mad. They mockingly repeat the questions that Kantorek asked them at school. Paul has no idea what he will do after the war. Kropp concludes that the war has destroyed everything. They cannot believe in anything other than war.

The fighting continues

The company is sent to the front line. Their path lies through the school, along the facade of which there are brand new coffins. Hundreds of coffins. The soldiers joke about this. But on the front line it turns out that the enemy has received reinforcements. Everyone is in a depressed mood. Night and day pass in tense anticipation. They sit in trenches where disgusting fat rats scurry about.

The soldier has no choice but to wait. Days pass before the earth begins to shake with explosions. Almost nothing remained of their trench. Trial by fire is too much of a shock for new recruits. One of them became furious and tried to escape. Apparently he's gone crazy. The soldiers tie him up, but the other recruit manages to escape.

Another night has passed. Suddenly the nearby explosions stop. The enemy begins to attack. German soldiers repulse the attack and reach enemy positions. All around are the screams and groans of the wounded, mutilated corpses. Paul and his comrades need to return. But before doing this, they greedily grab cans of stew and note that the enemy has much better conditions than them.

Paul reminisces about the past. These memories hurt. Suddenly the fire fell on their positions with renewed force. Chemical attacks claim the lives of many. They die a painful, slow death from suffocation. Everyone runs out of their hiding places. But Himmelstoss hides in a trench and pretends to be wounded. Paul tries to drive him out with blows and threats.

There are explosions all around, and it seems that the whole earth is bleeding. New soldiers are brought in to replace them. The commander calls their company to the vehicles. The roll call begins. Of the 150 people, thirty-two remained.

After reading the summary of “All Quiet on the Western Front,” we see that the company twice suffers huge losses. The heroes of the novel return to duty. But the worst thing is another war. War against degradation, against stupidity. War with yourself. But here victory is not always on your side.

Paul goes home

The company is sent to the rear, where it will be reorganized. Having experienced horror before the battles, Himmelstoss tries to “rehabilitate himself” - he gets good food for the soldiers and an easy job. Away from the trenches they try to joke. But the humor becomes too bitter and dark.

Paul gets seventeen days of vacation. In six weeks he must report to the training unit, and then to the front. He wonders how many of his friends will survive during this time. Paul arrives in his hometown and sees that the civilian population is starving. He learns from his sister that his mother has cancer. Relatives ask Paul how things are going at the front. But he doesn't have enough words to describe all this horror.

Paul sits in his bedroom with his books and paintings, trying to bring back his childhood feelings and desires, but the memories are only shadows. His identity as a soldier is the only thing he has now. The end of the holiday approaches, and Paul visits the mother of Kemmerich's deceased friend. She wants to know how he died. Paul lies to her that her son died without suffering or pain.

Mother sits with Paul in the bedroom all last night. He pretends to be asleep, but notices that his mother is in severe pain. He makes her go to bed. Paul returns to his room, and from the surge of feelings, from hopelessness, he squeezes the iron bars of the bed and thinks that it would be better if he had not come. It only got worse. Sheer pain - from pity for her mother, for herself, from the realization that there is no end to this horror.

Camp with prisoners of war

Paul arrives at the training unit. There is a prisoner of war camp next to their barracks. Russian prisoners stealthily walk around their barracks and rummage through waste bins. Paul cannot understand what they find there. They are starving, but Paul notes that the prisoners treat each other like brothers. They are in such a pitiful situation that Paul has no reason to hate them.

Prisoners are dying every day. Russians bury several people at a time. Paul sees the terrible conditions they are in, but pushes away thoughts of pity so as not to lose his composure. He shares cigarettes with prisoners. One of them found out that Paul played the piano and began to play the violin. She sounds thin and lonely, and this makes her even more sad.

Return to duty

Paul arrives at the location and finds his friends alive and unharmed. He shares with them the food he brought. While waiting for the Kaiser to arrive, the soldiers are tortured with drills and work. They were given new clothes, which were immediately taken away after his departure.

Paul volunteers to gather information about enemy forces. The area is being shelled with machine guns. A flare flashes above Paul, and he realizes that he must lie still. Footsteps were heard, and someone's heavy body fell on him. Paul reacts with lightning speed - strikes with a dagger.

Paul cannot watch the enemy he wounded die. He crawls over to him, bandages his wounds and gives water to their flasks. A few hours later he dies. Paul finds letters in his wallet, a photo of a woman and a little girl. From the documents, he guessed that it was a French soldier.

Paul talks to the dead soldier and explains that he did not want to kill him. Every word he reads plunges Paul into a feeling of guilt and pain. He rewrites the address and decides to send money to his family. Paul promises that if he remains alive, he will do everything to ensure that this never happens again.

Three weeks feast

Paul and his friends guard a food warehouse in an abandoned village. They decided to use this time with pleasure. They covered the floor in the dugout with mattresses from abandoned houses. We got eggs and fresh butter. They caught two piglets that miraculously survived. Potatoes, carrots, and young peas were found in the fields. And they arranged a feast for themselves.

A well-fed life lasted three weeks. After which they were evacuated to a neighboring village. The enemy began shelling, Kropp and Paul were wounded. They are picked up by an ambulance, which is full of wounded. They are operated on in the infirmary and sent by train to the hospital.

One of the nurses had difficulty persuading Paul to lie down on the snow-white sheets. He is not yet ready to return to the fold of civilization. Dirty clothes and lice make him feel uncomfortable here. Classmates are sent to a Catholic hospital.

Soldiers die in hospital every day. Kropp's entire leg is amputated. He says he will shoot himself. Paul thinks that the hospital is the best place to learn what war is like. He wonders what awaits his generation after the war.

Paul receives leave to recover at home. Leaving for the front and parting with your mother is even more difficult than the first time. She is even weaker than before. This is the summary of the tenth chapter. “All Quiet on the Western Front” is a story that covers not only military operations, but also the behavior of heroes on the battlefield.

The novel reveals how, facing death and cruelty every day, Paul begins to feel uncomfortable in peaceful life. He rushes about, trying to find peace of mind at home, next to his family. But nothing comes of it. Deep down, he understands that he will never find him again.

Terrible losses

The war rages, but the German army is noticeably weakening. Paul stopped counting the days and weeks that went by in battle. The pre-war years are “no longer valid” because they have ceased to mean anything. The life of a soldier is a constant avoidance of death. They reduce you to the level of mindless animals, because instinct is the best weapon against an inexorable mortal danger. This helps them survive.

Spring. The food is bad. The soldiers were emaciated and hungry. Detering brought a cherry blossom branch and remembered the house. He soon deserts. They caught him and caught him. No one heard anything more about him.

Muller is killed. Leer was wounded in the thigh and is bleeding. Berting was wounded in the chest, Kat - in the shin. Paul drags the wounded Kat on himself, they talk. Exhausted, Paul stops. The orderlies come up and say that Kat is dead. Paul did not notice that his comrade was wounded in the head. Paul doesn't remember anything else.

Defeat is inevitable

Autumn. 1918 Paul is the only one of his classmates who survived. Bloody battles continue. The United States joins the enemy. Everyone understands that Germany's defeat is inevitable.

After being gassed, Paul rests for two weeks. He sits under a tree and imagines how he will return home. He gets scared. He thinks that they will all return as living corpses. Shells of people, empty inside, tired, lost hope. Paul finds this thought hard to bear. He feels that his own life has been irrevocably destroyed.

Paul was killed in October. On an unusually quiet peaceful day. When he was turned over, his face was calm, as if to say that he was glad that everything ended this way. At this time, a report was transmitted from the front line: “No change on the Western Front.”

The meaning of the novel

The First World War made adjustments to world politics, became a catalyst for revolution and the collapse of empires. These changes affected everyone's lives. About war, suffering, friendship - this is exactly what the author wanted to say. This is clearly shown in the summary.

Remarque wrote “All Quiet on the Western Front” in 1929. The subsequent World Wars were bloodier and more brutal. Therefore, the theme raised by Remarque in the novel was continued in his subsequent books and in the works of other writers.

Undoubtedly, this novel is a grandiose event in the arena of world literature of the 20th century. This work not only sparked debate about its literary merits, but also caused enormous political resonance.

The novel is one of the hundred must-read books. The work requires not only an emotional attitude, but also a philosophical one. This is evidenced by the style and manner of narration, the author’s style and summary. “All Quiet on the Western Front,” as some sources testify, is second only to the Bible in terms of circulation and readability.

Page 11 of 13

Chapter 10

We found ourselves a warm place. Our team of eight must guard a village that had to be abandoned because the enemy was shelling it too heavily.

First of all, we were ordered to look after the food warehouse, from which not everything has been taken out yet. We must provide ourselves with food from available reserves. We're experts at this. We are Kat, Albert, Müller, Tjaden, Leer, Detering. Our entire squad gathered here. True, Haye is no longer alive. But we can still consider ourselves very lucky - in all other departments there were much more losses than ours.

For housing, we choose a concrete cellar with a staircase leading out. The entrance is also protected by a special concrete wall.

Then we develop a flurry of activity. We again had the opportunity to relax not only with our bodies, but also with our souls. But we don’t miss such cases, our situation is desperate, and we cannot indulge in sentimentality for a long time. You can indulge in despondency only as long as things are not completely bad." We have to look at things simply, we have no other way out. So simple that sometimes, when some thought wanders into my head for a minute, those pre-war times, I feel downright scared, but such thoughts don’t linger for long.

We must take our situation as calmly as possible. We take advantage of any opportunity for this. Therefore, next to the horrors of war, side by side with them, without any transition, in our lives there is the desire to fool around. And now we are working with zeal to create an idyll for ourselves - of course, an idyll in the sense of food and sleep.

First of all, we line the floor with mattresses that we brought from homes. A soldier’s butt is also sometimes not averse to being pampered on something soft. Only in the middle of the cellar is there free space. Then we get blankets and feather beds, incredibly soft, absolutely luxurious things. Fortunately, there is enough of all this in the village. Albert and I find a collapsible mahogany bed with a blue silk canopy and lace throws. We sweated seven times while we dragged her here, but we really can’t deny ourselves this, especially since in a few days she will probably be blown to pieces by shells.

Kat and I are going home for reconnaissance. Soon we manage to pick up a dozen eggs and two pounds of fairly fresh butter. We are standing in some living room, when suddenly a crash is heard and, breaking through the wall, an iron stove flies into the room, whistling past us and, at a distance of a meter, again goes into another wall. Two holes remain. The stove flew from the house opposite, which was hit by a shell.

“Lucky,” Kat grins, and we continue our search.

Suddenly we prick up our ears and take off running. Following this, we stop as if enchanted: two live piglets are frolicking in a small nook. We rub our eyes and carefully look there again. In fact, they are still there. We touch them with our hands. There is no doubt, these are really two young pigs.

This will be a delicious dish! About fifty steps from our dugout there is a small house in which the officers lived. In the kitchen we find a huge stove with two burners, frying pans, pots and cauldrons. There is everything here, including an impressive supply of finely chopped firewood stacked in the barn. Not a house, but a full cup.

In the morning we sent two of them into the field to look for potatoes, carrots and young peas. We live large, canned food from the warehouse does not suit us, we wanted something fresh. There are already two heads of cauliflower in the closet.

The piglets are slaughtered. Kat took over this matter. We want to bake potato pancakes for the roast. But we don't have potato graters. However, even here we soon find a way out of the situation: we take lids from tin cans, punch a lot of holes in them with a nail, and the graters are ready. Three of us put on thick gloves to avoid scratching our fingers, the other two peel the potatoes, and things get going.

Khat performs sacred acts over piglets, carrots, peas and cauliflower. He even made a white sauce for the cabbage. I bake potato pancakes, four at a time. After ten minutes, I got the hang of throwing pancakes that were fried on one side into the frying pan so that they turned over in the air and plopped back into place. The piglets are roasted whole. Everyone stands around them, like at an altar.

Meanwhile, guests came to us: two radio operators, whom we generously invite to dine with us. They are sitting in the living room, where there is a piano. One of them sat down next to him and played, the other sang “On the Weser”. He sings with feeling, but his pronunciation is clearly Saxon. Nevertheless, we listen to him movingly, standing at the stove on which all these delicious things are fried and baked.

After a while we notice that we are being fired upon, and in earnest. Tethered balloons detected smoke from our chimney, and the enemy opened fire on us. It's those nasty little things that dig a shallow hole and produce so many pieces that fly far and low. They are whistling around us, getting closer and closer, but we can’t really throw all the food here. Gradually these sneaks took aim. Several fragments fly through the upper frame of the window into the kitchen. We'll get through the roast quickly. But baking pancakes is becoming increasingly difficult. The explosions follow each other so quickly that the fragments increasingly splash against the wall and pour out through the window. Every time I hear the whistle of another toy, I squat down, holding a frying pan with pancakes in my hands, and press myself against the wall by the window. Then I immediately get up and continue baking.

The Saxon stopped playing - one of the fragments hit the piano. Little by little, we have managed our affairs and are organizing a retreat. After waiting for the next gap, two people take pots of vegetables and run like a bullet fifty meters to the dugout. We see them dive into it.

Another break. Everyone ducks down, and the second pair, each with a pot of first-class coffee in their hands, sets off at a trot and manages to take refuge in the dugout before the next break.

Then Kat and Kropp pick up a large pan of browned roast. This is the highlight of our program. The howl of a shell, a crouch - and now they are rushing, covering fifty meters of unprotected space.

I'm baking the last four pancakes; During this time I have to squat on the floor twice, but still, now we have four more pancakes, and this is my favorite food.

Then I grab a plate with a tall stack of pancakes and stand, leaning against the door. A hiss, a crack, and I gallop away from my seat, clutching the dish to my chest with both hands. I'm almost there, when suddenly I hear a growing whistle. I rush like an antelope and go around the concrete wall like a whirlwind. The fragments drum on it; I slide down the stairs to the cellar; My elbows are broken, but I haven’t lost a single pancake or knocked over a dish.

At two o'clock we sit down for lunch. We eat until six. Until half past six we drink coffee, officer coffee from the food warehouse, and at the same time smoke officer cigars and cigarettes - all from the same warehouse. At exactly seven we start having dinner. At ten o'clock we throw the pig skeletons out the door. Then we move on to cognac and rum, again from the stock of the blessed warehouse, and again we smoke long, thick cigars with stickers on the belly. Tjaden claims that only one thing is missing - girls from the officer's brothel.

Late in the evening we hear meowing. A small gray kitten sits at the entrance. We lure him in and give him something to eat. This gives us our appetite again. When we go to bed, we still chew.

However, we have a hard time at night. We ate too much fat. Fresh suckling pig is very taxing on the stomach. The movement in the dugout never stops. Two or three people sit outside all the time with their pants down and curse everything in the world. I myself do ten passes. At about four o'clock in the morning we set a record: all eleven people, the guard team and the guests, sat around the dugout.

Burning houses blaze in the night like torches. The shells fly out of the darkness and crash into the ground with a roar. Columns of vehicles with ammunition rush along the road. One of the warehouse walls has been demolished. The drivers from the column crowd around the gap like a swarm of bees, and, despite the falling fragments, they take away the bread. We don't bother them. If we decided to stop them, they would beat us, that’s all. That's why we act differently. We explain that we are security, and since we know what is where, we bring canned food and exchange it for things that we lack. Why worry about them, because soon there will be nothing left here anyway! For ourselves, we bring chocolate from the warehouse and eat it whole bars. Kat says it's good to eat when your stomach gives you no rest to your legs.

Almost two weeks pass, during which all we do is eat, drink and laze around. Nobody bothers us. The village is slowly disappearing under the explosions of shells, and we live a happy life. As long as at least part of the warehouse is intact, we don’t need anything else, and we have only one desire - to stay here until the end of the war.

Tjaden has become so picky that he only smokes half of his cigars. He explains with importance that this has become a habit of his. Kat is also weird - when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he does is shout:

Emil, bring caviar and coffee! In general, we are all terribly arrogant, one considers the other his orderly, addresses him as “you” and gives him instructions.

Kropp, my soles are itching, try to catch the louse.

With these words, Leer extends his leg to Albert, like a spoiled artist, and he drags him up the stairs by the leg.

At ease, Tjaden! By the way, remember: not “what,” but “I obey.” Well, one more time: “Tjaden!”

Tjaden bursts into abuse and again quotes the famous passage from Goethe's Goetz von Berlichingen, which is always on his tongue.

Another week passes and we receive orders to return. Our happiness has come to an end. Two large trucks take us with them. Boards are piled on top of them. But Albert and I still manage to put our four-poster bed on top, with a blue silk bedspread, mattresses and lace throws. At the head of the bed we place a bag of selected products. From time to time we stroke hard smoked sausages, cans of liver and canned food, boxes of cigars fill our hearts with jubilation. Each of our team has such a bag with them.

In addition, Kropp and I saved two more red plush chairs. They stand in the bed, and we, lounging, sit on them, as if in a theater box. Like a tent, a silk blanket flutters and swells above us. Everyone has a cigar in their mouth. So we sit, looking at the area from above.

Between us stands the cage in which the parrot lived; we found her for the cat. We took the cat with us, she lies in a cage in front of her bowl and purrs.

Cars roll slowly down the road. We sing. Behind us, where the now completely abandoned village remains, shells throw up fountains of earth.

In a few days we are moving out to take one place. Along the way we meet refugees - evicted residents of this village. They drag their belongings with them - in wheelbarrows, in baby carriages and simply on their backs. They walk with their heads down, grief, despair, persecution and resignation are written on their faces. Children cling to the hands of their mothers, sometimes an older girl leads the kids, and they stumble after her and keep turning back. Some carry some pathetic doll with them. Everyone is silent as they pass us.

For now we are moving in a marching column - after all, the French will not fire at a village from which their fellow countrymen have not yet left. But after a few minutes, a howl is heard in the air, the ground trembles, screams are heard, a shell hit the platoon at the rear of the column, and the fragments thoroughly battered it. We rush in all directions and fall on our faces, but at the same moment I notice that that feeling of tension, which always unconsciously dictated to me the only correct decision under fire, this time betrayed me; The thought flashes through my head like lightning: “You’re lost,” and a disgusting, paralyzing fear stirs within me. Another moment - and I feel a sharp pain in my left leg, like the blow of a whip. I hear Albert scream; he is somewhere near me.

Get up, let's run, Albert! - I yell at him, because he and I are lying without shelter, in the open.

He barely gets off the ground and runs. I stay close to him. We need to jump over the hedge; she is taller than a human. Kropp clings to the branches, I catch his leg, he screams loudly, I push him, he flies over the fence. I jump, I fly after Kropp and fall into the water - there was a pond behind the fence.

Our faces are smeared with mud and mud, but we found good shelter. Therefore, we climb into the water up to our necks. Hearing the howl of a shell, we dive into it headlong.

After doing this ten times, I feel like I can't do it anymore. Albert also moans:

Let's get out of here, otherwise I'll fall and drown.

Where did you end up? - I ask.

It seems to be in the knee.

Can you run?

I guess I can.

Then let's run! We reach a roadside ditch and, bent down, rush along it. The fire is catching up with us. The road leads to the ammunition depot. If it takes off, not even a button will ever be found from us. So we change our plan and run into the field, at an angle to the road.

Albert starts to fall behind.

Run, I’ll catch up,” he says and falls to the ground.

I shake him and drag him by the hand:

Get up. Albert! If you lie down now, you won’t be able to run. Come on, I'll support you!

Finally we reach a small dugout. Kropp flops to the floor and I bandage him. The bullet entered just above the knee. Then I examine myself. There's blood on my pants, and there's blood on my hand too. Albert applies bandages from his bags to the entrance holes. He can no longer move his leg, and we both wonder how it was enough for us to drag ourselves here. This is all, of course, only out of fear - even if our feet were torn off, we would still run away from there. Even if they were on their stumps, they would have run away.

I can still crawl somehow and call a passing cart to pick us up. It is full of wounded. They are accompanied by an orderly, he pushes a syringe into our chest - this is an anti-tetanus vaccination.

In the field hospital we manage to get us put together. We are given thin broth, which we eat with contempt, albeit greedily - we have seen better times, but now we still want to eat.

So, right, let's go home, Albert? - I ask.

“Let’s hope,” he replies. - If only you knew what’s wrong with me.

The pain gets worse. Everything under the bandage is on fire. We drink water endlessly, mug after mug.

Where is my wound? Much above the knee? - asks Kropp.

“At least ten centimeters, Albert,” I answer.

In fact, there are probably three centimeters there.

That’s what I decided,” he says after a while, “if they take my leg away, I’ll call it a day.” I don’t want to hobble around the world on crutches.

So we lie alone with our thoughts and wait.

In the evening we are taken to the “cutting room”. I feel scared, and I quickly figure out what to do, because everyone knows that in field hospitals, doctors amputate arms and legs without hesitation. Now that the infirmaries are so crowded, it’s easier than painstakingly stitching a person back together from pieces. I'm reminded of Kemmerich. I will never allow myself to be chloroformed, even if I have to break someone's head.

So far everything is going well. The doctor is picking at the wound, so my vision gets dark.

There’s no point in pretending,” he scolds, continuing to chop me up.

The instruments sparkle in the bright light, like the teeth of a bloodthirsty beast. The pain is unbearable. Two orderlies hold my hands tightly: I manage to free one, and I’m about to hit the doctor on my glasses, but he notices this in time and jumps away.

Give this guy anesthesia! - he shouts furiously.

I immediately become calm.

Sorry, Mister Doctor, I will be quiet, but just don’t put me to sleep.

“That’s the same,” he creaks and takes up his instruments again.

He's a blond guy with duel scars and nasty gold glasses on his nose. He is at most thirty years old. I see that now he is deliberately torturing me - he is still rummaging in my wound, from time to time looking sideways at me from under his glasses. I grabbed the handrails - I’d rather die, but he wouldn’t hear a sound from me.

The doctor fishes out a fragment and shows it to me. Apparently, he is pleased with my behavior: he carefully puts a splint on me and says:

Tomorrow on the train and home! Then they put me in a plaster cast. Having seen Kropp in the ward, I tell him that the ambulance train will arrive, in all likelihood, tomorrow.

We need to talk to the paramedic so that we can be left together, Albert.

I manage to hand the paramedic two cigars with stickers from my supply and say a few words. He sniffs the cigars and asks:

What else do you have?

A good handful, I say. “And my friend,” I point to Kropp, “will have it too.” Tomorrow we will be happy to hand them over to you from the window of the ambulance train.

He, of course, immediately realizes what’s going on: after sniffing again, he says:

At night we cannot sleep for a minute. Seven people are dying in our ward. One of them sings chorales in a high, strangled tenor for an hour, then the singing turns into a death rattle. The other gets out of bed and manages to crawl to the windowsill. He lies under the window, as if about to look outside for the last time.

Our stretchers are at the station. We are waiting for the train. It's raining and the station has no roof. The blankets are thin. We've been waiting for two hours already.

The paramedic takes care of us like a caring mother. Although I feel very bad, I do not forget about our plan. As if by chance, I pull back the blanket so that the paramedic can see the packs of cigars, and give him one as a deposit. For this he covers us with a raincoat.

Eh, Albert, my friend,” I remember, “do you remember our four-poster bed and the cat?

And chairs,” he adds.

Yes, red plush chairs. In the evenings we sat on them like kings and were already planning to rent them out. One cigarette per hour. We would live without worries, and we would also have benefits.

Albert,” I remember, “and our bags of food...

We feel sad. All this would be very useful to us. If the train left a day later. Kat would surely have found us and brought us our share.

That's bad luck. In our stomachs we have a soup made of flour - meager hospital grub - and in our bags there are canned pork. But we are already so weak that we are not able to worry about this.

The train arrives only in the morning, and by this time water is squelching in the stretcher. The paramedic arranges us into one carriage. Sisters of mercy from the Red Cross are scurrying around everywhere. Kroppa is placed below. They lift me up, I am given a place above him.

Well, wait,” he suddenly bursts out from me.

What's the matter? - asks the sister.

I glance at the bed again. It is covered with snow-white linen sheets, incomprehensibly clean, they even show creases from the iron. And I haven’t changed my shirt for six weeks, it’s black with dirt.

Can't get in yourself? - the sister asks concerned.

“I’ll climb in,” I say, feeling like I’m sobbing, “just take off your underwear first.”

Why? I feel like I'm as dirty as a pig. Will they really put me here?

But I... - I don’t dare finish my thought.

Will you smear him a little? - she asks, trying to cheer me up. - It doesn’t matter, we’ll wash it later.

No, that’s not the point,” I say in excitement.

I am not at all ready for such a sudden return to the fold of civilization.

You were lying in the trenches, so why don’t we wash the sheets for you? - she continues.

I look at her; she is young and looks as fresh, crisp, cleanly washed and pleasant as everything around her, it’s hard to believe that this is not only intended for officers, this makes you feel uneasy and even somehow scary.

And yet this woman is a real executioner: she forces me to speak.

I just thought... - I stop there: she must understand what I mean.

What else is this?

“Yes, I’m talking about lice,” I finally blurt out.

She is laughing:

Someday they too need to live for their own pleasure.

Well, now I don't care. I climb onto the shelf and cover my head.

Someone's fingers are groping around the blanket. This is a paramedic. Having received the cigars, he leaves.

An hour later we notice that we are already on our way.

At night I wake up. Kropp is also tossing and turning. The train rolls quietly along the rails. All this is still somehow incomprehensible: bed, train, home. I whisper:

Albert!

Do you know where the restroom is?

I think it's behind that door on the right.

Let's see.

It’s dark in the carriage, I feel for the edge of the shelf and am about to carefully slide down. But my leg can’t find a foothold, I start to slide off the shelf - I can’t rest on my wounded leg, and I fall to the floor with a crash.

Damn it! - I say.

Are you hurt? - asks Kropp.

But you haven’t heard, have you? - I snap. - I hit my head so hard that...

Here at the end of the carriage a door opens. My sister comes up with a lantern in her hands and sees me.

He fell off the shelf... She feels my pulse and touches my forehead.

But you don't have a temperature.

No, I agree.

Perhaps you were dreaming about something? - she asks.

Yes, probably,” I answer evasively.

And the questions begin again. She looks at me with her clear eyes, so pure and amazing - no, I just can’t tell her what I need.

They take me upstairs again. Wow, settled! After all, when she leaves, I will have to go downstairs again! If she were an old woman, I would probably tell her what was wrong, but she is so young, she can’t be more than twenty-five. There's nothing to be done, I can't tell her this.

Then Albert comes to my aid - he has nothing to be ashamed of, because this is not about him. He calls his sister to him:

Sister, he needs...

But Albert also doesn’t know how to express himself so that it sounds quite decent. At the front, in a conversation among ourselves, one word would be enough for us, but here, in the presence of such a lady... But then he suddenly remembers his school days and finishes smartly:

He should go out, sister.

“Oh, that’s it,” says the sister. - So for this he doesn’t need to get out of bed at all, especially since he’s in a cast. What exactly do you need? - she turns to me.

I am scared to death by this new turn of affairs, as I have not the slightest idea what terminology is adopted to refer to these things.

My sister comes to my aid:

Small or big?

What a shame! I feel like I’m all sweaty, and I say embarrassedly:

Only in small ways.

Well, things didn't end so badly after all.

They give me a duck. A few hours later, several more people follow my example, and by morning we are already accustomed and do not hesitate to ask for what we need.

The train is moving slowly. Sometimes he stops to unload the dead. He stops quite often.

Albert has a fever. I feel tolerable, my leg hurts, but what’s much worse is that there are obviously lice under the cast. My leg itches terribly, but I can’t scratch myself.

Our days pass in slumber. Outside the window the views silently float by. On the third night we arrive in Herbestal. I learn from my sister that Albert will be dropped off at the next stop because he has a fever.

Where will we stay? - I ask.

In Cologne.

Albert, we’ll stay together,” I say, “you’ll see.”

When the nurse makes her next round, I hold my breath and force the air inside. My face is filled with blood and turns purple. The sister stops:

Are you in pain?

Yes,” I say with a groan. - Somehow they suddenly started.

She gives me a thermometer and moves on. Now I know what to do, because it was not in vain that I studied with Kata. These soldier thermometers are not designed for highly experienced soldiers. As soon as you push the mercury up, it will get stuck in its narrow tube and will not come down again.

I put the thermometer under my arm diagonally, with the mercury pointing up, and click on it for a long time with my index finger. Then I shake it and turn it over. It turns out 37.9. But this is not enough. Carefully holding it over a burning match, I bring the temperature up to 38.7.

When my sister returns, I pout like a turkey, try to breathe sharply, look at her with drowsy eyes, toss and turn restlessly and say in a low voice:

Oh, I can’t stand it! She writes my last name on a piece of paper. I know for sure that my plaster cast will not be touched unless absolutely necessary.

I am taken off the train with Albert.

We are lying in the infirmary at a Catholic monastery, in the same ward. We are very lucky: Catholic hospitals are renowned for their good care and delicious food. The infirmary is completely filled with wounded from our train; many of them are in serious condition. Today we are not being examined yet because there are too few doctors here. Low rubber carts are constantly being wheeled along the corridor, and every time someone lies on them, stretched out to their full height. It's a damn uncomfortable position - it's the only way to sleep well.

The night passes very restlessly. Nobody can sleep. In the morning we manage to doze off for a while. I wake up to the light. The door is open and voices are heard from the corridor. My roommates also wake up. One of them, who has been lying there for several days, explains to us what’s going on:

Up here the sisters say prayers every morning. They call it matins. In order not to deprive us of the pleasure of listening, they open the door to the room.

Of course, this is very thoughtful of them, but all our bones hurt and our heads are cracking.

What a disgrace! - I say. - I just managed to fall asleep.

“There are people up here with minor injuries, so they decided that they could do this with us,” my neighbor answers.

Albert groans. I'm filled with anger and I scream:

Hey you there, shut up! A minute later, a sister appears in the room. In her black and white monastic robe, she resembles a pretty coffee pot doll.

“Close the door, sister,” someone says.

“The door is open because they are saying a prayer in the corridor,” she answers.

And we haven't gotten enough sleep yet.

It's better to pray than to sleep. - She stands and smiles an innocent smile. - Besides, it’s already seven o’clock.

Albert moaned again.

Close the door! - I bark.

The sister was taken aback; apparently, she couldn’t wrap her head around how someone could scream like that.

We are praying for you too.

Anyway, close the door! She disappears, leaving the door unlocked. Monotonous muttering is heard again in the corridor. This pisses me off and I say:

I count to three. If they don't stop by this time, I'll throw something at them.

“Me too,” says one of the wounded.

I count to five. Then I take an empty bottle, take aim and throw it through the door into the corridor. The bottle shatters into small fragments. The voices of those praying fall silent. A flock of sisters appears in the ward. They swear, but in very measured terms.

Close the door! - we shout.

They are removed. The little one who came to see us just now is the last to leave.

Atheists,” she babbles, but still closes the door.

We won.

At noon the head of the infirmary comes and gives us a beating. He threatens us with strength and even something worse. But all these military doctors, just like the quartermasters, are still nothing more than officials, even though they wear a long sword and epaulettes, and therefore even recruits do not take them seriously. Let him talk to himself. He won't do anything to us.

Who threw the bottle? - he asks.

I haven’t yet had time to figure out whether I should confess, when suddenly someone says:

I! A man with a thick, tangled beard sits up on one of the beds. Everyone is eager to know why he named himself.

Yes sir. I became agitated because we had been woken up for no reason, and I lost control of myself, so much so that I no longer knew what I was doing. He speaks as if it were written.

What is your last name?

Joseph Hamacher, called up from reserve.

The inspector leaves.

We are all filled with curiosity.

Why did you give your last name? After all, it wasn’t you who did it!

He grins:

So what if it’s not me? I have "absolution of sins."

Now everyone understands what's going on here. Anyone who has "remission of sins" can do whatever he pleases.

So,” he says, “I was wounded in the head, and after that I was given a certificate stating that at times I am insane. Since then I don't care. I can't be annoyed. So they won't do anything to me. This guy from the first floor will be very angry. And I named myself because I liked the way they threw the bottle. If they open the door again tomorrow, we'll throw another one.

We rejoice noisily. As long as Joseph Hamacher is among us, we can do the most risky things.

Then silent strollers come for us.

The bandages have dried. We moo like bulls.

There are eight people in our room. The most serious wound is that of Peter, a dark-haired, curly-haired boy - he has a complex perforating wound in his lungs. His neighbor Franz Wächter has a shattered forearm, and at first it seems to us that his affairs are not so bad. But on the third night he calls out to us and asks us to call - it seems to him that blood has come through the bandages.

I press the button hard. The night nurse doesn't come. In the evening we made her run - we all got a bandage, and after that the wounds always hurt. One asked to put his leg this way, another - that way, the third was thirsty, the fourth needed to fluff his pillow - in the end the fat old woman began to grumble angrily, and slammed the door as she left. Now she probably thinks that everything is starting all over again, and that’s why she doesn’t want to go.

We are waiting. Franz then says:

Call again! I'm calling. The nurse still doesn't show up. At night, there is only one sister left in our entire wing; perhaps she has just been called to other wards.

Franz, are you sure you're bleeding? - I ask. - Otherwise they will scold us again.

The bandages are wet. Can someone please turn on the light?

But nothing works with the light either: the switch is by the door, but no one can get up. I press the call button until my finger goes numb. Perhaps my sister dozed off? After all, they have so much work, they already look so overtired during the day. Besides, they pray every now and then.

Should we throw the bottle? - asks Joseph Hamacher, a man to whom everything is permitted.

Since she doesn’t hear the bell, she certainly won’t hear this.

Finally the door opens. A sleepy old woman appears on the threshold. Seeing what happened to Franz, she begins to fuss and exclaims:

Why didn't anyone let anyone know about this?

We called. And none of us can walk.

He was bleeding heavily and is being bandaged again. In the morning we see his face: it has turned yellow and sharpened, but just yesterday evening he looked almost completely healthy. Now my sister began to visit us more often.

Sometimes sisters from the Red Cross look after us. They are kind, but sometimes they lack skill. When transferring us from the stretcher to the bed, they often hurt us, and then they get so scared that it makes us feel even worse.

We trust nuns more. They know how to deftly pick up a wounded person, but we wish they were a little more cheerful. However, some of them have a sense of humor, and these are really great guys. Which of us would not, for example, render any service to Sister Libertina? As soon as we see this amazing woman, even from afar, the mood in the entire outbuilding immediately rises. And there are many of them here. We are ready to go through fire and water for them. No, there is no need to complain - the nuns treat us just like civilians. And when you remember what is happening in the garrison hospitals, it just becomes scary.

Franz Wächter never recovered. One day they take it away and never bring it back. Joseph Hamacher explains:

Now we won't see him. They carried him to the death room.

What kind of dead thing is this? - asks Kropp.

Well, death row.

What is this?

This is a little room at the end of the wing. Those who were going to stretch their legs are placed there. There are two beds there. Everyone calls her dead.

But why do they do this?

And they have less fuss. Then it’s more convenient - the room is located right next to the elevator that takes you to the morgue. Or maybe this is being done so that no one dies in the wards, in front of others. And it’s easier to look after him when he’s lying alone.

And what is it like for him himself?

Joseph shrugs.

So, whoever gets there usually doesn’t really understand what they’re doing to him.

So, does everyone here know this?

Those who have been here for a long time, of course, know.

After lunch, a new arrival is placed on Franz Wächter's bed. A few days later he too is taken away. Joseph makes an expressive gesture with his hand. He is not the last; many more come and go before our eyes.

Sometimes relatives sit by the beds; they cry or talk quietly, embarrassed. One old woman doesn’t want to leave, but she can’t stay here overnight. The next morning she comes very early, but she should have come even earlier - approaching the bed, she sees that the other one is already lying on it. She is invited to go to the morgue. She brought apples with her and now gives them to us.

Little Peter also feels worse. His temperature curve climbs alarmingly upward, and one fine day a low stroller stops at his bed.

Where? - he asks.

To the dressing room.

They lift him onto a wheelchair. But the sister makes a mistake: she takes his soldier’s jacket off the hook and puts it next to him so as not to go back for it again. Peter immediately realizes what’s going on and tries to roll out of the stroller:

I'm staying here! They don't let him get up. He shouts softly with his perforated lungs:

I don’t want to go to the dead!

Yes, we are taking you to the dressing room.

What do you need my jacket for then? He is no longer able to speak. He whispers in a hoarse, excited whisper:

Leave me here! They don’t answer and take him out of the room. At the door he tries to get up. His black curly head is shaking, his eyes are full of tears.

I'll be back! I'll be back! - he shouts.

The door closes. We are all excited, but we are silent. Finally Joseph says:

We are not the first to hear this. But whoever gets there will never survive.

I have surgery and after that I vomit for two days. My doctor's clerk says that my bones don't want to heal. In one of our departments, they grew together incorrectly, and they broke them again for him. This is also a small pleasure. Among the new arrivals are two young soldiers suffering from flat feet. During their rounds, they catch the eye of the chief doctor, who happily stops near their beds.

We will save you from this,” he says. - A small operation and you will have healthy legs. Sister, write them down.

As he leaves, the all-knowing Joseph warns newcomers:

Look, don't agree to the operation! This, you see, our old man has such a thing for science. He even dreams about how to get someone for this job. He will perform an operation on you, and after this your foot will indeed no longer be flat; but it will be crooked, and you will hobble around with a stick until the end of your days.

What should we do now? - asks one of them.

Don't give consent! You were sent here to treat wounds, not to cure flat feet! What kind of legs did you have at the front? Ah, that's it! Now you can still walk, but if you go under the knife of an old man, you will become crippled. He needs guinea pigs, so for him war is the most wonderful time, as for all doctors. Take a look at the lower department - there are a good dozen people crawling around there whom he operated on. Some have been sitting here for years, from the fifteenth and even the fourteenth year. None of them began to walk better than before; on the contrary, almost all of them walked worse; most of them had legs in plaster. Every six months he drags them back onto the table and breaks their bones in a new way, and each time he tells them that success is now guaranteed. Think carefully, he has no right to do this without your consent.

“Eh, buddy,” says one of them tiredly, “better legs than head.” Can you tell me in advance which place you will get when they send you there again? Let them do whatever they want to me, as long as I get home. It's better to hobble and stay alive.

His friend, a young guy our age, does not give consent. The next morning the old man orders them to be brought down; there he begins to persuade them and shouts at them, so that in the end they finally agree. What can they do? After all, they are just a gray beast, and he is a big shot. They are brought into the ward under chloroform and in plaster.

Albert is doing poorly. He is carried to the operating room for amputation. The entire leg is taken away, all the way to the top. Now he has almost completely stopped talking. One day he says that he is going to shoot himself, that he will do it as soon as he gets his hands on his revolver.

A new train with wounded arrives. Two blind people are admitted to our ward. One of them is still a very young musician. When serving him dinner, the sisters always hide their knives from him; he had already snatched the knife out of the hands of one of them. Despite these precautions, trouble befell him.

In the evening, at dinner, his serving sister is called out of the room for a minute, and she places a plate and fork on his table. He grops for a fork, takes it in his hand and plunges it into his heart with a flourish, then grabs his shoe and hits the handle with all his might. We are calling for help, but we can’t handle him alone; we need three people to take the fork away from him. The blunt teeth managed to penetrate quite deeply. He scolds us all night, so no one can sleep. In the morning he begins to have a fit of hysteria.

Our beds are freeing up. Days go by days, and each of them is pain and fear, groans and wheezing. “The dead” are no longer needed, there are too few of them - at night people die in the wards, including ours. Death overtakes the wise foresight of our sisters.

But then one fine day the door swings open, a carriage appears on the threshold, and on it - pale, thin - sits Peter, victoriously raising his black curly head. Sister Libertina, with a beaming face, rolls him to his old bed. He returned from the "dead room". And we have long believed that he died.

He looks in all directions:

Well, what do you say to that?

And even Joseph Hamacher is forced to admit that he has never seen anything like this before.

After a while, some of us get permission to get out of bed. They also give me crutches, and little by little I begin to hobble. However, I rarely use them, I can’t stand the look Albert stares at me as I walk across the ward. He always looks at me with such strange eyes. Therefore, from time to time I escape into the corridor - there I feel freer.

On the floor below there are those wounded in the stomach, spine, head and with amputation of both arms or legs. In the right wing are people with crushed jaws, poisoned by gas, wounded in the nose, ears and throat. The left wing is given to the blind and wounded to the lungs, pelvis, joints, kidneys, scrotum, and stomach. Only here you can clearly see how vulnerable the human body is.

Two of the wounded die from tetanus. Their skin turns gray, their body becomes numb, and in the end life glimmers - for a very long time - in only their eyes. Some have a broken arm or leg tied with a cord and hanging in the air, as if suspended from a gallows. Others have guy wires attached to the headboard with heavy weights at the end that hold the healing arm or leg in a tense position. I see people with their intestines torn open and feces constantly accumulating in them. The clerk shows me x-rays of hip, knee and shoulder joints, crushed into small fragments.

It seems incomprehensible that human faces, still living ordinary, everyday lives, are attached to these tattered bodies. But this is only one infirmary, only one department! There are hundreds of thousands of them in Germany, hundreds of thousands in France, hundreds of thousands in Russia. How meaningless is everything that is written, done and thought about by people, if such things are possible in the world! To what extent is our thousand-year-old civilization deceitful and worthless if it could not even prevent these flows of blood, if it allowed hundreds of thousands of such dungeons to exist in the world. Only in the infirmary do you see with your own eyes what war is.

I am young - I am twenty years old, but all I have seen in life is despair, death, fear and the interweaving of the most absurd thoughtless vegetation with immeasurable torment. I see that someone is setting one nation against another and people are killing each other, in a mad blindness submitting to someone else’s will, not knowing what they are doing, not knowing their guilt. I see that the best minds of mankind are inventing weapons to prolong this nightmare, and finding words to justify it even more subtly. And together with me, all people of my age see this, here and here, all over the world, our entire generation is experiencing this. What will our fathers say if we ever rise from our graves and stand before them and demand an account? What can they expect from us if we live to see the day when there is no war? For many years we were engaged in killing. This was our calling, the first calling in our lives. All we know about life is death. What will happen next? And what will become of us?

The oldest in our ward is Levandovsky. He is forty years old; he has a serious wound in the stomach and has been in the hospital for ten months. Only in recent weeks has he recovered enough to be able to stand up and, arching his lower back, hobble a few steps.

He has been very agitated for several days now. A letter came from his wife from a provincial Polish town, in which she writes that she has saved money for the trip and can now visit him.

She has already left and should arrive here any day now. Lewandowski has lost his appetite, he even gives sausages and cabbage to his comrades, barely touching his portion. All he knows is that he is walking around the ward with a letter; each of us has read it ten times already, the stamps on the envelope have been checked an infinite number of times, it is all stained with grease and is so covered that the letters are almost invisible, and finally what should have been expected happens - Lewandowski’s temperature rises and he I have to go to bed again.

He hasn't seen his wife for two years. During this time she gave birth to his child; she will bring it with her. But Lewandowski’s thoughts are not occupied with this at all. He hoped that by the time his old woman arrived he would be allowed to go out into the city - after all, it is clear to everyone that it is, of course, pleasant to look at his wife, but if a person has been separated from her for so long, he wants to satisfy, if possible, some other desires.

Lewandowski discussed this issue with each of us for a long time - after all, the soldiers have no secrets on this matter. Those of us who are already being released into the city named him several excellent corners in gardens and parks, where no one would bother him, and one even had a small room in mind.

But what's the point of all this? Lewandowski lies in bed, besieged by worries. Now life is not pleasant to him either - he is so tormented by the thought that he will have to miss this opportunity. We console him and promise that we will try to pull this off somehow.

The next day his wife appears, a small, dry woman with timid, fast-moving bird eyes, wearing a black mantilla with ruffles and ribbons. God knows where she dug this one up; she must have inherited it.

The woman mutters something quietly and timidly stops in the doorway. She was afraid that there were six of us here.

Well, Marya,” says Levandovsky, moving his Adam’s apple with a distressed look, “come in, don’t be afraid, they won’t do anything to you.”

Levandovskaya goes around the beds and shakes hands with each of us, then shows the baby, who in the meantime has managed to soil his diapers. She brought with her a large beaded bag; Taking out a clean piece of flannel, she quickly swaddles the baby. This helps her overcome her initial embarrassment and she begins to talk to her husband.

He is nervous, every now and then glancing at us with his round, bulging eyes, and he looks most unhappy.

The time is right now - the doctor has already made his rounds; in the worst case, a nurse could look into the room. Therefore, one of us goes out into the corridor to find out the situation. Soon he returns and makes a sign:

There is nothing at all. Go ahead, Johann! Tell her what's wrong and take action.

They are talking to each other about something in Polish. Our guest looks at us embarrassedly, she blushed a little. We grin good-naturedly and energetically wave it off, “Well, what’s wrong with this!” Damn all prejudices! They are good for other times. Here lies the carpenter Johann Lewandowski, a soldier crippled in the war, and here is his wife. Who knows, when he meets her again, he wants to possess her, let his wish come true, and be done with it!

In case any sister does appear in the corridor, we post two people at the door to intercept her and engage her in conversation. They promise to keep watch for a quarter of an hour.

Lewandowski can only lie on his side. So one of us places a few more pillows behind his back. The baby is handed to Albert, then we turn away for a moment, the black mantilla disappears under the blanket, and we cut ourselves into a stingray with loud knocks and jokes.

Everything goes well. I only collected some crosses, and even then it was a trifle, but by some miracle I managed to get out. Because of this, we almost completely forgot about Lewandowski. After a while, the baby begins to cry, although Albert rocks him in his arms with all his might. Then a quiet rustling and rustling is heard, and when we casually raise our heads, we see that the child is already sucking his horn on his mother’s lap. It is done.

Now we feel like one big family; Levandovsky’s wife is completely cheerful, and Levandovsky himself, sweating and happy, lies in his bed and is completely beaming.

He unpacks the embroidered bag. It contains some excellent sausages. Lewandowski takes a knife, solemnly, as if it were a bouquet of flowers, and cuts them into pieces. He gestures broadly at us, and a small, dry woman comes up to each of us, smiles and divides the sausage between us. Now she seems downright pretty. We call her mom, and she is happy about it and fluffs our pillows.

After a few weeks, I start going to physical therapy exercises every day. They strap my foot to the pedal and give it a warm-up. The hand has long since healed.

New trains of wounded are arriving from the front. The bandages are now not made of gauze, but of white corrugated paper - the dressing material at the front has become tight.

Albert's stump is healing well. The wound is almost closed. In a few weeks he will be discharged for prosthetics. He still doesn't talk much and is much more serious than before. Often he falls silent mid-sentence and looks at one point. If it weren't for us, he would have committed suicide long ago. But now the most difficult time is behind him. Sometimes he even watches us play scat.

After discharge I am given leave.

My mother doesn't want to leave me. She's so weak. It's even harder for me than last time.

Then a call comes from the regiment, and I go to the front again.

It's hard for me to say goodbye to my friend Albert Kropp. But such is the lot of a soldier - over time he gets used to this too.