For a long time I believed that I remembered. Little stories

Seeing off a soldier

For a long time I believed that I remembered how my father went to war. I believed it and was surprised at my memory: after all, I was no more than two years old then.

Compassionate old women from the village often regaled me with stories about their dead dad. In these old woman’s memories, my father always looked only good and not just good, but extraordinary. He was strong and brave, cheerful and kind, fair and friendly to everyone. All his fellow villagers loved him very much and felt sorry for him. A blacksmith and hunter, he never offended anyone in his life, and when he went to war, he told his neighbors that he would stand up for native land like this: “Either your chest is in crosses, or your head is in bushes.”

The more I listened to stories about my father, the more I yearned for him, felt sorry for myself, an orphan, and envied all my peers whose fathers were alive, albeit without crosses. And more and more my personal, although not very clear, memories coincided with what I heard about him.

And I mainly remembered my father’s farewell to the war.

It was that autumn time when the whole earth begins to glow and rustle with dry yellow foliage, when both sunrises and sunsets seem especially golden. Since time immemorial, four mighty birch trees have stood near our house. I remember clearly that they were completely transparent, that blue sky it was not above the birches, not above them, but in the birches themselves, in the tops, in the branches.

The whole village gathered under the birch trees to see off his father. There were a lot of people, and human talk and the noise of leaves merged. Where did he come from old village- a brass band, but there was one, and copper pipes glowed just like autumn foliage, like our whole earth, and continuously hummed quietly. My father, tall, handsome, walked in the crowd and talked with his neighbors, now with one, now with another; Who will shake hands, who will pat on the shoulder. He was in charge here, he was escorted to war, women kissed him.

I remember flowery homespun sundresses, bright yellow scarves and aprons. Then my father took me in his arms, and I also became the leader in the crowd. "Take care of your son!" - he said, and the whole village answered him: “Fight, don’t worry, we’ll grow!”

I clearly remembered many little things about these send-offs. There were all the vows, hugs, advice on the road. The only thing I don't remember is the tears. There is no crying at holidays, but for me everything there was festive. The biggest celebration began when three horses were presented to the father. He got into a wicker carriage, which we call a tarantass, and shouted: “Hey, falcons!” - and the horses rushed. Already after him, someone managed to ask worriedly: “Did you take the tobacco?” - then all the noise was covered with the thunder of clear copper pipes.

The wide street from our house, from four mighty birches, went to the field, going up a little, uphill. The field fence and gate were clearly visible. On both sides of the outskirts there were golden birch trees. And so, when the troika flew up to the gate at full gallop, the birch trees suddenly burst into flames.

Maybe they were illuminated at that moment by the setting sun, maybe I dreamed of all this someday, but the birch trees suddenly burst into flames with real fire, and the gates caught fire from them. The flame, very bright and completely smokeless, immediately engulfed every single dry pole. The hot horses could not stop in front of the burning gates, and it was already too late and there was no one to open them. In addition, my father shouted in some cheerful voice, as if he had hit a ringing anvil with a hammer, and the horses suddenly flew into the air and flew through the fire. Only the wheels of the carriage slightly touched the gate, because of which the red poles crumbled and a heap of luminous sparks rose to the sky.

I remembered it all well and for a long time believed that everything was exactly like that. Later, I myself went to war, and the feeling of great solemnity of the moment again coincided with what I remembered about seeing my father off. “But how could this be?” I asked myself. “After all, I was only two years old then, no more.”

And this is what became clear over time in connection with these memories.

As a child, I sometimes had to listen to the gramophone in my grandfather's house. There were times when my grandfather trusted me to play one or two records myself. Then I opened all the windows of the upper room, placed an amazing box on the windowsill, directed the screaming green pipe along the village and performed a sacred ritual. Of course, kids came running from everywhere and with open mouths They looked into the pipe from afar. And it seemed to me that they were looking at me, that I was becoming a hero not only in my own eyes, but also in the eyes of my peers, that they were all jealous of me. And I was triumphant. It was not all for me, an orphan, to envy them. This is what I am, this is what I can do - look! Or maybe my dad hasn’t been killed yet, he’ll come back, then I’ll show you... So I took revenge for my little funny grievances.

Many years later I returned to native village, and in the house of my late grandfather I had the opportunity to once again sit down at the old square gramophone. In a pile of barely living records with stickers on which were drawn either angels or a dog sitting by the gramophone pipe, I found one unfamiliar record, already with a crack, “Seeing Off to the War,” or “Seeing Off to the Soldier.” My heart told me nothing when I decided to lose her too. Among the rusty needles, I chose one that was sharper, again with force I turned the rusty handle several times, turned off the brake, and when the pawl and the green pipe on the record label merged into one circle, I lowered the lever with the membrane. At first there was only the crackling sound of a rusty spring and a noise, as if I had dropped a needle not on a record, but on a sharpening stone - nothing could be made out. Then voices appeared, a brass band started playing, and I heard the first words: “Have you forgotten your tobacco?”

And immediately I saw a wide village street, golden autumn leaves, a crowd of fellow villagers and my own father leaving for war. "Take care of your son!" he told his neighbors. And they kissed him and swore to him: “Fight, don’t worry, we’ll protect you!”

My dear, my dear fellow countrymen! What happened to me! The brass trumpets of the orchestra sounded clearer and more excited, their song broke through all the noise of time, through all the distances and layers of my memory, cleansing it and resurrecting all that is most sacred in my soul. Not just one village, but all of Russia accompanied my father to the war, all of Russia swore to the soldier to save and raise his son. And again no tears were heard. But maybe the copper pipes were drowning them out.

Then I heard the ringing of bells and last words of advice on the road. This, then, is where my too early memories came from. This is where their origins are.

But where did the golden vision of autumn and the burning gates of the rural outskirts come from? It was, of course, a dream.

After all, I once dreamed that nails were taken from a tree-flower called a carnation, and multi-colored strings of beads were found ready-made in stacks of rotten hay, and I, too, for a long time believed that this was exactly what happened.

But no, it wasn’t just in my dreams that I saw the crazy jump of the troika. Pyotr Sergeevich, a talented groom and dashing rider, still lives on our collective farm. It was he who could drive for hours, slowly, through forests, fields - through a tree stump. And in front of the village, in front of the people, he and his horses were transformed. "Hey, falcons!" - cried Pyotr Sergeevich, a broad Russian soul, and where did the strong man in his furry legs come from - with a whistle, with a whirlwind, the tarantass took off up the hill past my four birches. It used to be that the most unenviable horse in the hands of Pyotr Sergeevich and in front of the whole village, or, as we say, in the world, suddenly turned into a hunchbacked horse.

I recently heard a cheerful cry from the depths of my soul from my fellow countryman, as if he was rushing headlong into a squat, and again my father’s farewell became a living picture in my memory. And again everything seemed to me not imaginary, not a dream, but genuine - even the burning gates and fairy-tale horses soaring into the air, everything as my dear side saw off its soldier to war.

hang them up for weddings!
They also gave me a carved painted gingerbread, at least a hundred years old.
at least a long time ago. Such people, too, will probably soon disappear from the face of the earth. A to
spindle - a wicker spindle with spindles. The birch flail was also threshing,
lying around unnecessarily almost from the beginning of collectivization. I succeeded like this
and get two shoulder straps from birch bast.
I returned to Moscow with these wedding gifts. One pester
presented to Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky for his seventieth birthday, another -
to a poet he knew on his wedding day and, in addition, his own bast shoes
weaving.
I gave everything away. I kept for myself only the birch bark salt lick, bells and
coos on a leather collar.
I sit at the table, write and sometimes call, listen: they sing well!

Alexander Yashin. Little stories

Alexander Yakovlevich Yashin (Popov) (1913-1968)
Source: Alexander Yashin, Selected works in 2 volumes, volume 2,
Prose,
Publishing house " Fiction", Moscow, 1972, circulation 25,000 copies,
price 72 kopecks.
OCR and proofreading: Alexander Belousenko ( [email protected])

LITTLE STORIES

Seeing off a soldier
First fee
After battle
Flayer
Creation
Michal Mikhalych
Liberty
Not a dog or a cow
Old Valenok

SEEING AWAY FOR A SOLDIER

For a long time I believed that I remembered how my father went to war. I believed it myself
I was surprised at my memory: after all, I was no more than two years old then.
Compassionate village old women often regaled me with stories about
deceased dad. In these old woman's memories, my father always looked
only good and not just good, but extraordinary. He was strong and brave
cheerful and kind, fair and friendly with everyone. All the villagers loved him very much
and they regretted him. A blacksmith and a hunter, he never offended anyone in his life, but
when he went to war, he told his neighbors that he would stand for his native land like this:
"Either your chest is in crosses, or your head is in bushes."
The more I listened to stories about my father, the more I missed him,
he felt sorry for himself, an orphan, and envied all his peers whose fathers were alive, even
and without crosses. And more and more my personal, although not very clear, memories
matched what I had heard about him.
And I mainly remembered my father’s farewell to the war.
It was in that autumn time when the whole earth begins to glow and
rustle dry yellow leaves, when both sunrises and sunsets seem especially
gold. Near our house from time immemorial there stood four mighty
birch trees I remember clearly that they were completely transparent, that
the blue sky was not above the birches, not above them, but in the birches themselves, in the tops,
in the branches.
The whole village gathered under the birch trees to see off his father. There were a lot of people
a lot, and human talk and the noise of leaves merged. Where did he come from in the old
village - a brass band, but there was one, and the copper pipes glowed just like
autumn foliage, like our whole earth, and continuously hummed quietly. My father,
tall, handsome, walked in the crowd and talked with neighbors, now with one, now with
others; Who will shake hands, who will pat on the shoulder. He was in charge here, his
they saw him off to war, he was kissed by women.
I remember flowery homespun sundresses, bright yellow scarves and aprons.
Then my father took me in his arms, and I also became the leader in the crowd. "Take care
son!” he said, and the whole village answered him: “Fight, don’t worry,
Let's grow!"
I clearly remembered many little things about these send-offs. Everything was there -
vows, hugs, advice on the road. The only thing I don't remember is the tears. On holidays
they don’t cry, but for me everything there was festive. The biggest holiday
began when three horses were given to my father. He sat down in a wicker carriage,
which we call a tarantas, shouted: “Hey, falcons!” - and horses
off we go. Already after him, someone managed to ask worriedly: “Did you take some tobacco?
is it?" - then all the noise was covered with the thunder of clear copper pipes.
The wide street from our house, from four mighty birches, went to the field,
taking a little upward, on the rise. The field hedge and gate were fine
are visible. On both sides of the outskirts there were golden birch trees. And so, when the three is on
She flew up to the gate at full gallop, and the birch trees suddenly burst into flames.
Maybe they were illuminated at that moment by the setting sun, maybe I
I dreamed of all this someday, but the birch trees suddenly flared up in a very real way
fire, and the gates caught fire from them. Flame, very bright and completely
smokeless, immediately engulfed every single dry perch. Hot horses
could not stop in front of the burning gates, but it was already time to open them
it was late and there was no one, my father, in addition, shouted in some cheerful voice,
as if he had hit a ringing anvil with a hammer, and the horses suddenly flew into the air
and were carried through the fire. Only the wheels of the carriage slightly touched the gate,
because of which the red poles crumbled and a heap of luminous sparks rose to
sky.
I remembered it all well and for a long time believed that everything was exactly like that.
Later he himself went to war, and the feeling of great solemnity of the moment
again coincided with the fact that I was remembering my father’s farewell. "But how could it
be? - I asked myself. “After all, I was only two years old then, no more.”
And this is what became clear over time in connection with these memories.
As a child, I sometimes had to listen to the gramophone in my grandfather's house.
There were times when my grandfather trusted me to lose one or two
records. Then I opened all the windows of the upper room, placed an amazing box on
window sill, directed the screaming green pipe along the village and
officiated. Of course, kids came running from everywhere, with open arms
their mouths looked into the pipe from afar. And it seemed to me that they were looking at me,
that I become a hero not only in my own eyes, but also in the eyes of mine
peers that they all envy me. And I was triumphant. Not everything was for me,
orphan, envy them. This is what I am, this is what I can do - look! Maybe,
my dad has not been killed yet, he will return, then I will show you... So I took revenge
for your little funny grievances.
Many years later I returned to my native village, and in the house of the deceased
Grandfather, I had the opportunity to once again sit down at the old square gramophone. In the pile
barely alive records with stickers on which angels were drawn,
then a dog sitting by the gramophone pipe, I found one unfamiliar to me, already with
crack, a record - “Seeing off to the war”, or “Seeing off to the soldier”. Heart
nothing told me when I decided to lose her too. Among the rusty
I chose one of the sharper needles, again with force I turned it several times
rusty handle, turned off the brake and when the pawl and green pipe are on the label
the plates merged into one circle, lowered the lever with the membrane. At first there was
only the crack of a rusty spring and noise, as if I had lowered the needle onto the wrong record,
but on the grindstone, nothing could be made out. Then they appeared
voices, a brass band began to play, and I heard the first words: “Tobacco is not
have you forgotten?"
And immediately I saw a wide village street, golden autumn leaves,
a crowd of fellow villagers and his own father going to war. "Take care of your son!" -
he told his neighbors. And they kissed him and swore to him: “Fight, don’t worry,
We'll save you!"
My dear, my dear fellow countrymen! What happened to me! Copper pipes
the orchestra sounded clearer and more excited, their song broke through everything
the noises of time, through all the distances and layers of my memory, clearing it and
resurrecting all that is most sacred in the soul. Not just one village, but all of Russia saw off
my father to the war, all of Russia swore to the soldier to save and raise him
son. And again no tears were heard. But maybe the copper pipes were drowning out
their.
Then I heard the ringing of bells and the last parting words for the road. Here,
it means where my too early memories came from. This is where their origins are.
But where did the golden vision of autumn and the burning gates of the village come from?
outskirts? It was, of course, a dream.
After all, I once dreamed that nails were taken out of a flower tree,
which is called a carnation, and multi-colored strings of beads are found ready-made in
stacks of rotten hay, and for a long time I also believed that this was exactly what happened.
But no, it wasn’t just in my dreams that I saw the crazy jump of the troika. Lives and
to this day, on our collective farm is Pyotr Sergeevich, a talented groom and dashing rider.
It was he who could drive for hours, slowly, through forests, fields - through a tree stump. A
in front of the village, in front of the people, he and his horses were transformed.
"Hey, falcons!" - cried Pyotr Sergeevich, a broad Russian soul, and
where did the powerhouse come from with its furry legs - it took off with a whistle, with a whirlwind
Tarantass up the hill past my four birches. It used to be the most unenviable
the little horse in the hands of Pyotr Sergeevich and in front of the whole village, or, as in
We are told that in the world, it suddenly turned into a humpbacked horse.
I recently heard a cheerful cry bursting from the depths of my soul.
fellow countryman, as if he had rushed headlong into a squat, and was alive again
The picture of my father’s farewell rose in my memory. And again everything seemed to me
not fictitious, not dreamed, but genuine - even the burning gates and fabulous
horses soaring into the air, all as their native side saw them off to war
your soldier.

FIRST FEE

I stopped studying when I received my first fee. What is it all about?
It was a long time ago and how fun it is to remember all this!
The fee came from Moscow, from " Pioneer Truth"There from time to time
my notes about school life, and once there was even a fable
"Olashki" - about a bourgeois who refused to eat pancakes when he found out that they
baked from Soviet flour. The bourgeoisie were principled at that time!
A money transfer, if I'm not mistaken, thirty rubles, caught me
taken by surprise. I've never had more than twenty or thirty kopecks in my pocket before.
it happened.
Not without difficulty, having received money at the regional post office, I bought it in a store
sweets, doused gingerbread and cigarettes and rushed on foot to his native village. Case
it was winter. I was wearing bast shoes then, of course there were no warm clothes, and I went
it was easy for me. But I didn’t walk, I ran. I ran all twenty kilometers.
Whether he sang songs and danced at the same time - I don’t remember. I only remember what
I didn’t eat a single piece of candy or a gingerbread the whole way, because I wanted to
bring everything completely to the village, for your mother. I wanted to brag: here,
they say, what am I, take a bite! And, of course, I didn’t open the pack of cigarettes - I still
didn't smoke then.
The winter days are short, and no matter how light I was on my feet, I still got to the village
I got there only at night. In the darkness, the corners of the log houses crackled from the frost, and in
in the huts a torch was burning in the lamps. Only one house had a kerosene
lamp, its windows shone brighter than others. Young people gathered in this house for
gatherings.. In our country such gatherings are called gazebos. The girls sit decorously on
shops with spinning yarn, spinning flax or tow, and singing songs to the accordion, yes
they try to please guys, each to their own, and some to all at once, and
The guys, until the square dance starts, are just messing around and grinning.
I was then less than fifteen years old, but that’s not important, what’s important is that
I already liked one of the village girls, I was already in love - with her, in
an adult, a bride. What I was thinking about then, what I wanted - only God knows. Myself
If I knew anything, I have now forgotten.
Having not brought gingerbreads and sweets home, I first of all decided to show up at
gazebos Never before have I been taken seriously at the gazebos, in anyone's
in my eyes I was not yet an adult. “Well, why didn’t they take it,” I thought. “No
accepted, but now they will accept."
I really liked myself that day!
A kerosene lamp hung on a hook in the middle of the hut and burned at full strength:
the gazebo had just begun, and the air had not yet had time to deteriorate at all. But
the clouds and rings of tobacco smoke no longer dissipated, did not melt, but moved
under the ceiling, dense and thick. Girls in bright homespun, less often in chintz
in sundresses, as usual, they sat on gingerbread hoofs along the circumference of the walls
the entire hut and spun the spindles and spat on the fingers of the left hand,
pulling the thread from the tow. The guys crowded in the middle of the hut, and some
bolder, sat on the girls’ laps or next to them, entertaining them with conversations and
interfering with spinning. Satisfied girls squealed and laughed. In a dark corner behind
a large Russian bakery, where there was always the smell of pies and sour cabbage
underground, some couple were kissing. Sweet and mysterious to me
It was just emerging at these gatherings.
My love, Anna, was not sitting in the place of honor, but in the corner
on the right, in the semi-darkness of the kitchen, but she was the most beautiful of all. Red
a colorful sundress with white thread squares, a blue jacket, bright, too
colorful, and no scarf on her head. And there’s a smile on his face, not a smile, but
a smile - affectionate, sly, in which the cheeks are slightly pulled up
and a dimple forms on one of them, and the eyes squint. Yes, even hair
braided in a very bright braid, but no longer red or blue, but, it seems,
purple, bright purple ribbon; and even the eyes, sparkling, everything
understanding, slightly narrowed eyes and, it seems, gray; and also fast hands,
hard-working and, probably, affectionate too. Oh, I wish I could touch them someday!
With her right hand Anna spun the spindle so hard that it even buzzed.
pleasure, and the fingers of his left hand moved all the time near the towed beard and
They were always wet with saliva.
Anna was so beautiful that, of course, none of the guys dared
sit next to her. I'm the only one who dares today! And what about the twilight in the kitchen?
- that’s good: here, in the corner, at least nothing will be visible.
Nothing! And it’s also good that the bakery is close from here, that mysterious corner,
where from time to time the arranged couples go to kiss. Is this really for
Is it possible for me today?
Entering the hut, the first thing I did was distribute cigarettes to the guys. It seems like nothing
nothing special happened. The guys just grabbed the whole pack at once and
They started smoking: cigarettes, after all, not tobacco. There was even more smoke in the hut.
Then I sat down with my girlfriend, my Anna. Hooked as they sit down
grown guys to their girls. I never dared to sit before
next to Anna, and now sat down. Anna was spinning flax. She wasn't surprised that I poked
on the bench next to her spinning yarn, she was simply spinning. Now I had to speak
with her. I have never been brave enough to speak to
her. I couldn't speak this time either. But this time it was different
on my side there were now all sorts of advantages, on my side there was
power - and sweets, and gingerbread, and what I real writer, otherwise is it possible?
They would send me money from Moscow itself. Today at the gazebos I was the most
main person.
I took the candy out of my pocket, unfolded the piece of paper and, with my own hand,
put the candy in Anna's mouth. And again nothing special happened. Anna
she just looked at me, opened her mouth, put the candy in her mouth and ate it. But
Still, she looked at me. Still, she noticed me. I quickly
He unwrapped the next candy and put it back in Anna's mouth. She ate this one too
candy, but laughed at the same time. Her cheeks were raised, rounded, beautiful
eyes narrowed.
And so it went: I fed her candy, and she laughed. Above what? Over whom?
Above me, of course! But this didn’t bother me at all. Still she was
more beautiful than everyone, and today I was the best. Oh, if I could with her
speak!
She would ask me:
-Are you still studying?
And I would answer her:
- I'm learning - what! I am a writer! You see, he’s a real writer. To me
They already pay me money for being a writer. Do you know what this is? Here,
for example, all these sweets, gingerbreads, cigarettes - where does it all come from? Just,
you understand, I write, and that’s it.
Of course, I wouldn’t be able to brag so shamelessly in the city, there right away
I would have been caught. But here it was possible. Besides, the situation is still
unusual, uplifting. After all, a guy in front of a girl is always a little
showing off, showing off. How else? Otherwise, will she love him?
The only trouble is that I couldn’t talk to my Anna this time either. But
I was happy just because she ate my sweets and laughed at me. AND
When she ate them all, I put all the drenched gingerbread cookies in her hem. She ate
and gingerbread.
I myself have never tried either gingerbread or sweets. Why is this from
great love or from calculation, from stinginess or from heartfelt kindness?
I came home from the gazebos late at night, when everyone was already asleep, and,
hungry, fell asleep on a random straw bed near the chicken coop.
. In the morning my mother came to my bed. She didn't wake me up, she just
she stood over me, putting her hands behind her back, and I woke up on my own. Good,
poor mom! She already knew everything. She knew that she was stupid, but dangerous
a lively first-born son living in the city without parental supervision, somewhere
got money - of course, it’s not clean money, not labor money! - buys
cigarettes, smokes himself and treats others, and distributes all sorts of sweets to the girls. Already
It's up to the girls!
-- Hello mother! - I tell her. - I wish I could eat something!
And she told me:
- Tell me, guy, where did you get the money?
And from these words the happiness of all yesterday began to sing in my soul again and,
probably lit up his eyes. I could not resist, and again I was carried away
boasting.
- I, mom, am a writer. You see, writer! - I tell her, almost
choking with delight. - I was paid a fee. Transferred from Moscow. I
I haven’t spent enough, don’t be afraid, I’ll give you some money too. And then I’ll write it again
anything. Fees, do you understand?
“Don’t talk your teeth into me,” the mother began to get angry, “tell the truth,
I won't do anything to you. Where did you get the money?
- So I’m telling the truth: I am a writer, a poet. This is a fee. Creation,
understand?..
My good mother! It’s unlikely that even now she understands why her son sometimes
there is money: he doesn’t go to work, doesn’t have a farm, doesn’t have any business
doesn't do it. How many years have educational programs worked in the country, and my old mother
and lives out her life illiterate and is still for her both a writer and
clerk - one and the same.
- Oh, you are so damned! - she became completely angry. - Confess
honestly don't you want to? Do you think you will hide the truth all your life, not out of conscience?
live? So I'll skin you, since you're a writer...
And in the mother’s hands behind her back was a fresh birch tree - a rod.
She pulled off my filthy blanket, and I, unfed, unclothed,
received his first real fee. Of course, I was not to blame for anything,
but she also only wanted the best for me. So judge after this who is right, who
not right.

AFTER BATTLE

When they shoot in the mountains - either close or far - and there is a dull echo
rumbles and surrounds you from all sides, the height and space are felt
especially strong. It seems that you are not on earth - in heaven, somewhere
among the thunder. The rifle clap sounds like a shell exploding, a shot from
guns are like a mountain collapse. And the petty earthly feeling of fear leaves the soul.
You stand and wonder at yourself: either you are very small among these stone masses,
and therefore no bullet can hit you, or it is very large, almost
incorporeal, like an echo, and your life will never end anyway.
In the morning the battle in the mountains froze. The war seemed to be ending. When at all
It died down, and the barking of dogs could be heard from the nearby village. Suddenly he sang very loudly
rooster. It smelled like a Russian village. The barking of dogs in the villages did not stop even when
what kind of shooting, but in the heat of battle they stopped hearing him, like the singing of birds,
like the sound of the wind in the trees.
The sun appeared in the sky. Maybe we just haven’t seen him in the morning
noticed.
The wind appeared. And eagles. The wind could be seen in the sky if you watched
behind the eagles - he lifted them, threw them up a little, sometimes forced them sharply
flap your wings.
By the end of the fight I found myself on a high saddle. There was nowhere to go further and
no need. I looked around the sky and earth and lay down in the grass. I lay down in the grass and felt
its damp, fresh smell and heard the chirping of grasshoppers. I even saw
grasshoppers - there were a lot of them.
At first, I didn’t seem to think about anything. I just felt good. I
rested. To lie down without moving for at least half an hour - I had no other desires.
Then I suddenly clearly understood that the war was ending and that I was alive.
I turned on my back, as if wanting to make sure that I was alive, that
The earth is solid, but above me is the sky.
The sky above me was very high, and the morning sun was not higher than the mountains and
illuminated only their distant peaks. The boundaries of the sun marked the height, walked
over valleys and gorges from rock to rock, from hill to hill.
The higher the sun rose, the wider its light spread across the mountains, and
Finally, the deepest valley was illuminated, the whole world began to shine.
I threw the rifle aside and spread my arms. Everything was singing in my soul, and I
was silent and just smiled.
“My dear, beloved ones!” I thought, remembering at the same time both my mother and
wife, and children, and all his distant friends and comrades. - Soon we will be again
together. And everything will go well: I am alive. Where are you now, I've been talking about many for a long time
I do not know anything..."
I wanted to immediately write letters to everyone and make inquiries. Sun
it was getting hotter, the smell of grass was getting stronger, the fatigue in the body did not
passed, and I lay face up, slightly closing my eyes and not moving. At the very
A grasshopper was fiddling with his temple, I didn’t touch him.
The dogs were still barking in the village. Bonfires were burning, somewhere very far away
the guns were thundering, but it wasn’t our unit there, I didn’t have to rush anywhere,
I had two hours of complete freedom left.
And at that time, someone’s black shadow covered the sun for a moment. I don't
shuddered, did not move, I just squinted my eyes - and saw a large mountain
eagle. Of all those lying in different places he chose me and started circling people,
going lower and lower. He probably mistook me for dead. But I was
alive. And I stopped watching him, thinking about my own.
“Mom, my dear!” I thought. “There is no one with you now, not one
son. Mikhailo died at Stalingrad. But I am alive and I will return to you, I will come,
I will do everything to make you feel good.
My favorite children! Are you healthy? Now you will have everything - school, home,
happiness, everything will be: I’m alive. No one else will dare to separate us..."
The eagle circled and circled above me and dropped so low that
I heard the sound of his wings. The predator was very careful and circumspect. On
against the clear background of the sky it seemed completely black, ominously black. And I froze. Not
I was scared, but froze and prepared to fight.
No, my strength was not exhausted, no claws scared me, the war
didn't weaken me.
“My dear, faithful friend! Be calm, I am alive, and you won’t have to
carry me out of the battlefield,” I turned to my beloved. “Just save
our children until I return..."
Through my eyelashes I saw the blunt ends spread apart, as if barbed
wings - each feather separately, a curved predatory beak and powerful steel claws.
The soft, tight noise became more and more audible. Now the eagle must swoop down, and
then he will know that I am alive. I'll grab him, I'll crush him, the robber will pay
head for your arrogance. Oh, don't touch me, fly away before it's too late,
I'll say hello!
Fire went from my heart throughout my body - to the muscles of my arms and legs, I tensed up.
and apparently moved. At the same moment the eagle soared sharply upward and with a bewildered
flew screaming towards the blue rocks.
-- That's better! - I said out loud and lay there for a long, long time without moving.
under a clear high sky.

FLAYER

We often say: he plays like a cat and a mouse. Tonight I saw
what it is.
I live in a village with a single woman, my relative, in a large
a clean hut, covered with homespun rugs, hung with handicrafts and
posters. The air in the hut is clean, there are relatively few bedbugs, food
healthy: berries, mushrooms, cabbage...
But what suits me most is that my old lady goes to bed early and,
before lying down, he pours a full lamp of kerosene for me and diligently
cleans glass with crumpled newspaper.
At night I like to sit alone - read, think, write - in the most perfect
silence. Warmth is humming in the chimney, a blizzard is bustling under the window, and the gray young
the cat purrs nearby. I don't tolerate cats for their arrogance and selfishness. They say,
The dog gets used to the owner, and the cat gets used to the house. In my opinion, there is no need for it
doesn't really get used to it and you can never rely on any cat. But
For some reason I fell in love with this young, gray one.
Today at midnight the cat suddenly started making a fuss, started meowing, and I
I saw that she carried a live mouse out into the middle of the hut. The mouse was not yet
crumpled, completely fresh, fluffy and small, thinner than a cat’s paw.
At first I didn’t feel any pity for her, but the cat, on the contrary,
He praised himself: he’s not a parasite, he knows his stuff!
The cat put the mouse on the rug in the middle of the hut and lay down next to it. Mouse
fell to the floor, stretching out her tail, and froze in surprise: she probably
it seemed that she was free and could run away wherever she wanted. This is true:
a moment - and she was gone.
- Oh, damn! - I exclaimed with chagrin. “Gone!”
But the cat sprang into action, rushed to the back corner of the hut, into the darkness, managed to
I searched the entire floor with my thick paws for a moment and found a mouse - how could I
imagined herself, gropingly, and calmly, holding it in her teeth, returned to
the middle of the hut.
- You'll miss it, you fool! - I said.
The cat put the mouse in its original place and lay down next to it again, squinting
and purring incessantly. And the mouse again believed that she was a free bird. On
this time the cat caught it at my feet, under the table. Next time - under
stove-bed, then in the kitchen. And all this in the twilight, because my
the kerosene lamp did not illuminate the entire hut. The rugs on the floor were crumpled,
the cat's stiff tail, like a fox's trumpet, flashed now in one place, now in
friend. How many times have I thought it was all over, the mouse has escaped!

At the groom's house, the matchmaker and the thousand stopped the young couple in the dark entryway and waited for the lamp to be taken out and the parents to come out to meet them.

They placed a loaf of rye bread on the heads of the bride and groom, the father and mother blessed them, kissed them - the icon was used again, Pyotr Petrovich was very embarrassed by this ritual, joked, but did not want to offend the old people, he endured everything.

The father was even taller than his son and so much healthier, so much so that the long-legged, lean groom looked like a perfect boy in front of him. I wanted to call my father solemnly: parent. He, just like his brother, Tysyatsky, was stingy with words and behaved with his usual dignity. Perhaps he, too, once served as chairman of a collective farm somewhere?

And the mother was spinning and spinning like a top, and her name was Leah.

The village of Gribaevo was already radio-wired; in the hut near the shrine there was a loudspeaker box hanging, and electricity was burning under the ceiling. The proximity of the industrial facility affected everything. True, in order for the light to shine with sufficient strength, it was necessary to screw in the bulbs at one hundred and fifty candles and a lower voltage.

There were more colorful posters and slogans in the hut than Maria Gerasimovna had. In the wall where Maria Gerasimovna had the miraculous work of the livestock specialist “Ivan Tsarevich on gray wolf“, here hung a poster “Always with the Party!” Nearby, a red-cheeked collective farmer, among baskets of fruits and vegetables, holds in her hands a huge head of cabbage, like a jazz drum, and - the inscription:

For your work, masters of vegetable gardens, orchards,
Now it's your turn.
We'll give you plenty of vegetables and fruits
Juicy, tasty, cheap!

Is this really what Vologda poets, my friends, write?

And more posters:

"Raise waterfowl! This is a great reserve for increasing the production of nutritious, cheap meat!"

What a language!

We are for peace on the planet
All the children were happy!

And again and again...

There is an eight-year school in the village, and many of the wedding guests are teachers. Even more employees and workers from the flax mill.

Again the bride and groom were seated at the table and again outerwear; They sat like that for a long time, until steam came out of them.

There was beer again, toasts in one word: “Bitter!”, “Bitter!” - and dancing. Again the young people kissed picturesquely, but Pyotr Petrovich was already drinking from the white whale - he had finally achieved his goal! And the bride bowed every now and then, as if wound up - this was the mother’s order.

Now it's sweet! Drink! - the groom joked and knocked over another white whale.

Every new guest was greeted here at the door with a glass of beer. Hostess Leah undressed the guests herself and with such cordiality that buttons flew to the floor. This, of course, reflected her indomitable temperament, but the main thing is that it was accepted, and it was considered the highest chic of hospitality.

A dispute arose again, and with even greater bitterness, between the flax mill workers and the collective farmers regarding the grade of the flax trust being handed over.

Something else caught my eye.

At first, the guests were treated to beer - bready, thick, velvety, and as soon as they began to have fun, liquid, cloudy mash was poured into the same bowl. Braga is also intoxicating, but after it you get a terrible headache, which is why they called it “puzzle”. But it costs much less than beer. They give you beer and knock you off your feet with mash.

One of the bride's relatives wanted to repeat their favorite ritual with fresh chicken. Mistress Leah went berserk:

You have no conscience - tear off the head of a living chicken!

The Tabakurs asked for matches. Leah handed the box and warned:

Anything left - return it!

At first they thought: a sign of good luck. Like breaking glassware. No, it turns out that it’s not a matter of signs at all.

Why are you being stingy, it’s a wedding! - they told her not without fear of offending. - Where they drink, they pour, where they eat, there they beat.

Leah was not offended:

And you want to ruin us right away. The costs are already high.

What's a wedding without expenses? This way your son will want to get married another time. It is necessary to ruin him so that he does not think about divorce.

Okay, drink when they serve it!

In the morning, the bride, in the presence of guests, swept the floor in the hut, and every now and then they threw various garbage at her feet: they checked whether she knew how to manage things. This ritual lasted a long time and was, perhaps, the most fun. Relatives and guests became sophisticated, bringing hay dust and worn-out bast shoes into the hut, throwing broken pots, all kinds of rubbish and scrap into the corners with a roar. One found somewhere the remains of a cavalry saddle and dumped them in the middle of the floor. The bride was only happy: money was thrown on the floor with the trash, usually copper coins, sometimes pieces of paper. True, she found nothing in the old saddle, although she tore off all the leather and felt from it.

Seek, search! You sweep badly, you sweep uncleanly! - they shouted to her.

Galya tried: the wedding really consumed everything for her, everything she had earned had accumulated over several years. But as soon as she gaped, the mischievous people grabbed the broom, and she had to be bought back.

Then the bride - she was already called the young lady - went around everyone present with a dish of fresh pancakes in butter. The guest drank a glass of honor, snacked on a pancake, and placed his small change on a plate.

Even later, in the presence of guests, the young woman handed out gifts to her new relatives: her father-in-law - a blue staple shirt, her mother-in-law - cuts for a sundress and underwear - frames, the matchmaker - chintz for a jacket, her sister-in-law, the groom's sister, a beautiful stately girl who had recently graduated from her tenth grade and works on a collective farm , - a dress and a scarlet ribbon in a braid, for the thousand - a cut for a shirt, for the grandmother - a headscarf, for the rest - a handkerchief for some, a shag pouch for others. Everything that had been sewn and embroidered for many weeks by the bride herself and her mother and friends was distributed in a few minutes. It seems no one was offended.

I, a newcomer, was not left out either. On the wedding days, my friend Grigory Kirillovich and the collective farm driver Ivan Ivanovich Popovsky awarded me priceless gifts. They crawled through a lot of attics and basements and found for me a set of cast bells and bells on a leather horse collar.

Soon there won’t be any of these in the North either: they can’t be hung on trucks or dump trucks for weddings!

They also gave me a carved painted gingerbread tree, at least a hundred years old. Such people, too, will probably soon disappear from the face of the earth. And for the spindle - a wicker spindle with spindles. Birch wood was also threshing - a flail that had been lying around unnecessarily almost since the beginning of collectivization. I also managed to get two shoulder straps from birch bast.

I returned to Moscow with these wedding gifts. One pester was given to Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky for his seventieth birthday, another to a friend of the poet on his wedding day, and in addition, bast shoes of his own weaving.

I gave everything away. He kept for himself only a birch bark salt lick, bells and cooers on a leather collar.

I sit at the table, write and sometimes call, listen: they sing well!

LITTLE STORIES

Seeing off a soldier

For a long time I believed that I remembered how my father went to war. I believed it and was surprised at my memory: after all, I was no more than two years old then.

Compassionate old women from the village often regaled me with stories about their dead dad. In these old woman’s memories, my father always looked only good and not just good, but extraordinary. He was strong and brave, cheerful and kind, fair and friendly to everyone. All his fellow villagers loved him very much and felt sorry for him. A blacksmith and hunter, he never offended anyone in his life, and when he went to war, he told his neighbors that he would stand for his native land like this: “Either my chest is in the crosses, or my head is in the bushes.”

The more I listened to stories about my father, the more I yearned for him, felt sorry for myself, an orphan, and envied all my peers whose fathers were alive, albeit without crosses. And more and more my personal, although not very clear, memories coincided with what I heard about him.

And I mainly remembered my father’s farewell to the war.

It was during that autumn time when the whole earth begins to glow and rustle with dry yellow foliage, when both sunrises and sunsets seem especially golden. Since time immemorial, four mighty birch trees have stood near our house. I clearly remember that they were completely transparent, that the blue sky was not above the birches, not above them, but in the birches themselves, in the tops, in the branches.

The whole village gathered under the birch trees to see off his father. There were a lot of people, and human talk and the noise of leaves merged. Where did it come from in the old village - a brass band, but it was there, and the copper pipes glowed just like autumn foliage, like our whole land, and continuously hummed quietly. My father, tall, handsome, walked in the crowd and talked with his neighbors, now with one, now with another; Who will shake hands, who will pat on the shoulder. He was in charge here, he was escorted to war, women kissed him.

I remember flowery homespun sundresses, bright yellow scarves and aprons. Then my father took me in his arms, and I also became the leader in the crowd. "Take care of your son!" - he said, and the whole village answered him: “Fight, don’t worry, we’ll grow!”

Sun, sky, little light...

[Chorus, Rauf]:

I don’t believe in tears on my cheeks -
I dance for myself.

[Verse 1, Faik]:
I'm laughing, you're scared. I see,
Don't try to draw - it didn't work out for me.
And everything is clear, and everything is extremely clear,
What have you done to me?

[Transition, Rauf+Faik]:
And my May leaves, [was he in my thoughts?|
Oblivion] oblivion in thoughts.

[Chorus, Rauf]:
If it were summer, I would remember
Your look, because I'm listening to you.
I don’t believe in tears on my cheeks -
I dance for myself.

[Verse 2, Faik]:
I played ok with you,
Your loving gaze has not disappeared -
Remembering how she played with me.
And May left, and a year passed, and I left.

[Transition, Rauf+Faik]:
And my May leaves, but was he in my thoughts?
Oblivion in thoughts.
You endure the silence. You endure, you look into the sun.
Be patient and it will work out - you are my beloved...

[Vocalise, Faik]

[Final, Faik]:
The whole summer has passed
And I still remember your look.
Where is our May now?
I didn’t believe the tears on my cheeks,
Why do I love you so much?

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