Who wrote the obelisk story. Obelisk (story), main characters, plot, artistic features, heroism, publications

Vasil Bykov

In two many years I never found the time to go to that not very far from the city rural school. How many times have I thought about this, but kept putting it off: in the winter - until the frosts weaken or the snowstorm subsides, in the spring - until it dries out and gets warmer; in the summer, when it was dry and warm, all thoughts were occupied by vacation and the associated troubles for the sake of some month in the cramped, hot, overpopulated south. In addition, I thought: I’ll come when I’m freer with work and with various household chores. And, as happens in life, I put it off until it was too late to get ready to visit - it was time to go to the funeral.

I also found out about this at the wrong time: while returning from a business trip, I met an acquaintance on the street, an old workmate. After talking a little about this and that and exchanging a few humorous phrases, they had already said goodbye, when suddenly, as if remembering something, the comrade stopped.

Did you hear that Miklashevich died? The one who was a teacher in Seltse.

How did you die?

Yes, usually. He died the day before yesterday. It seems they will be buried today.

The comrade said and walked away, Miklashevich’s death probably meant little to him, but I stood and looked across the street in confusion. For a moment, I stopped feeling myself, forgot about all my urgent matters - some as yet unconscious guilt stunned me with a sudden blow and chained me to this piece of asphalt. Of course, I understood that the untimely death of the young village teacher was not my fault, and the teacher himself was neither my relatives nor even a close acquaintance, but my heart ached sharply from pity for him and the consciousness of my irreparable guilt - after all, I I didn’t do what I can never do now. Probably, clinging to the last opportunity to justify himself to himself, he felt a quickly matured determination to go there right away, immediately.

From the moment I made this decision, time rushed for me according to some special countdown, or rather, the sense of time disappeared. I began to hurry with all my might, although I did it poorly. I didn’t find any of my people at home, but I didn’t even write a note to warn them about my departure - I ran to the bus station. Remembering my business at work, I tried to call there from the machine, which, as if to spite me, regularly swallowed coppers and was silent, like a cursed one. I rushed to look for another one and found it only at the new grocery store building, but there was a line waiting patiently. He waited for several minutes, listening to long and petty conversations in a blue booth with broken glass, and quarreled with some guy whom he initially mistook for a girl - bell-bottomed pants and flaxen curls down to the collar of a corduroy jacket. Until I finally got through and explained what was going on, I missed the last bus to Seltso, but there was no other transport in that direction today. I spent half an hour in vain attempts to grab a taxi from the parking lot, but every approaching car was rushed by a crowd of people more agile, and most importantly, more impudent than me. In the end, I had to get out onto the highway outside the city and resort to the old method, tried and tested in such cases - to vote. Indeed, the seventh or tenth car from the city, loaded to the brim with rolls of roofing felt, stopped on the side of the road and picked us up - me and a boy in sneakers, with a bag filled with loaves of city bread.

On the way, it became a little calmer, only sometimes it seemed that the car was going too slowly, and I caught myself mentally scolding the driver, although, to a more sober look, we usually drove, like everyone else here drives. The highway was smooth, paved and almost straight, swaying smoothly on gentle hills - up and down. The day was approaching evening, it was the middle of Indian summer with the calm transparency of the distances, thinning copses touched by the first yellow, and the free expanse of already empty fields. At a distance, near the forest, a collective farm herd was grazing - several hundred heifers, all of the same age, height, and the same brown-red color. In a huge field on the other side of the road, a tireless collective farm tractor rumbled - plowing in the cold. Cars were coming towards us, bulkily loaded with flax. In the roadside village of Budilovichi, late dahlias were burning brightly in the front gardens; in the gardens, in the plowed furrows with dry, fallen tops, the village women were digging around - choosing potatoes. Nature was filled with the peaceful calm of a fine autumn; quiet human satisfaction shone through in the measured rhythm of the eternal peasant troubles; When the crop has already been grown, harvested, most of the worries associated with it are behind us, all that remains is to process it, prepare it for winter and until next spring - goodbye to the arduous and busy field.

But this pacifying goodness of nature, however, did not calm me down, but only depressed and angered me. I was late, I felt it, I was worried and cursed myself for my outdated laziness and spiritual callousness. None of my previous reasons seemed valid now, and were there any reasons at all? With such bearish clumsiness, it was not long to live out the years allotted to you, without doing anything that, perhaps, alone could constitute the meaning of your existence on this sinful earth. So go to hell, the futile ant fuss for the sake of illusory insatiable well-being, if because of it something much more important remains aside. After all, this devastates and emasculates your whole life, which only seems to you autonomous, isolated from others. human lives, directed according to your purely individual everyday channel. In fact, as it was not noticed today, if it is filled with something significant, it is, first of all, reasonable human kindness and care for others - people close or even distant to you who need this care of yours.

Miklashevich probably understood this better than others.

And it seems that he had no special reason for this, exceptional education or refined upbringing that would distinguish him from the circle of other people. He was an ordinary rural teacher, probably no better or worse than thousands of other urban and rural teachers. True, I heard that he survived a tragedy during the war and miraculously escaped death. And also that he is very sick. It was obvious to anyone who met him for the first time how this disease tormented him. But I never heard him complain about her or let anyone know how difficult it was for him. I remembered how we met him during a break at another teachers’ conference. Talking to someone, he then stood at the window in the noisy lobby of the city House of Culture, and his entire very thin, sharp-shouldered figure with shoulder blades protruding under his jacket and a thin long neck seemed to me from behind surprisingly fragile, almost boyish. But as soon as he immediately turned to me with his faded, thickly wrinkled face, the impression immediately changed - I thought that he was a rather beaten-down, almost elderly man. In fact, and I knew this for sure, at that time he was only thirty-four years old.

“I heard about you and have long wanted to address a complicated matter,” Miklashevich said then in a kind of dull voice.

He smoked, shaking the ashes into an empty matchbox that he held in his fingers, and I remember that I was involuntarily horrified when I saw those nervously trembling fingers of his, covered with yellow, wrinkled skin. With a bad feeling, I hastened to look at his face - tired, it was, however, surprisingly calm and clear.

Seal - great power“,” he quoted jokingly and meaningfully, and through the network of wrinkles on his face a kind smile, with painful sadness, peeked out.

I knew that he was looking for something in the history of the partisan war in the Grodno region, that as a teenager he himself took part in partisan affairs, that his schoolchildren friends were shot by the Germans in 1942, and that thanks to the efforts of Miklashevich, a small monument was erected in their honor in Selts. But it turns out that he also had some other business in which he was counting on me. Well, I was ready. I promised to come, talk and, if possible, sort it out if the matter was really complicated - at that time I had not yet lost my desire for all sorts of intricate, complex cases.

And now I'm late.

In a small roadside forest with caps of pine trees rising high above the road, the highway began a smooth, wide curve, beyond which Seltso finally appeared. Once upon a time it was a landowner's estate with the gnarled crowns of old elms and lindens having grown luxuriantly over many decades, hiding in their depths an old-world mansion - a school. The car was slowly approaching the turn into the estate, and this approach overwhelmed me with a new wave of sadness and bitterness - I was approaching. For a moment doubt appeared: why? Why am I coming here, to this sad funeral? I should have come earlier, but now who could need me here, and what could I possibly need here? But, apparently, there was no point in arguing this way anymore; the car began to slow down. I shouted to the fellow traveler, who, judging by his calm appearance, was driving further, to knock on the driver, and I walked over the rough rolls of roofing felt to the side, preparing to jump to the side of the road.

“... It was a squat concrete obelisk in a picket fence, simply and without unnecessary intricacy, built by the hands of some local craftsmen. It looked more than modest, if not poor, now even in villages they erect much more luxurious monuments. True, for all its simplicity, there was not a trace of abandonment or neglect in it: as far as I remember, it was always carefully inspected and tidied up, with a cleanly swept area and sprinkled with fresh sand, with a small flowerbed lined with brick corners, on which there was now a colorful something from late flower trifles. This obelisk, slightly taller than a man, changed its color several times in the ten years that I remembered it: it was snow-white, whitewashed with lime before the holidays, or green, the color of a soldier’s uniform; Once, driving along this highway, I saw it shiny silver, like the wing of a jetliner. Now he was gray, and, perhaps, of all the other colors, this one most suited his appearance. ..."

Vasil Bykov

For two long years, I never found the time to go to that rural school, not very far from the city. How many times have I thought about this, but kept putting it off: in the winter - until the frosts weaken or the snowstorm subsides, in the spring - until it dries out and gets warmer; in the summer, when it was dry and warm, all thoughts were occupied by vacation and the associated troubles for the sake of some month in the cramped, hot, overpopulated south. In addition, I thought: I’ll come when I’m freer with work and with various household chores. And, as happens in life, I put it off until it was too late to get ready to visit - it was time to go to the funeral.

I also found out about this at the wrong time: while returning from a business trip, I met an acquaintance on the street, an old workmate. After talking a little about this and that and exchanging a few humorous phrases, they had already said goodbye, when suddenly, as if remembering something, the comrade stopped.

– Did you hear that Miklashevich died? The one who was a teacher in Seltse.

- How did you die?

- Yes, as usual. He died the day before yesterday. It seems they will be buried today.

The comrade said and walked away, Miklashevich’s death probably meant little to him, but I stood and looked across the street in confusion. For a moment, I stopped feeling myself, forgot about all my urgent matters - some as yet unconscious guilt stunned me with a sudden blow and chained me to this piece of asphalt. Of course, I understood that the untimely death of the young village teacher was not my fault, and the teacher himself was neither my relatives nor even a close acquaintance, but my heart ached sharply from pity for him and the consciousness of my irreparable guilt - after all, I I didn’t do what I can never do now. Probably, clinging to the last opportunity to justify himself to himself, he felt a quickly matured determination to go there right away, immediately.

From the moment I made this decision, time rushed for me according to some special countdown, or rather, the sense of time disappeared. I began to hurry with all my might, although I did it poorly. I didn’t find any of my people at home, but I didn’t even write a note to warn them about my departure - I ran to the bus station. Remembering my business at work, I tried to call there from the machine, which, as if to spite me, regularly swallowed coppers and was silent, like a cursed one. I rushed to look for another one and found it only at the new grocery store building, but there was a line waiting patiently. He waited for several minutes, listening to long and petty conversations in a blue booth with broken glass, and quarreled with some guy whom he initially mistook for a girl - bell-bottoms and flaxen curls down to the collar of a corduroy jacket. Until I finally got through and explained what was going on, I missed the last bus to Seltso, but there was no other transport in that direction today. I spent half an hour in vain attempts to grab a taxi from the parking lot, but every approaching car was rushed by a crowd of people more agile, and most importantly, more impudent than me. In the end, I had to get out onto the highway outside the city and resort to the old method, tried and tested in such cases - to vote. Indeed, the seventh or tenth car from the city, loaded to the brim with rolls of roofing felt, stopped on the side of the road and picked us up - me and a guy in sneakers, with a bag filled with loaves of city bread.

On the way, it became a little calmer, only sometimes it seemed that the car was going too slowly, and I caught myself mentally scolding the driver, although, to a more sober look, we usually drove, like everyone else here drives. The highway was smooth, paved and almost straight, swaying smoothly on gentle hills - up and down. The day was approaching evening, it was the middle of Indian summer with the calm transparency of the distances, thinning copses touched by the first yellow, and the free expanse of already empty fields. At a distance, near the forest, a collective farm herd was grazing - several hundred heifers, all of the same age, height, and the same brown-red color. In a huge field on the other side of the road, a tireless collective farm tractor rumbled - plowing in the cold. Cars were coming towards us, bulkily loaded with flax. In the roadside village of Budilovichi, late dahlias burned brightly in the front gardens; in the gardens, in the plowed furrows with dry, fallen tops, the village women were digging around - choosing potatoes. Nature was filled with the peaceful calm of a fine autumn; quiet human satisfaction shone through in the measured rhythm of the eternal peasant troubles; When the crop has already been grown, harvested, most of the worries associated with it are behind us, all that remains is to process it, prepare it for winter and until next spring - goodbye to the arduous and busy field.

But this pacifying goodness of nature, however, did not calm me down, but only depressed and angered me. I was late, I felt it, I was worried and cursed myself for my outdated laziness and spiritual callousness. None of my previous reasons seemed valid now, and were there any reasons at all? With such bearish clumsiness, it was not long to live out the years allotted to you, without doing anything that, perhaps, alone could constitute the meaning of your existence on this sinful earth. So go to hell, the futile ant fuss for the sake of illusory insatiable well-being, if because of it something much more important remains aside. After all, in this way your whole life is emptied and emasculated, which only seems to you autonomous, isolated from other human lives, directed along your purely individual everyday channel. In fact, as it was not noticed today, if it is filled with something significant, it is, first of all, reasonable human kindness and care for others - people close or even distant to you who need this care of yours.

Miklashevich probably understood this better than others.

And it seems that he had no special reason for this, exceptional education or refined upbringing that would distinguish him from the circle of other people. He was an ordinary rural teacher, probably no better or worse than thousands of other urban and rural teachers. True, I heard that he survived a tragedy during the war and miraculously escaped death. And also that he is very sick. It was obvious to anyone who met him for the first time how this disease tormented him. But I never heard him complain about her or let anyone know how difficult it was for him. I remembered how we met him during a break at another teachers’ conference. Talking to someone, he then stood at the window in the noisy lobby of the city House of Culture, and his entire very thin, sharp-shouldered figure with shoulder blades protruding under his jacket and a thin long neck seemed to me from behind surprisingly fragile, almost boyish. But as soon as he immediately turned to me with his faded, thickly wrinkled face, the impression immediately changed - I thought that he was a rather beaten-down, almost elderly man. In fact, and I knew this for sure, at that time he was only thirty-four years old.

“I heard about you and have long wanted to address a complicated matter,” Miklashevich said then in a somewhat dull voice.

He smoked, shaking the ashes into an empty matchbox that he held in his fingers, and I remember that I was involuntarily horrified when I saw those nervously trembling fingers of his, covered with yellow, wrinkled skin. With a bad feeling, I hastened to look at his face - tired, it was, however, surprisingly calm and clear.

“The seal is a great power,” he quoted jokingly and meaningfully, and through the network of wrinkles on his face a kind smile, with painful sadness, peeked out.

I knew that he was looking for something in the history of the partisan war in the Grodno region, that as a teenager he himself took part in partisan affairs, that his schoolchildren friends were shot by the Germans in 1942, and that thanks to the efforts of Miklashevich, a small monument was erected in their honor in Selts. But it turns out that he also had some other business in which he was counting on me. Well, I was ready. I promised to come, talk and, if possible, sort it out if the matter was really complicated - at that time I had not yet lost my desire for all sorts of intricate, complex cases.

And now I'm late.

In a small roadside forest with caps of pine trees rising high above the road, the highway began a smooth, wide curve, beyond which Seltso finally appeared. Once upon a time, this was a landowner’s estate with the gnarled crowns of old elms and lindens growing luxuriantly over many decades, hiding in their depths an old-world mansion - a school. The car was slowly approaching the turn into the estate, and this approach overwhelmed me with a new wave of sadness and bitterness - I was approaching. For a moment doubt appeared: why? Why am I coming here, to this sad funeral? I should have come earlier, but now who could need me here, and what could I possibly need here? But, apparently, there was no point in arguing this way anymore; the car began to slow down. I shouted to the fellow traveler, who, judging by his calm appearance, was driving further, to knock on the driver, and I walked over the rough rolls of roofing felt to the side, preparing to jump to the side of the road.

Well, here I am. The car, firing angrily from the exhaust pipe, drove on, and I, stretching my numb legs, walked a little along the side of the road. Familiar, seen more than once from the bus window, this fork met me with restrained funeral sadness. Near the bridge over the ditch there was a post with a bus stop sign, behind it a familiar obelisk was visible with five youthful names on a black plaque. A hundred steps from the highway along the road to the school began an old narrow alley of wide-trunked elms that had fallen in different directions. At the far end, a GAZ car and a black Volga, apparently from the district committee, were waiting for someone in the schoolyard, but no people were visible there. “Perhaps people are in a different place now,” I thought. But I didn’t even really know where the cemetery was to go there, if there was any point in going there.

So, not very decisively, I entered the alley under the multi-tiered crowns of trees. Once, about five years ago, I had already been here, but then this old landowner’s house, and this alley did not seem so emphatically silent to me: the schoolyard was then filled with the voices of children - it was just a change. Now there was an unkind funereal silence all around - the thinning yellowing foliage of the old elms did not even rustle, hiding in the late afternoon peace. A well-rolled gravel path soon led to the school yard - in front stood a once magnificent, two-story, but already dilapidated and neglected old-world palace with a cracked wall along the facade: a figured balustrade of the veranda, whitewashed columns on both sides of the main entrance, high Venetian windows. I should have asked someone where Miklashevich was buried, but there was no one to ask. Not knowing where to go, I stomped around the cars in confusion and was about to enter the school, when another dusty gas car jumped out from the same front alley, almost running into me. He immediately braked dashingly, and a man I knew in a crumpled green Bologna fell out of his canvas interior. It was a livestock specialist from the regional department Agriculture, who I now heard was working somewhere in the area. We hadn’t seen him for five years, and in general our acquaintance was casual, but now I was sincerely glad to see him.

“Great, friend,” the livestock specialist greeted me with such animation on his well-fed, smug face, as if we had come here for a wedding and not a funeral. - Too, right?

“Also,” I answered restrainedly.

“They are there, in the teacher’s house,” the newcomer said, immediately adopting my restrained tone. - Come on, give me some help.

Grabbing the corner, he pulled out of the car a box with sparkling rows of Moskovskaya bottles, for which, apparently, he went to the general store or into the city. I picked up the burden from the other side, and we, passing the school, walked along a path between the garden thickets somewhere towards the nearby outbuilding with the teachers’ apartments.

- How did this happen? – I asked, still unable to come to terms with this death.

- Yes! How things happen. Fuck, bang - done. There was a man - and no.

– Were you sick before this or what?

- I was sick! He was sick all his life. But it worked. And he worked his way up to the handle. Let's go and have a drink while we have the chance.

In an old, rather dilapidated outbuilding with peeling plaster, behind thinning lilac bushes, among which rowan trees showered with clusters glowed freshly and juicily, the muffled conversation of many people could be heard, from which one could judge that the most important and last thing here had already been completed. There was a wake. The low windows of the squat outbuilding were wide open; between the parted curtains one could see someone's back in a white nylon shirt and next to it a flaxen shock of a woman's high hairstyle. Two unshaven men in work clothes stood at the porch and smoked. They chatted sparingly about something, then fell silent, grabbed the box from us and carried it into the house. We followed them along a narrow corridor.

In the small room, from which everything that could be taken out had now been removed, there were tables pushed end to end with the remains of drinks and snacks. The dozen or two people sitting behind them were busy talking, cigarette smoke reached in twisted strands towards the windows. The noticeably slower pace of the wake indicated that they had been going on for several hours, and I realized that my late appearance was worse than absence and could easily be interpreted not in my favor. But don’t take up your hat since you’ve already arrived.

“Sit down, here’s a place,” an elderly woman in a dark headscarf invited me to the table in a mournful voice, without asking who I was or why I came: probably such an appearance here was common.

I obediently sat down on a low stool at the high table, trying not to attract the attention of these people. But someone nearby was already turning his puffy, middle-aged face, wet with sweat, towards me.

-Are you late? – the man simply said. - Well... Our Pavlik is no more. And it won't happen anymore. Let's have a drink, comrade.

He thrust a glass of vodka into my hands, clearly unfinished by someone, with traces of someone else’s fingers, and he himself took another from the table.

- Come on, brother. May he rest in peace.

- Well, let him rest in peace.

We drank. With someone's fork, I picked up a circle of cucumber from the plate, and my neighbor, with naughty fingers, began to peel out what was probably the last cigarette there from a crumpled pack of Prima. At this time, a woman in a dark dress put several new bottles of Moskovskaya on the table, and man's hands They began to pour it into glasses.

- Quiet! Comrades, please be quiet! – through the noise of voices, a loud, not very sober voice came from somewhere in the front corner. - They want to say something here. The word has...

“Ksendzov, the head of the district,” the neighbor boomed in his ear with a thick breath of cigarette smoke. – What can he say? What does he know?

At the far end of the table, a young man with the usual authoritative confidence on his hard, strong-willed face rose from his seat and raised a glass of vodka.

– We’ve already talked about our dear Pavel Ivanovich. He was a good communist, a progressive teacher. Active social activist. And in general... In a word, he should live and live...

“I would have lived if it weren’t for the war,” inserted a quick female voice, probably a teacher sitting next to Ksendzov.

Zavrayono paused, as if confused by this remark, and straightened his tie on his chest. Apparently, it was difficult for him to speak, it was unusual for him to speak on such a topic, he was struggling to find words - maybe he didn’t have the words necessary for such a case.

“Yes, if not for the war,” the speaker finally agreed. – If it weren’t for the war unleashed by German fascism, which brought countless troubles to our people. Now, twenty years after the wounds of the war were healed, the economy destroyed by the war was restored, and the Soviet people achieved outstanding successes in all sectors of the economy, as well as culture, science and education, and especially great successes in the field...

– What does success have to do with it! – suddenly there was a crash above my ear, and the empty bottle on the table jumped up and rolled between the plates. – What does success have to do with it? We buried a man!

The manager fell silent mid-sentence unkindly, and everyone sitting at the table warily, almost in fear, began to look around at my neighbor. His already middle-aged eyes on his reddened, painfully sweaty face were clearly filled with anger; his large fist, intertwined with bulging veins, lay menacingly on the tablecloth. The head of the district was meaningfully silent for a minute and calmly, with dignity, remarked, as if to a schoolboy who had disturbed the order:

- Comrade Tkachuk, behave decently.

- Hush hush. Come on! – the woman sitting next to him leaned towards my neighbor with concern.

But Tkachuk, apparently, did not want to sit quietly; he slowly rose from the table, awkwardly straightening his overweight, middle-aged body.

- You need this decently. What are you talking about here about some successes? Why don't you remember about Frost?

It seemed like a scandal was brewing, and I didn’t feel very comfortable in such proximity. But I was an outsider here and did not consider myself to have the right to interfere, to calm someone down or to stand up for someone. The head of the district, however, could not be denied the necessary restraint in such a case.

“The frost has nothing to do with it,” he stopped my neighbor’s attack with calm firmness. - We are not burying Frost.

– Very much to do with it! – the neighbor almost shouted. – It’s Moroz who should be thanked for Miklashevich! He made a man out of him!

“Miklashevich is a different matter,” the district manager agreed and raised the half-filled glass. - Let's drink, comrades, to his memory. Let his life serve as an example for us.

The usual excitement after the toast began at the table, everyone drank. Only the darkened Tkachuk defiantly moved away from the table and leaned back in his chair.

“It’s too late for me to take an example from him.” “He took my example from me, if you want to know,” he said angrily, not addressing anyone, and no one answered him.

The head of the district tried not to notice the debater anymore, and the rest were absorbed in the snack. Then Tkachuk turned to me.

- Tell me about Frost. Let them know...

- About what Frost? – I didn’t understand.

- What, and you don’t know Frost? We made it! We sit and drink in Seltse, and no one will remember Frost! Which everyone here should know. Why are you looking at me like that? – he became completely angry, catching someone’s reproachful glance on himself. - I know what I am saying. Frost is an example for all of us. As it was for Miklashevich.

The table became silent. Something was happening here that I did not understand, but which others must have understood perfectly well. After a moment of confusion, the same district manager said with enviable commanding firmness in his voice:

– Before speaking, you should think, Comrade Tkachuk.

- I think what I say.

- That's it.

- Well, that's enough! Timofey Titovich! “That’s enough for you,” the young neighbor began to reassure him with persistent meekness. - Better eat sausages. This is homemade. There's probably nothing like it in the city. Otherwise you don’t snack at all...

But Tkachuk, apparently, did not want to bite and, squeezing out the nodules on his wrinkled cheeks, only gnashed his teeth. Then he took an unfinished glass of vodka and drank it to the bottom in one gulp. For a moment, his dull, reddened eyes hid painfully under his eyebrows.

The tables became quieter, everyone was silently eating, some were smoking. I turned to my neighbor on the right - a young guy in a green sweater, who looked like a teacher or some kind of specialist from the collective farm - and nodded towards Tkachuk:

– Don’t know who it is?

- Timofey Titovich. Former local teacher.

- And now?

- Now retired. Lives in the city.

I took a closer look at my neighbor. No, I don’t think I’ve met him in the city, maybe he recently moved from somewhere. In appearance, he had already become indifferent to everything here and fell silent aloofly, staring at the checkered edge of the tablecloth.

- From the city? – he suddenly asked, probably noticing my interest in him.

- From the city.

- What did you come for?

- Along the way.

- Don’t have your own?

- Not yet.

- Well, drink, remember, I’m leaving.

- How will you go?

- Something. Not the first time.

“Then I’ll be with you,” I suddenly decided. There seemed to be no point in staying here.

Now it’s difficult for me to explain why I followed this man, why, having barely reached Selts, I so quickly and willingly parted with the estate and the school. Of course, first of all, I was late. The one for whom I was coming here was no longer in the world, and the people at these tables interested me little. But at that time my new travel companion did not seem interesting or attractive to me at all. Quite the contrary. I saw a rather tipsy, fastidious pensioner next to me; his words about his superiority over the deceased reeked of the usual old man’s boasting, which was always not very pleasant. Even if he was telling the truth.

Nevertheless, with a still vague feeling of relief, I got up from the table and left the room. Tkachuk was a heavyset, stocky man, wearing boots and a gray, shabby suit with two medal bars on his chest. It seems that he drank heavily, although this was not surprising - he worried at the funeral, was a little nervous in the argument, the reason for which remained incomprehensible to me. But, apparently, he was seriously angry and now walked ahead along the path, emphasizing his aversion to any kind of communication.

So we silently passed the estate and went into the alley. Before reaching the highway, they passed a truck on it, apparently empty and heading towards the city. I could have shouted and run a little, but my companion did not quicken his pace, and I also did not show much concern. There was no one at the post with the bus stop sign; the highway in both directions lay empty, polished to a shine during the day.

We reached a fork and stopped. Tkachuk looked one way and the other and sat down where he stood, lowering his feet into a shallow dry ditch. He didn’t want to talk to me, it was obvious, and in order not to bother him, I stepped aside, not losing sight of the road. A car appeared from around a bend in the forest, a private Moskvich with a hunchbacked top laden with luggage - it doused us with a gasoline smell and drove on. The same side of the highway that now most interested us was completely empty. The evening sun was setting low above the road behind a cloud. Its gentle rays blinded the eyes, but it seemed there was little point in peering there - there were no cars there. Losing interest in the road, I walked over the ditch to the monument.

It was a squat concrete obelisk surrounded by a picket fence, built simply and without unnecessary intricacy by the hands of some local craftsmen. It looked more than modest, if not poor, now even in villages they erect much more luxurious monuments. True, for all its simplicity, there was not a trace of abandonment or neglect in it: as far as I remember, it was always carefully inspected and tidied up, with a cleanly swept area and sprinkled with fresh sand, with a small flowerbed lined with brick corners, on which there was now a colorful something from late flower trifles. This obelisk, slightly taller than a man, changed its color several times in the ten years that I remembered it: it was snow-white, whitewashed with lime before the holidays, or green, the color of a soldier’s uniform; Once, driving along this highway, I saw it shiny silver, like the wing of a jetliner. Now he was gray, and, perhaps, of all the other colors, this one most suited his appearance.

The obelisk often changed its appearance; only the black metal plate with the five names of schoolchildren who performed a feat famous in our area during the war years remained unchanged. I no longer read them carefully, I knew them by heart. But now I was surprised to see that a new name had appeared here - Moroz A.I., which was not very skillfully drawn above the others with white oil paint.

A car appeared on the road from the city again, this time a dump truck, it rushed past along the deserted highway. The dust he raised forced my companion to get up from his not very suitable place for rest. Tkachuk stepped out onto the asphalt and looked at the road with concern.

- The devil will wait for them! Let's drown. When it catches up, we’ll sit down.

Well, I agreed, especially since the weather became even better in the evening: it was warm and windless, not a single leaf on the elms was moving, and the glossy ribbon of the deserted highway beckoned me to give free rein to my legs. I jumped over the ditch, and with a pleasure we had not experienced for a long time, we walked along the smooth asphalt, occasionally looking back.

– How long have you known Miklashevich? – I asked simply to break our prolonged silence, which was already beginning to depress.

- Did you know? All life. He grew up before my eyes.

“I didn’t know him very well,” I admitted. - Yes, we met several times. I heard: he was a good teacher, he taught the children well...

- Learned! Others taught no worse. But he was a real person. The guys followed him in droves.

- Yes, now this is rare.

– Now it’s rare, but before it happened often. And he, too, followed Frost in the herd. When I was a boy.

- By the way, who is this Frost? By God, I haven't heard anything about him.

– Frost is a teacher. Once upon a time we started here together. I came here in November 1939. And he opened this school in October. For four classes in total.

“Yes, he died,” said Tkachuk, slowly waddling next to him.

His jacket was unbuttoned, the knot of his tie had slid carelessly to one side, under the corner of his collar. A shadow of bitterness flashed across his heavy, not very carefully shaven face.

– Frost was our sore. On both their consciences. For me and for him. Well, what am I... I gave up. But he doesn't. And so - he won. I achieved my goal. It's a pity, I couldn't stand it myself.

It seems that I was beginning to understand something, to guess something. Some story from the war. But Tkachuk explained so abruptly and sparingly that much remained unclear. I probably should have asked more insistently, but I didn’t want to seem intrusive and only inserted my banal phrases to keep the conversation going.

- That's the way it is. Everything good has to be paid for. And sometimes at a high price.

- Yes, much more expensive... The main thing was that there was wonderful continuity... Now there is so much talk about continuity, about the traditions of the fathers... True, Frost was not his father, but there was continuity. Simply amazing! It happened that I looked and couldn’t get enough of it: it was like he was Ales Ivanovich Moroz’s brother. Everything: character, kindness, and integrity. And now... Although it cannot be, something of him will remain there. Can't help but stay. This doesn't go away. Sprouts. In a year, five, ten, something will hatch. You'll see.

- It's possible.

- Not possible, but definitely. It is impossible for these people's work to go to waste. Especially after such deaths. Death, brother, has its own meaning. Great, I’ll tell you, the meaning. Death is absolute proof. The most irrefutable document. Do you remember how Nekrasov said: “Go into the fire for the honor of the fatherland, for conviction, for love, go and die blamelessly, you will not die in vain: the work is eternal when blood flows under it.” Here! And then a lot of blood was shed! It can't be in vain. And Moroz proved this in the most eloquent way. Although you don't know...

“I don’t know,” I admitted honestly. – Once Miklashevich was going to tell...

- I know. He said. Then he didn’t turn to anyone. And I wanted to come to you. Well... I didn't have time.

These words resonated with me as a painful reproach. No wonder my heart felt that, without wanting it, I still made a mistake here. But who knew! Who could have imagined that all this would turn out in such a sad way.

- Are you from the editorial office? – Tkachuk looked sideways at me. - I know. You write feuilletons and so on. You are fighting for the truth. That’s when he decided to involve you in this matter - to stand up for Moroz. No, Frost is not condemned, don’t be afraid. And not just any German servant. This is a different matter...

“Interesting,” I said when Tkachuk fell silent for a while. - If only I had known earlier...

“Now everything has been done, intercessors have been found where needed.” Now we can tell you. And you can write. And it would be necessary. Miklashevich achieved the truth. Only here... Do you have a smoke? – he asked, patting his empty pockets.

I gave him a cigarette, we both lit a cigarette, stood aside to let a black Volga flashing with nickel pass, which quickly rushed past. The Volga was probably heading towards the city, but now neither he nor I made any attempt to stop it - I had a presentiment that Tkachuk would continue the story, but he somehow retreated into himself with concentration, following the car with an absent-minded gaze.

- Maybe I could take it? Oh, fuck her. Let him go. Let's go slowly. How old are you? Forty, you say? Well, it’s still a young age, there’s a lot ahead. Not everything, of course, but much remains. If, of course, your health is normal. My health is not bad, but sometimes I can even take a glass. But it's not what it used to be. Previously, brother, I rarely ever waited for this bus. And in those ancient times there were no buses. If you need to go to the city, you take a stick and go. Twenty kilometers in three and a half hours - and in the city. Now I'll probably need more, I haven't gone for a long time. Legs are still okay. It’s even worse – my nerves are getting worse. You know, I can’t watch a movie if it’s pitiful or especially about war. When I see our grief, even though everything has been experienced for a long time and is gradually forgotten, and, you know, something tightens in the throat. And also music. Not all of them, of course, not some kind of jazz, but songs that were sung then. As soon as I hear it, it just cuts my nerves with a saw.

- I need to get some treatment. Nowadays, nerves are treated well.

- No, mine won’t be cured. Sixty-two years, whatever you want! Life was in tatters, the ropes were twisting from my nerves. And scientists say that nerve cells do not recover... Yes. And once upon a time he was also young, unmarried, healthy, like your Jabotinsky. In 1939, after reunification, the People's Commissariat of Education sent Westerners to organize schools. He organized schools, collective farms, moved around, moved around, and worked in schools himself. And in this very Seltse, after the war, he worked for seven years...

- Time is running.

- He doesn’t walk, he rushes. Once upon a time I kept thinking: well, I’ll work for a year or two, and then I’ll go to Minsk, I wanted to study at a pedagogical institute. After all, before the war I only completed a two-year teacher's training course. Well, life ordered otherwise. The war started, nothing came of it, and that’s where I stuck for life. Previously, the district committee would not let me go, school, apartment, but now, when you can roll in all directions, you no longer want to go anywhere. So, apparently, you will have to stay in this land with Frost. Perhaps with some delay.

He fell silent. I finished my cigarette and was also silent. We had already passed the forest, the road ran in a notch, on both sides of which rose sandy slopes with pine trees. Here the evening twilight had already noticeably thickened, and even the tops of the fir trees stood in the shadows, only the cloudless sky above still glowed with the farewell glow of the setting sun.

– What date is today? Fourteenth? It was at this time that I came to Seltso for the first time. Now all these track stitches are a common thing, but then everything was new and interesting. This estate, where the school is, was not so neglected then; the house was well-groomed, painted like a toy. Pan Gabrus gave up his drapak in September, abandoned everything, went, they said, to the Romanians, and then Moroz opened a school. In the school yard in front of the front door there were two spreading trees with some kind of silvery foliage. Not trees, but downright giants like American sequoias. Now there are still some of these left on former estates, living out a century. And then there were a lot of them. Each gentleman, count.

That first year I worked as a district manager. The schools are almost all new, small, sometimes in siege houses, or even just in village huts. There were not enough textbooks and equipment, and it was extremely difficult to find teachers. In this Seltse, Podgaiskaya, Mrs. Yadya, as we called her, worked together with Moroz. This elderly woman lived here and under Gabrus in that very outbuilding. She was a delicate lady, an old maid. I almost didn’t speak Russian, I understood Belarusian a little, but as for the rest - wow! The upbringing was the most subtle.

And then one evening I was sitting in my little nook in the district, buried in papers - reports, plans, statements: I drove around the district, wasn’t there for a week, let everything go - it’s terrible! Not immediately did I hear someone scratching at the door - this same Mrs. Yadya came in. She’s so small, frail, but with a fox around her neck and a chic foreign hat. “I beg your pardon, sir, sir, I am asking, sir, on a pedagogical issue.” - “Well, sit down, please, I’m listening.”

He sits on the edge of his chair, adjusts his magnificent hat and begins to pour out almost entirely in Polish - I can barely make it out. All the manners of an exquisitely brought up lady, and she herself is over fifty years old, such a wrinkled, cunning little face. What turns out to be? It turns out that he has a conflict with his boss in Selts, his colleague Moroz. It turns out that this Frost does not maintain discipline, behaves like an equal with students, teaches without the necessary rigor, does not follow the programs of the People's Commissariat, and most importantly, tells students that they do not need to go to church, let their grandmothers go there.

Well, naturally, I wasn’t too worried about the church, I thought: Moroz is doing the right thing if he advises so. But as for familiarity, discipline, ignoring the People's Commissariat programs, this alarmed me. But I have no idea who this same Moroz is; I’ve never been to Selts before. Okay, I think, at the first opportunity I’ll give it a go and see what kind of order he has there.

The opportunity for this did not arise soon, however, but after two weeks he somehow escaped, took his bicycle from the owner with whom he was lodging, a rovar in the local language, and rushed along this highway. The highway, of course, was not like it is now - cobblestones. Driving along it in a cart or on a rovar - you’ll still shake out your guts. But I went. I pressed the pedals hard and an hour later I rolled into that same alley under the elm trees. I wanted to get to class, but I was late - classes had already ended. From a distance I see that the yard is full of children, I think it’s some kind of game, but no, it’s not a game - it turns out that work is going on. Firewood is being prepared. The same overseas tree in the yard was knocked down by a storm, and now they are sawing it, splitting it and taking it to the shed. I liked it. There was not enough firewood then, every day there were complaints from schools about fuel, and there was no transport in the area - where to get it, where to bring it from? But these guys, you see, figured it out and don’t wait for people in the region to decide to provide them with fuel - they take care of themselves.

I got off the bike, everyone looked at me, I looked at them: where is the manager? “I’m the manager,” says one, whom I didn’t notice right away, because he was standing behind a thick butt - sawing it with a boy who must be an overgrown boy, about fifteen years old. Well, he throws down the saw and comes up. And I immediately notice: he’s limping. One leg is somehow turned to the side and doesn’t seem to be straightened, so he leans heavily on it and seems to be shorter. But the guy is okay - broad-shouldered, open-faced, bold and confident in his gaze. He probably guesses who is in front of him, but there is no confusion or confusion there. Introduces himself: Ales Ivanovich Moroz. He shakes your hand in such a way that you immediately understand: he is strong. The palm is rough and hard; this is probably not his first time doing this kind of work. And his partner stands there and tries to move the saw. But she didn’t move, she fell on a branch, and the thickness of the butt was more than a meter. Moroz apologized and returned to finish the cut, but it looks like the two of them won’t be able to do it very well – the further the saw goes, the more tightly it clamps into the cut. It’s clear: we need to put something in there. To place it, you must first lift it. Frost dropped the saw and began to lift the butt, but you can’t lift it alone. Here the kids, some of them older, also stuck around the log, but it didn’t move. In short, I put my rovar on the grass and also took up that butt. They tried, they tried, they seemed to lift it just another centimeter - and you could slip a stick, but this last centimeter, as always, is the most difficult. And then, as luck would have it, that same Mrs. Yadya emerges from around the corner. She saw the rovar, me near the butt, and she was dumbfounded.

Then, when I talked to her, I couldn’t understand anything, I kept remembering my mother’s womb and wondered: what kind of teachers do the Soviets have, do they have even the slightest idea about pedagogical tact and the authority of their elders? It doesn’t matter, I say, Mrs. Yadya, it won’t diminish your authority, and there will be firewood in the school. You will work in a warm place. But that comes later. And then we sawed this damn log, and I almost forgot why I came, took off my only jacket and sawed together with Moroz, then stabbed. Sweated to my heart's content. The children carried the firewood into the shed, and Frost sent everyone home.

We had to spend the night there, at the school. Frost lived in a little room next to the classroom, sleeping on a luxurious baroque-style master's couch with legs curved like lion's paws. I covered myself with a coat; of course, there was no blanket. That night I got the couch and covered myself with my jacket. Before going to bed, we ate some bulbs; for the occasion, the mother of one student brought a piece of sausage and a jar of curdled milk from the farm. We had dinner and got to know each other. Although, while they were sawing wood, it seemed to me that I had known him all my life. He was originally from the Mogilev region, and had been teaching for five years after graduating from a pedagogical college. The leg has been like this since childhood, it hurt for a long time and remained so. I carefully started talking about our usual affairs: programs, academic performance, discipline. And then I heard something from him that at first caused me to disagree. And then I began to admit that perhaps he was right about something. As I look now from the height of my retirement age, he was absolutely right.

Yes, he was right, because he looked wider and, perhaps, further than is customary to look, limiting his horizons to professional standards. Norms, brother, are a good thing, if they haven’t become ossified, haven’t dried up over time, and haven’t come into conflict with life. In a word, they, like any norms, must be applied wisely, depending on the circumstances. How does it happen with us? Now a subject specialist is assigned to each science, and everyone achieves the best knowledge in their specialty. And therefore, let’s say, for a mathematician, any Newtonian binomial is a hundred times more valuable than all the poetry of Pushkin or Tolstoy’s human studies. And for a linguist the ability to isolate participial phrases- a measure of all the merits of a student. For these commas of his, he is ready to leave the child for the second year and not allow him to go to college. Mathematics too. And no one will think that he may - and most certainly - never need this binomial in his life, and he can live without commas. But how can one live without Tolstoy? Is it possible in our time to be educated person without reading Tolstoy? And in general, is it possible to be human?

Now, however, they have already taken a closer look at Tolstoy and many other things, they have become accustomed to it, and have lost the freshness of their perception. And then everything looked new, more significant, and Frost, obviously, reacted to this more sharply than I did. Although I was five years older than him, I was a member of the party and was in charge of the entire region. And he told me that night, when we were lying next to each other - me on his couch, and he on the table - something like this: “There’s really not everything in order with the programs at school, academic performance is not brilliant. The guys studied in a Polish school, many, especially Catholics, do not cope well with Belarusian grammar, their basic knowledge does not correspond to our programs. But this is not at all the main thing. The main thing is that the guys now understand that they are people, not cattle, not some kind of vakhlaks, as the gentlemen used to consider their fathers, but the most full-fledged citizens. As everybody. And they, and their teachers, and their parents, and all the leaders in the region are all equal in their country, you don’t need to humiliate yourself before anyone, you just need to learn, comprehend the most important thing that introduces people to the heights of national and universal culture.” He saw this as his primary pedagogical responsibility. And he made them not excellent students, not obedient crammers, but, above all, people. It is, of course, easy to say this, but it is more difficult to understand, and even more difficult to achieve. This is not very well developed in programs and methods; hours are not provided for this. And Frost said that this can only be achieved personal example in the process of teacher-student relationships.

Probably, we still know little and study little what our teaching was for the people throughout their history. The clergy - this is known, there is still a more or less reliable picture here. The role of the priest and priest at each historical stage has been traced. But what is rural teaching in our schools, what did it mean for our once dark peasant land during the times of tsarism, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, during the war, and finally, before and after the war? Now, ask any young man what he will become, how he will grow up, and he will say: a doctor, a pilot, or even an astronaut. Yes, now there is such an opportunity. And in reality this happens, up to and including the astronaut. And before? If you grew up as a smart boy and studied well, what did the adults say about him? When he grows up, he will be a teacher. And that was the highest praise. Of course, not all worthy people managed to achieve a teaching destiny, but they strived for it. This was the limit of a life's dream. And rightly so. And not because it’s honorable or easy. Or the income is good - God forbid the teacher's bread, and even in the village. Yes, in those ancient times. Need, poverty, strange corners, rural wilderness and in the end - a premature grave from consumption... And yet, I tell you, there was nothing more important and necessary than that daily, modest, inconspicuous work of thousands of unknown sowers on this spiritual niva. I think so: the main merit of rural teachers is what we now have as a nation and citizens. I may be wrong, but I think so.

And here, as often happens, it cannot do without its enthusiasts. Moroz was precisely one of those who did a lot for people, sometimes at his own peril and risk, despite difficulties and failures. And he had enough failures and various conflicts.

I remember once an inspector from the region went to Seltso and a day later he returned angry and indignant. It turns out that this is another scandal. Before Comrade Inspector had time to enter Gabrusev’s estate, he was attacked by dogs in the alley. One is black, on three legs, and the second is so angry, small and fidgety (the police later shot them during the war). Yes. Well, by the time the inspector came to his senses, the dogs had torn his trouser leg, Moroz, of course, had to apologize, and Mrs. Yadya was sewing up the inspector’s trousers while he was sitting in an empty classroom in his probably not too fresh underpants. It turns out that the dogs were school dogs. Exactly. Not rural, not from somewhere on the farm, and not even the teachers personally, but general, school ones. The kids picked up this obscenity somewhere, the parents ordered it to be drowned, but before that, Turgenev’s “Muma” was read in class, and so Ales Ivanovich decided: to place the puppies in the school and inspect them one by one. This is how school dogs were introduced in Seltse.

And then the school starling appeared. In the fall he fell behind his pack, they caught him in the meadow, a wet goner, and Frost also placed him in school. At first he flew around the class, and then they made a cage - more so that the cat wouldn’t eat him. Well, of course, there was a cat there, such a pathetic creature, blind, doesn’t see anything, but only meows - asking for food.

Meanwhile it was quickly getting dark. The gray ribbon of the road, arching on the hills, disappeared into the twilight distance. The horizon around was also drowned in twilight, the fields were covered with an evening haze, and the forest in the distance seemed like a dull, deserted strip.

The sky above the road had completely darkened, only the edge of the sunset behind us was still oozing with the distant glow of the setting sun. Cars were walking along the highway with their headlights on, but, as luck would have it, everyone was coming from the city towards us. After the nickel-plated Volga, not a single car overtook us. While listening to Tkachuk, I looked around from time to time and from afar I noticed two bright points of rapidly approaching car headlights.

- There's something coming.

Tkachuk fell silent, stopped and took a closer look; his gloomy, massive profile was clearly outlined against the light background of the sunset sky.

“The bus,” he said with confidence.

My companion must have been farsighted; at such a distance I could not distinguish a passenger car from a truck. Indeed, soon we both saw a large gray bus on the highway, which was quickly catching up with us. Here he disappeared for a while into a hollow invisible from here, only to then appear even more clearly from behind a hillock; The spiky lights of its headlights sparkled brighter and even the dim glow of the interior became visible. The bus, however, slowed down, blinked one headlight and stopped, moving slightly to the side of the road. He didn’t reach us by about three hundred meters, and we, suddenly encouraged by the opportunity to drive up, rushed to meet him. I ran away somewhat hastily. Tkachuk also tried to run, but immediately fell behind, and I thought that I should at least make it in time to delay the bus for a minute.

It was easy to run, downhill, the soles pounding loudly on the asphalt. All the time it seemed that the bus was about to start moving, but it stood patiently on the road. Someone even got out, probably the driver, leaving the door open, walked around the car and knocked with something twice. I was already very close and strained my strength even more, it seemed that I would run, but then the door slammed sharply and the bus took off.

Still not losing hope, I stopped on the asphalt and desperately waved my hand: they say, stop, take it! It even seemed to me that the bus slowed down, and then I again rushed towards it almost under the very wheels. But while driving, the cab door opened, and through the dust kicked up by the bus the driver’s voice was heard:

I was left alone in the middle of a smooth strip of asphalt. In the distance, the engine of the comfortable Ikarus hummed, fading, and the lonely figure of Tkachuk vaguely loomed on the hill.

- May you fail, you bastard! - I burst out: you have to deceive like that.

It was a shame, although I understood that this was not such a big misfortune - really, was there a stop here? And if it wasn’t, then why does the intercity high-speed express train need to pick up different night tramps - for this there are buses of local lines.

And yet, I probably looked pretty devastated when I got to Tkachuk. Having waited patiently for me, he calmly remarked:

- You didn’t take it? And he won't take it. They are. Before, I would have picked everyone up to knock them over the bottle. But now you can’t - control is too much. To spite myself and others.

- He says there is no stop.

- But he stopped. Could... Whatever. In such cases, I prefer to keep quiet: it will cost myself less.

Maybe he was right: there was no need to hope - there would be no disappointment. This means that we will have to move forward little by little. True, my legs were already pretty tired, but since my fellow traveler was silent, then I, perhaps, should have behaved more restrained.

“Yes, so it’s about Moroz,” Tkachuk began, returning to the interrupted story. – I visited Seltso for the second time in winter. The cold was severe, you probably remember the winter of 1940–1941: the gardens froze. I was lucky, I rode up with some guy in a sleigh, buried my feet in the hay, and then they froze, I thought I was completely frozen. I barely made it to school, it was late, evening, but the light was on in the window, I knocked. I see as if someone is looking through frozen glass and not opening it. What a misfortune, I think, isn’t my Ales Ivanovich starting some kind of scam here? “Open it,” I say. “It’s me, Tkachuk, from the area.” Finally the door opens, a dog is barking somewhere, I go in. In front of me is a boy with a lamp in his hands. “What are you doing here?” - I ask. “Nothing,” he says. “I’m writing calligraphy.” - “Why don’t you go home? Or maybe Ales Ivanovich left after school?” Silent. “Where is the teacher himself?” - “Took Lenka Udodova and Olga.” - “Where did you take me?” - “Home.” Nothing, I don’t understand: why does a teacher need to send his students home? “What, he’s walking everyone home?” - I ask, and I’m already angry about such a meeting. “No,” he says, “not all. And these because they are small, and you have to go through the forest.”

Well, well, I think it's okay. I undressed, began to warm up, and my mood began to improve. But an hour passed, and still no Frost. “So how long will it be until that village?” - I ask. He says: “It will be three miles.” Okay, what should we do, we sit and wait. The boy writes in a notebook. “He probably left you to light the stove? - I ask. - Where do you live?" “This is where I live,” he answers. “Ales Ivanovich took me in, otherwise my dad is fighting.” Eh, here it is, it turns out that’s what’s going on. No matter how it turns into new troubles. And I’ll tell you, looking ahead, this is what happened. As I had a presentiment, this is what happened.

Three hours later Frost returns. No knocking, no steps, nothing seemed to be heard, only that boy, Pavlik... Yes, yes, you guessed it. It was Pavlik, Pavel Ivanovich, the future comrade Miklashevich... Then he was such a dark-eyed, nimble little boy. So Pavlik breaks down, runs through the classroom and opens the door. Frost stumbles in, covered in frost and snow, and puts his wand with a handle like a goat’s head in the corner. We said hello. Explains why he was delayed. It turns out that he brought these little girls home, and there was trouble: something happened to the cow, it couldn’t spread itself, so the teacher stayed behind, helping the mother. What about the girls? Well it's a simple story. The cold weather set in, and their mother took them out of school: they said the shoes were bad and it was a long walk. At that time, all this was commonplace, but the girls, such nice twins, studied well, and Moroz understood what this meant for his widowed mother (his father died near Gdynia in 1939). And he persuaded the woman, bought the girls a pair of shoes, and they began to study. Only when night arrived did they fear to walk through the forest alone; someone had to show them off. Usually this was done by the overgrown Kolya Borodich, the one who once sawed a log with his teacher. And that day for some reason Borodich did not come to school, he was needed at home, so the teacher had the opportunity to accompany him.

He said this, I am silent. The devil knows what to say to him, whether it is pedagogical or not, here all our pedagogical postulates are confused. Moroz was generally a master of confusing postulates, and I had already begun to get used to this peculiarity of his. And we didn’t really talk about his tenant then. He only said that the boy would stay at school for now, as if things were going wrong at home. Well, I think let it be. Moreover, it is so cold.

And then, after about two weeks, they summon me to the prosecutor. What a misfortune, I think, I didn’t like these lawyers, you can always expect trouble from them. I come, and there is an unfamiliar guy sitting there in a casing, and the district prosecutor, Comrade Sivak, strictly orders me to go to Seltso and pick up this citizen Miklashevich’s son from citizen Moroz. I tried to object, but there was no such thing. In such cases, the prosecutor beat with one argument like a baton: the law! Okay, I think the law is the law. We got into a police cart and, together with the local police officer and Miklashevich, drove to Seltso.

We arrived, I remember, towards the end of classes, called Moroz, and began to explain what was going on: the prosecutor’s order, citizen Miklashevich had the law on his side, the boy had to be returned. Frost listened to everything in silence and called Pavel. When he saw his father, he cowered like an animal and wouldn’t come close. And here all the kids are outside the doors, they got dressed, but they don’t go home, they are waiting for what will happen next. Frost says to Pavlik: well, well, you’ll go home, that’s the way it should be. And he didn’t move. “I won’t go,” he says. “I want to live with you.” Well, Moroz unconvincingly, of course, insincerely explains that it is no longer possible to live with him, that according to the law the son must live with his father and, in this case, with his stepmother (the mother recently died, the father married someone else, and so things went wrong with the boy - a well-known fact). I barely convinced the guy. He, however, cried, but put on his jacket and got ready for the road.

And here's the picture! It’s like everything is before your eyes now, even though it’s already passed... How long has it been? Must be about thirty years old. We are standing on the veranda, the children are crowding in the yard, and Miklashevich Sr. in a long red casing is leading to the Pavlik highway. The atmosphere is tense, the kids are looking at us, the policeman is silent. The frost was simply numb. Those two have already walked a little far along the alley and then, we see, they stop, the father shakes his son by the hand, he begins to struggle, but you can’t escape anywhere. Then Miklashevich removes the belt from the casing with one hand and begins to beat his son. Without waiting for them to leave prying eyes. Pavlik breaks free, cries, the kids make noise in the yard, some turn in our direction with reproach in their eyes, expecting something from their teacher. And what do you think? Frost suddenly breaks from the veranda and, limping, across the yard - there. “Stop,” he shouts, “stop the beating!”

Miklashevich really stopped, stopped beating, sniffled, looked at the teacher like a beast, and he came up, pulled Pavlov’s hand out of his father’s and said in a voice broken from excitement: “You won’t get it from me!” It's clear?" Miklashevich, furious, went to the teacher, but Moroz, not looking that he was crippled, was also chest forward and ready to fight. But then we arrived in time, separated them, and did not let them fight.

Separated, separated, but what next? Pavlik ran away to school, his father curses and threatens, I remain silent. The policeman is waiting - is he a performer? Somehow they calmed both of them down. Miklashevich went to the highway, and the three of us were left - what to do? Moreover, Moroz immediately announced with his characteristic categoricalness: I will not give the guy to such a father.

We returned with the policeman to the area with nothing; we did not comply with the prosecutor’s order. They transferred the whole matter to the executive committee, appointed a commission, and in the meantime my father filed a lawsuit. Yes, there was trouble and trouble for both him and me – enough for both of us. But Moroz finally achieved his goal: the commission decided to transfer the guy to an orphanage. True, Moroz was in no hurry to implement this Solomon’s decision and, probably, did the right thing.

Here we still need to remember one circumstance. The fact is that, as I already said, schools were created anew, almost everything was missing. Every day teachers from villages came to the area, complained about the conditions, asked for desks, boards, firewood, kerosene, paper - and, of course, textbooks. There were not enough textbooks, there were few libraries. And they read great, everyone read: schoolchildren, teachers, young people. Books were obtained wherever possible. Frost, when he came to the town, most often pestered me with one request: give me books. I gave him something, of course, but, of course, not much. Besides, I must admit, I thought: the school is small, why does he need a big library there? Then he began to get the books himself.

About three kilometers from the regional center, maybe, you know, there is the village of Knyazhevo. The village is like a village, there is nothing princely there, but once upon a time there was a master’s estate not far from it - it burned down during the war under the Germans. And under the Poles, some rich gentleman lived there, after whom all sorts of things were left behind and, of course, a library. I was there one day and looked and there seemed to be nothing suitable. There are many books, new and old, but all in Polish and French. Frost asked for permission to go there and select something for the school.

And you know, he was lucky. Somewhere in the attic, it seems, I dug up a chest with Russian books, and among everything not very worthwhile - various annual sets of “Niva”, “God’s World”, “Ogonyok” - there was a complete collection of Tolstoy’s works. He didn’t tell me anything about this, but on the very first day off he took a furman from Seltse, an overgrown student, and to Knyazhevo. But it was spring, the road became muddy, as luck would have it, the bridge was demolished, and there was no way to get close to the estate. Then he began to carry books across the river on the ice. Everything went well, but at the very end, already in the dark, I fell through the shore. True, nothing terrible happened, but my feet got wet to the knees, I caught a cold and fell ill. Yes, I fell seriously ill, for a month. Pneumonia. A visiting guy from Selts told me about this, and now I’m racking my brains: what should I do? The teacher is sick, at least close the school. Mrs. Yadya, I remember, was no longer working then, she went somewhere, there is no replacement for him, the guys have freedom. I know I should go, but I don’t have time - I’m wandering around the area: opening schools, organizing collective farms. And yet somehow, while passing through, I turned into that alley. Let me check on Moroz, I think, how is he doing, is he alive?

I go into the corridor - the hanger is full of clothes, well, I think, thank God, it means I’ve gained weight, classes are probably going on. I open the door to the classroom: there are about six desks - and it’s empty. What kind of dashing, I think, where are the children? I listened: as if there was a conversation somewhere, so quiet, composed, as if someone was praying. I listened more: it’s absolutely wonderful - I hear the monologue of Prince Andrei near Austerlitz. Do you remember: “Where is it, this high sky, which I did not know until now and saw today... And I did not know the suffering of this either... Yes, I did not know any of this until now. But where am I?..”

It also seemed to me: where am I? I haven’t heard this for ten years, and once, as a student, I recited this passage myself at a literary evening.

I quietly open the door - the Morozovaya side room is full of children, all of them sitting where: on the table, on the benches, on the windowsill and on the floor. Frost himself lies on his couch, covered with a cover, and reads. Reads Tolstoy. And such silence and attention that a fly flies by - you will hear. No one looked back at me - they didn’t notice. And I stand there, I don’t know what to do. My first instinct is to just close the door and leave.

But I still remembered that I was the boss, the head of the district and responsible for the educational process in the district. It’s good to read Tolstoy, but, probably, you also need to follow the program. And if you can read War and Peace, then you must be able to teach? Why would the students wander so many kilometers to this Seltso?

That's roughly what I told Moroz when we sent the students away and were left alone. And he says in response that all those programs, all the material that he missed during the month of illness are not worth two pages of Tolstoy. I allowed myself to disagree, and we argued.

That spring, Moroz studied Tolstoy intensively, re-read everything himself, and read a lot to the children. That was science! This is now any student or high school student, just start a conversation with him about Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, first of all he will begin to talk to you about their shortcomings and misconceptions. What is the greatness of these geniuses, we still have to find out, but each of them has their shortcomings. It’s unlikely that anyone remembers on what mountain Prince Andrei, wounded at Austerlitz, lay wounded at Austerlitz, but everyone can confidently judge the fallacy of non-resistance to evil through violence. And Moroz did not stir up Tolstoy’s misconceptions - he simply read to his students and absorbed everything completely into himself, absorbed it with his soul. A sensitive soul, she will perfectly understand on her own what is good and what is so-so. The good will enter into it as if it were its own, and the rest will quickly be forgotten. The grain will be blown away like chaff in the wind. Now I understand this perfectly well, but then... I was young, and even a boss.

Usually in a boy's company there is someone older or smarter, who, with his character or authority, subjugates the others. At that school in Selts, as Miklashevich later told me, Kolya Borodich became such a leader. If you remember, his name was first on the monument, and now it’s second, after Moroz. And it is right. In this whole story with the bridge, it was Kolya who played the first violin...

I saw him several times, he was always next to Frost. He's a broad-shouldered, conspicuous guy with a stubborn, silent character. Apparently, he really loved the teacher. I was simply devoted to him limitlessly. True, I have never heard a single word from him - he always looks from under his brows and is silent, as if he is angry about something. He was sixteen years old at that time. Under the lords, of course, I didn’t study very well; I went to the fourth grade with Moroz. Yes, one more fact: in the forties I finished fourth, I had to apply to the National School six kilometers away, in Budilovichi. So he didn't go. You know, I asked Moroz to go back to his fourth year for the second year. If only in Seltse.

Moroz, in addition to teaching according to the program and organizing book readings outside the program, was also involved in amateur activities. I remember they staged “Peacock” and some plays, recited and sang, as usual. And, of course, their repertoire included anti-religious numbers, all sorts of fables about priests and priests. And it was these numbers that the priest from Skrylyov heard about, who, during a service on another holiday, spoke disparagingly about the teacher from the Seltsov school. As it turned out later, he rather meanly insulted him for his lameness, as if he were to blame for it. By the way, we found out about this later. And this is what happened first.

One day our same prosecutor Sivak meets me in the canteen and says: come to the prosecutor’s office. I have already said that I didn’t like these visits, but what can you do, you can’t refuse - you have to go. And so, it turns out, the prosecutor’s office received a complaint from the Skrylevsky priest about an intruder who entered the holy church and desecrated the altar or whatever they, Catholics, call this thing. I wrote something there. The servants, however, caught the defiler; he turned out to be a Seltsovo schoolboy, Mikola Borodich. Now the priest and a group of parishioners are petitioning the authorities to punish the student, and at the same time his teacher.

What to do here - figure it out again? A week later, an investigator, a district police officer, and some spiritual authorities from Grodno leave for Seltso. Borodich does not deny: yes, he wanted to take revenge on the priest. But he doesn’t speak for whom and for what. They explain to him: if you don’t confess honestly, they’ll sue you and they won’t even notice that you’re a minor. “Well, let them,” he says, “let them sue.”

And what do you think, how did it end? Moroz took all the blame upon himself and reported to his superiors that all this was the result of his not entirely thought-out upbringing. He was busy, went somewhere to the center - and the guy was left alone. Do I need to tell you that after this, not only schoolchildren in Selts, but also peasants from all over the area began to look at Moroz as some kind of their intercessor. Anything difficult or troublesome that anyone had, they went to his school with everything. This consultation point has been opened on various issues. And not only did he explain or give advice, but he himself had too much to worry about. Every free minute - either to the region or to Grodno. Along this very road - in trucks or passing cars, which were not frequent then, or even on foot. And this is a lame man with a stick! And not for money, not out of obligation - just like that. By vocation as a rural teacher.

Apparently, we tramped along the highway for an hour, if not more. It got dark, the earth was completely plunged into darkness, fog covered the lowlands. Coniferous forest not far from the road, it became a blackened jagged ridge on the lightish edge of the sky, in which the stars lit up one after another. It was quiet, not cold, rather fresh and very relaxed on the deserted autumn land. The air smelled of fresh arable land, and the road smelled of asphalt and dust.

I listened to Tkachuk and subconsciously absorbed the solemn grandeur of the night, the sky, where above the sleepy earth began its own, inexplicable and inaccessible night life stars The constellation Ursa Major burned large and brightly to the side of the road, the Ursa Major constellation was blinking above it with Polaris in the tail, and ahead, just in the direction where the road went, the star of Rigel shone thinly and sharply, like a silver stamp on the corner of Orion’s star envelope . And I thought how pompous and unnatural the ancient myths were in their pompous beauty, even about this handsome Orion, the lover of the goddess Eos, whom Artemis killed out of jealousy, as if there were no other, more terrible troubles in their mythical life. more important concerns. Nevertheless, this beautiful invention of the ancients captivates and fascinates humanity much more than the most exciting facts of its history. Maybe even in our time, many would agree to such a legendary death and especially the cosmic immortality that follows it in the form of this foggy constellation on the edge of the starry night sky. Unfortunately or fortunately, this is not given to anyone. Mythical tragedies do not repeat themselves, and the earth is full of its own, similar to the one that once happened in Selts and about which now, experiencing everything again, Tkachuk told me.

And then - war.

No matter how much we prepared for it, no matter how much we strengthened our defenses, no matter how much we read and thought about it, it fell unexpectedly, like thunder in the middle have a clear day. Three days from the start, just on Wednesday, the Germans were already here. The local peasants here, you know, have already gotten used to frequent changes in their lifetime: after all, within the lifetime of one generation, there is a third change of power. We got used to it, as if this is how it should be. And we are Easterners. It was such a misfortune - did we really think then that on the third day we would find ourselves under the Germans. I remember the order came: to organize a fighter squad to catch German saboteurs and paratroopers. I rushed to gather teachers, visited six schools, drove to the district committee in a rovar at lunchtime, and it was empty. They say that the district committee members had just loaded their belongings into a lorry and were driving towards Minsk; the highway, they say, had already been cut by the Germans. At first I was taken aback: it couldn’t be. If they are Germans, then ours must be retreating somewhere. Otherwise, since the beginning of the war, no one has seen a single one of our soldiers here, and suddenly - the Germans. But those who said so were not deceiving - in the evening, about six all-terrain vehicles on caterpillar tracks actually rolled into the place, and they were full of real Krauts.

I and three other boys - two teachers and a district committee instructor - slipped through the vegetable gardens into the zhito, through it into the forest and moved to the east. We walked for three days - without roads, through the Neman swamps, several times we got into such troubles that you wouldn’t wish it on the enemy, they thought: it’s a skiff. One teacher, Sasha Krupenya, was wounded in the stomach. And where the front is, God knows, you probably won’t catch up. Rumor has it that Minsk is already under the Germans. We see that we won’t reach the front, we’ll die. What to do? Stay - where? It’s not very convenient for strangers, and how can you ask? We decided to go back, at least we knew people in our area. Over the course of a year and a half, we got to know all sorts of people in villages and farmsteads.

And then, you know, it turned out that we didn’t know our people well after all. There were so many meetings, conversations, sometimes everyone sat over a glass, it seemed, everyone was kind, good, and honest. But in reality it turned out completely differently. We dragged ourselves to Stary Dvor - a farmstead near the forest, away from the roads, as if the Germans weren’t there yet. Well, I think the best place is to sit here for a couple of weeks while our people chase the Germans. They didn’t expect more then - what are you doing! If anyone had said that the war would drag on for four years, he would have been considered a provocateur or an alarmist. Meanwhile, Krupenya is already reaching him; it is impossible to go further. And I remembered that in the Old Court I have an acquaintance, an activist, a literate person, Usolets Vasil. Once I spent the night with him after a meeting, we talked from the heart, I liked the man: smart, economical. And the wife is such a youthful woman, hospitable, clean, unlike others. She treated me to salted mushrooms. The house is full of flowers - all the window sills are filled with them. So we showed up to this Usolets late at night. So and so, they say, we need to help, he’s wounded, and so on. And what do you think our acquaintance is? He listened and didn’t let me in. “It’s over here,” he says, “your power!” And he slammed the door so hard that people fell down the street.

We were given shelter by a simple aunt, unknown to anyone - three small children, the eldest deaf and mute, her husband in the army. As soon as I heard that the wounded man (we had previously gone to another family in the last hut), when I found out who they were, I dragged everyone to my place. She washed poor fellow Krupenya, fed him chicken broth and hid him under sheaves in the punka. And I still remember groaning: maybe it’s my poor thing, where he’s suffering so much! That means she loved her poor little one, and that, brother, always means something. Well, Krupenya died a week later, and the chicken broth didn’t help; infection started. They buried him quietly at night on the edge of the cemetery. So what's next? We spent another week with Aunt Yadwiga, and I began to find some partisans. I think there must be some of ours somewhere. Not everyone fled to the east. Not a single war in our country could have happened without partisans - how many books have been written about it and how many films have been made - there was something to hope for.

And you know, he attacked a group of encirclement, about thirty former fighters. They were commanded by Major Seleznev, a cavalryman, such a determined man, originally from the Kuban, a master of swearing at seven levels, shouting, even shooting under the heat of the moment. But generally fair. And what’s interesting: you’ll never guess how he’ll treat you. He just threatened to put a bullet in the forehead behind a rusty bolt, and an hour later he is already thanking you for being the first to notice a farm at the crossing, in which there was an opportunity to rest and refresh yourself. And he had already forgotten about the shutter. This was the kind of person he was. At first he surprised me, then nothing, I got used to this cavalry attitude of his. In 1942, near Dyatlov, he was the first to walk along the path, followed by adjutant Sema Tsarikov and the rest. And sure enough, some lousy policeman, out of fear, fired from the bridge and straight into the commander’s heart. This is your destiny. He took part in so many terrible battles, and nothing happened. And then, all night long, one bullet hit the commander.

Yes, Seleznev was a special guy, tough, capricious, but, you know, he had a head on his shoulders and didn’t get into trouble like some. He was avid with words, but he knew how to think. The first few months we spent in the forest on the Volchie Yamy - the tract is called beyond the Efimovsky cordon. Then, in 1943, the Kirov brigade settled there, and we moved to Pushcha. And at first we inhabited these pits. It’s an excellent place, I’ll tell you: a swamp, hillocks, holes and ridges - the devil himself would break his leg. Well, we warmed ourselves up a little in the dugouts and got used to wolf life in the forest. I don’t know if someone suggested it or if the major himself realized that the war would not last for a few months, maybe it would last longer and that he couldn’t do it without the locals. That’s why he accepted me and a few others into his cadre army: the chief of police from Pruzhany, one student, the chairman of the village council and his secretary. And on the October holidays, our prosecutor, Comrade Sivak, declared that he also did not reach the front, but returned. At first he was a private, and then he was appointed head of a special department. But that was later, after Seleznev passed away. And at that time they decided that while it was calm, they needed to look around and establish some connections with the villages, renew acquaintances with reliable people, feel out the encircled people on the farms who had fled from their units and joined the young women. First of all, the major sent out all the locals here, and by then there were already about twelve of them, in all directions. The prosecutor and I, of course, are going to our former district. Of course, there was more risk here than in another place - after all, many people remembered us here and could recognize us. But we also knew more and had a little guidance on who to trust and who not. And we didn’t look the same, you wouldn’t recognize it right away - we’d grown beards and worn ourselves out. The prosecutor is in a black railway overcoat, I am in an army jacket and boots. Both have bags on their backs. Like some beggars.

At first we decided to go to Seltso.

Not to the estate, of course, but to the village - you may know that it’s across the pasture from the school. The prosecutor had an acquaintance in the village, a former village activist, so we went to him. But first, out of precaution, we went into one hut on the Grinevsky farms - the same one that after the war the store manager from Randulich bought and placed it near the village store. The owner went to Poland, the hut stood empty for three years, so the store manager bought it. And during the war, three girls lived in it with their mother, the daughter-in-law was the son’s wife (the son disappeared during the Polish-German war, then he showed up at Anders’s). So, while we were drying our foot wraps, the girls told us everything. And about the news in Seltse too. It turns out that they did a good job of visiting these Poles first, otherwise they would have been in trouble. The fact is that this prosecutor's acquaintance already walks around with a white bandage on his sleeve - he has become a policeman. The prosecutor groaned at this news, and I must admit, I was glad; It would probably have been worse if they had immediately thrust themselves into the policeman’s clutches. However, soon it was my turn to be surprised and puzzled - this is when I asked about Frost. The daughter-in-law says: “It’s frosty, everything at school is working.” - "How does it work?" “He teaches children,” he says. It turns out that he gathered those same boys of his around the villages, the Germans gave permission to open a school, so he teaches. True, not in the Gabrusev estate - there is now a police station there - but in one house in Selts.

This is metamorphosis! I didn’t expect this from anyone but Moroz. And here the prosecutor speaks out in the sense that at one time, they say, it was necessary to repress this Moroz - he is not our person. I'm silent. I think, I think, and it just doesn’t fit in my head that Moroz is a German teacher. We sit near the stove, look into the fire and remain silent. We established, so to speak, connections. One is a policeman, the other is a German henchman; wow, the personnel were trained in the area in the two pre-war years.

And you know, I thought and thought and decided to go to Frost at night. Do I really think he will sell me? Yes, if anything happens, I’ll blow it up with a grenade. There was no rifle, but a grenade was in his pocket. Seleznev forbade taking weapons with me, but I still grabbed a grenade just in case.

The prosecutor tried to dissuade me from this idea, but I did not give in. My character has been like this since childhood: the more I am convinced of something with which I do not agree, the more I want to do it my own way. This doesn’t really help in life, but what can you do. True, the prosecutor has nothing to do with it. He was just afraid for me, thinking that I wouldn’t have to return to camp alone.

The girls told how to find Frost in the village. The third hut from the well, from the yard there is a porch. Lives with a grandma. Across the street in another house is now his school.

It got dark - let's go. Drizzling rain, mud, wind. It's early November, and it's freezing cold. We agreed with my partner that I would go in alone, and he would wait for me in the thicket, behind the bushes. I’ll wait an hour, if I don’t come, it means things are bad, something has happened. Still, I think I can manage it in an hour. I will unravel the soul of this Frost.

The prosecutor stayed behind the punka, and I along the boundary - towards the hut. Dark. Quiet. Only the rain intensifies and rustles in the straw on the eaves. Behind the fence, I groped my way to the gate into the yard, and it was tied with wire. I do it this way and that - nothing works. You have to climb over the fence, but the fence is a bit high, the poles are wet and slippery. I stepped on my boot and when I slipped, my chest hit the pole, it split in half, and my nose landed in the mud. And then there’s the dog. She barked so much that I was lying in the mud, afraid to move and didn’t know what was best: to run away or call for help.

And then, I hear someone coming out onto the porch, creaking the doors, listening. Then he asks in a low voice: “Who’s there?” And to the dog: “Gulka, let’s go!” Let's go! Gulka! Well, clearly, this is a school dog, three-legged, that once bit the inspector. And the man on the porch is Frost, a familiar voice. But how to respond? I lie there and remain silent. And the dog barks again. Then he leaves the porch, limping (you can hear it in the mud: clunk, clunk), stomps towards the fence.

I get up and say bluntly: “Ales Ivanovich, it’s me. Your former manager." Silent. And I am silent. Well, what can you do: you’ve given your name, so you have to get out. I get up and climb over the fence. Frost quietly said: “Hold the left here, otherwise the trough is lying.” He calms the dog and leads me into the hut. A smokehouse is burning in the hut, the window is curtained, and there is an open book on a stool. Ales Ivanovich moves the stool closer to the stove. "Sit down. Take off your coat and let it dry.” “Nothing,” I say, “my coat will still dry.” - “Do you want to eat? There will be potatoes." - “Not hungry, I’ve already eaten.” I seem to answer calmly, but my nerves are tense - who did I end up with? And he, as if nothing had happened, calm, as if we had just parted yesterday: no questions, no confusion. Is it just excessive concern in the voice? And the look is not as open as before. I see that he must have been unshaven for five days - a light brown beard has emerged.

I was sitting wet, without taking off my overcoat, and he finally sat down on the bench. He placed the smokehouse on a stool. “How are we living?” - I ask. - “It is known as. Badly". - “What is it?” - "All the same. War". “However, I heard that the war didn’t really affect you. Are you teaching everything? He grinned sourly on one side of his face and stared down at the smokehouse. “We must teach.” – “What programs, I wonder? Soviet or German? - “Oh, that’s what you’re talking about!” - he says and gets up. He begins to pace around the house, and I secretly and carefully watch him. We are both silent. Then he stopped, looked at me angrily and said: “I once thought that you were a smart person.” - “Perhaps he was smart.” - “So don’t ask stupid questions.”

He said how he cut it off - and fell silent. And you know, I felt a little uneasy. I felt that I had probably made a mistake and said something stupid. Indeed, how could I doubt him! Knowing how he lived here and who he was before, how could one think that he was reborn in three months? And you know, I felt without words, without assurances, without blasphemy, that he was ours - an honest, good person.

But it’s school! And with the permission of the German authorities...

“If you mean my current teaching, then leave your doubts. I won't teach you anything bad. And school is necessary. If we don’t teach, they will fool us. And I didn’t humanize these guys for two years only to have them now dehumanized. I will still fight for them. As much as I can, of course.”

This is what he says, shuffling around the house and not looking at me. And I sit, warm myself and think: what if he’s right? The Germans are not asleep either, they are spreading their poison in millions of leaflets and newspapers throughout the cities and villages, I saw it myself, I read something. They write so smoothly, they lie so temptingly, and they even named their party: the National Socialist Workers' Party. And as if this party is fighting for the interests of the German nation against capitalists, Jewish plutocrats and Bolshevik commissars. And youth is youth. She, brother, is like a child with diphtheria, contagious for all sorts of obscure things. Older people, they already understand such tricks, they’ve seen enough of everything in life, you can’t fool a Belarusian man with chaff. What about the young people?

“Now everyone is grabbing weapons,” says Moroz, pacing around the hut. – The need for weapons in war is always greater than the need for science. And this is understandable: the world is struggling. But one needs a rifle to shoot at the Germans, and the other needs it to show off in front of his own people. After all, it’s much safer to force yourself with a weapon in front of your own people, and you can use it with complete impunity, so there are those who go to the police. Do you think everyone understands what this means? Not everyone. They don’t think about what will happen next. How to continue to live. They just need to get a rifle. They're already recruiting police in the area. And two from Selts went there. It’s not hard to imagine what will come of them.” And it's true, I think. But still, this Frost voluntarily works under German rule. How can we be here?

And suddenly, I remember well, I thought, somehow by itself: well, so be it! Let it work. It doesn't matter where, it matters how. Although under German control, it is certainly not the responsibility of the Germans. Works for us. If not for our present, then for the future. After all, we will also have a future. It must be. Otherwise, why then live? Head first into the pool - and that’s the end.

But it turns out that this Frost worked not only for the future. I did something for the present too.

An hour must have already passed, I was afraid for the prosecutor, and went out to call him. At first he resisted and didn’t want to go, but the cold got to him and he followed. He greeted Moroz with restraint and did not immediately join the conversation. But gradually he became bolder. We talked some more, then undressed and began to dry ourselves. Morozova's grandmother collected something for the table, even a bottle of “cloudy” was found.

So we sat then and talked frankly about everything. And I must say, it was then that it first became clear to me that this Frost was not our equal, smarter than both of us. After all, it happens that everyone works together, according to the same rules, it seems, and everyone is equal in mind. And when life scatters us in different directions, leads us along our own paths and someone suddenly comes forward, we are surprised: look, he was just like everyone else. It seems that he is no smarter than others. And how he jumped out!

That’s when I felt that Frost had bypassed us with his mind and was taking us wider and deeper. While we were roaming through the forests and worrying about the most everyday things - getting food, hiding, arming ourselves and shooting some German - he was thinking, comprehending this war. He also looked at the occupation from the inside and saw what we did not notice. And most importantly, he felt it more morally, from the spiritual, so to speak, side. And you know, even my prosecutor understood this. When we had already talked enough and became completely close, I said to Moroz: “Or maybe throw all this barrel organ and come with us into the forest. We will be partisans." I remember Moroz frowned, wrinkled his forehead, and then the prosecutor said: “No, it’s not worth it. And what a lame partisan he is! We will need him more here.” And Moroz agreed with him: “Now, probably, I belong here more. Everyone knows me and helps me. That's when it won't be possible..."

Well, I agreed. Indeed, why does he need to go to the forest? And with such a leg. It will probably be more profitable for us to have our own person in Seltse.

That’s how we stayed with him then and said goodbye with peace of mind. And I’ll tell you, this Frost has become the most precious helper for us among all our village helpers. The main thing, as it turned out later, was that I got the receiver. Not himself, of course, the men said. They respected him so much, they took him into account so much that, as before, they did not go to the priest or priest, but to him, both bad and good. And when this receiver was found somewhere, the first thing they did was pass it on to their teacher, Ales Ivanovich. And he slowly began to twist it in the barn. In the evening, he would throw the antenna on a pear and listen. And then he will write down what he heard. The main thing is the reports of the Sovinformburo, on them the most high demand was. In our detachment we had nothing, but he got hold of it. Seleznev, however, when he found out, wanted to take that receiver for himself, but changed his mind. About thirty-five people would have listened to that news, but the whole district used it. Then they did this: Moroz transmitted reports to the detachment twice a week - there was a hollow on a pine tree near the forest guard, the boys put them there, and at night we took them away. I remember that winter we sat in our pits like wolves, everything was completely covered with snow, cold, wilderness, food was tight, and only joy was that this was Moroz’s mail. Especially when the Germans were kicked out from near Moscow, every day they ran to the nest box... Wait, it looks like someone is coming...

From the darkness of the night through light gusts fresh wind came the familiar clatter of horse hooves and the jingle of a bridle. The wheels, however, were not audible on the smooth asphalt swept by the automobile whirlwind. Ahead, where the highway ran, the lights of the nearby roadside village of Budilovichi sparkled scatteredly.

We stopped, waited a little, until out of the darkness, quietly tapping horseshoes, a quiet horseman appeared with a lone rider on a cart, who lazily moved the reins. Seeing us on the side of the road, the driver became wary, but remained silent, apparently intending to pass by.

“That’s who will give us a lift,” Tkachuk said without any greeting. - Probably empty, huh?

- Empty. “I was transporting sacks,” a muffled voice was heard from the cart. - How far are you?

- Yes, to the city. But at least he took me to Budilovichi.

- It's possible. I’m just heading to Budilovichi. And there you will take the bus. There's a bus at nine. Grodno. Now which one?

“Ten minutes to eight,” I said, somehow seeing the hands on my watch.

The carriage stopped. Tkachuk, groaning, climbed onto it, and I sat down behind her. It was not very comfortable to sit, it was a bit rough on the bare boards with the remains of debris, but I no longer wanted to lag behind my companion, who sighed tiredly and dangled his legs from the cart.

- But still, you know, I was exhausted. What do years mean? Eh, years, years...

-Are you coming from afar? - asked the driver. Judging by his dull voice, he was also not young, he behaved sedately and seemed to be expecting something from us.

- From Selts.

- Oh, so from the funeral, then?

“From the funeral,” Tkachuk confirmed briefly.

The driver shook the reins, the horse quickened his pace - the road went down. Toward, on the other side of the gloomy, wide lowland without a single light, everyone was cutting the diverging rays of car headlights in the sky.

“But this teacher was still a young man.” I knew him well. The year before last we were in the hospital together.

– With Miklashevich?

- Well. In the same room. He was also reading some thick book. More to myself, and sometimes out loud. I forgot that writer... I remember it was said there that if there is no God, then there is no devil, which means there is no heaven, no hell, then everything is possible. And kill and have mercy. Here's how. Although he said that it depends on how you understand it.

“Dostoevsky,” Tkachuk said and turned to the driver: “Well, and you, for example, how do you understand?”

- What am I doing! I am a dark person, three years of education. But as I understand it, there needs to be something in a person. What a stopper. Otherwise, without a stopper, it’s rubbish. Over there in the city three of them attacked a guy and a girl and almost caused trouble. Our Vitka, a lad from Budilovichi, intervened, and now he himself has been in the hospital for the third week.

- Beaten?

“I wouldn’t say they beat me—they hit me once on the temple with brass knuckles.” And that was enough. True, someone got it from him too. They caught him - he turned out to be a known bandit.

“That’s good,” Tkachuk perked up. - Look, I’m not scared. One against three. When did this happen in your Budilovichi?

- Well, in Budilovichi, maybe it wasn’t...

- It wasn’t, it wasn’t. I know your Budilovichi - a poor village, settlements. Now what, now it’s a different matter: they’ve cleared away under the slate and under the shingles, but how long has the moss been green on the eaves! This was a village on the highway, and what surprised me was not a single tree. Like in the Sahara. True, the earth is nothing but sand. I remember one time I came in and they told me a story. One Budilov resident was stricken by hunger in the spring, got there on nettles, and decided to get some money on the highway. At night he waylaid a passerby and hit him on the head with his butt. There is still a cross standing on the outskirts near the stone. It turned out to be a beggar with an empty bag. But this one received hard labor and never returned from Siberia. And now look - what kind of gentleman was found in Budilovichi. Knight.

-Where did you go to school? Not in Seltso?

– Until fifth grade in Seltso.

- Well, you see! – Tkachuk was sincerely happy. – That means he studied with Miklashevich. I knew it. Miklashevich knew how to teach. Still that sourdough, you can see right away.

The cars quickly flew towards us and from a distance blinded us with a sparkling stream of rays. The driver carefully turned to the side of the road, the horse slowed down, and the cars roared past, hitting the cart with rubble from under the wheels. It became completely dark, and for half a minute we rode in this darkness, not seeing the road and trusting the horse. Behind us, along the highway, the mighty interior roar of diesel engines was quickly receding and fading.

- By the way, you didn’t finish the story. How it treated Moroz then,” I reminded Tkachuk.

- Oh, if only it had worked out. There's more Long story. Grandfather, you didn’t know Frost? Well, teachers from Selts? – Tkachuk turned to the driver.

- What about the war?.. But what about! They also killed my nephew all at once.

-Who is this?

- And Borodich. This is my nephew. My sister's son. How can I not know, I know...

- So I’m telling this story to my friend. So you know. Otherwise you can listen if you haven’t heard everything. You haven't been to the forest, have you? To a partisan?

- But of course! Was! – the man responded offendedly. - At Comrade Kuruta's. Carried the wounded. He worked as a nurse.

- At Kuruta's? Brigade commander Kuruta?

- Well. From spring Nikola in forty-three to the end. How ours came. Consider it more than a year.

- Well, Kuruta is not our zone.

- Not much. Ours, not ours, but it was. I have a medal and a document,” the old man was already completely offended.

Tkachuk hastened to soften the conversation:

- So I’m okay, I’m like that. If you have it, wear it for your health. We're talking about something else here... We're talking about Frost.

– So, at first, everything went well for Moroz. The Germans and policemen had not yet become attached; they were probably watching from afar. The only thing that hung like a stone on his conscience was the fate of the two girls. The same ones that I once took home. In the summer of '41, just before the war, he sent them to a pioneer camp near Novogrudok - then inter-district pioneer camps were organized for the first time. The mother didn’t want to let me in, she was afraid, of course, a village woman, she had never been anywhere further than the town, but he persuaded her, he thought of doing something good for the girls. We just left, and then there’s war. So many months have passed and nothing has been heard about them. The mother, of course, is killed, and because of all this, Moroz is also having a hard time, after all, but still, it’s his fault. My conscience is tormenting me, but what can you do? And so the girls disappeared.

Now I need to tell you about those two policemen from Selts. You already know one person, this is a former acquaintance of the prosecutor - Vladimir Lavchenya. It turns out that he was not who we initially took him for. True, whether he went to the police on his own or was forced to do so is now impossible to find out, but in the winter of 1943 the Germans shot him in Novogrudok. The guy, in general, turned out to be good, did a lot of good for us and played a pretty decent role in this story with the boys. Lavchenya was a great guy, even though he was a policeman. But the second one turned out to be the last bastard. I don’t remember his last name, but in the villages they called him Cain. Indeed, there was Cain, he brought a lot of trouble to people. Before the war, he lived with his father on a farm, he was young, unmarried - a guy like a guy. It seems that no one could say a bad word about him before the war, but the Germans came and the man was reborn. That's what the terms mean. Probably, in some conditions one part of the character is revealed, and in others - another. Therefore, every time has its own heroes. Before the war, something vile was quietly hidden in this Cain, and if not for this trouble, maybe it would not have come out. And then it all came crashing down. He served the Germans with zeal, you can’t say anything. A lot of things have been done here with his hands. In the fall, he shot the wounded commanders. Since the summer, four wounded men had been hiding in the forest; some of the locals knew, but kept quiet. And this one tracked it down, found a dugout in the spruce forest and killed everyone with his friends at night. He burned down the estate of our contact Krishtoforovich. Krishtoforovich himself managed to escape, and the rest - old parents, wife and children - were all shot. He mocked the Jews in the town and organized raids. Not much! In the summer of forty-four he disappeared somewhere. Maybe where he received a bullet, or maybe he’s still living in luxury somewhere in the West. Such ones do not burn in fire and do not drown in water.

So this Cain still suspected something about the Frost school. No matter how careful Frost was, something came out like an awl from a bag. It must have reached the ears of the police.

One day before spring (the snow had already begun to melt) the police came to the school. Classes were just going on there - about twenty kids in one room at two long tables. And suddenly Cain bursts in, with two others and a German officer from the commandant’s office. They conducted a search, shook out the students' bags, checked the books. Well, of course, they didn’t find anything - what can you find from kids at school? No one was taken. Only the teacher was interrogated, about two hours various issues drove. But it worked out.

And then the kids who studied with Moroz and that overgrown Borodich came up with something. In general, they were frank with the teacher, but here they hid even from him. Once, however, this Borodich casually hinted that it would be a good idea to hit Cain. There is, they say, such a possibility. But Moroz categorically forbade doing this. He said that if necessary, they would knock without them. It is not good to act without permission during a war. Borodich did not object; he seemed to agree. But this guy was such a guy that if something got into his head, he would not soon part with this thought. And his thoughts were always one more desperate than the other.

It so happened that by the spring of '42, a small but devoted group of children had formed around Moroz in Selts, who were literally at the same time as the teacher in everything. These guys are now all known; their names are on the monument. in full force, except for Miklashevich, of course. Pavel Miklashevich was then fifteen years old. Kolya Borodich was the oldest, he was approaching eighteen. There were also the Kozhan brothers - Timka and Ostap, namesakes Smurny Nikolai and Smurny Andrey, so there were six in total. The youngest of them, Smurny Nikolai, was thirteen years old. They always stayed together in all matters. And these guys, when they saw that their school and their Ales Ivanovich had been invaded by this Cain and the Germans, they also decided not to remain in debt. Morozov’s upbringing had an effect. But these are kids, kids without weapons, with almost bare hands. They had more than enough stupidity and courage, but skill and intelligence, of course, were in short supply.

Well, it ended, of course, the way it should have ended.

Miklashevich said that after Frost forbade touching this Cain, they sat for a while and began their idea on the sly, secretly from the teacher. We thought about it for a long time, looked closely, and finally developed such a plan.

I think I already said that this Cain lived on his father’s farm, across the field from Selts. Almost all the time he hung out in the shtetl, but sometimes he came home to drink and have fun with the girls. One came rarely, more often with people like himself, traitors, or even with the German authorities. It was still quiet in these places then. This started to boom later, in the summer of '42, and the Germans didn't really show their nose to the villages. And in the first winter they behaved impudently, desperately, and were not afraid of anything. At that time, it happened that Cain would stay in the farmstead overnight, spend the night, and the next morning he would drive to his area. On horseback, on a sleigh, or even in a car. If with the authorities. And then one day the guys found the right moment.

Everything happened unexpectedly and was not properly organized. The kids are inexperienced. And where does experience come from? One thirst for revenge.

I remember it was spring. The snow had melted from the fields, only in the forest and along the ditches and holes it still lay in dirty patches. It was damp and muddy in the ravines and arable land. Streams ran, full and muddy. But the roads were already drying up, and there was sometimes a slight frost in the morning. Our detachment grew a little, there were about half a hundred people: military and locals in half. I was appointed commissioner. Either he was a private, and then suddenly the authorities, God forbid, had more worries. But he was young, had enough energy, tried hard, slept four hours a day. At that time, we already knew, we foresaw that it would thunder in the spring, but there were not enough weapons, there weren’t enough for everyone. Where they could, they mined everywhere and looked for weapons. They sent for him, as much as a hundred kilometers away, to the state border. Someone once said that at the crossing of the Shchara last summer, our retreating soldiers sank two trucks with ammunition. And so Seleznev caught fire and decided to pull him out. He organized a team of fifteen people, equipped a couple of furmans, and took charge himself - he was tired of sitting in the camp. And he left me in charge. The first time I found myself in charge of everyone, I didn’t sleep all night long, I checked the posts twice – in the clearing and further away, near the masonry. In the morning, just as I dozed off in the dugout, they wake me up. I barely got up from my pine bed, I see. Vityunya, our partisan, such a lanky Saratovite, is explaining something, and I, half asleep, just can’t understand what’s going on. Finally I realized: the guards had detained a stranger. "Who it?" - I ask. He answers: “Who the hell knows, he’s asking you.” Some kind of lame."

Hearing this, I must admit, I was alarmed. I immediately felt: It was frosty, which meant something had happened. At first, for some reason, I thought about the Seleznev group - it seemed like there was something bad with them, that’s why Moroz came running. But why Frost himself? Why didn't you send one of the guys? Although, if I had a fresh mind, what did Moroz have to do with the commander’s group? She even drove in the wrong direction.

I stood up, pulled on my boots, and said: “Bring me here.” And sure enough: they introduce Moroz. In a jacket, a warm hat, but his feet were almost barefoot and his pants were wet to the knees. I can’t figure out what happened, but what’s bad, I certainly feel it: Moroz’s whole disheveled appearance eloquently testifies to this. And his unexpected appearance in a camp where he had never been before. It’s no joke, it’s about twelve kilometers along such a road. Or rather, without any road.

Frost stood for a while, sat down on the bunk, looking at Vityunya: maybe he was too much. I make a sign, the guy closes the door on the other side, and Moroz says in a voice as if he was burying his own mother: “The boys were taken.” I didn’t understand at first: “What guys?” “Mine,” he says. “They grabbed me this night, I barely escaped.” One policeman warned."

Frankly, then I expected the worst. I thought something much worse had happened. And then - lads! Well, what could they do, these boys of his? Maybe they said something? Or did you curse someone? Well, they’ll give you ten sticks and let you go. This has happened before. At that time I had not yet foreseen everything that would happen in connection with this arrest of the Morozov boys.

And Moroz calmed down a little, caught his breath, lit a cigarette (I don’t think he’d smoked before) and little by little began to talk.

This is the picture that emerges.

Borodich finally achieved his goal: the guys waylaid Cain. A few days ago, this policeman drove to his father’s farm in a German car with a German sergeant major, a soldier and two policemen. As has happened more than once, we spent the night on the farm. Before this, we stopped in Seltso, took pigs from Fyodor Borovsky and the deaf Denischik, grabbed a dozen chickens from the huts - they were going to take them to the town the next day. Well, the guys looked out for everything, scouted it out, and when it got dark, they walked through the gardens and onto the road. And on this road, if you remember, not far from the place where it crosses the highway, there is a small bridge over a ravine. The bridge is small, but high, about two meters to the water, although the water is knee-deep, not deeper. There is a steep descent to the bridge, and then an ascent, so the car or carriage is forced to accelerate, otherwise you won’t be able to get up the climb. Oh, these brats took everything into account, they were masters here. Here they worked everything out subtly.

So, when it got dark, all six of us with axes and saws went to this bridge. Apparently they were sweating, but they still sawed down the pillars, not completely, but halfway, so that a person or a horse could cross, but a car could not. The car could no longer cross this bridge. We did everything successfully, no one bothered us, no one caught us: joyful, we got out of the ravine. But how can everyone sleep: at a time when a German car will fly upside down. So two stayed for such a moment - Borodich and Smury Nikolai. We chose a place at a distance in the bushes and sat down to wait. The rest were sent home.

In general, everything went as planned, except for a small detail. But, as you can see, it was this little thing that ruined them. Firstly, Cain was late that day, overslept after drinking. It was dawn, people in the village were getting up, and the usual bustle of housework began. Miklashevich later said that they didn’t sleep a wink at home all night, and the further they went, the more worried they became: why didn’t the watchmen come running? And the watchmen patiently waited for the car, which still didn’t come. Instead, a furman truck suddenly appears on the road in the morning. Uncle Evmen, not suspecting anything, rolls his own firewood. Borodich had to crawl out of his ambush and meet the guy. He says: “Don’t go, there’s a mine under the bridge.” Eumenes got scared, didn’t take much interest in that mine and took a detour.

Finally, at about ten o'clock, a car appeared on the road. Unfortunately, the road was bad, full of puddles and potholes, there was no speed, and the car crawled quietly, swaying from side to side. There was no acceleration before the ravine. Little by little it slid downhill, on the bridge the driver began to change gears, and then one cross member broke. The car tilted and flew sideways under the bridge. As it turned out later, the riders and pigs with chickens simply slid into the water and immediately jumped out safely. Only the German, who was sitting near the cabin, was unlucky - he just fell under the side and was crushed by the body. They pulled out the already dead man from under the car.

And when the boys saw what they had achieved, they were stunned with happiness and rushed through the bushes to the village. In joy, it probably seemed that all the Krauts and policemen were kaput, and so was the car. And little did they know that Cain and the others immediately jumped out, began to lift the car, and then someone noticed a figure flashing in the bushes. The figure of a child, a boy - nothing else could be noticed. But this turned out to be enough.

In the village, every rumor spreads around the farmsteads like lightning; after an hour, everyone already knew what happened on the road near the ravine. Cain ran for a cart to take the German’s corpse to the town. When Moroz heard about this, he immediately rushed to school and sent for Borodich, but he was not at home. But Miklashevich Pavlik, seeing how alarmed their teacher was, could not stand it and told him about everything.

Frost could not find a place for himself, but he did not cancel classes at school, he only started a little late. The guys who were studying all came. Only Borodich was missing, although Borodich was no longer in school at that time, but he visited it often. Frost kept looking out the window and said afterwards that he spent all his lessons at the window to see if anyone else appeared on the street. But no one showed up that day. After class, the teacher sent for Borodich for the second time, and he himself began to wait. As he himself later admitted to me, his position was ridiculous to the point of savagery. It’s clear that the guys more or less took care of everything related to the sabotage itself, but they simply didn’t think about what to do next if the sabotage succeeded. And the teacher also didn’t know what to come up with. He understood, of course, that the Germans would not leave it like that, a mess would begin. Perhaps they will suspect both the guys and himself. But in the village of three dozen men, it was thought that it would not be so easy to find exactly the one you needed. If he had known ahead of time what these brats were preparing, he would probably have come up with something. And now everything came upon him so suddenly that he simply did not know what to do. And what kind of danger threatened was also unknown. And who does she threaten first? Probably, first of all, we should have seen Borodich, after all, he is older, smarter. Again, from a neighboring village, maybe it made sense to hide the guys with him for the time being. Or, conversely, hide it somewhere first.

While he was sitting with his grandmother that night and waiting for the messenger with Borodich, he changed his mind about everything. And then somewhere around midnight he hears a knock on the door. But it wasn’t a child’s hand knocking—he realized that right away. He opened it and was dumbfounded: standing on the threshold was a policeman, the same Lavchenya about whom I had already spoken. But for some reason alone. Before Moroz had time to figure something out, he blurted out to him: “Run away, teacher, they took the boys, they are coming for you.” And back without saying goodbye. Moroz said that at first he thought it was a provocation. But no. And Lavchenya’s appearance and tone left no doubt: he told the truth. Then Frost grabs his hat, his jacket, his stick - and the gardens into the woods behind the pasture. I sat under the tree all night, but in the morning I couldn’t stand it, I knocked on the door of one guy I trusted to find out what had happened. And the guy, when he saw the teacher, started shaking. He says: “Utikai, Ales Ivanovich, the whole village has been shaken up, they are looking for you.” - “What about the guys?” - “They took me away, locked me in the headman’s barn, and you were left alone.”

Now we know exactly how it all happened. It turns out that Borodich had long been under suspicion from this Cain, and besides, one of the policemen saw him in the ravine. I didn’t identify him, but I saw that a teenager was running, a boy, not a man. Well, they probably talked there in the area, remembered Borodich and decided to take him. At night they roll up to his hut, and that fool is just putting on his chuni shoes. I wandered around the forest all day, by nightfall I was tired, hungry, and so I returned to my dad. First I asked someone on the street, they said: everything is quiet, calm. He was a smart guy, decisive, and not a penny worth of caution. He probably thought: everything is hidden, no one knows anything, no one is looking for him. And in the evening Smurny just comes running and calls Ales Ivanovich. The guys just started getting ready, and then there was a car. So both were captured.

And having grabbed two, it was not difficult to take the rest. Sometimes you just think: how did the investigator find the culprit if no one saw anything, knows nothing? Maybe this really is not simple if you adhere to some rules of jurisprudence. Only the Germans sneezed at jurisprudence in such cases. Cain and the others reasoned differently. If harm to the Germans was discovered anywhere, they estimated according to probability: who could have done it. It turned out: this one or that one. Then they grabbed this and that, along with their brothers-in-law and friends. Like, one gang. And you know, they rarely made mistakes, the bastards. And so it was. And if they made mistakes, they didn’t change them, they didn’t let them go back. They punished everyone en masse - both the guilty and the innocent.

It is still unknown exactly how Lavchene managed to warn Moroz. They probably didn’t plan to grab the teacher there at first, but did it impromptu, along the way. Cain probably realized that where the guys are, the teacher is there. And so Lavchenya, whom we considered a sneak, seized the moment, literally about ten minutes, and ran in and warned. Saved by Frost.

Here's how it turned out.

And the next day Seleznev arrived at the camp. They brought a couple of boxes of damp grenades. Little luck, the boys are tired, the commander is angry. I told about Frost: so and so, what are we going to do? It is probably necessary to take the teacher into the detachment, so that the person does not disappear. I say this, but Seleznev remains silent. Of course, the teacher is not a very enviable fighter, but nothing can be done. The major thought and ordered Moroz to be given a rifle with a black butt, without a front sight (no one wanted to take it, it was defective) and to enlist him in Prokopenko’s platoon as a fighter. They told Moroz about this, he listened without any enthusiasm, but took the rifle. And he himself seemed to have been submerged in water. And the rifle had no effect. Sometimes, when you hand someone a weapon, there is so much joy, almost childish delight. Especially among young boys, for whom the presentation of weapons is the biggest holiday in their lives. But here there is nothing like that. I walked with this rifle for two days and didn’t even attach a strap, I carried everything in my hands. Like some kind of stick.

Another two or three days passed like this. I remember the boys were digging a third dugout at the edge of our camp, under a spruce forest. There were more people in the spring, and the two became a bit crowded. I’m sitting above the pit, talking. And then the partisan, who was an orderly in the camp, comes running and says: “The commander is calling.” - “What is it?” - I ask. He says: “Ulyana has come.” And Ulyana is our messenger from the forest cordon. She was a good girl, brave, fighting, and God forbid her tongue was a razor. No matter how many guys approached her, no favors for anyone, she’ll cut anyone off, just hold on. Then, in the summer of '42, with Maria Kozukhina they almost blew up the commandant's office in the town, they already planted a charge, but some sneak noticed it and reported it. The charge was immediately defused, and she was caught up on horseback, captured and shot. But Kozukhina somehow escaped, she was wounded during the blockade, but she sat out in the swamp. Now he works in Grodno. I recently celebrated a wedding and married my son. And I was invited, but how...

So, that means Ulyana came running. When I heard about this, I immediately realized that things were bad. It’s bad because Ulyana was strictly forbidden to appear in the camp. I conveyed what was needed through my messengers twice a week. And she herself was allowed to come running only in the most extreme cases. So, this was probably that extreme case. Otherwise I wouldn't have come.

That means I’m heading to the commander’s dugout and already on the steps I hear that the conversation is serious. More precisely, loud conversation. Seleznev curses. Ulyana is also not far behind. “They told me, but am I going to remain silent?” - “I would have handed it over on Tuesday.” - “Yeah, they’ll all have their heads twisted off by Tuesday.” - “What will I do? Am I going to give them heads?” - “Think, you are a commander.” “I am a commander, but not a god. And here you are, unmasking the camp for me. Now I won’t let you go back.” - “And don’t let me, to hell with you. It won’t be worse for me here.”

I walk in and they both fall silent. They sit and don't look at each other. I ask as kindly as possible: “What happened, Ulyanka?” - “What happened - they demand Frost. Otherwise, they said, the guys would be hanged. They need frost." - “Do you hear? - the commander shouts. “And she rushed to the camp with this.” So Frost will run to them. We found a fool! Ulyana is silent. She's already screamed and probably doesn't want to anymore. He sits and adjusts his white scarf under his chin. I stand there stunned. Poor Frost! I remember now, exactly what I thought. Another stone on his soul. Or rather, six stones - it will be something to turn black on. Of course, none of us then even thought of sending Moroz to the village. We've gone crazy, haven't we? It is clear that they won’t let the boys go, and they will kill him. We know these things. We have been living under the Germans for nine months. We've seen enough.

And Ulyana says: “Am I really made of iron? Aunt Tatyana and Aunt Grusha come running at night - tearing out their hair. Of course, mothers. They ask Christ the God: “Ulyanochka, dear one, help. Do you know how". I explain to them: “I don’t know anything: where will I go?” And they: “Go, you know where Ales Ivanovich is, let him save the boys. He’s smart, he’s their teacher.” I repeat my point: “How do I know where that Ales Ivanovich is. Maybe he ran away somewhere, where can I look for him?” - “No, honey, don’t refuse, you know the partisans. Otherwise tomorrow they will take us to a shtetl, and we won’t see them again.” Well, what could I do?

Yes. This is how the situation has matured. It’s not a fun situation, to be honest. But Seleznev got excited, shouted and remained silent. And I am silent. What will you do? Apparently the boys have disappeared. This is true. But what about mothers? They still have to live. And Moroz too. We say nothing, but Ulyana gets up: “Decide as you want, but I’m off. And let someone conduct it. And then some fool of yours almost shot me near the masonry.”

Of course, it needs to be done. Ulyana comes out, and I follow. I get out of the dugout and are immediately nose to nose - with Moroz. He stands at the entrance, holds his rifle without a front sight, but there is no face. I looked at him and immediately understood: I heard everything. “Go,” I say, “to the commander, there is something to do.” He climbed into the dugout, and I led Ulyana. While I found someone to guide her, while I set him a task, while I said goodbye, twenty minutes passed, no more. I return to the dugout, there the commander, like a tiger, is running from corner to corner, his tunic is unbuttoned, his eyes are burning. He shouts at Moroz: “You’re crazy, you’re a fool, a psycho, an idiot!” And Frost stands at the door and looks dejectedly at the ground. It seems that he doesn’t even hear the commander’s cry.

I sit down on the bunk and wait for them to explain to me what’s going on. And they pay zero attention to me. Seleznev is still furious and threatens to put Frost at the Christmas tree. Well, I think that if it comes to the Christmas tree, then it’s a serious matter.

But the thing really is that there is nowhere else to go. The commander shouted out to me: “I heard, he wants to go to the village?” - "For what?" - “And you should ask him.” I look at Frost, and he just sighs. This is when I started to get angry. You have to be a total idiot to believe the Germans that they will release the lads. So, going there is the most reckless suicide. That's what I told Moroz, just as I thought. He listened and suddenly answered very calmly: “That’s true. And yet we must go.”

Then we both became furious: what kind of extravagance is this? The commander says: “If so, I will put you in a dugout. In custody." I also say: “Think first about what you are saying.” But Frost is silent. He sits with his head down and doesn’t move. We see that this is the case, we probably need to consult with the commander together on what to do with it. And then Seleznev says wearily: “Okay, go think. We’ll continue our conversation in an hour.”

Well, Moroz gets up and, limping, leaves the dugout. We were left alone. Seleznev is sitting in the corner angry, I see he has a grudge against me: they say, your shot. The shot is really mine, but I feel like I have nothing to do with it. Here he has his own principles, this Frost. Although I am a commissar, he is no more stupid than me. What can I do with it?

We sat like that, Seleznev spoke with sternness in his voice, to which I still could not fully get used to; “Talk to him. So that he can throw this whim out of his head. No, I’ll give chase to Shara. He’ll splash around in the icy water, maybe he’ll become wiser.”

I think it's okay. We need to talk to him somehow, to persuade him to abandon this stupid idea. Of course, I understood: sorry for the boys, sorry for the mothers. But we couldn't help. The detachment had not yet gained strength, there were few weapons, the situation with ammunition was absolutely terrible, and around in every village there was a garrison - Germans and police. Try to poke your head in.

Yes, I honestly was going to talk to him and convince him to give up and think about coming to Seltso. But he didn’t talk. He hesitated. Maybe he was tired or simply didn’t have the courage to do it immediately after the conversation in the dugout. And then something happened that there was no time for Frost.

We sit, remain silent, think, and suddenly we hear voices nearby, near the first dugout. Someone ran past our window. I listened to Bronevich’s voice. And Bronevich only went to the same farm in the morning with Sergeant Pekushev - there was an assignment regarding communication with the town. We went there for three days, and in the evening they were already here.

The commander jumped out first, sensing something bad, and I followed. So what do we see? Bronevich is sitting in front of the dugout, and Pekushev is lying on the ground next to him. I looked and immediately realized: he was dead. And Bronevich, tormented all over, sweaty, wet to the waist, with bloody hands, stuttering, tells. It turns out it's rubbish. Near one farm they ran into policemen, they fired at him and then killed the sergeant. And this Pekushev, one of the border guards, was a nice guy. It’s good that Bronevich somehow got out of it and dragged the body. The padded jacket itself has a bullet through its shoulder.

I remember this was our first loss in the camp. We were worried, God forbid. Everyone just fell into despondency. Both personnel and local. Indeed, he was a good guy: quiet, brave, diligent. I re-read all the pre-war letters from my mother - she lived somewhere near Moscow. And he is her only son. And now you need to...

What can you do, we started preparing for the funeral. Not far from the camp, over a cliff near a stream, they dug a grave. Under a pine tree, in the sand. True, there was no coffin; the grave was lined with spruce branches. While the boys were managing there, I was sweating over the speech. This was my first speech to the army. The next day they formed a detachment, sixty-two people. Pekushev was laid at the grave. They dressed him in someone's new tunic and blue trousers. They even collected triangles for the buttonholes, three for each, so that everything was as it should be in the army. Then they performed. Me, the commander, one of his border guard friends. Some even shed tears. In a word, this was the first and, perhaps, the last touching funeral of this kind. Then they buried more often, and not even one at a time. Sometimes they buried ten in one hole. And even without a hole - you sprinkle leaves or butcher's broom, and that's fine. During the blockade, for example. And the commander himself was simply buried - they dug a knee-deep hole, and that’s all. They didn’t worry even a tenth of what Pekushev felt about it. We're used to it.

So, that means they buried Pekushev. My speech was a success, from this side I was pleased. Even Seleznev spoke somehow in a friendly way, without his eternal severity, while they walked next to our dugout. We were about to go down there when Prokopenko flies up: so and so, no Frost. Not since last night. “How was it last night? – Seleznev soared. “Why didn’t you report it right away?” And Prokopenko just shrugs: they thought he’d be found. They thought he went to the commissar. Or to the stream. Everyone liked to sit near the stream lately. Alone.

At this point, you know, we felt sick.

Seleznev attacked Prokopenko, honoring him as best he could. But he knew how. And then he got angry at me. Called me last words. I was silent. Well, he probably deserved it. We went down to the dugout, Seleznev ordered to call the chief of staff - he was so quiet, executive lieutenant Kuznetsov, from the personnel - and platoon commanders. Everyone has gathered, they already know what’s going on, and they are silent, waiting for what the major will say. And the major thought and thought and said: “Change camp. Otherwise they’ll put pressure on this lame idiot, and without meaning to, he’ll give everyone away. They'll shoot you like partridges."

I see the boys have hung their noses. Nobody wants to change the camp; it’s a very suitable place: quiet, away from the roads. And happy. Throughout the entire winter there has not been a single surprise in this regard. And here because of some lame idiot... It’s understandable, who is this Frost? After everything that happened, of course, he’s a lame idiot, nothing more. But I, like no one here, know this lame man. He will destroy himself, that’s for sure, but he will not betray anyone. He cannot give away the camp. I don’t know how to prove this, but I feel strongly: it won’t give away. And when everyone was ready to agree with the major, I said: “There is no need to change the camp.” Seleznev attacked me like I was another idiot: “How is this not necessary? Where is the guarantee? “There is,” I say, “a guarantee. No need".

It became quiet, everyone was silent, only Seleznev was sniffling and looking at me from under his wide eyebrows. What can I tell them? Should we start telling from the very beginning who this lame teacher is? I feel like I can’t say much right now, and I don’t need to. I just stuck to my guns: the camp shouldn’t be changed.

I don’t know what Seleznev and the others thought then, did they believe in my unfounded assurance, or did they really not want to run away from their homes, but only decided to take a risk and wait a week. However, they decided to set up two additional patrols - from the side of the village and near the clearing in the ravine. And they also sent Gusak, whose brother-in-law lived there, reliable, our man, to see how it would go on.

It was from this Gusak and from our people from the town, and then from Pavlik Miklashevich, that it became known how further events developed in Selts.

Budilovichi began. Near the last hut behind the fence, an electric lantern was burning, which illuminated the gate, the bench nearby, and the bare bushes in the front garden. Somewhere in the darkness behind the barns, a fire sparkled like a bright ruby ​​drop, and the wind carried the smell of smoke - the leaves must have been burning. Our driver turned off the road, clearly intending to enter the yard; the horse, as if understanding him, stopped of its own accord. Tkachuk interrupted the story in bewilderment.

- What, have you arrived?

- Yeah, we've arrived. I'll unharness here, and you walk a little, there's a stop at the post office.

“I know, not the first time,” Tkachuk said, getting off the cart. I also jumped onto the chipped edge of the asphalt. - Well, thank you, grandfather, for the ride. We are due.

- My pleasure. The horse is a collective farm horse, so...

The cart turned into the yard, and we, walking slowly after the uncomfortable sitting on the cart, trudged along the rural street. Low light the lantern on the pole did not reach the next one, light sections of the street alternated with wide stripes of shadow, and we walked, falling into light and then into darkness. I waited for the continuation of the story about Selts, but Tkachuk silently stomped along, limping, and I did not dare to rush him. Somewhere ahead, an engine began to rumble; we stepped aside to let a tractor on rubber wheels pass, which rolled dashingly past; the light from his single headlight barely reached the road. Behind the tractor ahead, a brightly lit porch of a white brick house with a sign for a rural teahouse became visible. Two people slowly came out of its glass doors and, lighting cigarettes, stopped near a ZIL car parked close to the side of the road. Tkachuk looked in that direction with some new thought.

- Maybe we can come in, huh?

“Come on, then,” I obediently agreed.

We walked around ZIL and turned into a small gravel courtyard.

“There was once a shabby eatery, but now this little house has been gutted.” “Hey, I haven’t been to this one yet,” he explained, as if apologizing, as we walked along the concrete steps.

I kept silent - why make excuses: we are all sinners in this unworthy matter.

The small tearoom was almost empty, except for a corner table by the stove, at which three men sat casually. The remaining half a dozen light city tables and similar armchairs were unoccupied. A woman in a blue nylon jacket was talking quietly across the counter to the barmaid.

- You sit down. “I’ll be there now,” Tkachuk nodded to me as he walked.

- No, you sit down. I'm younger.

He did not force himself to be persuaded, he sat down at the first available place at the nearest table, reminding, however:

– Two for a hundred, and that’s enough. And maybe some more beer? If there is.

Unfortunately, there was no beer here, nor vodka. There was only Mitsne, and I took the bottle. For a snack, the barmaid offered cutlets - she said they were fresh, just recently delivered.

I thought that Tkachuk would hardly like such a treat. And indeed, before I had time to bring all this to the table, my companion frowned disapprovingly.

- Wasn’t there a little white one? I can't stand this ink.

“There’s nothing to be done, we take what they give.”

- Yes indeed...

We silently drank a glass of “ink”. There's still a little left in the bottle. Tkachuk didn’t take a bite; instead, he lit a cigarette from my crumpled pack.

“Little white, she’s mean, of course, but she has taste.” "Stolichnaya", let's say. Or, you know, even better, homemade. Bread. From good hands if. Eh, they knew how to do it once! Delicious, not like this chemistry. And the degree, I’ll tell you, it was, wow!

- What did you... respect?

- It happened! – he raised his reddened eyes at me. – When I was younger.

I didn’t dare ask him about that “case” - I was looking forward to the continuation of the story about the long-standing events in Selts. But he seemed to have lost all interest in them, he was smoking and through the smoke he was looking askance at the corner where the well-tipsy men were bawling at the entire teahouse. They were quarreling. One of them, in a padded jacket, moved the table so hard that the dishes almost flew off him.

- We got enough. I know the bald guy a little. Accountant from the distillery. As a partisan, he was a platoon commander under Butrimovich. And a good platoon leader. Now admire it.

- Happens.

- It happens, of course. During the war I grabbed three orders and my head started spinning. Out of pride! Well, I was proud. He's already served three years in prison, but he still won't let up. And some others, little by little, did not grab the orders - they took them by cunning. And they walked around. They galloped around. Like this. Well? Should I tell you about the boys? Why don't you ask? Eh, lads, lads!.. You know, the older I get, the sweeter these lads become to me. And why would this be, do you know?

He leaned heavily on our rickety table and took a deep drag on his cigarette. His face became sad and thoughtful, his gaze went somewhere inward. Tkachuk fell silent, probably like an accordion player, tuning into his sad melody that was now sounding in his soul.

- How many heroes do we have? A strange question, would you say? That's right, weird. Who counted them? But look at the newspapers: how they love to write about the same people. Especially if this war hero is still in a prominent place today. What if he died? No biography, no photographs. And the information is scant, like hare's tail. And not verified. Or even confused and contradictory. Be careful here, sideways - and away from sin. Isn’t your brother a correspondent?.. For example, I don’t understand why the pioneers should look for heroes, living or dead? Let them both, and the peony

"Obelisk" is a story created by Vasil Bykov. It was written by him in 1971. In this article we will describe a brief content of the work and analyze it. Bykov ("Obelisk", "Sotnikov", "To Live Until Dawn", "Sign of Trouble", "The Third Rocket" - all of these are his works) are rightfully considered one of the best authors who wrote about the Great Patriotic War. In the article we will first describe the summary of the story. After that, we will analyze it. Bykov (“Obelisk” and “Until Dawn”) was awarded the USSR State Prize in 1974.

The beginning of the events of the story

The journalist learned one autumn about the death of Miklashevich, a teacher who lived in the village of Seltso. The deceased was only 36 years old. The newspaperman was overcome with a feeling of guilt, and he decided to go to Seltso. A truck driver passing by picked up a hitchhiker. This is how the story created by Vasily Bykov begins - “Obelisk”.

At one of the conferences, Miklashevich turned to a journalist for help. was associated with the partisans during wartime. The Germans killed five of his classmates. Thanks to the efforts of the teacher, a monument was erected in their honor. The newspaperman promised to help Miklashevich in one matter, but did not have time, as noted by Vasily Bykov.

The obelisk appeared around the bend. The journalist left and headed towards the school. There was a livestock specialist here who pointed out where they were commemorating. The newcomer sat down. They brought a couple of bottles, and there was a revival. Ksendzov, the head of the district, was given the floor.

He said that the deceased was a loyal and active communist. Then he began to talk about the successes of the Soviet people in cultural, scientific, and economic fields, but he was interrupted by a veteran. The old man was indignant that no one remembered Moroz at the wake. The journalist learned that this veteran was Timofey Titovich Tkachuk, a former teacher.

Obelisk near the village of Seltso

We continue to describe the brief content of the work that Bykov created. "Obelisk" (which we will analyze later) tells about the following events.

When Tkachuk left, the newspaperman followed. Tkachuk sat down on the foliage, and the journalist went to the obelisk made of concrete. The building looked modest, but it was well maintained. Another name was written on the sign in white paint - A.I. Freezing.

The veteran approached the road and offered to get there together. He said that he had known Miklashevich since childhood, considered him an excellent teacher, and the boys loved him very much. When the deceased was still a child, he ran after Frost. The veteran told the journalist the following story.

Moroz - school teacher

The Belarusian SSR and Western Belarus were reunited in 1939, in the fall. Tkachuk was sent to the west to organize collective farms and schools. Timofey taught and was in charge of the district. Moroz opened a school in the Seltso estate. Podgayskaya worked here, a Polish woman who knew a little Belarusian, but did not speak Russian. She complained about Moroz’s methods of education, Tkachuk went to check.

The children were working in the school yard: a tree fell and they were sawing it. It was difficult with firewood. Other schools in Tkachuk complained about the lack of fuel, but here they took the initiative into their own hands. Ales Ivanovich Moroz went to the manager. He was limping.

A teacher was born in the Mogilev region. He had problems with his leg since birth. Ales Ivanovich said that previously the children went to a Polish school, and it was not easy for them to master the Belarusian curriculum. Frost dreamed of making worthy people out of them.

Frost takes care of the students

Timofey Titovich came to school in 1941, in January, to warm up. He saw a boy about ten years old. He said that the teacher went to see the sisters off. Frozen Frost soon arrived. He said that Kolya Borodich had seen them off earlier, but he had to because Kolya didn’t show up. The girls' mother did not let them go to school: they had no shoes. Ales Ivanovich therefore bought them boots. Moroz left the boy who met Timofey Titovich at school because his father beat him at home. His name was Pavlik Miklashevich.

Sivak, the local prosecutor, said to give the child to the father. Frost had to obey. On the way, the parent beat Pavel with a belt. Then Ales Ivanovich snatched his father’s belt, and the men almost started a fight. Legal proceedings followed. The teacher managed to get the boy sent to an orphanage. However, Moroz did not intend to carry out this decision.

Agree that the image of a kind and selfless teacher was created by Bykov. "Obelisk", the analysis of which is largely based on the personality of this person, is a work in which the main character is Ales Moroz.

Beginning of the war

The war changed everything. The Germans were advancing, but the Russians were nowhere to be seen. The Nazis soon appeared in the village. Everyone expected them to be driven away quickly. No one thought that there would be a four-year war... There were many local traitors. It’s not for nothing that Bykov mentions all this. “Obelisk” is given below) is a story based on the impressions of the author himself, who participated in the war. Bykov's photo is presented below.

The teachers joined the detachment of Seleznev, a Cossack, and Sivak was later added here. We began to prepare for the cold weather and dig trenches. It was decided to establish connections with their people and local villages. Seleznev sent soldiers on reconnaissance.

Tkachuk and Sivak entered Seltso. A friend of the prosecutor became a policeman, and Moroz continued to teach. The head of the district did not expect this from Ales! Sivak said that it was not in vain that he was repressed...

Frost's help during the war years

Night. Tkachuk met with Ales, Sivak was waiting on the street. Moroz said that he was disguised and did not want the invaders to capture the guys. They decided that the teacher would report what was happening in the village to the partisans.

Frost actively helped. He recorded military reports from the receiver, transmitting them to the partisans. Ours sat in shelters in winter: there was little food, it was cold. Mail only

Search at school

At first, the police and fascists did not touch Ales. But one day everything changed. Lavchenya, a policeman nicknamed Cain, served the Nazis. He was an ordinary young man before, but immediately went over to the side of the enemy during the war. Lavchenya raped, robbed, killed. The police once raided the school. They searched briefcases and books and began interrogating Moroz.

The guys decide to kill the policeman

Borodich wanted to kill Cain, but Ales forbade it. Pavel Miklashevich was then 15 years old. The oldest was Nikolai Borodich (18 years old). In the same group were Timka and Ostap Kozhany, as well as Kolya and Andryusha Smurny (namesakes) - a total of 6 guys. Kolya, the youngest, was 13 years old. They figured out how to neutralize this policeman.

Fatal act

Cain often visited his father, where he drank and had fun with colleagues or Germans. Spring came. Timofey Titovich was appointed Commissioner. The sentry once brought Ales. He sat down and said that the guys had been captured.

It turned out that Borodich persuaded the others. The next fatal act is described by Bykov (“Obelisk”). Analyzing the work, we can say that this is the culmination of the action, after which comes the denouement. The boys sawed down the pillars near the bridge at night so that Cain’s car would fall into the ravine. The senior comrade and Smurny watched in the bushes, the rest left. Cain's car was hit by a bridge. However, except for the German, all the other passengers survived and quickly got out.

The guys headed to the village, but they were noticed. Pavel Miklashevich reported everything to the teacher. A policeman came to Ales at night and said that the guys had been captured, and he was next.

The messenger Ulyana arrived, who came only in extreme cases. The Germans threatened to hang the boys and demanded the extradition of Moroz. Ales volunteered to go. Tkachuk and the Cossack began shouting that they wouldn’t let the guys go, they would kill Ales too. We learned about further events from Husak, and then from Miklashevich.

Frost comes to the Germans

The guys were kept in the barn, waiting for Frost. At first the children did not confess. But Borodich took the blame during the torture, confessing to everything. He thought that the others would be released. Ales Ivanovich was dragged into the hut. Hearing his voice, the children lost heart. No one expected that Frost would appear on his own. All seven were taken outside in the evening. Vanya Kozhan, the elder brother of the twins, came forward and asked the German why they were not letting the boys go, because, according to the Nazis, only a teacher was needed. The German hit the guy in the teeth, Ivan kicked him. They killed the boy.

The fate of the guys

The prisoners were accompanied by 7 policemen and 4 Germans. Frost whispered to Pavel at the bridge to run to the bushes when he shouted. The forest was visible. Suddenly Ales Ivanovich screamed loudly and looked to the left, as if he saw someone. Everyone looked around, even Miklashevich, but then he understood everything and ran. They shot him and then threw him into the water. Moroz was severely beaten, and he never got up.

The boy was found at night. Others were taken away and tortured for 5 days. All were hanged on the first day of Easter.

Papers discovered in 1944

Police and Gestapo papers were found in 1944. Among them was Cain's report about Ales Moroz. It was reported that Cain had captured the leader of a partisan gang. This lie was beneficial to everyone - both the police and the Germans. They demanded a report on losses from Seleznev. He wrote that the teacher was captured. There were two documents collected against him that were impossible to refute. However, Miklashevich succeeded.

Pavel was very ill and received treatment every year. He was shot through the chest and developed tuberculosis. The lungs were cured, but the heart stopped.

Dispute about Ales's action

This ends the story about Frost. Ksendzov's car drove past. He agreed to take travel companions with him. A dispute began in which the head of the district (Ksendzov) said that Ales was not a hero, since he did not kill the Germans and did not save the children. It was only by chance that Miklashevich survived. The veteran began to prove him wrong, since Moroz gave his life for the guys. Of course, this act is regarded as heroic by the author himself, Vasil Bykov.

"Obelisk": analysis of the work

Let's take a closer look at the work. To do this, let's analyze it. Bykov's "Obelisk" sounds like a requiem for unknown war heroes. The story became a literary obelisk dedicated to them. However, the content is not limited to this appeal to history. This can be seen by analyzing the work “Obelisk” (Vasil Bykov). The reader can consider the fates of those who survived the war and who died during these years.

The story is permeated with an atmosphere of reflection, as analysis shows. Bykov's "Obelisk" is not the only work in which this atmosphere is felt. It is typical for all of Vasil Vladimirovich’s work. This atmosphere is needed in order to adjust the reader's perception to awareness moral meaning feat. Bykov is strict with himself and his generation, since for him the feat of war is the main measure by which a person is assessed.

In the story, Vasil Bykov outlined the paths of three generations. “Obelisk” (which we are analyzing) is a work in which they are represented by the following characters: Vitka, Miklashevich and Moroz. Each of the three generations follows a heroic path with dignity, which is not always recognized by everyone.

When analyzing the story “Obelisk” by Bykov, it is necessary to highlight the problems that the work raises, forces the reader to think about the meaning of feat and heroism, unlike the usual, to delve into the moral origins of actions. Representatives of three generations were faced with a choice: to do this or not? They were not satisfied with the possibility of formal justification. The heroes acted based on their conscience. The dispute taking place in the "Obelisk" helps to understand the continuity of true kindness, selflessness, and heroism. Ksendzov, most likely, would prefer, if he found himself in a similar situation, to eliminate himself. This is a lover of teaching and reproach, incapable of self-sacrifice, in the work “Obelisk” (Bykov). story, heroes of the work and other points) you can continue by including quotes from the text and adding your own thoughts.

« Obelisk» (Abelisk) - heroic story Belarusian writer Vasil Bykov, created in 1971. In 1974, for “Obelisk” and the story “To Live Until Dawn,” Bykov was awarded the USSR State Prize. In 1976, the story was filmed.

Main characters

• The narrator, whose name is not given.
• Ales Ivanovich Moroz is a rural teacher who was hanged by the Germans during the occupation of Belarus.
• Timofey Titovich Tkachuk is a former teacher and partisan, retired.

Plot

The hero of the story comes to the funeral of the village teacher Pavel Miklashevich, with whom he was casually acquainted. The children loved Miklashevich very much, and all the residents remember him with great respect: “He was a good communist, an advanced teacher”, “Let his life serve as an example for us”. However, former teacher Tkachuk speaks at the wake, demanding to remember about a certain Moroz and does not find approval. On the way home main character asks Tkachuk about Moroz, trying to understand how he relates to Miklashevich. Tkachuk says that Ales Ivanovich Moroz was an ordinary teacher, among whose many students was Miklashevich. Moroz took care of the children as if they were his own children: he accompanied them home late at night, stood up for the authorities, tried to fill up the school library as best he could, was involved in amateur activities, bought boots for two girls so that they could go to school in winter, and was afraid of Miklashevich father, settled him at home. Moroz said that he was trying to make the guys real people.

During World War II, the territory of Belarus was occupied by German troops, and Tkachuk joined partisan detachment. Moroz stayed with the children, secretly helping the partisans, until one of the villagers, who became a policeman, began to suspect something and conducted a search and interrogation at the school. The search did not yield any results, but the guys loyal to Frost decided to take revenge. A small group, including Miklashevich himself, who was then 15 years old, sawed down the supports at the bridge where the car carrying the police chief, nicknamed Cain, was supposed to pass. The surviving policemen, getting out of the water, noticed the fleeing boys, who were soon captured by the Germans. Only Moroz managed to go to the partisans. The Germans announced that if Moroz surrendered to them, they would release the guys. He voluntarily surrendered to the Germans in order to support his students in prison. When they were being led to execution, Moroz helped Miklashevich escape, diverting the attention of the guards. However, the guard shot Miklashevich, his father left him, but he was then sick all his life. The boys and Moroz were hanged. An obelisk was erected in honor of the children, but Moroz’s actions are not considered a feat - he did not kill a single German, on the contrary, he was recorded as having surrendered.

Artistic Features

Heroism

The story is structured according to the “story within a story” scheme and belongs to the heroic direction - one of the main characters of the story, Ales Moroz, acts truly heroically, without trying to save himself, because for him in the current situation there was simply no other worthy way out, since this act was not correlated with some abstract rules of behavior, but, on the contrary, with his understanding of human and teacher’s duty. The story reflects decent life worthy noble people who in their essence cannot change themselves and their principles; reflects those unknown feats and heroism that were not included in award lists and marked by obelisks: beginning of quote This is a small part of truly popular resistance to the enemy during the war years, this artistic image human refusal to live like a wolf, according to the laws of the fascist “new order.” end of quote At the same time, Moroz’s students are young boys, like all pure and serious boys of all times, they do not know how to calculate in their actions and do not at all hear the warnings of their reason; they, first of all, act recklessly, and therefore tragically.

Editions

In 1988, the Moscow publishing house "Children's Literature" in the "Library of Youth" series published the work together with another story - "Sotnikov" (240 pages, with illustrations by G. Poplavsky, translation by G. Kureneva, ISBN 5-08-001106-8) .

One autumn, a journalist from a regional publication learned about the death of teacher Miklashevich, who lived in the village of Seltso. Tom was only thirty-six years old. A terrible feeling of guilt fell on the newspaperman and he decided to go there. The driver of a passing truck picked up our fellow traveler.

At one of the teachers' conferences, Miklashevich turned to the journalist for help. During the war, he was associated with the partisans, and five of his classmates were killed by the Germans. Thanks to the efforts of the men, a monument was erected in their honor. And he needed some help in one difficult matter. The newspaperman promised that he would help, but he didn’t have time.

Around the bend the obelisk became visible. The journalist got out and walked towards the school building. Then a livestock specialist arrived with a box of vodka and showed where they were commemorating. The newspaperman sat down with an elderly man with an order bar. Meanwhile, a couple of bottles were brought and there was a noticeable revival. The floor was given to the head of the district, Ksendzov.

The boss began to raise his glass and tell him what an active public figure and loyal communist the deceased was. Then he began to talk about the magnificent successes of the Soviet people in economic, scientific, cultural fields...

But Ksendzov was abruptly interrupted by the veteran. - Why are you talking about success?! The man died! We drink here, but no one remembers Moroz, although everyone should know his name,” the old man was indignant.

Those around him understood what it was about, but for the journalist everything remained a mystery. He learned that the veteran was a former teacher, Timofey Titovich Tkachuk.

The old man began to leave. The journalist followed. Tkachuk sat down on the foliage, and the newspaperman headed towards the obelisk. It was made of concrete and fenced with a picket fence. The building looked modest, but was well maintained. On the metal plate another name was added in white paint - A. I. Moroz.

A veteran approached the road and offered to get there together. The journalist began to wonder how long he had known Miklashevich. It turned out since childhood. He considered it a good man and an excellent teacher - the kids loved him very much. When the deceased was little, he himself ran after Frost. The newspaperman did not know about Moroz and the veteran told him one story.

In the fall of 1939, Western Belarus and the Belarusian SSR were reunited. Tkachuk was sent to the west to organize schools and collective farms. Young Timofey was in charge of the district and taught in schools. Moroz opened a school for children on the Seltso estate. Working with him was a Polish woman, Podgaiskaya, who did not speak Russian but knew a little Belarusian. The woman complained about Morozov’s methods of education, Tkachuk went to check.

The school yard was full of children. They were working - a large tree fell, and now they were sawing it. It was difficult to find firewood; other schools complained to Tkachuk about a lack of fuel, but then they took the initiative into their own hands. The young guy went to the manager. He was limping, something was wrong with his leg. Ales Ivanovich Moroz,” the stranger introduced himself.

The teacher was born in the Mogilev region. After studying, he taught for five years. Leg problems - from birth. The man said that the children previously attended a Polish school and it is not yet easy to master the Belarusian curriculum. The teacher dreamed that the children would grow up to be worthy people and tried to lead by example.

In January 1941, Timofey Titovich stopped by the school to warm up. The door opened and he saw a boy of about 10 years old. The young man said that the teacher had gone to see the sisters off. Soon the frozen Frost arrived. He explained that Kolya Borodich used to accompany them, but today he didn’t show up and he had to. The girls’ mother didn’t let the girls go to school - there were no shoes, so Ales Ivanovich bought boots for each of them. Frost left the young man who opened the door at school because his father beat him at home. This was Miklashevich Pavlik.

Soon the local prosecutor Sivak said to hand Miklashevich over to his father. Frost sent the guy with his parent. He led Pavel and began beating him along the road with a belt. Ales Ivanovich jumped out and snatched the belt from Miklashevich Sr., the men almost started a fight. Soon legal proceedings began and the teacher was able to get Pavlik to be sent to an orphanage. But Moroz was not going to carry out this decision.

The war changed everything. There was a German offensive, but no Soviet troops were seen.

By the end of the third day, the Nazis were already in the village. Tkachuk and others thought that the Germans would soon be driven out. They did not expect a four-year war... There were many local traitors.

The teachers joined the detachment of the Cossack Seleznev, and later Sivak was added. We began to dig trenches and prepare for the cold weather. It was decided to establish connections with local villages and their people. Seleznev sent soldiers for information.

Sivak and Tkachuk entered Seltso. The prosecutor's friend became a policeman, and Moroz continued to teach. The head of the district did not expect this from Ales! Sivak kept nagging that it was in vain that he was not repressed then..

Night. Tkachuk met with Ales, and Sivak waited outside. Moroz explained that he was masquerading and did not put his soul into the guys, so that the invaders would capture them. Together, the friends decided that the teacher would report to the partisans about what was happening in the village.

Frost actively helped. He secretly listened to the receiver and recorded military reports, distributing them throughout the village and passing them on to the partisans. In winter, our people sat in shelters: it was cold, there was little food - only the mail lifted our spirits.

At first everything was fine. The fascists and police did not touch Ales. But one day he was suspected...

The policeman Lavchenya, who was nicknamed Cain, served the Germans. Previously, he was an ordinary young man, but during the war he immediately went over to the enemy side. And he behaved the same way - he killed, robbed, raped. One day the police broke into the school building. They searched books and briefcases and began interrogating Moroz.

Borodich planned to kill Cain, but Ales Ivanovich forbade it.

Miklashevich Pavel was 15 years old. Nikolai Borodich was the oldest, he was nineteen years old. In this group there were also Ostap and Timur Kozhany, namesakes Andryusha Smurny and Kolya Smurny - six in total. The youngest Kolya was 13 years old. And so the friends figured out how to neutralize Cain.

Cain often visited his father, where he had fun and drank with the Germans or colleagues. Everything happened unexpectedly. Spring has come, the snow has begun to melt. Timofey Titovich was appointed commissioner. One day a guard brought an unknown temple worker. It was Ales. The teacher sat down and said that the guys had been captured.

It turned out that Borodich persuaded others. At night, the boys sawed down the pillars near the bridge, hoping that Cain’s car would fall into the ravine. Smurny and the older comrade watched in the bushes, the others left. Cain's car, which in addition to him had passengers and livestock on the bridge, fell under the bridge. But everyone except the German survived and quickly got out.

The guys ran to the village, but they were noticed. Soon everyone in Seltso knew about this. Moroz looked for Borodich, but the guy disappeared. Then Pavel Miklashevich told the teacher everything. At night, a policeman came to Ales and said that the guys had been caught, and he was next.

Frost remained in the detachment. It was as if there was no face on him. Soon Ulyana arrived, a messenger who came only in extreme cases. The Nazis demanded the extradition of Moroz and threatened to hang the children. At night, their mothers ran to the messenger and begged for help.

Ales accidentally overheard and volunteered to go. Cossack and Tkachuk began shouting that the Nazis would not let the guys go, they would kill him and them. Seleznev suggested continuing the conversation later, but Moroz disappeared! What happened then was learned from Gusak, and after a while - from Miklashevich.

The boys were sitting in the barn, they were interrogated while they were waiting for Frost. At first the children did not confess, but during the torture Borodich told everything and took the blame upon himself. I thought that the others would be released. Ales Ivanovich arrived, they tied him up and dragged him into the hut.

Everyone was gathered. The children, hearing the teacher’s voice, lost heart. Nobody thought that Frost himself came. In the evening, all seven were taken outside. Vanya Kozhanov ran out to the German and asked why they weren’t letting them go, they said that they only needed a teacher. The fascist hit the guy in the teeth, Ivan kicked him. The boy was killed.

The prisoners walked along the path where there was a bridge. Ales and Pasha are in front, the rest are behind. They were accompanied by seven policemen and four Germans. It was impossible to speak, my hands were tightly tied behind my back.

At the bridge, Frost whispered to Pavel that when he screamed, he would run to the bushes. The forest was visible. Suddenly Ales Ivanovich screamed loudly and looked to the left, as if someone was there. Everyone looked around, even Miklashevich, but then the guy ran. They shot at Pavel, then dragged him and threw him into the water. They beat Moroz so much that he could no longer get up.

The boy was found at night. The rest were taken away and tortured for five days. On the first Easter day everyone was hanged. The first were the teacher and Borodich, the others were hanged nearby. The bodies hung like that for a couple of days. They buried him near a brick factory, and then reburied him closer to the village.

In 1944, Gestapo and police papers were found. Among them is Cain's report about Ales Moroz. There it was reported that he had captured the leader of the partisan gang Moroz. This lie was beneficial to both the Germans and Cain. They demanded a report from Seleznev about his losses. He wrote that Moroz was captured, despite the fact that he was a “partisan” for two days. And now two documents were collected on the teacher, which were impossible to refute. But Miklashevich succeeded.

Pavel was very ill and received treatment every year. A shot through the chest and the onset of tuberculosis due to a long stay in a ditch were reminders of themselves. It seems that the lungs were cured, but the heart stopped.

Ksendzov’s car was driving by; he agreed to take fellow travelers. Then an argument began, the district chief said that Moroz was not a hero, since he did not kill the Germans and did not save the children. But Miklashevich survived by chance. The veteran got angry and began to prove the opposite to the driver, because Ales gave his life so that people like him, Ksendzov, would know about the war only from films. And while he is alive, everyone will know about the teacher’s feat.

There was silence. The car was approaching the city...