Lev Kassil works for children to read. Lev Kassil "The Story of the Absent

Lev Kassil

seven stories

POSITION OF UNCLE Ustin

Uncle Ustin's small hut, which had grown into the ground up to the windows, was the last one from the outskirts. The whole village seemed to have slid downhill; only Uncle Ustin's house was established above the steep, gazing with its dim windows at the wide asphalt expanse of the highway, along which cars drove from Moscow and to Moscow all day long.

More than once I visited the hospitable and talkative Ustin Yegorovich together with pioneers from one camp near Moscow. The old man made wonderful crossbows. The string on his bows was triple, twisted in a special manner. When fired, the bow sang like a guitar, and the arrow, winged with fitted flight feathers of a tit or lark, did not wobble in flight and hit the target exactly. Uncle Ustin's crossbows were famous in all district pioneer camps. And in the house of Ustin Yegorovich there was always plenty of fresh flowers, berries, mushrooms - these were generous gifts from grateful archers.

Uncle Ustin also had his own weapons, just as old-fashioned as the wooden crossbows he made for the boys. It was the old Berdan woman with whom Uncle Ustin went on night duty.

So lived Uncle Ustin, the night guard, and at the pioneer camp shooting ranges, tight bowstrings sang loudly his modest fame, and feathered arrows pierced paper targets. So he lived in his small hut on a steep mountain, read for the third year in a row a book about the indomitable traveler Captain Gatheras by the French writer Jules Verne, forgotten by the pioneers, not knowing its torn beginning and slowly getting to the end. And behind the window, at which he sat in the evening, before his duty, cars ran and ran along the highway.

But this fall, everything changed on the highway. Cheerful sightseers, who used to rush past Uncle Ustin in smart buses on weekends towards the famous field, where the French once felt that they could not defeat the Russians, the noisy and curious sightseers were now replaced by strict people, riding in stern silence with rifles on trucks or watching from the towers of moving tanks. Red Army traffic controllers appeared on the highway. They stood there day and night, in the heat, in bad weather and in the cold. With red and yellow flags, they showed where the tankers should go, where the artillerymen should go, and, having shown the direction, they saluted those traveling to the West.

The war was getting closer and closer. The sun at sunset slowly filled with blood, hanging in an unkind haze. Uncle Ustin saw how shaggy explosions, as they lived, uprooted trees from the groaning earth. The German was rushing with all his might to Moscow. Parts of the Red Army were stationed in the village and fortified here so as not to let the enemy through to the high road leading to Moscow. They tried to explain to Uncle Ustin that he needed to leave the village - there would be a big fight, a cruel deed, and Uncle Razmolov's house was on the edge, and the blow would fall on him.

But the old man was stubborn.

I have a pension from the state for the length of my years, - Uncle Ustin repeated, - as I, when I used to work as a lineman, and now, therefore, in the night guard service. And then on the side of the brick factory. In addition, there are warehouses. I'm not legally obtained if I leave the place. The state kept me in retirement, therefore, now it has its length of service in front of me.

So it was not possible to persuade the stubborn old man. Uncle Ustin returned to his yard, rolled up the sleeves of his faded shirt and took up the shovel.

So, this is where my position will be, ”he said.

Soldiers and village militias helped Uncle Ustin all night to turn his hut into a small fortress. Seeing how anti-tank bottles were being prepared, he rushed to collect the empty dishes himself.

Eh, I didn’t pawn enough due to poor health,” he lamented, “some people have a whole pharmacy of dishes under the bench ... And halves and quarters ...

The battle began at dawn. It shook the ground behind the neighboring forest, covering the cold November sky with smoke and fine dust. Suddenly, German motorcyclists rushing in all their drunken spirit appeared on the highway. They jumped up and down on leather saddles, pressed the signals, yelled at random, and fired in all directions at random at Lazarus, as Uncle Ustin determined from his attic. Seeing steel slingshot-hedgehogs in front of them that closed the highway, the motorcyclists turned sharply to the side and, without dismantling the road, almost without slowing down, rushed along the side of the road, rolling into a ditch and getting out of it on the move. As soon as they caught up with the slope, on which Uncle Ustin's hut stood, heavy logs, round pine logs, rolled from above under the wheels of motorcycles. It was Uncle Ustin who imperceptibly crawled to the very edge of the cliff and pushed down the large trunks of pines that had been stored here since yesterday. Not having time to slow down, motorcyclists at full speed ran into the logs. They flew head over heels through them, and the rear ones, unable to stop, ran into the fallen ones ... Soldiers from the village opened fire from machine guns. The Germans were spreading out like crayfish that had been dumped on the kitchen table from a market purse. Uncle Ustin's hut was also not silent. Among the dry rifle shots, one could hear the thick rattle of his old Berdan gun.

Lev Kassil

seven stories

POSITION OF UNCLE Ustin

Uncle Ustin's small hut, which had grown into the ground up to the windows, was the last one from the outskirts. The whole village seemed to have slid downhill; only Uncle Ustin's house was established above the steep, gazing with its dim windows at the wide asphalt expanse of the highway, along which cars drove from Moscow and to Moscow all day long.

More than once I visited the hospitable and talkative Ustin Yegorovich together with pioneers from one camp near Moscow. The old man made wonderful crossbows. The string on his bows was triple, twisted in a special manner. When fired, the bow sang like a guitar, and the arrow, winged with fitted flight feathers of a tit or lark, did not wobble in flight and hit the target exactly. Uncle Ustin's crossbows were famous in all district pioneer camps. And in the house of Ustin Yegorovich there was always plenty of fresh flowers, berries, mushrooms - these were generous gifts from grateful archers.

Uncle Ustin also had his own weapons, just as old-fashioned as the wooden crossbows he made for the boys. It was the old Berdan woman with whom Uncle Ustin went on night duty.

So lived Uncle Ustin, the night guard, and at the pioneer camp shooting ranges, tight bowstrings sang loudly his modest fame, and feathered arrows pierced paper targets. So he lived in his small hut on a steep mountain, read for the third year in a row a book about the indomitable traveler Captain Gatheras by the French writer Jules Verne, forgotten by the pioneers, not knowing its torn beginning and slowly getting to the end. And behind the window, at which he sat in the evening, before his duty, cars ran and ran along the highway.

But this fall, everything changed on the highway. Cheerful sightseers, who used to rush past Uncle Ustin in smart buses on weekends towards the famous field, where the French once felt that they could not defeat the Russians, the noisy and curious sightseers were now replaced by strict people, riding in stern silence with rifles on trucks or watching from the towers of moving tanks. Red Army traffic controllers appeared on the highway. They stood there day and night, in the heat, in bad weather and in the cold. With red and yellow flags, they showed where the tankers should go, where the artillerymen should go, and, having shown the direction, they saluted those traveling to the West.

The war was getting closer and closer. The sun at sunset slowly filled with blood, hanging in an unkind haze. Uncle Ustin saw how shaggy explosions, as they lived, uprooted trees from the groaning earth. The German was rushing with all his might to Moscow. Parts of the Red Army were stationed in the village and fortified here so as not to let the enemy through to the high road leading to Moscow. They tried to explain to Uncle Ustin that he needed to leave the village - there would be a big fight, a cruel deed, and Uncle Razmolov's house was on the edge, and the blow would fall on him.

But the old man was stubborn.

I have a pension from the state for the length of my years, - Uncle Ustin repeated, - as I, when I used to work as a lineman, and now, therefore, in the night guard service. And then on the side of the brick factory. In addition, there are warehouses. I'm not legally obtained if I leave the place. The state kept me in retirement, therefore, now it has its length of service in front of me.

So it was not possible to persuade the stubborn old man. Uncle Ustin returned to his yard, rolled up the sleeves of his faded shirt and took up the shovel.

So, this is where my position will be, ”he said.

Soldiers and village militias helped Uncle Ustin all night to turn his hut into a small fortress. Seeing how anti-tank bottles were being prepared, he rushed to collect the empty dishes himself.

Eh, I didn’t pawn enough due to poor health,” he lamented, “some people have a whole pharmacy of dishes under the bench ... And halves and quarters ...

The battle began at dawn. It shook the ground behind the neighboring forest, covering the cold November sky with smoke and fine dust. Suddenly, German motorcyclists rushing in all their drunken spirit appeared on the highway. They jumped up and down on leather saddles, pressed the signals, yelled at random, and fired in all directions at random at Lazarus, as Uncle Ustin determined from his attic. Seeing steel slingshot-hedgehogs in front of them that closed the highway, the motorcyclists turned sharply to the side and, without dismantling the road, almost without slowing down, rushed along the side of the road, rolling into a ditch and getting out of it on the move. As soon as they caught up with the slope, on which Uncle Ustin's hut stood, heavy logs, round pine logs, rolled from above under the wheels of motorcycles. It was Uncle Ustin who imperceptibly crawled to the very edge of the cliff and pushed down the large trunks of pines that had been stored here since yesterday. Not having time to slow down, motorcyclists at full speed ran into the logs. They flew head over heels through them, and the rear ones, unable to stop, ran into the fallen ones ... Soldiers from the village opened fire from machine guns. The Germans were spreading out like crayfish that had been dumped on the kitchen table from a market purse. Uncle Ustin's hut was also not silent. Among the dry rifle shots, one could hear the thick rattle of his old Berdan gun.

Leaving their wounded and dead in the ditch, the German motorcyclists, having jumped on steeply wrapped cars, rushed back. In less than 15 minutes, a dull and heavy rumbling was heard, and, crawling up the hills, hastily rolling over into hollows, firing on the move, German tanks rushed to the highway.

The battle continued until late in the evening. Five times the Germans tried to break into the highway. But on the right, our tanks jumped out of the forest every time, and on the left, where a slope hung over the highway, the approaches to the road were guarded by anti-tank guns brought here by the unit commander. And dozens of bottles of liquid flame rained down on the tanks that were trying to slip through from the attic of a small dilapidated booth, on the square of which, shot through in three places, a child's red flag continued to flutter. "Long live the First of May" was written in white adhesive paint on the flag. Maybe it was not the right time, but Uncle Ustin did not find another banner.

Uncle Ustin's hut fought back so fiercely, so many damaged tanks, drenched in flames, fell into the nearest ditch that it seemed to the Germans that some very important knot of our defense was hidden here, and they lifted into the air about a dozen heavy bombers.

When Uncle Ustin, stunned and bruised, was pulled out from under the logs and he opened his eyes, still faintly understanding, the bombers were already driven away by our MiGs, the tank attack was repulsed, and the unit commander, standing not far from the collapsed hut, something spoke sternly to two frightened looking guys; although their clothes were still smoking, they both looked trembling.

When in the great hall of the front headquarters the adjutant of the commander, looking into
list of awardees, named another name, in one of the back rows
a tall man got up. The skin on his sharpened cheekbones was
yellowish and transparent, which is usually observed in people, for a long time
lying in bed. Leaning on his left leg, he walked to the table.
The commander took a short step towards him, presented the order, firmly
shook hands with the awarded, congratulated and held out the order box.
The recipient, straightening up, carefully accepted the order and the box in his hands. He
thanked abruptly, turned clearly, as if in formation, although he was hindered by
injured leg. For a second he stood indecisively, looking at
order, lying in his palm, then on his comrades in glory, gathered
here. Then he straightened up again.
- May I apply?
- Please.
"Comrade Commander... And here you are, comrades," he began
awarded with a voice, and everyone felt that the person was very
excited. - Let me say a word. At this point in my life,
when I received a great reward, I want to tell you about who should
would stand here next to me, who, perhaps, is greater than me this great
he deserved the award and did not spare his young life for the sake of our military
victory.
He stretched out his hand to those sitting in the hall, in the palm of which he gleamed
the gold rim of the order, and looked around the hall with pleading eyes.
- Allow me, comrades, to fulfill my duty to the one who is here
not with me now.
- Speak, - said the commander.
- Please! - responded in the hall.
And then he told.

You must have heard, comrades, - so he began, - what kind of
a situation arose in the R area. We then had to withdraw, and our unit
covered the exit. And then the Germans cut us off from their own. Wherever we go
everywhere we run into fire. The Germans are hitting us with mortars, hollowing out the woods,
where we took cover, from howitzers, and the edge of the forest is being combed with machine guns. Time
expired, according to the clock it turns out that ours have already entrenched themselves on a new frontier, forces
we pulled the enemy over enough, it would be time to go home, time for
connection to be pulled. And we see that it is impossible to break through into any. And here
there is no way to stay longer. A German groped us, squeezed us in
forest, felt that there was only a handful of ours left here, and takes
us with their pincers by the throat. The conclusion is clear - it is necessary to break through roundabout
way.
And where is he - this detour? Where to choose direction? And commander
ours, Lieutenant Butorin Andrey Petrovich, says: "Without intelligence
there is nothing preliminary here. You have to search and feel where
they have a slit. If we find it, we'll slip through. "I, then, immediately
volunteered. "Allow me, I say, should I try, Comrade Lieutenant?"
He looked at me carefully. It's not in the order of the story, but, so
say, on the side, I must explain that Andrei and I are from the same village -
homies. How many times have we gone fishing on the Iset! Then both together
copper smelter worked in Revda. In a word, friends and comrades.
He looked at me carefully, frowning. "All right, comrade says
Zadochtin, go. Is the mission clear to you?"
He led me to the road, looked around, grabbed my hand. "Well, Kolya, he says,
let's say goodbye to you just in case. The thing, you know
deadly. But since I volunteered, I don’t dare to refuse you. Help, Kolya...
We won't be here for more than two hours. Losses are too great ... "-
"Okay, I say, Andrey, it's not the first time you and I have been in such a turn
pleased. Wait for me in an hour. I'll see what I need there. Well, what if
I won’t return, bow down to ours there, in the Urals ... "
And so I crawled, burying myself behind the trees. Tried one way
no, you can’t break through: the Germans cover that area with thick fire. crawled in
reverse side. There, on the edge of the forest, there was a ravine, such a gully, quite
deeply washed. And on the other side near the gully there is a bush, and behind it -
road, open field. I went down into the ravine, I decided to get close to the bushes
and through them to look out what is happening in the field. I began to climb
clay up, suddenly I notice, above my head there are two bare heels
stick out. I looked closer, I see: the feet are small, the dirt has dried on the soles
and falls off like plaster, the fingers are also dirty, scratched, and
the little finger on the left leg is tied with a blue cloth - it can be seen that it has suffered
somewhere... For a long time I looked at those heels, at the toes, which restlessly
moved over my head. And suddenly, I don’t know why, I was drawn
tickle those heels... I can't even explain to you. But it washes and
washes away ... I took a prickly blade of grass and lightly scuffed one of the
heels. Both legs disappeared at once in the bushes, and in the place where they stuck out of
branches of the heel, a head appeared. So funny, frightened eyes,
eyebrowless, hair shaggy, burnt, and a nose all freckled.
- Are you here? I say.
- I, - he says, - I'm looking for a cow. Have you seen, uncle? It's called Marisha. Herself
white, and black on the side. One horn sticks down, and the other is not at all ...
Only you, uncle, don't believe it... I'm lying all the time... I'm trying it this way. Uncle,-
says, - you fought off ours?
- And who are yours? - I ask.
- It's clear who the Red Army is... Only ours went across the river yesterday. And you,
uncle, why are you here? The Germans will grab you.
- Well, come here, - I say. - Tell me what is here in your area
is being done.
The head disappeared, the leg appeared again, and towards me along the clay slope on
the bottom of the ravine, as if on a sledge, heels forward, a little boy slid down
thirteen.
"Uncle," he whispered, "you'd better get out of here somewhere." Here
Germans. They have four cannons by that forest, and here on the side there are mortars
theirs are installed. There is no way across the road.
“And how,” I say, “do you know all this?”
- How, - he says, - from where? For nothing, or what, I've been watching in the morning?
- Why are you watching?
- Useful in life, you never know ...
I began to question him, and the kid told me about the whole situation.
I found out that the ravine goes far through the forest and it will be possible to
get ours out of the fire zone.
The boy volunteered to accompany us. As soon as we began to get out of the ravine
ha, into the forest, when suddenly it whistled in the air, howled and there was such a crack,
as if around half the trees at once split into thousands of dry chips.
This German mine landed right in the ravine and tore the ground around us. Dark
became in my eyes. Then I freed my head from under the piled on
land, looked around: where, I think, is my little comrade? I see slowly
he raises his shaggy head from the ground, begins to pick out
finger clay from the ears, from the mouth, from the nose.
- That's how it worked! - says. - We got it, uncle, with you, how
rich ... Oh, uncle, - he says, - wait a minute! Yes, you are injured.
I wanted to get up, but I couldn't feel my legs. And I see - from a torn boot
blood floats. And the boy suddenly listened, climbed up to the bushes,
looked out onto the road, rolled down again and whispered:
“Uncle,” he says, “the Germans are coming here. Officer ahead. Honestly!
Let's get out of here soon. Oh you, how strong you are ...
I tried to move, but it seemed like ten pounds to each leg
tied. Do not get me out of the ravine. Pulls me down, back...
- Eh, uncle, uncle, - says my friend and almost cries himself, - well,
then lie here, uncle, so as not to be heard, not to be seen. And I them now
I'll look away, and then I'll be back, after...
He turned so pale that he had even more freckles, and his eyes
glitter. "What is he up to?" - I think. I wanted to keep him
grabbed by the heel, but where there! Just flashed over my head it
legs with splayed grubby fingers - a blue rag on the little finger,
as I see it now... I lie down and listen. Suddenly I hear: "Stop! .. Stop!
Don't go any further!"
Heavy boots creaked over my head, I heard a German
asked:
- What were you doing here?
- I, uncle, am looking for a cow, - the voice of my friend reached me, -
such a good cow, white herself, and black on the bokeh, one horn down
sticks out, and there is no other at all. It's called Marisha. You did not see?
- What kind of cow? You, I see, want to talk nonsense to me. go
close here. What are you climbing here for a very long time, I saw you, how you
climbed.
- Uncle, I'm looking for a cow, - my boy began to pull whiningly again.
And suddenly, along the road, his light bare heels clearly pounded.
- Stand! Where dare you? Back! I will shoot! shouted the German.
Heavy forged boots swelled over my head. Then it rang out
shot. I understood: my friend deliberately rushed to run away from
ravine to distract the Germans from me. I listened, breathless. Again
hit the shot. And I heard a distant, faint cry. Then it became very
quietly ... I fought like a fit. I gnawed the earth with my teeth so as not to
scream, I leaned on my hands with all my chest, so as not to let them
grab a weapon and not hit the Nazis. But I couldn't
discover yourself. You must complete the task to the end. Will die without me
our. They won't get out.
Leaning on my elbows, clinging to the branches, I crawled ... After that, nothing
remember. I only remember - when I opened my eyes, I saw very close above me
Andrew's face...
Well, that's how we got out of the forest through that ravine.

He stopped, took a breath, and slowly looked around the room.
- Here, comrades, to whom I owe my life, who will rescue our unit
helped out of trouble. It is clear that he should stand here, at this table. Yes, that's not
came out ... And I have one more request to you ... Let's honor, comrades,
the memory of my unknown friend - the nameless hero ... That's even how
I didn't have time to call him...
And pilots, tankers, sailors, generals quietly rose in the big hall,
guardsmen - people of glorious battles, heroes of fierce battles, rose to
to honor the memory of a small, unknown hero, whose name no one
did not know. The downcast people in the hall stood in silence, and each in his own way saw
in front of him is a shaggy little boy, freckled and bare-footed, with a blue
dirty rag on a bare foot ...

NOTES

This is one of the very first works of Soviet literature,
depicting the feat of the young hero of the Great Patriotic War, who gave
your life to save the lives of others. This story is written in
the basis of the present event, which was mentioned in the letter sent to
Radio Committee. Lev Kassil worked then on the radio and, having read this letter,
immediately wrote a story, which was soon broadcast on the radio and entered into
a collection of short stories by the writer "There are such people", published in Moscow in
publishing house "Soviet writer" in 1943, as well as in the collection
"Ordinary guys" and others. It was broadcast on the radio more than once.
1. Sidekicks - in some areas they call friends, countrymen, then
there are people of the same "root".

COMMUNICATION LINE

In memory of Sergeant Novikov
Only a few brief lines of information were printed in newspapers
about it. I will not repeat them to you, because everyone who reads this
message, remember it forever. We don't know the details, we don't
We know how the person who accomplished this feat lived. We only know how
his life ended. His comrades in the feverish haste of battle once
was to record all the circumstances of that day. There will come a time when
the hero will be sung in ballads, inspirational pages will guard
immortality and glory of this deed. But each of us who read
a short, mean message about a man and his feat, I wanted to now
same, not for a minute postponing, without waiting for anything, to imagine how
all this happened ... Let those who participated in the
this fight, maybe I don’t quite accurately imagine the situation or
passed by some details, and added something from myself, but I will tell
about everything as my imagination saw the act of this man,
excited by a five-line newspaper article.
I saw a vast snowy plain, white hills and sparse copses,
through which, rustling against brittle stems, a frosty wind rushed. I
heard the hoarse and hoarse voice of the staff telephone operator, who,
violently twisting the crank of the switch and pressing the buttons, he called in vain
part that occupied a distant frontier. The enemy surrounded this part. It was necessary to
urgently contact her, inform about the beginning of the bypass movement
enemy, transmit from the command post an order to occupy another
frontier, otherwise - death ... It was impossible to get there. On the
space that separated the command post from the one that had gone far ahead
parts, the snowdrifts burst like huge white bubbles, and the whole plain
foamed, as the swollen surface of the boiled
milk.
German mortars hit all over the plain, kicking up snow along with clods.
earth. Signalmen laid a cable through this death zone last night.
The command post, following the development of the battle, sent instructions along this wire,
orders and received feedback on the progress of the operation. But here
now, when it was necessary to immediately change the situation and withdraw
advanced unit to another line, the connection suddenly stopped. in vain
fought over his apparatus, dropping his mouth to the receiver, the telephone operator:
- Twelfth! .. Twelfth! .. F-fu ... - He blew into the phone. - Arina!
Arina! .. I am Magpie! .. Answer ... Answer! .. Twelve-eight fraction
three!.. Petya! Petya!.. Can you hear me? Give feedback, Petya! .. The twelfth! I
- Magpie! .. I am Magpie! Arina, can you hear us? Arina!..
There was no connection.
- Break, - said the telephone operator.
And then a man who only yesterday under fire crawled all over
plain, burying behind snowdrifts, crawling over hills, burrowing into the snow
and dragging a telephone cable behind him, the man we read about later
in a newspaper article, got up, wrapped his white coat, took a rifle, a bag
with tools and said very simply:
- I went. Break. It's clear. Allow me?
I do not know what his comrades said to him, with what words I admonished him
commander. Everyone understood what the man who went to
cursed area...
The wire went through scattered fir trees and sparse bushes. The blizzard rang in
sedge over frozen swamps. The man was crawling. The Germans must be soon
noticed him. Little whirlwinds from machine gun bursts, smoking,
danced around in a round dance. Snow tornadoes of gaps were approaching
to the signalman, like shaggy ghosts, and, bending over him, melted into the air.
He was covered in snow dust. Hot fragments of mines squealed disgustingly
above his head, stirring his damp hair that had come out from under his hood, and,
hissing, melted the snow very close ...
He did not hear the pain, but he must have felt a terrible numbness in
right side and, looking back, saw that a pink
track. He didn't look back. After three hundred meters, he felt among
twisted icy clods of earth, the barbed end of the wire. Here
line was interrupted. Close fallen mine broke the wire and far to the side
discarded the other end of the cable. This hollow was shot through
mortars. But it was necessary to find the other end of the broken wire,
crawl to it, splice the open line again.
It rumbled and howled very close. Pain hit the
man, crushed him to the ground. The man, spitting, got out from under
clods piled on him, shrugged his shoulders. But the pain was not shaken off, she
continued to press the man to the ground. The man felt that on him
a suffocating weight descends. He crawled away a little, and, probably, he
it seemed that where he lay a minute ago, on the blood-soaked
snow, everything that was alive in him was left, and he was already moving separately
from himself. But like a man possessed, he climbed further up the hillside.
He remembered only one thing - he had to find hanging somewhere in the bushes,
the end of the wire, you need to get to it, grab it, pull it up, tie it up. And
he found a broken wire. Man fell twice before he could
get up. Something again stinged him on the chest, he fell down, but
he got up again and grabbed the wire. And then he saw that the Germans
are approaching. He could not shoot back: his hands were busy ... He became
pull the wire towards you, crawling back, but the cable got tangled in the bushes.
Then the signalman began to pull up the other end. All he could do was breathe
harder and harder. He was in a hurry. His fingers are numb...
And here he lies awkwardly, sideways in the snow and holds him outstretched,
ossifying hands, the ends of the dangling line. He tries to bring his hands together
bring the ends of the wire together. It tenses the muscles to the point of convulsions. mortal
resentment torments him. She is bitterer than pain and stronger than fear ... Just a few
centimeters now separate the ends of the wire. From here to the front
defense, where the cut-off comrades are waiting for a message, there is a wire ... And
back to the command post, he stretches. And tear themselves to the point of hoarseness
telephone operators... And saving words of help cannot get through these
a few centimeters of the damned cliff! Isn't life enough?
will it be time to connect the ends of the wire? Man in anguish gnaws snow
teeth. He struggles to stand up, leaning on his elbows. Then he clamps his teeth
one end of the cable and in a frantic effort, intercepting with both hands
another wire, drags him to his mouth. Now missing no more
centimeters. The person no longer sees anything. Sparkling darkness burns him
eyes. He pulls the wire with the last jerk and manages to bite it, before
pain, clenching jaws to a crunch. He feels the familiar sour-salty
taste and slight tingling of the tongue. There is a current! And, fumbling for a rifle
dead, but now free hands, he falls face down in the snow,
furiously, gritting his teeth with all the rest of his strength. If only not
unclench ... The Germans, emboldened, run up on him with a cry. But again he
scraped together the remnants of life, sufficient to rise in
for the last time and release the entire clip into the close-poked enemies ... And
there, at the command post, a beaming telephone operator shouts into the receiver:
- Yes Yes! I hear! Arina? I am Magpie! Petya, dear! Receive: number
eight to twelve.
... The man didn't come back. Dead, he remained in the ranks, on
lines. He continued to be a guide for the living. His mouth was forever numb.
But, breaking through with a weak current through his clenched teeth, from end to end
battlefields rushed words on which the lives of hundreds of people depended and
battle result. Already cut off from life itself, he was still included in
her chain. Death froze his heart, cut off the blood flow in the icy
vessels. But the furious dying will of man triumphed in the living
connections of people to whom he remained faithful and dead.
When, at the end of the battle, the advanced unit, having received the necessary instructions, struck
flanked the Germans and left the encirclement, signalmen, winding up the cable,
stumbled upon a man half-buried by the snow. He lay prone
face down in the snow. In his hand was a rifle, and a stiff finger
frozen on the way down. The cage was empty. And nearby in the snow they found four
killed Germans. They lifted him up, and behind him, ripping up the whiteness of the snowdrift,
dragged the bitten wire. Then realized how it was restored
line of communication during combat...
The teeth were clenched so tightly, clamping the ends of the cable, that they had to
cut the wire at the corners of the stiff mouth. Otherwise there was no release
a man who, even after his death, steadfastly carried out the communication service. And all around
were silent, clenching their teeth from the pain that penetrated the heart, as they know how to be silent in
woe to the Russian people, how silent they are, if they fall, exhausted from wounds, into
paws of the "deadheads" - our people, who have no flour, no
not to unclench clenched teeth with torture, not to wrest a word, not a groan, not
bitten wire.

NOTES

The story was written at the beginning of the war and is dedicated to the memory of Sergeant Novikov, about
whose feat was mentioned in one of the front-line messages of that time.
At the same time, the story was broadcast on the radio and printed in a collection of short stories.
Lev Kassil, published in 1942 in the library of the Ogonyok magazine.
The collection was called "Communication Line".

GREEN Twig

S. L. S.
On the Western Front, I had to live in a dugout for some time.
quartermaster technician Tarasnikov. He worked in the operational part of the headquarters
guards brigade. Right there, in the dugout, his office was located.
A three-linear lamp illuminated a low frame. It smelled of fresh wood, earthy
dampness and wax. Tarasnikov himself, short, sickly looking
a young man with a funny red mustache and a yellow, stoned mouth,
greeted me politely, but not overly friendly.
“Sit down right here,” he said to me, pointing to the trestle bed and immediately
bending over his papers again. “Now they will put up a tent for you.”
I hope my office will not embarrass you? Well, I hope you, too, especially
you won't bother us. Let's agree so. Have a seat for now.
And I began to live in Tarasnikov's underground office.
He was very restless, unusually meticulous and picky.
hard worker. For days on end he was writing and sealing packets, sealing them
sealing wax, warmed over a lamp, sent out some reports, received
paper, redrawing cards, tapping with one finger on a rusty
typewriter, carefully knocking out each letter. In the evenings he was tormented by seizures.
fever, he swallowed akrikhin, but categorically go to the hospital
refused:
- What are you, what are you! Where will I go? Yes, everything will be fine without me!
Everything rests on me. I’ll leave for a day - so then you won’t unravel for a year
here...
Late at night, returning from the front line of defense, falling asleep on his
trestle beds, I still saw Tarasnikov's tired and pale face at the table,
lit by the fire of a lamp, delicately, for my sake, half-mast, and wrapped
tobacco mist. From the clay stove, folded in the corner, hot
Chad. Tarasnikov's tired eyes watered, but he continued to write and
seal packages. Then he called a messenger who waited for
raincoat, hung at the entrance to our dugout, and I heard the following
talk.
- Who from the fifth battalion? - asked Tarasnikov.
- I'm from the fifth battalion, - answered the messenger.
- Take the package... Here. Take it in hand. So. See it's written
here: "Urgent". Therefore, deliver immediately. Hand over personally
commander. Clear? There will be no commander - hand over to the commissioner. Commissioner
will not be - look for. Don't pass it on to anyone else. It's clear? Repeat.
- Deliver the package urgently, - as in a lesson, the messenger monotonously repeated.
Personally to the commander, if not - to the commissar, if not - to find.
- Correctly. How will you carry the package?
- Yes, usually ... Right here, in your pocket.
“Show me your pocket.” And Tarasnikov went up to the tall messenger,
stood on tiptoe, put his hand under the cape, in the bosom
overcoat, and checked for holes in the pocket.
- Yeah, okay. Now consider: the package is secret. Therefore, if
get caught by the enemy, what will you do?
- What are you, comrade quartermaster technician, why am I going to get caught!
- There is no need to get caught, quite right, but I ask you: what
what will you do if you get caught?
- I'll never get caught...
- And I ask you, if? Now, listen. If anything, danger
what, so eat the contents without reading. Break the envelope and throw it away.
It's clear? Repeat.
- In case of danger, tear the envelope and throw it away, and what's in the middle -
eat.
- Correctly. How long will it take to deliver the package?
- Yes, it's about forty minutes and it's only a walk.
- I beg you.
- Yes, Comrade Quartermaster Technician, I think, no more than fifty
minutes pass.
- More precisely.
- Yes, I'll deliver it in an hour.
- So. Note the time. - Tarasnikov clicked huge conductors
hours. - It's twenty-three fifty now. Hence, they are obliged to hand over
later than zero fifty minutes. It's clear? You can go.
And this dialogue was repeated with every messenger, with every liaison.
Having finished with all the packages, Tarasnikov packed up. But even in a dream
continued to teach messengers, took offense at someone, and often woke me up at night
his loud dry, staccato voice:
- How are you standing? Where did you come? This is not a hairdressing salon, but an office
headquarters! he spoke clearly in his sleep.
- Why did they enter without reporting? Log out and log in again. It's time
learn order. So. Wait. Do you see the person eating? You can wait
you don't have an urgent package. Give the man something to eat... Sign... Time
departure... You can go. You are free...
I shook him, trying to wake him up. He jumped up, looked at me a little
with a meaningful look and, again falling on the bed, hiding behind his overcoat,
instantly plunged into his staff dreams. And again taken quickly
talk.
All this was not very pleasant. And I was already thinking how I would
move to another dugout. But one evening when I returned to
our hut, thoroughly soaked in the rain, and squatted down in front of
stove to melt it, Tarasnikov got up from the table and went over to
to me.
“Here, then, it turns out like this,” he said somewhat guiltily.
you see, I decided not to heat the stoves for the time being. Let's have five days
refrain. And then, you know, the stove gives waste, and this, apparently, is reflected in
her height... It's bad for her.
I, not understanding anything, looked at Tarasnikov:
- At what height? On the growth of the stove?
- What's with the oven? - Tarasnikov was offended. - I, in my opinion,
I express myself clearly enough. This very child, he, apparently, does not work well ...
She stopped growing at all.
Who stopped growing?
- And you still haven't paid attention? - staring at me
shouted Tarasnikov indignantly. Don't you see? - And he
looked with sudden tenderness at the low log ceiling of our
dugouts.
I got up, raised the lamp and saw that a thick round elm tree in the ceiling

Ministry of Vocational Education of the Russian Federation

Ust-Labinsk Social and Pedagogical College.

Essay on children's literature on the topic:

« LEV ABRAMOVICH KASSIL »

Done: student

2 "Z" (K) courses

Shishkov. L.

Teacher:

Shcherbina L.G.

Ust-Labinsk

LEV ABRAMOVICH KASSIL (1905-1970)

The writer's father was an honored doctor of the republic, his mother was a music teacher. The family has two friendly sons - Lelya and Osya. In the first story L.A. Kassilya "Konduit and Shvambrania" they are the main characters. Oska is an inventor, a confusion, but he was admitted to school ahead of schedule with the resolution of the head: "Take it for mental abilities." The versatile talent of Lev Kassil manifested itself already in the gymnasium: brought up in an intelligent family, he plays the piano well from childhood, successfully studies foreign languages, draws well, is a strong chess player, a capable mathematician. However, he especially likes to compose different stories, and at the age of 9 he wrote his first poem. L.A. Kassil recalls his teacher of literature AD. Suzdalev: “... after reading the homeworks written by me on his instructions, I told my parents bluntly: no matter what they teach me, anyway, alas, in the future I will become a writer. Suzdalev taught me to read serious books about books ... He, as a learned and serious person, instilled in me a dislike for all kinds of amateurism, for which I thank him.

In 1918, a children's library was opened in Pokrovsk. Thirteen-year-old Lelya Kassil and three of his friends organize literary evenings, reports, lead a literary circle, edit, and publish a handwritten journal "Brave Thought". In 1923, Kassil entered the Saratov Art and Practical Institute, from where he transferred to the mathematical department of the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics of Moscow State University. M.V. Lomonosov. Here, student Lev Kassil actively participates in the university live newspaper Blue Blouse. His younger brother sent Lev's letters about Moscow impressions (secretly from the author) to the newspaper Saratovskiye Izvestia... Thus began literary creativity, which became the life work and life of L.A. Kassil. The first story was published in 1925. Then - two years of independent teaching-writing for oneself, "on the table." In 1927, Lev Kassil received recognition as a professional journalist and for the rest of his life he followed the testament of V.V. Mayakovsky: “Do not turn your nose away from the newspaper, Kassilchik!”

The commonwealth of work on works of art with journalism, with participation in social, scientific activities is one of the characteristic features of his creative biography. He participated in test flights of new aircraft and airships, on one of which he almost died. He descended into the first mines of the Moscow metro under construction. He sailed on a ship to Spain during the attack of the Francoists on the Spanish People's Republic. He saw off Chkalov on his historic flight. The first to meet O.Yu. Schmidt, who escaped from ice captivity. He was friends with Tsiolkovsky, corresponded with him until the last day of the life of the great scientist. The thirst to know everything and, if possible, to see everything for oneself always accompanied L. Kassil, determined the pace and intensity of his life. Like no one else, he understood the boys, these “very first engines of progress,” as Kassil wrote in the essay-study “Boys”: “Oh boys! Annoying, obnoxious, adorable boys! Praise to you! "Boys are a joyful people" - that's how Pushkin said about you. You are a cheerful wind that straightens the wrinkles on the forehead of the world, attracting to the new and illuminating the memory of what we ourselves were in adolescence. Birds, animals, ships, cars, planes, football matches, cannibals, volcanic eruptions, phases of the moon and ripening watermelons on the nearest melon - everything concerns you, boys. In February 1950, then, 10 years later, in the same Makarenko circle, addressing the students of the Moscow Pedagogical Institute, Kassil declared: "They are the conscience of society and therefore intolerable, like any demanding conscience." The essay "Boys" appeared on February 12, 1960 in the newspaper "Izvestia". These words subsequently turned into the convictions of many who listened to the writer, and were confirmed by the experience of teaching work, civic deeds:

“And if today I was asked what is the most important thing in your work as future teachers, I would say: teach, educate, communicate with children, that is to live in students and for humanity so that the guys have fun, interesting, great with you! (highlighted by L.A-Kassil). And if in your power, play sports games with children. And fantasize together. And go hiking together. And invent endless stories together. And do not be afraid to leave for the country of Shvambraniya more often. Children need it like a summer river! And start Timurov's affairs together. And don't be afraid to joke around. It is important that not a single lesson is boring, that changes are fun at school, that textbooks awaken a thirst for knowledge ... And I also want you not to be afraid of romance. To be able to create the solemnity of a minute of silence on the ruler and the thoughtful dreaminess of silence by the fire. Be afraid to vulgarize all this and “get bored!”. And I also want to dream with you about the day when you become experienced, but not tired of your work, whose name is human science, people, masters of perhaps the most difficult profession on earth, when you become skilled craftsmen. By the way, have you thought about what a complete, perfect art is? It seems that it can be most briefly defined as follows: to feel, to know, to be able!

In this passionate speech of the writer-teacher, who devoted his life to children, there is a program of activity for the modern teacher-educator.

“The most important, irrevocably decisive event” in his life Kassil considered the meeting with Mayakovsky. The novice writer brought him (1929) his first story, The Conduit. Mayakovsky published excerpts from The Conduit in the Novy LEF magazine edited by him and advised that the entire story be published in the Pioneer magazine. After the release of Conduit, Kassil became a regular correspondent for the Pioneer and Murzilka magazines, the Pionerskaya Pravda newspaper, and continued to work on Shvambrania (1931). At the 1st All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers (1934), S.Ya. Marshak called the dilogy "Konduit" and "Shvambrania" one of the best works of "big literature" for little ones.

In his autobiography Aloud to Myself, Kassil writes: “I decided to write my first book about how the old school collapsed, how we ourselves learned everything that they didn’t want to explain to us in class. I still had a fresh resentment for my childhood, squeezed into the columns of the gymnasium penal journal "conduit". The writer himself was put on conduit even for visiting (together with his mother, during the day!) a confectionery, since this was forbidden in the gymnasium charter. In this secret journal, terrible for children, entries were made by those guards and teachers whom Kassil defined as "dead souls." Making a recording in the conduit is the only hobby of the director of the gymnasium, from whose ferocious coldness everyone was numb: “More than anything in the world, Fisheye loved drilling, silence and discipline. He never screamed. His voice is empty, colorless, like a tin can. Wherever he appeared, whether it was a classroom or a teacher's room, conversations subsided. It was getting stuffy. I wanted to open the window, scream loudly. In the article “Not just like that” (Pionerskaya Pravda. - 1933. - March 3), explaining the direction and principle of the selection of artistic means, Kassil emphasized his desire to ensure that “the book tells not only about the death of the gymnasium, but also reflects the inevitability of the death of everything tsarist regime. For the artistic embodiment of this task, the writer resorted to original compositional and plot solutions, the leading of which is the principle of a two-dimensional presentation of material.

The realistic events that make up the plot take place from the eve of the First World War to the 1920s. The action takes place in the provincial Volga town of Pokrovsk, the main characters of this largely autobiographical work are the boys from the doctoral family, Lelya and Osya. To fill the fantastic layer of the story, Kassil ingeniously, sometimes subtly, draws on the children's selfless passion for books, their games, whimsically recreating their favorite book situations in real life. So, the boys came up with a "game for life" in the country of Shvambraniya. They composed its history, determined geographical features, populated it with characters from favorite books. They introduced themselves into this circle and established an original state system in accordance with their own ideas about good and evil. This game was for children not just an exciting, completely independent activity from adults. Gradually, gaming activity turned into a psychological state. The land of Shvambrania is a safe haven for the unfulfilled dreams and aspirations of children. The author of the book symbolically explains the reasons for the origin of the children's game in a fair and happy country:

"...after all, it is interesting to play only in what is not now." However, already at the beginning of the book, the author develops a conclusion in the light of which the reader now perceives the entire subsequent history of the game of Shvambrania, remembering the inevitability of its exhaustion when faced with the new real life of liberated Russia.

But before this happened, the children went through a long and difficult path of internal liberation from the power of the game they invented, which in many ways obscured the events of real life from them. The boys "played" so much that sometimes they began to believe in the existence of the country created by their imagination: Shvambrania acquired relative independence and independence from its creators. The boundaries that have become unsteady between the two worlds of their lives - real and fantastic - are sometimes felt by children indistinctly: Kassil elegantly analyzes the interpenetration of the events of Shvambran and real life that takes place in the minds of children. Such coverage of the material determined the compositional and stylistic complexity of the work: the sequence of the narrative is not sustained; a number of paintings and artistic images that clarify the main provisions, the writer gives by association, sometimes he is unable to resist the flow of literary reminiscences. Sometimes this commentary-parodic purpose of the second, fantastic plan is difficult for children to perceive (especially in the second book), although an adult reader, understanding the author's innovative courage in this artistic device, will appreciate the brilliant wit of most of Cassile's juxtapositions.

Lev Kassil

MAIN TROOP

stories

"AIR!"

It used to be like that. Night. People are sleeping. Quiet around. But the enemy does not sleep. Fascist planes are flying high in the black sky. They want to drop bombs on our houses. But around the city, in the forest and in the field, our defenders hid. Day and night they are on guard. The bird will fly by - and that will be heard. A star will fall - and it will be noticed.

The defenders of the city fell to the auditory tubes. They hear the engines rumble in the air. Not our motors. Fascist. And immediately a call to the head of the city's air defense:

The enemy is flying! Be ready!

Now, in all the streets of the city and in all the houses, the radio began to speak loudly:

"Citizens, air raid alert!"

At the same moment the command is given:

And the fighter pilots start the engines of their planes.

And far-sighted searchlights are lit. The enemy wanted to sneak in unnoticed. It didn't work out. He is already waiting. Defenders of the city on the ground.

Give me a beam!

And all over the sky beams of spotlights sang.

Fire on fascist planes!

And hundreds of yellow stars jumped in the sky. It was hit by anti-aircraft artillery. Anti-aircraft guns shoot high up.

“There is the enemy, beat him!” say the projectors. And direct light beams are chasing fascist planes. Here the rays converged - the plane got entangled in them, like a fly in a web. Now everyone can see it. Anti-aircraft gunners took aim.

Fire! Fire! Once again fire! - And the anti-aircraft gun shell hit the enemy in the engine itself.

Black smoke billowed from the plane. And the fascist plane crashed to the ground. He failed to get to the city.

For a long time, searchlight beams go across the sky. And the defenders of the city listen to the sky with their pipes. And anti-aircraft gunners are standing by the guns. But all around is quiet. There is no one left in the sky.

“The threat of air attack has passed. Light out!"

DIRECT FIRE

Order: do not let the Nazis on the road! Not one gets through. This is an important road. They drive shells for battle on it in cars. Camping kitchens bring lunch to the fighters. And those who are wounded in battle are sent along this road to the hospital.

You can't let the enemy on this road!

The Nazis began to attack. Many of them have gathered. And ours here have only one gun, and there are only four of ours. Four gunners. One brings the shells, the other charges the gun, the third aims. And the commander manages everything: where to shoot, he says, and how to point the gun. The gunners decided: "We will die, and not let the enemy through."

Give up, Russians! shout the Nazis. There are many of us, but only four of you. In two counts, we'll kill everyone!

Gunners answer:

Nothing. There are many of you, but little sense. And we have four of your deaths in each shell. Enough for all of you!

The Nazis got angry and rushed to ours. And our gunners rolled out their light cannon to a convenient place and are waiting for the Nazis to come closer.

We have heavy, huge guns. A telegraph pole will fit into a long muzzle. Such a gun hits thirty kilometers. Only a tractor will take her away. And here we have a light field gun. You can rotate it with four people.

The artillerymen rolled out their light cannon, and the Nazis ran straight at them. They swear, they tell you to surrender.

Well, comrades, - the commander commanded, - direct fire on the advancing Nazis!

The gunners pointed the muzzle of the cannon directly at the enemies.

Fire flew out of the muzzle, and a well-aimed projectile killed four fascists at once. No wonder the commander said: in each shell there are four deaths.

But the Nazis keep climbing and climbing. Four artillerymen fight back.

One brings the shells, the other charges, the third aims. The commander controls the battle: he tells where to hit.

One artilleryman fell: a fascist bullet killed him. Another fell, wounded. There were two guns left. A fighter brings shells, charges. The commander himself aims, he fires at the enemy himself.

The Nazis stopped, began to crawl back.

And then our help came. They brought more guns. This is how the artillerymen drove the enemy away from the important road.

River. Bridge across the river.

The Nazis decided to transport their tanks and trucks over this bridge. Our scouts found out about this, and the commander sent two brave sappers to the bridge.

Sappers are skilled people. Pave the road - call the sappers. Build a bridge - send sappers. Blow up the bridge - again sappers are needed.

Sappers climbed under the bridge, laid a mine. Full of explosives. Just throw a spark there - and a terrible force will be born in a mine. From this force, the earth trembles, houses collapse.

The sappers put a mine under the bridge, inserted a wire, and they themselves quietly crawled away and hid behind a hillock. Unwound the wire. One end is under the bridge, in a mine, the other is in the hands of sappers, in an electric machine.

The sappers lie and wait. They are cold, but they endure. You can't miss the fascists.

They lie for an hour, then another… Only in the evening the fascists appeared. There are many tanks, trucks, infantry is moving, cannon tractors are being transported ...

Enemies approached the bridge. Here the front tank has already thundered on the boards of the bridge. Behind him - the second, third ...

Let's! - says one sapper to another.

Early, - answers the other. - Let everyone enter the bridge, then at once.

The front tank had already reached the middle of the bridge.

Come on, you'll miss it! - the impatient sapper hurries.

Wait, the elder replies.

The front tank had already approached the very shore, the entire fascist detachment was on the bridge.

Now is the time, - said the senior sapper and pressed the handle of the machine.

A current ran through the wire, a spark jumped into a mine, and it rang out so loudly that it could be heard ten kilometers away. Thundering flames erupted from under the bridge. Tanks and trucks flew high. Hundreds of shells exploded with a bang, which the Nazis were carrying on trucks. And everything - from the earth to the sky - was covered with thick, black smoke.

And when the wind blew that smoke away, there was no bridge, no tanks, no trucks. There is nothing left of them.

Just right, - said the sappers.

WHO IS ON THE PHONE?

Arina, Arina! I am Magpie! Arina, can you hear me? Arina, answer!

Arina does not answer, she is silent. Yes, and there is no Arina here, and there is no Magpie. This is deliberately how military telephone operators shout so that the enemy does not understand anything if he clings to the wire and eavesdrops. And I'll tell you a secret. Arina is not an aunt, Magpie is not a bird. These are tricky phone names. Two of our detachments went into battle. One called himself Arina, the other - Magpie. Signalers have stretched a telephone wire through the snow, and one detachment is talking to another.

But suddenly Arina could not be heard. Arina fell silent. What? And just then the scouts came to the commander of the detachment, which was called Magpie, and they say:

Rather, tell Arina that the Nazis are approaching them from the side. If you don't report now, our comrades will die.

The telephone operator began to shout into the receiver:

Arina, Arina! .. It's me - Magpie! Answer, answer!

Arina does not answer, Arina is silent. Almost crying telephone operator. Blowing into the phone. I have forgotten all the rules. Just screaming:

Petya, Petya, can you hear me? I am Magpie. I am Vasya!

The phone is silent.

It can be seen that the wire was cut off, - then the signalman said and asked the commander: - Allow me, comrade commander, I will climb to fix it.