War stories. Short family war stories

L. Kassil. At the blackboard

They said about the teacher Ksenia Andreevna Kartashova that her hands sing. Her movements were soft, unhurried, rounded, and when she explained the lesson in the class, the guys followed every wave of the teacher's hand, and the hand sang, the hand explained everything that remained incomprehensible in the words. Ksenia Andreevna did not have to raise her voice at the students, she did not have to shout. There will be a noise in the class - she will raise her light hand, lead it - and the whole class seems to be listening, it immediately becomes quiet.

- Wow, she is strict with us! The boys boasted. - He immediately notices everything ...

Ksenia Andreevna taught in the village for thirty-two years. The rural militiamen saluted her in the street and, saluting, said:

- Ksenia Andreevna, how is my Vanka doing in science? You make him stronger there.

“Nothing, nothing, he moves a little,” answered the teacher, “a good boy.” Lazy just sometimes. Well, that happened to my father too. Isn't it true?

The policeman straightened his belt in embarrassment: once he himself sat at a desk and answered Ksenia Andreevna at the blackboard and also heard to himself that he was a good fellow, but sometimes he was lazy ... And the chairman of the collective farm was once a student of Ksenia Andreevna, and the director studied at the machine and tractor station from her. Many people have gone through Xenia Andreevna's class in thirty-two years. She was a strict but fair person.

Ksenia Andreyevna's hair had long since turned white, but her eyes had not faded and were as blue and clear as in her youth. And everyone who met this even and bright look involuntarily cheered up and began to think that, honestly, he was not such a bad person and it was definitely worth living in the world. Such were the eyes of Ksenia Andreevna!

And her gait was also light and melodious. Girls from high school tried to adopt it. No one has ever seen a teacher in a hurry, in a hurry. And at the same time, any work quickly argued and also seemed to sing in her capable hands. When she wrote the terms of the problem or examples from grammar on the blackboard, the chalk did not knock, did not creak, did not crumble, and it seemed to the children that a white stream was easily and tasty squeezed out of the chalk, like from a tube, writing letters and numbers on the black smooth surface of the board. "Do not rush! Don't jump, think carefully first!" Ksenia Andreevna would say softly, when the student began to stray in a problem or a sentence, and, diligently writing and erasing what he had written with a rag, floated in clouds of chalk smoke.

Ksenia Andreevna was not in a hurry this time either. As soon as the rattle of motors was heard, the teacher looked sternly at the sky and in a familiar voice told the children that everyone should go to the trench dug in the school yard. The school stood a little away from the village, on a hillock. The windows of the classrooms overlooked the cliff above the river. Ksenia Andreevna lived at the school. There were no jobs. The front passed very close to the village. Fighting raged somewhere nearby. Parts of the Red Army withdrew across the river and fortified there. And the collective farmers gathered a partisan detachment and went into the nearby forest outside the village. Schoolchildren brought them food there, told them where and when the Germans were seen. Kostya Rozhkov - the best swimmer of the school - more than once delivered reports from the commander of the forest partisans to the other side of the Red Army. Shura Kapustina once bandaged the wounds of two partisans who had suffered in battle - this art was taught to her by Ksenia Andreevna. Even Senya Pichugin, a well-known quiet man, once spotted a German patrol outside the village and, having reconnoitered where he was going, managed to warn the detachment.

In the evening, the children gathered at the school and told the teacher about everything. So it was this time, when the engines purred very close. Fascist planes have already flown into the village more than once, throwing bombs, scouring the forest in search of partisans. Kostya Rozhkov once even had to lie in a swamp for an hour, hiding his head under wide sheets of water lilies. And very close, cut down by machine-gun bursts of the aircraft, reeds fell into the water ... And the guys were already used to the raids.

But now they are wrong. It wasn't the planes that rumbled. The guys had not yet managed to hide in the gap, when three dusty Germans ran into the schoolyard, jumping over a low palisade. Car-glasses with folded lenses glittered on their helmets. They were scouts-motorcyclists. They left their cars in the bushes. From three different sides, but all at once, they rushed to the schoolchildren and aimed their machine guns at them.

- Stop! shouted a thin, long-armed German with a short red mustache, probably the boss. - Pioneer? - he asked.

The guys were silent, involuntarily moving away from the muzzle of the pistol, which the German took turns thrusting into their faces.

But the hard, cold barrels of the other two machine guns pressed painfully from behind on the backs and necks of the schoolchildren.

— Schneller, Schneller, bistro! shouted the fascist.

Ksenia Andreevna stepped forward straight at the German and covered the guys with herself.

- What would you like? the teacher asked and looked sternly into the German's eyes. Her blue and calm look confused the involuntarily retreating fascist.

— Who is V? Answer this minute ... I can speak Russian with something.

“I understand German too,” the teacher answered quietly, “but I have nothing to talk about with you. These are my students, I am a teacher at a local school. You may lower your gun. What do you want? Why are you scaring the kids?

- Don't teach me! hissed the scout.

The other two Germans looked around anxiously. One of them said something to the boss. He got worried, looked towards the village and began to push the teacher and the children towards the school with the muzzle of a pistol.

“Well, well, hurry up,” he said, “we are in a hurry ...” He threatened with a pistol. Two little questions and everything will be all right.

The guys, along with Ksenia Andreevna, were pushed into the classroom. One of the Nazis remained on guard on the school porch. Another German and the boss drove the guys to their desks.

"Now I'm going to give you a little exam," said the chief. - Sit down!

But the children stood huddled in the aisle and looked, pale, at the teacher.

“Sit down, guys,” Ksenia Andreevna said in her quiet and ordinary voice, as if another lesson was beginning.

The boys sat down carefully. They sat in silence, not taking their eyes off the teacher. Out of habit, they sat down in their seats, as they usually did in the classroom: Senya Pichugin and Shura Kapustina in front, and Kostya Rozhkov at the back of everyone, in the last desk. And, finding themselves in their familiar places, the guys gradually calmed down.

Outside the windows of the classroom, on the glass of which protective strips were pasted, the sky was calmly blue, on the windowsill in jars and boxes were flowers grown by the children. On the glass cabinet, as always, hovered a hawk stuffed with sawdust. And the wall of the classroom was decorated with neatly pasted herbariums. The older German touched one of the pasted sheets with his shoulder, and dried daisies, fragile stems and twigs fell on the floor with a slight crunch.

It hurt the guys in the heart. Everything was wild, everything seemed contrary to the habitually established order within these walls. And the familiar class seemed so dear to the children, the desks, on the covers of which dried ink smudges were cast, like the wing of a bronze beetle.

And when one of the fascists approached the table, at which Ksenia Andreevna usually sat, and kicked him, the guys felt deeply offended.

The chief demanded that he be given a chair. None of the guys moved.

- Well! shouted the fascist.

“Here they listen only to me,” said Ksenia Andreevna. — Pichugin, please bring a chair from the corridor.

Quiet Senya Pichugin slipped inaudibly from the desk and followed the chair. He did not return for a long time.

- Pichugin, hurry up! the teacher called Senya.

He appeared a minute later, dragging a heavy chair with a seat upholstered in black oilcloth. Without waiting for him to come closer, the German snatched a chair from him, put it in front of him and sat down. Shura Kapustina raised her hand:

- Ksenia Andreevna ... can I leave the class?

- Sit down, Kapustina, sit down. - And, looking at the girl knowingly, Ksenia Andreevna added in a barely audible voice: - There is still a sentry there.

Now everyone will listen to me! the boss said.

And, mangling the words, the fascist began to tell the guys that the red partisans were hiding in the forest, and he knows this very well, and the guys also know this very well. German scouts have seen schoolchildren running back and forth into the forest more than once. And now the guys must tell the chief where the partisans hid. If the guys say where the partisans are now, naturally, everything will be fine. If the guys don’t say, naturally, everything will be very bad.

“Now I will listen to everyone,” the German finished his speech.

Here the guys understood what they wanted from them. They sat without moving, only had time to look at each other and again froze on their desks.

A tear slowly crept down Shura Kapustina's face. Kostya Rozhkov was sitting, leaning forward, resting his strong elbows on the open desk top. The short fingers of his hands were entwined. Kostya swayed slightly, staring at the desk. From the outside, it seemed that he was trying to disengage his hands, and some kind of force was preventing him from doing this.

The guys sat in silence.

The chief called his assistant and took the map from him.

“Order them,” he said in German to Xenia Andreevna, “to show me this place on a map or on a plan. Well, live! Just look at me ... - He spoke again in Russian: - I warn you that I am understandable to the Russian language and that you will tell the children ...

He went to the board, took a piece of chalk and quickly sketched out a plan of the area - a river, a village, a school, a forest ... To make it clearer, he even drew a chimney on the school roof and scratched curls of smoke.

“Perhaps you will think about it and tell me everything you need yourself?” the chief quietly asked the teacher in German, coming close to her. The children won't understand, speak German.

“I already told you that I've never been there and I don't know where it is.

The fascist, grabbing Xenia Andreyevna by the shoulders with his long arms, roughly shook her:

Ksenia Andreevna freed herself, took a step forward, went up to the desks, leaned both hands on the front and said:

- Guys! This man wants us to tell him where our partisans are. I don't know where they are. I have never been there. And you don't know either. Truth?

“We don’t know, we don’t know!” the guys rustled. Who knows where they are! They went into the forest and that's it.

“You are really bad students,” the German tried to joke, “he cannot answer such a simple question. Hey, hey...

He looked around the class with mock gaiety, but did not meet a single smile. The guys were strict and wary. It was quiet in

class, only Senya Pichugin sniffed sullenly at the first desk.

The German approached him:

- Well, what's your name?.. You don't know either?

“I don’t know,” Senya answered quietly.

“And what is this, you know? The German jabbed the muzzle of his pistol at Senya's lowered chin.

“I know that,” Senya said. - Automatic pistol of the "Walter" system ...

“Do you know how much he can kill such bad students?”

- I do not know. Think for yourself…” Senya muttered.

— Who is! the German shouted. You said: count yourself! Very well! I'll count to three myself. And if no one tells me what I asked, I will shoot your stubborn teacher first. And then - anyone who does not say. I started counting! Once!..

He grabbed Xenia Andreevna by the arm and pulled her against the classroom wall. Ksenia Andreevna did not utter a sound, but it seemed to the guys that her soft, melodious hands groaned themselves. And the class buzzed. Another fascist immediately pointed his gun at the guys.

“Children, don’t,” Ksenia Andreevna said quietly and, out of habit, wanted to raise her hand, but the fascist hit her wrist with the barrel of a pistol, and her hand fell helplessly.

“Alzo, then, none of you know where the partisans are,” said the German. - Fine, let's count. "One" I already said, now it will be "two".

The fascist began to raise his pistol, aiming at the teacher's head. Shura Kapustina began to sob in the front desk.

“Be quiet, Shura, be quiet,” Ksenia Andreevna whispered, and her lips hardly moved. “Let everyone be silent,” she said slowly, looking around the class, “whoever is afraid, let her turn away.” You don't have to watch guys. Farewell! Learn well. And remember this lesson...

“I’m going to say three now!” the fascist interrupted her.

And suddenly Kostya Rozhkov got up at the back and raised his hand:

She really doesn't know!

- Who knows?

"I know..." Kostya said loudly and distinctly. “I went there myself and I know. She didn't, and she doesn't know.

“Well, show me,” said the chief.

Rozhkov, why are you telling lies? - said Ksenia Andreevna.

“I'm telling the truth,” Kostya said stubbornly and harshly, and looked into the teacher's eyes.

"Kostya..." Ksenia Andreevna began.

But Rozhkov interrupted her:

- Ksenia Andreevna, I myself know ...

The teacher stood facing away from him,

dropping his white head on his chest. Kostya went to the blackboard, at which he had answered the lesson so many times. He took the chalk. He stood indecisively, fingering the white, crumbling pieces. The fascist approached the blackboard and waited. Kostya raised his hand with the chalk.

“Here, look here,” he whispered, “I’ll show you.”

The German approached him and bent down to better see what the boy was showing. And suddenly Kostya hit the black surface of the board with all his might with both hands. This is done when, having written on one side, they are going to turn the board over to the other. The board turned sharply in its frame, screeched and hit the fascist in the face with a sweeping blow. He flew off to the side, and Kostya, jumping over the frame, instantly disappeared behind the board, as if behind a shield. The fascist, clutching his bloodied face, fired at the board to no avail, putting bullet after bullet into it.

In vain... Behind the chalkboard was a window overlooking a cliff above the river. Kostya, without hesitation, jumped through the open window, threw himself off the cliff into the river and swam to the other side.

The second fascist, pushing Ksenia Andreevna away, ran to the window and began to shoot at the boy with a pistol. The chief shoved him aside, snatched the pistol from him and took aim himself through the window. The guys jumped on the desks. They no longer thought about the danger that threatened them. Only Kostya worried them now. They wanted only one thing now - for Kostya to get to the other side, so that the Germans would miss.

At this time, having heard firing in the village, partisans stalking motorcyclists jumped out of the forest. Seeing them, the German guard on the porch fired into the air, shouted something to his comrades and rushed into the bushes where the motorcycles were hidden. But through the bushes, stitching the leaves, cutting off the branches, a machine-gun burst lashed

Red Army patrol that was on the other side ...

No more than fifteen minutes passed, and the partisans brought three disarmed Germans into the classroom, where the excited children again burst into. The commander of the partisan detachment took a heavy chair, moved it to the table and wanted to sit down, but Senya Pichugin suddenly rushed forward and snatched the chair from him.

- Don't, don't! I'll bring you another one now.

And in an instant he dragged another chair from the corridor, and pushed this one behind the board. The commander of the partisan detachment sat down and called the head of the fascists to the table for interrogation. And the other two, rumpled and hushed, sat side by side on the desks of Senya Pichugin and Shura Kapustina, diligently and timidly placing their feet there.

“He almost killed Ksenia Andreevna,” Shura Kapustina whispered to the commander, pointing to the Nazi intelligence officer.

“Not quite exactly like that,” the German muttered, “that’s right, not me at all ...

— He, he! shouted the quiet Senya Pichugin. - He still had a mark ... I ... when I was dragging a chair, I accidentally knocked over the ink on the oilcloth.

The commander leaned over the table, looked and grinned: an ink stain darkened on the back of the gray trousers of the fascist ...

Ksenia Andreevna entered the class. She went ashore to find out if Kostya Rozhkov had sailed safely. The Germans, who were sitting at the front desk, looked with surprise at the commander who jumped up.

- Get up! the commander shouted at them. In our class, we are supposed to get up when the teacher comes in. That's not what you, apparently, were taught!

And the two fascists obediently got up.

- Permission to continue our lesson, Ksenia Andreevna? the commander asked.

“Sit down, sit down, Shirokov.

“No, Ksenia Andreevna, take your rightful place,” Shirokov objected, pulling up a chair, “you are our mistress in this room. And I'm here, over there at that desk, I've worked my brains out, and my daughter is here with you ... Sorry, Ksenia Andreevna, that we had to allow these slackers into our class. Well, since it happened so, here you are and ask them properly. Help us: you know their language ...

And Ksenia Andreevna took her place at the table, from which she had learned many good people in thirty-two years. And now, in front of Ksenia Andreevna's desk, next to a blackboard pierced by bullets, a long-armed, red-haired man was squirming, nervously adjusting his jacket, mumbling something and hiding his eyes from the blue, stern gaze of the old teacher.

“Stand properly,” said Ksenia Andreevna, “what are you fidgeting about?” My guys don't keep up. So... And now take the trouble to answer my questions.

And the lanky fascist, timid, stretched out in front of the teacher.

Arkady Gaidar "Campaign"

little story

At night, a Red Army soldier brought a summons. And at dawn, when Alka was still sleeping, his father kissed him warmly and went to war - on a campaign.

In the morning, Alka got angry why they didn’t wake him up, and immediately declared that he wanted to go camping too. He would probably scream, cry. But quite unexpectedly, his mother allowed him to go camping. And so, in order to gain strength before the road, Alka ate a full plate of porridge without a whim, and drank some milk. And then she and her mother sat down to prepare camping equipment. His mother sewed pants for him, and he, sitting on the floor, cut a saber out of the board. And right there, at work, they learned marching marches, because with such a song as “A Christmas tree was born in the forest”, you won’t walk far. And the motive is not the same, and the words are not the same, in general, this melody is completely inappropriate for a fight.

But now the time has come for the mother to go on duty to work, and they postponed their affairs until tomorrow.

And so, day after day, they prepared Alka for a long journey. They sewed pants, shirts, banners, flags, knitted warm stockings, mittens. Some wooden sabers next to the gun and the drum hung on the wall for seven pieces. And this reserve does not matter, because in a hot battle, a sonorous saber has an even shorter life than a rider.

And for a long time, perhaps, Alka could have gone on a campaign, but then a fierce winter came. And in such a frost, of course, it would not take long to catch a runny nose or a cold, and Alka patiently waited for the warm sun. But now the sun has returned. Blackened melted snow. And if only, just start to get ready, as the bell rang. And with heavy steps, the father, who had returned from the campaign, entered the room. His face was dark, weather-beaten, and his lips were chapped, but his gray eyes looked cheerful.

He, of course, hugged his mother. And she congratulated him on his victory. He, of course, kissed his son tightly. Then he examined all Alkino's camping equipment. And, smiling, he ordered his son: keep all these weapons and ammunition in perfect order, because there will be hard battles and dangerous campaigns and there are still many more ahead on this earth.

Konstantin Paustovsky. buoy man

All day I had to walk along overgrown meadow roads.

Only in the evening did I go out to the river, to Semyon's buoy-keeper's lodge.

The gatehouse was on the other side. I shouted to Semyon to give me a boat, and while Semyon was untying it, rattling the chain and walking behind the oars, three boys came up to the shore. Their hair, eyelashes and panties were burned to a straw color.

The boys sat down by the water, over the cliff. Immediately, swifts began to fly out from under the cliff with such a whistle as if shells from a small cannon; many swift nests were dug in the cliff. The boys laughed.

- Where are you from? I asked them.

“From the Laskovsky forest,” they answered and said that they were pioneers from a neighboring town, they had come to the forest to work, they had been sawing firewood for three weeks now, and sometimes they came to the river to swim. Semyon transports them to the other side, to the sand.

"He's only grouchy," said the smallest boy. Everything is not enough for him, everything is not enough. You know him?

- I know. For a long time.

- He is good?

- Very good.

“Only everything is not enough for him,” the thin boy in the cap confirmed sadly. “You can't please him. Swears.

I wanted to ask the boys what, after all, was not enough for Semyon, but at that moment he himself drove up in a boat, got out, extended his rough hand to me and the boys and said:

“Good guys, but they don’t understand much. You could say they don't understand anything. So it turns out that we, old brooms, are supposed to teach them. Am I right? Get on the boat. Go.

“Well, you see,” said the little boy, climbing into the boat. - I told you!

Semyon rowed rarely, without haste, as buoyers and carriers always row on all our rivers. Such rowing does not interfere with talking, and Semyon, a long-winded old man, immediately started a conversation.

“Just don’t think,” he said to me, “they are not offended by me. I have already injected so much into their heads - passion! How to cut a tree - you also need to know. Let's say which way it will fall. Or how to bury yourself so that the butt does not kill. Now do you know?

“We know, grandfather,” said the boy in the cap. - Thanks.

- Well, that's it! I suppose they didn’t know how to make a saw, wood splitters, workers!

“Now we can,” said the smallest boy.

- Well, that's it! Only this science is not cunning. Empty science! This is not enough for a person. Another thing to know.

- And what? a third boy, all freckled, asked anxiously.

“But now there is a war. Need to know about this.

— We know.

“You don't know anything. You brought me a newspaper the other day, but what is written in it you cannot really determine.

- What is written in it, Semyon? I asked.

- I'll tell you now. Is there smoking?

We rolled a shag cigarette from a crumpled newspaper. Semyon lit a cigarette and said, looking at the meadows:

- And it is written in it about love for the native land. From this love, one must think so, a person goes to fight. Did I say right?

- Correctly.

- And what is it - love for the motherland? So you ask them, boys. And it looks like they don't know anything.

The boys were offended

- We don't know!

- And if you know, then explain it to me, an old fool. Wait, don't jump out, let me finish. For example, you go into battle and think: "I'm going for my native land." So you say: what are you going for?

"I'm going for a free life," said the little boy.

- That's not enough. One free life will not live.

“For their cities and factories,” said the freckled boy.

“For my school,” said the boy in the cap. And for my people.

“And for my people,” said the little boy. - To have a working and happy life.

"You're all right," said Semyon, "only it's not enough for me."

The boys looked at each other and frowned.

- Offended! Simon said. — Oh, you judges! And, let's say, you don't want to fight for a quail? Protect it from ruin, from death? BUT?

The boys were silent.

“So I see that you don’t understand everything,” Semyon began. “And I, the old one, must explain to you. And I have enough things to do: check buoys, hang marks on poles. I also have a delicate matter, a state matter. Because this river is also trying to win, it carries steamboats, and I’m kind of like a nurse with it, like a guardian, so that everything is in good order. So it turns out that all this is right - and freedom, and cities, and, say, rich factories, and schools, and people. So not for this alone we love our native land. After all, not for one?

— And for what else? the freckled boy asked.

- And you listen. So you walked here from the Laskovsky forest along the beaten road to Lake Tish, and from there through the meadows to the Island and here to me, to the ferry. Did you go?

- Here you go. Have you looked at your feet?

- Looked.

“But I didn’t see anything.” And we should look, and notice, and stop more often. You stop, bend down, pick any flower or grass - and move on.

- And then, that in each such grass and in each such flower there is a great charm. Here, for example, clover. You call him porridge. You pick it up, smell it - it smells like a bee. From this smell, an evil person will smile. Or, say, chamomile. After all, it is a sin to crush with a boot. And the honeysuckle? Or sleep grass. She sleeps at night, bows her head, grows heavy from the dew. Or bought. Yes, you don't seem to know her. The leaf is wide, hard, and under it are flowers like white bells. You're about to touch - and they will ring. That's it! This plant is tributary. It heals the disease.

- What does inflow mean? asked the boy in the cap.

- Well, medical, or something. Our disease is an ache in the bones. From dampness. From kupena the pain is quiet, you sleep better and the work becomes easier. Or air. I sprinkle them on the floors in the gatehouse. You come to me - my air is Crimean. Yes! Here, go, look, notice. There is a cloud over the river. You don't know it; and I hear - it pulls from the rain. Mushroom rain - disputable, not very noisy. This rain is more valuable than gold. It makes the river warmer, the fish play, it grows all our wealth. Often, towards evening, I sit at the gatehouse, weaving baskets, then I look around and forget about all sorts of baskets - after all, what is it! A cloud in the sky is made of hot gold, the sun has already left us, and there, above the earth, it still radiates warmth, radiates light. And it will go out, and the corncrakes will begin to creak in the grasses, and the tugs will pull, and the quail will whistle, otherwise, you look, how the nightingales will strike like thunder - on the vine, on the bushes! And the star will rise, stop over the river and stand until the morning - she looked, beauty, into clear water. So, guys! You look at all this and think: we have little life allotted, we need to live two hundred years - and that will not be enough. Our country is a beauty! For this charm, we must also fight with enemies, protect it, protect it, and not let it be defiled. Am I saying right? All make noise, "motherland", "motherland", but here it is, the motherland, behind the haystacks!

The boys were silent, thoughtful. Reflecting in the water, a heron slowly flew by.

“Oh,” said Semyon, “people go to war, but we, the old ones, have been forgotten!” Forgotten in vain, trust me. The old man is a strong, good soldier, his blow is very serious. If they let us old people in, the Germans would also scratch themselves here. “Uh-uh,” the Germans would say, “it’s not the way for us to fight with such old people! Not the point! With such old men you will lose the last ports. You're kidding, brother!"

The boat hit the sandy shore with its bow. Small waders hurriedly ran away from her along the water.

“That’s right, guys,” Simon said. - Again, I suppose you will complain about your grandfather - everything is not enough for him. An incomprehensible grandfather.

The boys laughed.

“No, understandable, quite understandable,” said the little boy. - Thank you, grandfather.

Is it for transportation or something else? Simon asked and narrowed his eyes.

- For something else. And for transportation.

- Well, that's it!

The boys ran to the sandy spit to swim. Semyon looked after them and sighed.

“I try to teach them,” he said. - Respect to teach to the native land. Without this, a person is not a person, but dust!

The Adventures of the Rhinoceros Beetle (Soldier's Tale)

When Pyotr Terentyev left the village for the war, his little son Styopa did not know what to give his father as a farewell gift, and finally presented an old rhinoceros beetle. He caught him in the garden and planted him in a matchbox. Rhino got angry, knocked, demanded to be released. But Styopa did not let him out, but slipped blades of grass into his box so that the beetle would not die of hunger. The rhinoceros gnawed at the blade of grass, but still continued to knock and scold.

Styopa cut a small window in the box to let in fresh air. The beetle stuck out a shaggy paw at the window and tried to grab Styopa by the finger - he must have wanted to scratch him out of anger. But Styopa did not give a finger. Then the beetle would begin to buzz with annoyance so that Styopa Akulina's mother would shout:

"Let him out, you goblin!" All day zhundit and zhundit, the head is swollen from it!

Pyotr Terentyev grinned at Stepin's present, stroked Styopa's head with a rough hand, and hid the box with the beetle in his gas mask bag.

“Just don’t lose him, save him,” Styopa said.

“Somehow you can lose such gifts,” Peter answered. - I'll save it somehow.

Either the beetle liked the smell of rubber, or Peter smelled pleasantly of an overcoat and black bread, but the beetle calmed down and drove with Peter to the very front.

At the front, the soldiers were surprised at the beetle, touched its strong horn with their fingers, listened to Peter's story about his son's gift, they said:

What was the boy thinking! And the beetle, you see, is combat. Just a corporal, not a beetle.

The fighters were interested in how long the beetle would last and how it was with food allowances - what Peter would feed and water him. Without water, although he is a beetle, he cannot live.

Peter smiled embarrassedly, answered that if you give a beetle some spikelet, it will eat for a week. Does he need a lot?

One night, Peter dozed off in the trenches, dropped the box with the beetle out of his bag. The beetle tossed and turned for a long time, opened the slot in the box, crawled out, wiggled its antennae, and listened. The earth rumbled in the distance, yellow lightning flashed.

The beetle climbed onto the elderberry bush at the edge of the trench to get a better look around. He has never seen such a storm. There were too many lightning. The stars did not hang motionless in the sky, like a beetle in their homeland, in Peter's Village, but took off from the earth, illuminating everything around with a bright light, smoking and dying out. Thunder rumbled continuously.

Some bugs whistled past. One of them hit the elder bush so hard that red berries fell from it. The old rhinoceros fell, pretended to be dead and was afraid to move for a long time. He realized that it was better not to mess with such beetles - there were too many of them whistling around.

So he lay until the morning, until the sun rose. The beetle opened one eye, looked at the sky. It was blue, warm, there was no such sky in his village.

Huge birds howling fell from this sky like kites. The beetle quickly rolled over, stood on its feet, crawled under the burdock - he was afraid that the kites would peck him to death.

In the morning, Peter missed the beetle, began to fumble around on the ground.

- What are you? - asked a neighbor-fighter with such a tanned face that he could be mistaken for a black man.

“The beetle has left,” Peter answered with chagrin. - That's the trouble!

“I found something to grieve about,” said the tanned fighter. - A beetle is a beetle, an insect. The soldier was of no use to him.

- It's not about usefulness, - Peter objected, - but about memory. My son gave it to me in the end. Here, brother, not an insect is expensive, memory is dear.

- That's for sure! agreed the tanned fighter. “That, of course, is a different matter. Only to find it is like a shag crumb in the ocean-sea. Gone, then the beetle.

Since then, Peter stopped putting the beetle in the box, but carried it right in his gas mask bag, and the soldiers were even more surprised: “You see, the beetle has become completely handmade!”

Sometimes, in his free time, Pyotr released a beetle, and the beetle crawled around, looking for some roots, chewing leaves. They were no longer the same as in the village.

Instead of birch leaves, there were many elm and poplar leaves. And Peter, reasoning with the soldiers, said:

— My beetle switched to trophy food.

One evening a fresh air blew into the gas mask bag, the smell of big water, and the bug crawled out of the bag to see where it was.

Peter stood with the soldiers on the ferry. The ferry floated across the wide bright river. Behind it, the golden sun was setting, willows stood along the banks, storks with red paws flew over them.

Wisla! - said the soldiers, scooped up water with bowls, drank, and some washed their dusty face in cool water. - We drank, then, water from the Don, Dnieper and Bug, and now we will drink from the Vistula. Painfully sweet water in the Vistula.

The beetle breathed the coolness of the river, moved its antennae, climbed into the bag, fell asleep.

He woke up from a strong shaking. The bag shook, she jumped. The beetle quickly got out, looked around. Peter ran across the wheat field, and the fighters ran nearby, shouting "Hurrah." A little light. Dew shone on the helmets of the fighters.

At first, the beetle clung to the bag with all its might, then realized that it still couldn’t resist, opened its wings, took off, flew next to Peter and buzzed, as if encouraging Peter.

A man in a dirty green uniform took aim at Pyotr with a rifle, but a beetle from a raid hit this man in the eye. The man staggered, dropped his rifle and ran.

The beetle flew after Peter, clung to his shoulders and climbed into the bag only when Peter fell to the ground and shouted to someone: “That's bad luck! It hit me in the leg!” At this time, people in dirty green uniforms were already running, looking around, and a thunderous “cheers” rolled on their heels.

Piotr spent a month in the infirmary, and the beetle was given to a Polish boy for safekeeping. This boy lived in the same courtyard where the infirmary was located.

From the infirmary, Peter again went to the front - his wound was light. He caught up with his part already in Germany. The smoke from heavy fighting was like

the earth itself was burning and throwing out huge black clouds from every hollow. The sun faded in the sky. The beetle must have gone deaf from the thunder of the cannons and sat quietly in the bag, not moving.

But one morning he moved and got out. A warm wind was blowing, blowing the last streaks of smoke far south. The pure high sun sparkled in the deep blue sky. It was so quiet that the beetle could hear the rustle of a leaf on the tree above it. All the leaves hung motionless, and only one trembled and rustled, as if rejoicing at something and wanting to tell all the other leaves about it.

Peter was sitting on the ground, drinking water from a flask. Drops trickled down his unshaven chin, playing in the sun. Having drunk, Peter laughed and said:

- Victory!

- Victory! the fighters who were sitting nearby responded.

- Eternal glory! Our native land yearned for our hands. Now we will make a garden out of it and live, brothers, free and happy.

Shortly thereafter, Peter returned home. Akulina screamed and wept for joy, but Styopa also wept and asked:

- Is the beetle alive?

“He is alive, my comrade,” answered Peter. The bullet didn't touch him. He returned to his native places with the winners. And we will release it with you, Styopa.

Peter took the beetle out of the bag and placed it in his palm.

The beetle sat for a long time, looked around, wiggled its whiskers, then rose up on its hind legs, opened its wings, folded them again, thought, and suddenly took off with a loud buzz - it recognized its native places. He made a circle over the well, over the dill bed in the garden, and flew across the river into the forest, where the guys called around, picked mushrooms and wild raspberries. Styopa ran after him for a long time, waving his cap.

- Well, - said Pyotr, when Styopa returned, - now this bug will tell his people about the war and about his heroic behavior. He will collect all the beetles under the juniper, bow in all directions and tell.

Styopa laughed, and Akulina said:

- Telling stories to the boy. He will truly believe.

“And let him believe,” Peter replied. - From the fairy tale, not only the guys, but even the fighters are a pleasure.

- Well, isn't it! Akulina agreed and threw pine cones into the samovar.

The samovar hummed like an old rhinoceros beetle. Blue smoke from the samovar chimney streamed, flew into the evening sky, where the young moon was already standing, was reflected in the lakes, in the river, looked down on our quiet land.

Leonid Panteleev. My heart is in pain

However, not only these days it sometimes completely takes possession of me.

One evening shortly after the war, in the noisy, brightly lit Gastronom, I met Lenka Zaitsev's mother. Standing in line, she thoughtfully looked in my direction, and I simply could not help but say hello to her. Then she took a closer look and, recognizing me, dropped her bag in surprise and suddenly burst into tears.

I stood there, unable to move or utter a word. Nobody understood; it was assumed that money was taken from her, and in response to questions, she only shouted hysterically: “Go away !!! Leave me alone!.."

That evening, I walked like a wreck. And although Lenka, as I heard, died in the very first battle, perhaps not having time to kill even one German, and I stayed on the front line for about three years and participated in many battles, I felt guilty about something and infinitely owed this old woman , and to all those who died - acquaintances and strangers - and their mothers, fathers, children and widows ...

I can’t even really explain to myself why, but since then I’ve been trying not to catch this woman’s eyes and, seeing her on the street - she lives in the next block - I bypass.

And September 15 is the birthday of Petka Yudin; every year on this evening, his parents gather the surviving friends of his childhood.

Adult forty-year-old people come, but they do not drink wine, but tea with sweets, shortbread cake and apple pie - with what Petka loved most of all.

Everything is done as it was before the war, when in this room there was noise, laughing and commanding a big-headed cheerful boy, who was killed somewhere near Rostov and was not even buried in the confusion of a panicky retreat. At the head of the table is Petya's chair, his cup of fragrant tea and a plate where the mother diligently puts nuts in sugar, the largest piece of cake with candied fruit and a crust of apple pie. As if Petka can taste at least a piece and scream, as it used to, at the top of his lungs: “What a delicious thing, brothers! Naval!..»

And before Petka's old men I feel indebted; a feeling of some kind of awkwardness and guilt that here I am back, and Petka is dead, does not leave me all evening. When I'm thinking, I don't hear what they're talking about; I’m already far, far away ... My heart is aching: I see in my mind all of Russia, where in every second or third family someone has not returned ...

Leonid Panteleev. Handkerchief

I recently met on a train with a very nice and nice person. I was driving from Krasnoyarsk to Moscow, and at night, at some small, deaf station in a compartment, where until then there was no one but me, a huge, red-faced uncle in a wide bear's fur coat, in white cloaks and a long-eared fawn hat .

I was already falling asleep when he tumbled in. But then, as he rumbled all over the carriage with his suitcases and baskets, I immediately woke up, half-opened my eyes and, I remember, was even frightened.

“Fathers! - think. “What kind of bear is this that fell on my head?!”

And this giant slowly laid out his belongings on the shelves and began to undress.

He took off his hat, I see - his head is completely white, gray-haired.

He threw off his dokha - under the dokha there was a military tunic without shoulder straps, and on it not one or two, but four whole rows of sashes.

I think: “Wow! And the bear, it turns out, is really experienced!

And I already look at him with respect. True, I didn’t open my eye, and so I made slits and observe carefully.

And he sat down in a corner by the window, puffed, caught his breath, then unbuttoned the pocket on his tunic and, I see, took out a small, very small handkerchief. An ordinary handkerchief, which young girls wear in their purses.

I remember being surprised even then. I think: “Why does he need such a handkerchief? After all, such an uncle is probably not enough for such a handkerchief ?!

But he did nothing with this handkerchief, but only smoothed it on his knee, rolled it into a tube and put it in another pocket. Then he sat, thought, and began to pull off his cloaks.

I was not interested in this, and soon I was really, and not feignedly asleep.

Well, the next morning we got to know him, got into a conversation: who, where, and what business we were going on ... Half an hour later I already knew that my fellow traveler was a former tankman, a colonel, who had fought throughout the war, had been wounded eight or nine times, shell-shocked twice, drowned, escaped from a burning tank...

The colonel was driving at that time from a business trip to Kazan, where he then worked and where his family was. He was in a hurry to go home, he was worried, every now and then he went out into the corridor and asked the conductor if the train was late and how many more stops before the transfer.

I remember asking if he had a big family.

— Yes, how can I tell you ... Not very, perhaps, great. In general, you, yes I, yes we are with you.

- How much does it come out?

Four, I think.

“No,” I say. - As far as I understand, these are not four, but only two.

“Well, well,” he laughs. - If you guessed it, there's nothing you can do. Really two.

He said this and, I see, he unbuttons the pocket on his tunic, sticks two fingers in it, and again pulls his little, girlish handkerchief into the light of day.

I felt funny, I could not stand it and say:

“Excuse me, Colonel, why is that such a handkerchief you have - a lady's?”

He even seemed offended.

“Allow me,” he says. - Why did you decide that he was a lady?

I say:

- Small.

“Ah, how is it?” Small?

He folded the handkerchief, held it on his heroic palm and said:

“Do you know, by the way, what kind of handkerchief is this?”

I say:

- No, I do not know.

- In fact of the matter. But this handkerchief, if you want to know, is not simple.

- And what is he? - I speak. - Bewitched, right?

“Well, the bewitched one is not bewitched, but something like that... In general, if you wish, I can tell you.

I say:

- Please. Very interesting.

I can’t vouch for the interestingness, but only for me personally this story is of enormous importance. In a word, if there is nothing to do, listen. You have to start from afar. It was in 1943, at the very end of it, before the New Year holidays. I was then a major and commanded a tank regiment. Our unit was near Leningrad. Have you been to St. Petersburg during these years? Oh, they were, it turns out? Well, then you do not need to explain what Leningrad was like at that time. It's cold, hungry, bombs and shells are falling on the streets. Meanwhile, in the city they live, work, study ...

And in these very days, our unit took patronage over one of the Leningrad orphanages. Orphans were brought up in this house, whose fathers and mothers died either at the front, or from starvation in the city itself. How they lived there, it is not necessary to tell. The rations were reinforced, of course, in comparison with others, but still, you yourself understand, the guys did not go to bed full. Well, we were prosperous people, we were supplied in a front-line way, we didn’t spend money - we threw something at these guys. We gave them sugar, fats, canned food from our rations ... We bought and donated to the orphanage two cows, a horse with a team, a pig with piglets, all kinds of birds: chickens, roosters, well, and everything else - clothes, toys, musical instruments ... By the way, I remember, one hundred and twenty-five pairs of children's sleighs were presented to them: please, they say, ride, children, at the fear of enemies! ..

And on New Year's Eve they arranged a Christmas tree for the children. Of course, they did their best here too: they got a Christmas tree, as they say, above the ceiling. Eight boxes of Christmas decorations alone were delivered.

And on the first of January, on the very holiday, they went to visit their patrons. They took gifts and went on two "jeeps" with a delegation to them on the Kirov Islands.

They met us - they almost knocked us off our feet. The whole camp poured out into the yard, laughing, shouting “cheers”, climbing to hug ...

We brought a personal gift for each of them. But they, too, you know, do not want to remain indebted to us. They also prepared a surprise for each of us. One has an embroidered pouch, the other has some kind of drawing, a notebook, a notepad, a flag with a sickle and a hammer ...

And a little white-haired girl runs up to me on fast legs, blushes like a poppy flower, looks frightened at my grandiose figure and says:

“Congratulations, military uncle. Here you are,” he says, “a present from me.”

And she holds out a pen, and in her little little little white bag tied with a green woolen thread.

I wanted to take a gift, and she blushed even more and said:

“Only you know what? You this bag, please do not untie now. Do you know when you will untie him?

I say:

"And then, when you take Berlin."

Did you see?! The time, I say, is the forty-fourth year, the very beginning of it, the Germans are still sitting in Detskoye Selo and near Pulkovo, shrapnel shells are falling on the streets, in their orphanage the day before the cook was wounded by shrapnel ...

And this girl, you see, is thinking about Berlin. And after all, she was sure, pigalya, did not doubt for a single minute that sooner or later our people would be in Berlin. How could it be, in fact, not to try hard and not take this accursed Berlin ?!

I then put her on my knee, kissed her and said:

“Okay, daughter. I promise you that I will visit Berlin, and I will defeat the Nazis, and that I will not open your gift before this hour.

And what do you think - he kept his word.

Have you really been to Berlin?

- And in Berlin, imagine, I had a chance to visit. And the main thing, after all, is that I really did not open this bag until Berlin. I carried it with me for a year and a half. Drowned with him. The tank caught fire twice. He was in hospitals. Three or four gymnasts changed during this time. A sachet

everything with me is inviolable. Of course, sometimes it was curious to see what lies there. But nothing can be done, he gave his word, and the soldier's word is strong.

Well, how long, how short, but finally we are in Berlin. Reclaimed. Broke the last enemy line.

They broke into the city. We go through the streets. I'm ahead, I'm going on the lead tank.

And now, I remember, standing at the gate, at the broken house, a German woman. Still young.

Skinny. Pale. Holding the girl's hand. The situation in Berlin, frankly, is not for children. There are fires all around, in some places shells are still falling, machine guns are knocking. And the girl, imagine, is standing, looking wide-eyed, smiling ... How! She must be interested: other people's uncles are driving cars, new, unfamiliar songs are sung ...

And now I don’t know why, but this little blond German girl suddenly reminded me of my Leningrad orphanage friend. And I remembered the bag.

“Well, I think now it is possible. Completed the task. Fascists defeated. Berlin took. I have every right to see what is there ... "

I reach into my pocket, into my tunic, and pull out the package. Of course, there are no traces left of its former splendor. He was all crumpled, torn, smoky, smelled of gunpowder ...

I unfold the bag, and there ... Yes, there, frankly, there is nothing special. It's just a handkerchief. An ordinary handkerchief with a red and green border. Garus, or something, tied. Or something else. I don't know, I'm not an expert in these matters. In a word, this very lady's handkerchief, as you called it.

And the colonel once again pulled out of his pocket and smoothed out on his knee his small handkerchief, hemmed in red and green herringbone.

This time, I looked at him with completely different eyes. After all, in fact, it was not an easy handkerchief.

I even touched it gently with my finger.

"Yes," continued the Colonel, smiling. - This very rag lay wrapped in checkered notebook paper. And a note was pinned to it. And on the note, in huge clumsy letters with incredible errors, scrawled:

“Happy New Year, dear uncle fighter! With new happiness! I give you a handkerchief. When you're in Berlin, wave it to me, please. And when I find out that our Berlins have been taken, I also look out the window and wave my hand to you. My mother gave me this handkerchief when she was alive. I only blew my nose into it once, but don't be shy, I washed it. I wish you good health! Hooray!!! Forward! To Berlin! Lida Gavrilova.

Well... I won't hide it, I cried. I didn’t cry from childhood, I had no idea what kind of tears such a thing was, I lost my wife and daughter during the war years, and then there were no tears, but here - on you, please! - the winner, I enter the defeated capital of the enemy, and the cursed tears run down my cheeks like that. Nerves, of course... After all, victory did not come into your own hands. I had to work before our tanks rumbled through the streets and lanes of Berlin ...

Two hours later I was at the Reichstag. By this time, our people had already hoisted the red Soviet banner over its ruins.

Of course, and I went up to the roof. The view from there is, I must say, scary. Everywhere fire, smoke, still shooting in some places is going on. And people have happy, festive faces, people hug, kiss ...

And then, on the roof of the Reichstag, I remembered Lidochkin's order.

“No, I think as you wish, but you must definitely do it if she asked.”

I ask some young officer:

“Listen,” I say, “lieutenant, where will the east be here?

“And who knows him,” he says. Here you can’t tell the right hand from the left, let alone ...

Fortunately, one of our watches turned out to have a compass. He showed me where the east is. And I turned in that direction and waved my white handkerchief there several times. And it seemed to me, you know, that far, far from Berlin, on the banks of the Neva, a little girl Lida is now standing and also waving her thin hand to me and also rejoicing at our great victory and the world we have conquered ...

The Colonel straightened his handkerchief on his knee, smiled and said:

- Here. And you say - ladies. No, you are wrong. This handkerchief is very dear to my soldier's heart. That's why I carry it with me like a talisman...

I sincerely apologized to my companion and asked if he knew where this girl Lida was now and what was the matter with her.

- Lida, you say, where now? Yes. I know a little. Lives in the city of Kazan. On Kirovskaya street. Studying in eighth grade. An excellent pupil. Komsomolskaya Pravda. Currently, hopefully, waiting for his father.

- How! Did she have a father?

- Yes. Found some...

What does "some" mean? Wait, where is he now?

Yes, he is sitting in front of you. Are you surprised? There is nothing surprising. In the summer of 1945, I adopted Lida. And not at all, you know, I do not repent. My daughter is lovely...

Bulbul.

Fighting in Stalingrad does not subside. The Nazis are rushing to the Volga.

Some fascist pissed off Sergeant Noskov. Our trenches and the Nazis here passed side by side. Speech is heard from trench to trench.

The fascist sits in his shelter, shouting:

Rus, tomorrow bul-bul!

That is, he wants to say that tomorrow the Nazis will break through to the Volga, throw the defenders of Stalingrad into the Volga.

The fascist sits, does not stick out. Only a voice from the trench comes:

Rus, tomorrow bul-bul. - And clarifies: - Bul-bul at Volga.

This "boom-boo" is getting on the nerves of Sergeant Noskov.

Others are calm. Some of the soldiers even chuckle. And Noskov:

Eka, damn Fritz! Yes, show yourself. Let me take a look at you.

The Hitlerite just leaned out. Noskov looked, other soldiers looked. Reddish. Ospovat. Ears up. The cap on the crown miraculously holds.

The fascist leaned out and again:

Bool-boo!

One of our soldiers grabbed a rifle. He jumped up and took aim.

Don't touch! Noskov said sternly.

The soldier looked at Noskov in surprise. Shrugged. Pulled out the rifle.

Until the very evening, the eared German croaked: “Rus, tomorrow bul-bul. Tomorrow at Volga.

By evening, the fascist soldier fell silent.

“He fell asleep,” they understood in our trenches. Gradually, our soldiers began to doze. Suddenly they see someone starting to crawl out of the trench. They look - Sergeant Noskov. And behind him is his best friend, Private Turyanchik. My friends-friends got out of the trench, clung to the ground, crawled to the German trench.

The soldiers woke up. They are perplexed. Why did Noskov and Turyanchik suddenly go to visit the Nazis? The soldiers look there, to the west, their eyes break in the dark. The soldiers began to worry.

But someone said:

Brothers, crawl back.

The second confirmed:

That's right, they're coming back.

The soldiers peered - right. Creep, hugging the ground, friends. Just not two of them. Three. The fighters took a closer look: the third fascist soldier, the same one - "bul-bul". He just doesn't crawl. Noskov and Turyanchik drag him. A gag in the soldier's mouth.

Friends of the screamer were dragged into the trench. We rested and went on to the headquarters.

However, the road fled to the Volga. They grabbed the fascist by the hands, by the neck, they dipped him into the Volga.

Bool bool, bool bool! - shouts mischievously Turyanchik.

Bul-bool, - the fascist blows bubbles. Shaking like an aspen leaf.

Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, - said Noskov. - Russian does not beat a lying person.

The soldiers handed over the prisoner to the headquarters.

He waved goodbye to the fascist Noskov.

Bull-bull, - said Turyanchik, saying goodbye.

Evil last name.

The soldier of his surname was shy. He was unlucky at birth. His surname is Trusov.

Military time. Surname catchy.

Already in the military registration and enlistment office, when a soldier was drafted into the army, the first question was:

Surname?

Trusov.

How how?

Trusov.

Y-yes ... - drawled the employees of the military registration and enlistment office.

The fighter got into the company.

What's the last name?

Private Trusov.

How how?

Private Trusov.

Y-yes ... - the commander drawled.

A soldier took on a lot of troubles from the surname. All around jokes and jokes:

Looks like your ancestor was not a hero.

In a wagon train with such a surname!

Will bring field mail. The soldiers will gather in a circle. Letters are being distributed. Names are called:

Kozlov! Sizov! Smirnov!

Everything is fine. Soldiers approach, take their letters.

Shout out:

Cowards!

Soldiers laugh all around.

The surname somehow does not fit with wartime. Woe to the soldier with this surname.

As part of his 149th separate rifle brigade, Private Trusov arrived near Stalingrad. The fighters were transported across the Volga to the right bank. The brigade went into action.

Well, Trusov, let's see what kind of soldier you are, - said the squad leader.

Trusov does not want to disgrace himself. Tries. Soldiers go on the attack. Suddenly, an enemy machine gun fired from the left. Trusov turned around. From the machine gave a turn. The enemy machine gun fell silent.

Well done! - praised the fighter squad leader.

The soldiers ran a few more steps. The machine gun fires again.

Now to the right. Trusov turned. I approached the machine gunner. Threw a grenade. And this fascist subsided.

Hero! the squad leader said.

The soldiers lay down. They are shooting with the Nazis. The fight is over. The soldiers of the killed enemies were counted. Twenty people ended up at the place where Private Trusov was firing.

Oh-oh! - broke out from the squad leader. - Well, brother, your surname is evil. Evil!

Trusov smiled.

For courage and determination in battle, Private Trusov was awarded a medal.

The medal "For Courage" hangs on the hero's chest. Whoever meets it will squint its eyes at the reward.

The first question for the soldier is now:

What is the award for, hero?

No one will ask again the name now. No one will giggle now. With malice, the word will not leave.

From now on, it is clear to the fighter: the honor of a soldier is not in the surname - the deeds of a person are painted.

Stories by Sergei Alekseev

Fascinating and interesting military history. Stories about the events taking place during the years of the Great Patriotic War.

BEAR

The soldiers of one of the Siberian divisions in those days when the division went to the front, fellow countrymen gave a little bear cub. Mishka got used to the soldier's car. Importantly went to the front.

Toptygin came to the front. The teddy bear turned out to be extremely smart. And most importantly, from birth he had a heroic character. Not afraid of bombings. It did not clog into corners during artillery shelling. He only grumbled with displeasure if the shells were bursting very close.

Mishka visited the Southwestern Front, then - as part of the troops that crushed the Nazis near Stalingrad. Then for some time he was with the troops in the rear, in the front-line reserve. Then he ended up as part of the 303rd Infantry Division on the Voronezh Front, then on the Central, again on the Voronezh. He was in the armies of generals Managarov, Chernyakhovsky, again Managarov. The teddy bear grew up during this time. It resounded in the shoulders. The bass cut through. It became a boyar fur coat.

In the battles near Kharkov, the bear distinguished himself. At the crossings he walked with a convoy in an economic column. So it was this time. There were heavy, bloody battles. Once the economic column came under a strong blow from the Nazis. The Nazis surrounded the column. The forces are unequal, it's hard for ours. The soldiers took up defense. Only the defense is weak. The Soviet soldiers would not leave.

Yes, but suddenly the Nazis hear some kind of terrible roar! "What would it be?" - guess the Nazis. Listened, watched.

Ber! Ber! Bear! someone shouted.

That's right - Mishka got up on his hind legs, growled and went to the Nazis. The Nazis did not expect, they rushed to the side. And ours hit at that moment. Escaped from the environment.

The bear walked in heroes.

He would be rewarded, - the soldiers laughed.

He received a reward: a plate of fragrant honey. Ate and growled. I licked the plate to a shine, to a shine. Added honey. Added again. Eat, eat, hero. Toptygin!

Soon the Voronezh Front was renamed the 1st Ukrainian. Together with the troops of the front, Mishka went to the Dnieper.

Bear grew up. Quite a giant. Where are the soldiers during the war to mess with such a bulk! The soldiers decided: we will come to Kyiv - we will settle him in the zoo. We will write on the cage: the bear is a well-deserved veteran and a participant in the great battle.

However, the road to Kyiv passed. Their division passed by. The bear was not left in the menagerie. Even the soldiers are happy now.

From Ukraine Mishka got to Belarus. He took part in the battles near Bobruisk, then ended up in the army, which was going to Belovezhskaya Pushcha.

Belovezhskaya Pushcha is a paradise for animals and birds. The best place in the entire planet. The soldiers decided: this is where we will leave Mishka.

That's right: under his pines. Under the fir.

That's where he is expanse.

Our troops liberated the area of ​​Belovezhskaya Pushcha. And now the hour of parting has come. Fighters and a bear are standing in a forest clearing.

Farewell, Toptygin!

Play freely!

Live, start a family!

Mishka stood in the clearing. He got up on his hind legs. Looked at the green bushes. The smell of the forest inhaled through the nose.

He went with a rolling gait into the forest. From paw to paw. From paw to paw. The soldiers look after:

Be happy, Mikhail Mikhalych!

And suddenly a terrible explosion thundered in the clearing. The soldiers ran to the explosion - dead, motionless Toptygin.

A bear stepped on a fascist mine. We checked - there are many of them in Belovezhskaya Pushcha.

The war goes on without mercy. War has no weariness.

THE STING

Our troops liberated Moldova. The Nazis were pushed back beyond the Dnieper, beyond Reut. They took Floreshty, Tiraspol, Orhei. We approached the capital of Moldova, the city of Chisinau.

Here two of our fronts advanced at once - the 2nd Ukrainian and the 3rd Ukrainian. Near Chisinau, Soviet troops were supposed to surround a large fascist group. Fulfill the fronts of the indication of the Rate. To the north and west of Chisinau, the 2nd Ukrainian Front is advancing. East and south - the 3rd Ukrainian Front. Generals Malinovsky and Tolbukhin were at the head of the fronts.

Fedor Ivanovich, - General Malinovsky calls General Tolbukhin, - how is the offensive developing?

Everything is going according to plan, Rodion Yakovlevich, - General Tolbukhin answers General Malinovsky.

Troops march forward. They bypass the enemy. Ticks begin to squeeze.

Rodion Yakovlevich, - General Tolbukhin calls General Malinovsky, - how is the environment developing?

The encirclement is proceeding normally, Fyodor Ivanovich, - General Malinovsky answers General Tolbukhin and clarifies: - Exactly according to plan, on time.

And then the giant pincers closed. Eighteen fascist divisions turned out to be in a huge bag near Chisinau. Our troops began to defeat the fascists who fell into the bag.

Satisfied Soviet soldiers:

The beast will be slammed again with a trap.

There was talk: now the fascist is not terrible, at least take it with your bare hands.

However, the soldier Igoshin had a different opinion:

A fascist is a fascist. The serpentine character is serpentine. A wolf and a wolf in a trap.

The soldiers laugh

So it was at what time!

Now another price for a fascist.

A fascist is a fascist, - again Igoshin about his own.

That's because the character is harmful!

Everything is more difficult in the bag for the Nazis. They began to surrender. They also surrendered at the site of the 68th Guards Rifle Division. Igoshin served in one of her battalions.

A group of fascists came out of the forest. Everything is as it should be: hands up, a white flag is thrown over the group.

Clear - go to surrender.

The soldiers revived, shouting to the Nazis:

Please, please! It is high time!

The soldiers turned to Igoshin:

Well, why is your fascist terrible?

Soldiers are crowding, they are looking at the Nazis going to surrender. There are newcomers in the battalion. For the first time, the Nazis are seen so close. And they, the newcomers, are also not at all afraid of the Nazis - after all, they are going to surrender.

The Nazis are getting closer, closer. Close at all. And suddenly burst burst. The Nazis began to shoot.

A lot of ours would have died. Yes, thanks to Igoshin. He kept his weapon at the ready. The retaliatory immediately opened fire. Then others helped.

The firing went off on the field. The soldiers approached Igoshin:

Thank you brother. And the fascist, look, with a snake indeed, it turns out, a sting.

The Chisinau “cauldron” brought a lot of trouble to our soldiers. The fascists rushed. They rushed in different directions. Went to deceit, to meanness. They tried to leave. But in vain. Soldiers clamped them with a heroic hand. Clamped. Squeezed. The snake's sting was pulled out.

Sergei Alekseev's stories about the war. Stories: Aerostatchik and Shock. These are stories about the exploits of the military detachment of balloonists and about the heroes of the 1st Shock Army.

AEROSTATCHIK

Among the defenders of Moscow was a detachment of balloonists. Aerostats rose into the Moscow sky. With the help of metal cables, barriers were created against Nazi bombers.

Somehow the soldiers lowered one of the balloons. The winch creaks monotonously. A steel cable, like a thread, creeps along a bobbin. With the help of this cable, the balloon is lowered. He's getting lower, lower. Ropes hang from the shell of the balloon. These are halyards. The fighters will grab the balloon now by the halyards. Holding on to the halyards, they will drag the balloon to the parking lot. Strengthen, tie him to the supports.

The balloon is huge. It looks like an elephant, like a mammoth. The colossus will obediently follow the people. This is usually. But it happens that the balloon gets stubborn. That is if there is wind. At such moments, the balloon, like a skittish steed, breaks and breaks from the leash.

That memorable day for the Veligura soldier turned out to be exactly windy.

The balloon is descending. Stands Private Veligura. There are others. Now they will grab the halyards.

Grabbed Veligur. Others didn't make it. The balloon exploded. Veligur hears some sort of pop. Then Veligura twitched. The earth moved away from my feet. The fighter looked, and he was already in the air. It turned out that the cable burst, with the help of which the balloon was lowered by the winch. Veligura dragged the balloon behind him into the skies.

Drop the files!

Drop the files! comrades shout from below to Veligure.

Veligur did not understand at first what was the matter. And when I figured it out, it's too late. The earth is far below. Higher and higher the balloon.

The soldier is holding the rope. The situation is simply tragic. How long can a person stay like that? A minute more, a minute less. Then his strength will leave. The unfortunate will collapse down.

The same would have happened with Veligura. Yes, it is clear that a fighter was born in a shirt. Although, rather, just Veligura is a resourceful fighter. He grabbed the rope with his feet. It's easier to hold on now. Spirit moved, rested. He tries to make a loop with his feet on a rope. Achieved soldier of luck. The fighter made a loop. I made a loop and sat in it. The danger has completely disappeared. Veligura cheered up. It is interesting even now to the fighter. It's the first time I've risen so high. Soars like an eagle over the steppe.

The soldier is looking at the ground. Moscow floats under it like a labyrinth of houses and streets. And here is the outskirts. The city is over. Over the countryside Veligura flies by the area. And suddenly the fighter realizes that the wind is carrying him towards the front. Here is the area of ​​battles, here is the front line.

The Nazis saw a Soviet balloon. They opened fire. Shells explode nearby. Uncomfortable balloon fighter.

That would have happened, of course, with Veligura. Yes, it is clear that a fighter was born in a shirt. Do not hurt, explosions pass by.

But the main thing - suddenly, as if on command, the wind changed direction. Veligura was carried back to Moscow. The fighter returned almost to the same place where he left. Happily descended.

The soldier lives. Unharmed. Healthy.

So it turned out that ordinary Veligura flew to the enemies in a balloon almost the same way as the famous Baron Munchausen once rode a cannonball into an enemy fortress.

Everything is fine. There is only one problem. Few believed in this flight. As soon as Veligura begins to tell, friends immediately shout:

Well, well, lie, bend, twist!

Not Veligura now Veligura. As soon as the poor fellow opens his mouth, he immediately rushes:

Baron Munchausen!

War is war. Anything happens here. It happens that they consider it a fairy tale.

IMPACT

Kharlov Ivan served as a machine gunner in the 1st Shock Army.

On November 28, 1941, the Nazis attacked the city of Yakhroma with a tank attack. Yakhroma stands exactly to the north from Moscow, on the banks of the Moscow-Volga canal. The Nazis broke into the city, went to the canal. They captured the bridge over the canal, crossed to its eastern bank.

Tank formations of the enemy bypassed Moscow from the north. The situation was difficult, almost critical.

The 1st Shock Army was ordered to stop the enemy.

Shock was drawn into the battle. Together with others in battle and Harlov. He is experienced in combat. An infantry company went on the offensive. Kharlov fell to the machine gun. Protects Soviet shooters with fire from his machine gun. Works like a Harl. Not in a hurry. In vain does not let bullets into the field. Saves ammo. Hits right on target. Shoots in short bursts. Harlov feels himself as if responsible for the life of the foot soldiers. As if every extra death on his account.

Good for fighters under such protection.

And suddenly a fragment of a fascist mine mangled the barrel of a machine gun near Kharlov.

Broke off, the fire died out.

And the enemy goes on the attack again. Harlov looks - the Nazis took advantage of the fact that his machine gun died down, pushed the cannon forward. The cannon is about to hit our company. Kharlov's hands clenched into fists from resentment. Then he stood for a moment and suddenly crouched down on the ground, pressed himself and somehow like a crab, sideways, taking a little bypass, crawled towards the enemy cannon.

The soldiers saw it and froze.

"Fathers, certain death!"

The soldiers glared at Harlov. This is closer to the Harlov cannon, this is closer. Here it is, quite close. Got up in height. Swung. Threw a grenade. Destroyed the fascist calculation.

The soldiers didn't hold back.

Hooray for Harlov!

Well, Ivan Andreich, now run.

They just shouted, they see: fascist tanks came out from behind the hillock and go straight to Kharlov.

Run! the soldiers shout again.

However, something Harlov is delaying. Doesn't run away.

The soldiers took a closer look.

Look, look! one shouts.

The soldiers see - Harlov turns a fascist cannon towards the tanks. Unfolded. Crouched down. Got on target.

Shot. The fascist tank caught fire. The hero knocked out two tanks. The rest turned aside.

The battle continued until the evening. The Shock Army of the Nazis threw back the canal again. Restored the position here.

Satisfied soldiers:

How else! That's why Shock!

How could it be otherwise, since there are people like Harlov.

The story of Sergei Alekseev Berlin celebrity is a story about the famous Soviet sniper during the Great Patriotic War, about Vasily Zaitsev.

BERLIN CELEBRITY

There were many famous snipers on the Stalingrad front: Viktor Medvedev, Gilfan Avzalov, Anatoly Chekhov ... The most famous is Vasily Zaitsev. Almost three hundred killed Nazis on account of the famous sniper.

The Nazis decided to destroy the well-aimed shooter. They put a big reward on whoever kills a Soviet sniper. Only cautious, experienced Zaitsev. The Nazis are unable to determine from where, from what place the soldier is shooting. Changes fighter positions. Today he sits in a trench. Tomorrow it will hide behind the masonry of the cellar. From the windows of the broken house he shoots on the third day. Climbing under the belly of a burned-out tank, it hits the enemy for the fourth.

The promised reward does not help. There is no shooter among the Nazis near Stalingrad who would be equal to Vasily Zaitsev.

The Nazis increased the reward. Hunters are everywhere. Only no luck. There is no shooter among the Germans near Stalingrad who could overpower Zaitsev.

Too bad for the fascists. The Nazi commanders remembered that in Berlin there was a famous German shooter, Major Konings, the head of the school of fascist snipers. Conings was urgently summoned to Stalingrad. A Berlin sniper arrived on a special plane.

Konings learned the name of the Russian craftsman.

Zaitsev? Ho-ho! - laughed.

A resourceful one was found among the German soldiers:

Major, there is Medvedev among them!

And Viktor Medvedev really after Vasily

Zaitsev was the most accurate shooter at the front.

The Berlin guest understood the joke:

Oh-oh!

Conings is tall and broad-shouldered. On the neck is the Iron Cross.

German soldiers look at Konings - that's who will do away with Zaitsev. And at the same time with Medvedev, Avzalov, Chekhov ...

And now Major Conings and Vasily Zaitsev met in a sniper fight.

Careful, the very caution of Conings. Zaitsev is even more careful.

Glazast Conings. Zaitsev is even more big-eyed.

Patient Conings. Zaitsev is even more patient.

For four days the arrows sat in front of each other. They were waiting to see who would give himself away first, who would be the first to make a mistake.

Conings goes to various tricks. Everything is trying to make the Soviet sniper lean out for at least a second from behind the shelter. And Zaitsev is thinking the same thing: how to force Major Conings to leave his hiding place for a second.

Heather Conings. Zaitsev is even more cunning. He called the soldier Nikolai Kulikov to him, instructed: sit, they say, next to me. Take a stick, put a helmet on a stick, stick it out of the trench a little. If a shot is fired, throw up your hands, scream and fall.

It's clear?

It's clear! - the soldier answered.

Kulikov put his helmet out of the trench, and immediately on the helmet - a bullet. As agreed, Kulikov threw up his hands, cried out and fell to the bottom of the trench. Glad Conings to his luck. I am sure that struck Zaitsev. He was curious to look: he stuck his head out from behind the shelter, looked. I looked, and immediately a bullet from Vasily Zaitsev struck down Major Conings.

A Berlin celebrity lies motionless on Stalingrad land. On the neck, the Iron Cross sticks out like a grave cross.

Sergey Alekseev's stories about the Great Patriotic War. Interesting, informative and unusual stories about the behavior of soldiers, fighters during the war.

GARDENERS

It was shortly before the Battle of Kursk. Reinforcements arrived in the infantry unit.

The foreman walked around the fighters. Walks along the line. Next comes the corporal. Holds a pencil and notebook in his hands.

The foreman looked at the first of the fighters:

Can you plant potatoes?

Can you plant potatoes?

- I can! the soldier said loudly.

- Two steps forward.

The soldier is out of order.

“Write to the gardeners,” said the foreman to the corporal.

Can you plant potatoes?

- I haven't tried it.

- I didn't have to, but if I had to...

“Enough,” said the foreman.

The fighters stepped forward. Anatoliy Skurko found himself in the ranks of able-bodied soldiers. The soldier Skurko wonders: where are they who know how? “To plant potatoes is so late in time. (Summer has already begun to play with might and main.) If you dig it, then it’s very early in time.

The soldier Skurko is guessing. And other fighters wonder:

- Plant potatoes?

- Sow carrots?

— Cucumbers for the staff canteen?

The foreman looked at the soldier.

“Well, then,” said the foreman. - From now on, you will be in the miners, - and hands mines to the soldiers.

The dashing foreman noticed that the one who knows how to plant potatoes puts mines faster and more reliably.

Soldier Skurko chuckled. Other soldiers could not help but smile.

The gardeners got to work. Of course, not immediately, not at the same moment. Planting mines is not an easy task. Soldiers have undergone special training.

Miners extended minefields and barriers for many kilometers to the north, south, west of Kursk. On the first day of the Battle of Kursk alone, more than a hundred fascist tanks and self-propelled guns were blown up in these fields and barriers.

The miners are coming.

How are you, gardeners?

- Full order in everything.

UNUSUAL OPERATION

Mokapka Zyablov was amazed. Something strange was going on at the station. The boy lived with his grandfather and grandmother near the town of Sudzhi in a small workers' settlement at the Lokinskaya station. He was the son of a hereditary railway worker.

Mokapka liked to hang around the station for hours. Especially these days. One by one trains come here. Bringing military equipment. Mokapka knows that our troops beat the Nazis near Kursk. Chasing enemies to the west. Although small, but with the mind of Mokapka, he sees that trains are coming here. He understands: it means that here, in these places, a further offensive is planned.

Trains are coming, locomotives are puffing. Soldiers unload military cargo.

Mokapka was spinning somehow near the tracks. He sees: a new echelon has arrived. Tanks are on platforms. A lot of. The boy began to count the tanks. Looked closely - and they are wooden. How to fight them?!

The boy rushed to his grandmother.

“Wooden,” he whispers, “tanks.

- Really? Grandma threw up her hands. Rushed to grandfather:

- Wooden, grandfather, tanks. Raised the old eyes on the grandson. The boy ran to the station. Looks: the train is coming again. The composition stopped. Mockup looked - the guns are on the platforms. A lot of. No less than there were tanks.

Mokapka took a closer look - after all, the guns are also, in any way, wooden! Instead of trunks - round timbers stick out.

The boy rushed to his grandmother.

“Wooden,” he whispers, “cannons.

- Really? .. - Grandma threw up her hands. Rushed to grandfather:

- Wooden, grandfather, guns.

“Something new,” said the grandfather.

A lot of incomprehensible things were going on at the station then. Arrived somehow boxes with shells. Mountains have grown of these boxes. Satisfied Mockup:

- It's great to pour our fascists!

And suddenly he finds out: empty boxes at the station. “Why such-and-such and whole mountains?!” the boy guesses.

And here is something completely incomprehensible. Troops are coming. A lot of. The column hurries after the column. They go in the open, they come in the dark.

The boy has an easy temper. I got to know the soldiers right away. Until dark, everything was spinning around. In the morning he again runs to the soldiers. And then he finds out: the soldiers left these places at night.

Mockapka is standing, guessing again.

Mokapka did not know that ours used a military trick under Sudzha.

The Nazis are conducting reconnaissance from aircraft for the Soviet troops. They see: trains come to the station, they bring tanks, they bring guns.

The Nazis also notice mountains of boxes with shells. They detect that troops are moving here. A lot of. A column follows a column. The Nazis see how the troops are approaching, but the enemy does not know that they are leaving unnoticed from here at night.

"... while the sun is shining, people will not forget the nationwide feat in the Great Patriotic War" Yu. O. Zbanatsky, Hero of the Soviet Union

For our generation, parents have a question: “Should we talk to children about the war?” didn't exist. The war was still a part of life, the words "before the war" and "during the war" were the most common in daily family communication. And Victory Day was not pretentious and noisy, it was not always festive either. On this day, they went to the cemetery, cried a lot, remembering the dead and the hard life that lasted 4 years.

Among the books that we read, books about the war firmly occupied the leading positions. They were cognitive, they were also the main educators of spiritual qualities. There were not very many books, we mostly borrowed them from school libraries, and there was no strict division of books by age groups.

Everyone read what he could master - understand and pass through himself. The authors of these books were those who saw everything they described with their own eyes. And in those years, the question of trust in what was written in these books could not even occur to anyone.

But years have passed. We learned that the literature of the Soviet years was the subject of the most severe political censorship. We read a lot of books written in different years, lain in writers' desks and immediately became available for reading in the 80s and 90s.

It is known that there are many myths about the war - Soviet, which are still used by official propaganda, and "opposition", anti-Soviet. Researchers argue that both myths are often equidistant from the truth, sometimes they are in the middle, and sometimes they are “outside” altogether.

And the reader, especially the child, needs to be told the truth. And in this sense, it seems that it is the books written by the authors - participants in the events and published in the war and the first post-war years (maybe cleared of censorship corrections of later editions) that are the most truthful books.

Now there are such sentiments: either - everything that is written about the war bears the stamp of the Soviet doctrine and therefore causes rejection, or - books in which human pain and tragic experiences are concentrated are unnecessarily traumatic.

Here, first to parents, and then to the most modern growing person, decide whether the theme of the Great Patriotic War is important for his reading. And it is up to the publishers to offer the current generation the best books about the war in the form of an undistorted author's text.

For the 70th anniversary of the Victory in the Great Patriotic War, publishing houses have selected the best books for reprinting. CLEVER publishing house releases a series « Best War Books « , Publishing house Eksmo series "Victory Day". "Classics of military literature" , Scooter called the new "military" series - « How it was « , publishing house Speech - a similar title of the series - " That's how it was" .

I will tell here about several writers who wrote about the war for children, whose books I read in my post-war childhood.

A.P. Gaidar

Arkady Gaidar was already at the front when his fairy tale appeared in the Murzilka magazine for 1941 "Hot Stone" . He wrote it in April of the same year, shortly before the start of World War II.

On the second day after the start of the Great Patriotic War, Arkady Gaidar began work on the script "Oath of Timur" . It was an urgent task from the Film Committee. On July 19, 1941, the Pionerskaya Pravda newspaper began printing Timur's Oath.

A day later, Arkady Gaidar left for the front. At the very beginning of the war, all writers began with journalism, A. Gaidar was in the army as a correspondent for Komsomolskaya Pravda. Wrote military essays "At the Crossing", "Bridge", "At the Front Line", "Rockets and Grenades", "War and Children". In October 1941, A. Gaidar died.

Norshtein Yu. B. (famous cartoonist) to the question: - Which of the authors influenced you in childhood? - Of course, Gaidar. This is an absolutely outstanding personality in literature. Today, hardly anyone can understand the phenomenon of Gaidar, who was published in a circulation of one and a half million copies. He very subtly felt the psychology of the child, was fluent in words, easily in Pushkin's way, and reading his books was a powerful literary school.

Lev Kassil and his children's books about the war

First there were stories about the war. Some of them are collected in the book Kassil Lev Abramovich "Stories about the war". The stories collected in this book were written by Lev Kassil during the Great Patriotic War. Behind each of them is a real story, they are all written on the basis of facts, they tell about what really happened.

"Tale of the Absent" . 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 his life to save the lives of other people. This story is written on the basis of a real event, which was mentioned in a letter sent to the Radio Committee.

"Communication line" . The story was written at the beginning of the war and is dedicated to the memory of a soldier, whose feat was mentioned in one of the front-line messages of that time.

green branch . Written at the beginning of the war on the basis of the writer's personal front-line impressions. The story is dedicated to Svetlana Leonidovna Sobinova, the wife of the writer.

"Hold on, captain!" During the war years, the writer visited hospitals where wounded children lay. The incident described in the story actually happened.

"Flammable Cargo" . This story is also based on a true story told to the author by a Stavropol teacher. But the characters of the characters, the very course of events and the details, of course, are thought out by the writer.

"At the blackboard, Marks of Rimma Lebedeva. Written in the early years of the war, repeatedly broadcast on the radio. Also in the collection of short stories: Fedya from the submarine”, “Barabasik”, “Battery Hare” .

Clever publishing house released a book for the 70th anniversary of the victory "Street of the youngest son" L. Kassil, M. Polyanovsky. This is a book about the hero of the Great Patriotic War, partisan boy Volodya Dubinin, who fought in a partisan detachment, died heroically along with adults ... And it was this book that stood on my bookshelf and was read almost to the holes - a favorite childhood book.

In 1944, front-line correspondent Max Polyanovsky came from the front from the liberated Kerch to the publishing house. In the hands of an unsurpassed master of reportage was a plump folder, stuffed to the laces with rough notes, clippings from army newspapers.

He came for advice and help. In the torn but unsubdued city, he learned and collected the first information about the Kerch boy, a pioneer scout, a young fighter of a partisan detachment in the Starokarantinsky quarries Volodya Dubinin.

A touching and tragic story. It is impossible not to tell the children about it. But Max Leonidovich frankly admitted: - I can't do it alone. I am not a children's writer. The publishing house staff invited a well-known children's writer: Kassil! Yes, only Kassil.

Their joint work lasted more than three years. Collection of materials, accumulation and study of everything that is somehow connected with the life of a young hero. Meetings, trips, inquiries. In a painful search, the plot and composition of the story were born.

"Street of the Youngest Son" was published in 1949 and at the same time received the highest state award (Stalinist). They write about this book, for example, on Wikipedia, that the authors of the book were forced to remove from the text or replace with other plants all references to cypresses at the request of the Crimean regional party committee, in connection with the campaign carried out at that time to please Stalin to cut down these trees on the peninsula.

It should also be noted that L. Kassil was a draftsman at heart. Having composed a story, novel, essay or story, he saw the "image" of his future book in all its illustrative beauty. The first edition of the book "Street of the youngest son" was designed according to the sketches of the writer.

« My dear boys « - a book about the life of teenagers in a small Volga town during the Great Patriotic War. This is a story of difficulties, dangers and adventures - fictional and very real. A story about friendship, courage and perseverance - about how you can overcome any difficulties and win in the most difficult circumstances.

"Great Confrontation" is a book about friendship and calling, about courage, inner strength and civic duty.

An ordinary Moscow schoolgirl quite unexpectedly finds herself in the world of cinema and turns into an Ustya partisan, a participant in the Patriotic War of 1812. A few years later, the matured girl is already fighting for real: the Great Patriotic War began, and the whole country stood up to defend its borders.

“The world of the child in the book is shown very authentically. All the experiences, dreams, reasoning of the girl are told in such a way that you believe them recklessly. The narration is conducted in the first person, confidentially, easily and you forget that this is a fictional story, it is perceived as a diary of a real-life schoolgirl ... This is an honest book about pre-war-military childhood and youth, very bright, with a certain amount of romance. There is in it the first love, and the first disappointments, there are heroic pages, there are insults ... Everything is there, as in life, only there is no boredom.

This edition contains illustrations by Vladimir Leonidovich Galdyaev. The artist managed to reflect the growing up of the main character, a sincere, courageous and touching girl, to show her unusual and at the same time - extremely truthful fate.

And one more event of the war years is connected with the name of L. Kassil: on March 26, 1943, the Week of Children's Book was held in Moscow for the first time, which Lev Kassil called "Book Week" . Since 1944, this holiday has become All-Union. Children's Book Week is still held annually in schools, libraries and clubs across the country.

B. Polevoy and his "The Tale of a Real Man"

He began working as a journalist in 1928 under the patronage of Maxim Gorky. During the Great Patriotic War, B.N. Polevoy was in the army as a correspondent for Pravda. He was the first to write about the feat of the 83-year-old peasant Matvey Kuzmich Kuzmin, who repeated, according to the writer, the feat of Ivan Susanin.

Military impressions formed the basis of B. Polevoy's books: "From Belgorod to the Carpathians" (1945), "We are Soviet people" (1948), "Gold" (1949-1950), as well as four books of military memoirs "These Four Years" . Less well known are the materials about his presence at the Nuremberg trials as a correspondent for the newspaper Pravda - In the End (1969).

But the main glory of B. Polevoy and the Stalin Prize was brought by the book written in 19 days, dedicated to the feat of the pilot A.P. Maresyev (in Meresyev’s book), which was published in 1946.

Meresyev was shot down in action during the Great Patriotic War. After a serious injury, doctors amputated both of his legs. But he decided that he would fly.

When Boris Polevoy's The Tale of a Real Man was published in 1946, many people learned about the legless hero pilot Alexei Maresyev. And after a film with the same name was shown on the screens of the country in mid-October 1948, Maresyev turned into a legend. He himself lived until 2001.

This book has never had claims of "untruth". Until 1954 alone, the total circulation of its publications amounted to 2.34 million copies. Based on the story, the opera of the same name by Sergei Prokofiev was also staged.

E. Ilyina and her "Fourth Height"

The real name of the writer is Liya Yakovlevna Preis, nee Marshak, she is the sister of S. Ya. Marshak. She graduated from the verbal department of the Leningrad Institute of Art History in 1926, made her debut in print in 1925 with a story in a magazine and her first book.

Later she published in children's magazines. During the years of Stalinist repressions, she was arrested on charges of anti-Soviet activities, spent many years in camps and prisons. Author of several books, but the most famous book "The Fourth Height" about the young actress Gulya Koroleva, published in 1946.

In 1941, Gulya Koroleva was evacuated to Ufa, where she gave birth to a son and, leaving him in the care of her mother, volunteered for the front in the medical battalion. In the spring of 1942, the division went to the front in the Stalingrad region.

On November 23, 1942, during the battle, she took out 50 wounded soldiers from the battlefield, and when the commander was killed, she raised the soldiers to attack, the first broke into the enemy trench, killed 15 German soldiers and officers with several throws of grenades. She was mortally wounded, but continued to fight until reinforcements arrived.

In the preface to the book The Fourth Height, Elena Ilyina wrote:

“The story of this short life is not made up. I knew the girl about whom this book was written when she was a child, I also knew her as a pioneer schoolgirl, a Komsomol member. I had to meet Gulya Koroleva in the days of the Patriotic War. And then in her life, which I did not manage to see for myself, the stories of her parents, teachers, girlfriends, and counselors made up for it. Her comrades-in-arms told me about her life at the front. I was also lucky to read her letters, starting with the earliest - on the lined pages of a school notebook - and ending with the latest, hastily written on sheets of notebook in between fights. All this helped me to learn how to see with my own eyes all of Gulin's bright and intense life, to imagine not only what she said and did, but also what she thought and felt.

L. Voronkova and her "Girl from the city"

Lyubov Fedorovna Voronkova is a famous first journalist, then a writer, author of many children's books and a cycle of historical stories for children.

Her first children's book, Shurka, was published in 1940. "Girl from the City" - a story written in the harsh year of 1943. All the best in a person is most clearly manifested in the years of severe trials. This is confirmed by the story of the little refugee Valentinka, who found herself among strangers in an unfamiliar village. Many readers remember that this is a book about "a girl in a blue bonnet."

From the reviews:

"A very necessary book, so that the children would know what a hard life was during the war, that they would appreciate what they have and enjoy a peaceful life."

“I think this book is a must-read as a child. It is not just about the war, it is about the other side of the war: not about heroism on the battlefield, but about the heroism of ordinary people, each of whom was touched by the war.

V. Kataev and his "Son of the Regiment"

By the beginning of the war, Kataev Valentin Petrovich was already an experienced well-known writer who had been publishing since the 1920s, the novel “Time, Forward!” had already been written. (1932), the well-known story "The Lonely Sail Turns White" (1936), "I, the son of the working people ..." (1937)

A story written by Valentin Kataev in 1944, for which Valentin Kataev was awarded the Stalin Prize in 1946.

The idea of ​​the story "The Son of the Regiment" began to take shape with Kataev in 1943, when he worked as a front-line correspondent. Once the writer noticed a boy dressed in a soldier's uniform: the tunic, riding breeches and boots were real, but sewn specifically for the child. From a conversation with the commander, Kataev learned that the boy - hungry, angry and feral - was found by the scouts in the dugout. The child was taken to the unit, where he took root and became his own.

Later, the writer came across similar stories more than once:

“I realized that this is not an isolated case, but a typical situation: soldiers are warming up abandoned, homeless children, orphans who are lost or whose parents have died.”

The orphan boy Vanya Solntsev, by the will of fate, ended up in a military unit with scouts. His stubborn character, pure soul and boyish courage were able to overcome the resistance of the harsh military people and helped him stay at the front, become the son of a regiment.

The image of Vanya Solntsev is charming because, having become a real soldier, the hero has not lost his childishness. It was Kataev who was the first in Soviet literature who decided to tell about the war through the perception of a child. Books about heroic pioneers and the story "Street of the Youngest Son" by Lev Kassil and Max Polyanovsky appeared later.

V. Oseeva and her trilogy "Vasek Trubachev and his comrades"

Valentina Aleksandrovna Oseeva-Khmeleva is a children's writer. In 1924-1940 she worked as a teacher and educator in children's communes and reception centers for homeless children. During the evacuation during the Great Patriotic War, she worked as a kindergarten teacher. She debuted with a short story in 1937, with her first book published in 1940.

With special kindness and cordiality, V. A. Oseeva warmed the works from the life of adolescents of the military and post-war period, where their amazing spiritual beauty is revealed. This is a twelve-year-old boy in the clothes of a craftsman, who dreams of replacing his older brother, who went to the front (“Andrey”), and the orphan Kocheryzhka, who found a second family, found by a soldier Vasily Voronov on the battlefield (“Kotcheryzhka”), and second-grader Tanya, respectfully referred to by those around her as Tatyana Petrovna ("Tatiana Petrovna").

In 1943, the writer began work on a book, to which she devoted several years of hard work. The trilogy "Vasek Trubachev and his comrades" is a novel-cycle of three independent books. They were originally published separately, as they were written from 1947 to 1951.

The first book is pre-war 1941.

The second book is a summer trip to Ukraine in June 1941, where the children are caught by the war. By a fatal accident, not all the guys can be evacuated from the Chervony Zirki collective farm. The pioneers who remained in the occupation actively help the partisans. Then they are evacuated.

In the third book, the guys return to their hometown, help the wounded, restore the school, and work in the rear.

The heroes of the book "Vasek Trubachev and his comrades" are quite ordinary boys. They have enough problems and shortcomings, they are far from perfect. They learn to be friends. Learn to forgive each other's mistakes. They learn to understand the still alien world of adults - parents and teachers. But first of all, they learn to be good people ...

In 1952, the story was awarded the State Prize of the USSR. The heroes of this book have invariably aroused the interest of each new rising generation for many years.

From the reviews:

“... in my opinion, this is one of the best books about the war, and about the participation of children in the war”, “... of course, today you understand that books are kind, but naive. They correspond to the era in which they were written, and we lived. With all the disadvantages of that time, we believed in a “bright future”, people were kinder ...”, “... a book about Vaska Trubachev, in my opinion, should be included in the secondary school curriculum. The story not only teaches children what good and evil are, but also vividly tells about all the hardships that children of wartime had to endure. Thanks to such books, modern children begin to appreciate what they have. “... how the book is subtly written, how well the characters of the boys are conveyed. How nicely it shows what is good and what is bad. No moralizing, the reflections of children are shown so talentedly.

A few more authors and works for children, telling about the courage and heroism shown in the war by Soviet soldiers, about heroism in the war and in the rear of adults and children

V. Kaverin(in children's literature he is best known for the novel " Two captains“, written by him in 1938-1944, there is also a large piece dedicated to the war): "From the Diary of a Tanker", "House on the Hill", "Three", "Russian Boy";

L. Sobolev: « Sea soul", "Battalion of four", "Cannon without a fly" ;

K. Simonov "Infantrymen";

L. Panteleev: "On the skiff", "Marinka" ;

V. Bogomolov "Ivan";

R. Fraerman "Vanina's starling" ;

K. Paustovsky "Warm bread",

S. Zarechnaya "Eaglet"(about Alexander Chekalin) and "Warm heart" (about Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya);

L. Uspensky "Skobar";

A. Beck "Panfilov's men at the first line" ;

M. Prilezhaeva "Seventh Graders" ;

N. Rakovskaya "Boy from Leningrad" ;

N. Chukovsky "Submarine chaser" ;

G. Matveev "Green Chains" .

For modern readers, military stories are combined into collections of different authors. There is, for example, this one: "From Moscow to Berlin" Children's Literature Publishing House, School Library series

The collection includes more than fifty stories by famous writers: L. Kassil, V. Kaverin, N. Tikhonov, L. Panteleev, A. Mityaev, L. Solovyov, V. Ganichev and other authors about the Great Patriotic War. Victory was forged at the front and in the rear, ordinary soldiers and famous commanders, pilots and tankers, scouts and sailors, partisans and boys who stood up for their father's machines in factories. Introduction by A. N. Tolstoy.

In 2015, a collection was published « In the name of the Great Victory. Poems and stories about the Great Patriotic War» .

The book includes poems and stories of poets and writers, eyewitnesses of the Great Patriotic War. They told us about those terrible and great events, about the heroism of a simple person.

Children read adult books

The military-heroic theme was the main one in the work of all writers in the post-war years. And it was impossible to draw a line between adult and children's literature. So:

"Star" by E. Kazakevich.

A. Tvardovsky.

"The Seagull" N. Biryukov and many other books that were not intended for schoolchildren, nevertheless, immediately entered their reading.

There were two more books on my shelf - not at all for children. But they were read many times, so I don’t remember when it was the first time, but it’s definitely still in childhood.

A. Fadeev "Young guard"

Alexander Fadeev wrote his first serious work - the story "Spill" in 1922-1923.

In 1925-1926, while working on the novel Defeat, he decided to become a professional writer. The “rout” brought fame and recognition to the young writer, but after this work he could no longer pay attention to literature alone, becoming a prominent literary leader and public figure.

His life was not at all smooth, contradictory, and his main book is also associated with many controversial discussions and events.

D. Medvedev "Strong in spirit"

Dmitry Nikolaevich Medvedev - commander of the partisan reconnaissance and sabotage detachment "Pobediteli", operating on the territory of the Rivne and Lvov regions of the occupied Ukrainian SSR, colonel.

From an early age he worked at a factory, as a young man he joined the Red Guard, took part in the Civil War of 1918-20. In 1920-35 he worked in the bodies of the Cheka - OGPU - NKVD of Ukraine. Was on intelligence work abroad. He worked in the NKVD, but twice he was fired from there, the second time at the end of 1939, at the age of 41, he retired. In June 1941, L.P. Beria, who at one time fired Medvedev, will issue an order to reinstate him in the state security agencies.

During the Great Patriotic War, D.N. Medvedev was sent behind enemy lines to participate in the partisan movement. In August 1941, D. N. Medvedev organized in his native places - in the Bryansk forests - the partisan detachment "Mitya", which operated on the territory of the Smolensk, Oryol, Mogilev regions. In the battles, Dmitry Nikolaevich was twice wounded and shell-shocked.

Soon he receives a new responsible task: Captain Medvedev forms a group of volunteers to work deep behind enemy lines. This is how the partisan detachment "Winners" was created. Operating from June 1942 to March 1944 on the territory of the Rivne and Lvov regions of Ukraine, the detachment of D. N. Medvedev conducted 120 major battles, in which up to 2 thousand German soldiers and officers were eliminated, including 11 generals and senior state officials of Nazi Germany. 81 echelons with manpower and equipment were blown up.

During the period of its activity, the "Winners" detachment created 10 new partisan detachments. Dmitry Medvedev had the title of Hero of the Soviet Union.

The book "Strong in Spirit" (It was near Rivne) is a story about the legendary intelligence officer Nikolai Kuznetsov and the heroes of past battles, interestingly documented historical facts, imbued with the eternal memory of courageous and strong-willed people.

“It was near Rivne” , published in 1948, reprinted in the original in 1970, reprinted in an expanded and revised edition as "Strong-willed" in 1951 and since then only in the USSR it has been published more than 50 times, in 2005 it was last published in Russia. There are only second-hand books on sale now, but there are many of them, and, of course, this book is in libraries.

“The main thing in the book is the truth of life. The truth is in everything: in documentary authenticity, in the absence of speculation, in the simplicity and accuracy of the language, without literary "beauties" and those overly detailed descriptions that cause mistrust. The truth is in the sincerity and interest of the author himself, for Medvedev led the people he writes about, was responsible for them with his life and honor. This interest, felt in every word, in every intonation, attaches the reader to what is happening, creates his inner connection with the author. A. Tsessarsky (one of the participants in the events).

Nikolai Ivanovich Kuznetsov, fluent in German, performed special assignments as an agent since 1938. In the summer of 1942, under the name of Nikolai Grachev, he was sent to the Pobediteli special forces detachment under the command of Colonel Dmitry Medvedev, who settled near the occupied city of Rovno. The Reichskommissariat of Ukraine was located in this city.

Since October 1942, Kuznetsov, under the name of a German officer Paul Siebert, with documents of an employee of the secret German police, conducted intelligence activities in Rivne, constantly communicated with Wehrmacht officers, special services, senior officials of the occupation authorities, passing information to the partisan detachment.

For me, this was the first book (and then films) about scouts.

At the end of the topic

For many years, one of the most active authors writing about that war for children was Sergey Alekseev. So, in the wake of the anniversary reprints of the best books from Soviet childhood for the anniversary of the Victory, the publishing house "Children's Literature" published a series of stories by Sergei Alekseev about the Great Patriotic War.

These stories are intended for fairly young children - seven or nine years old - and maybe even 5-6 year olds will be interested. The stories are collected in six books, each of which is dedicated to one of the important events of the war:

First - Moscow battle ,

The stories in the book are small, on a page or two, in large print, there are many bright pictures, there are also maps of military operations placed on the endpapers for young historians advanced in the subject. So it turns out a fairly thorough immersion in the history of the war on the material available to elementary school students.

Sergei Alekseev portrays the war somewhere on the very fine line between a fairy tale, real history and a saga, and thus easily keeps children's attention and interest from book to book. Along the way, readers memorize new geographical names for themselves, the names of heroes and commanders, and types of weapons. And they already have a good idea of ​​​​the main events of the Great Patriotic War.

And that specific language, which at first can confuse adults with its solemnity and in some places with excessive pathos, characteristic of military books of the 50s, as they say in the reviews, does not bother children at all. Moreover, they like it for its chanting, long phrases and strange syntax, as if it were actually an epic or a saga.

CLEVER's Best War Books series begins with a book Victor Dragunsky. Viktor Dragunsky was a representative of the Moscow intelligentsia, who was not subject to conscription - he was asthmatic - and went into the militia. Got surrounded. Miraculously survived. The book "He Fell on the Grass" is an autobiographical book.

Tell us in the comments what books about the Great Patriotic War you read to children, or they read themselves. What did they like, will the children read more about this page in the history of Russia, Ukraine and other countries of the former USSR.

Review prepared by Anna