Stories for schoolchildren about the Great Patriotic War. Kassil

The recipient, straightening up, carefully took the order and box into his hands. He thanked him abruptly and turned around clearly, as if in formation, although his wounded leg hampered him. For a second he stood indecisive, looking first at the order lying in his palm, then at his comrades in glory gathered here. Then he straightened up again.

— May I speak?

- Please.

“Comrade commander... And here you are, comrades,” the awardee spoke in an intermittent voice, and everyone felt that the man was very excited. - Allow me to say a word. At this moment in my life, when I accepted the great award, I want to tell you about who should be standing here, next to me, who, perhaps, deserved this great award more than me and did not spare his young life for the sake of our military victory.

He extended his hand to those sitting in the hall, on the palm of which the golden rim of the order gleamed, and looked around the hall with pleading eyes.

- Allow me, comrades, to fulfill my duty to those who are not here with me now.

“Speak,” said the commander.

- Please! - responded in the hall.

And then he spoke.

“You probably heard, comrades,” he began, “what a situation we had in area R. We then had to retreat, and our unit covered the retreat. And then the Germans cut us off from their own. Wherever we go, we run into fire. The Germans are hitting us with mortars, hammering the woods where we took cover with howitzers, and combing the edge of the forest with machine guns. Time has expired, according to the clock, it turns out that ours have already gained a foothold on a new line, we have drawn off enough enemy forces, it’s time to get home, it’s time to delay the connection. But, we see, it’s impossible to get into any of them. And there is no way to stay here longer. The German found us, pinned us in the forest, sensed that there were only a handful of us left here, and took us by the throat with his pincers. The conclusion is clear - we must make our way in a roundabout way.

Where is this roundabout way? Which direction should I choose? And our commander, Lieutenant Andrei Petrovich Butorin, says: “Nothing will work out here without preliminary reconnaissance. You need to look and feel where they have a crack. If we find it, we’ll get through.” That means I immediately volunteered. “Allow me, I say, should I try, Comrade Lieutenant?” He looked at me carefully. This is no longer in the order of the story, but, so to speak, on the side I must explain that Andrei and I are from the same village - buddies. How many times have we gone fishing to Iset! Then both worked together at a copper smelter in Revda. In a word, friends and comrades. He looked at me carefully and frowned. “Okay,” says Comrade Zadokhtin, go. Is the task clear to you?”

He took me out onto the road, looked back, and grabbed my hand. “Well, Kolya,” he says, “let’s say goodbye to you, just in case.” The matter, you understand, is deadly. But since I volunteered, I don’t dare refuse you. Help me out, Kolya... We won't last here for more than two hours. The losses are too great...” - “Okay, I say, Andrey, this is not the first time you and I have found ourselves in such a situation. Wait for me in an hour. I'll see what's needed there. Well, if I don’t return, bow to our people there, in the Urals...”

And so I crawled and buried myself behind the trees. I tried in one direction - no, I couldn’t get through: the Germans were covering that area with thick fire. Crawled in the opposite direction. There, at the edge of the forest, there was a ravine, a gulley, quite deeply washed out. And on the other side, near the gulley, there is a bush, and behind it there is a road, an open field. I went down into the ravine, decided to get close to the bushes and look through them to see what was happening in the field. I began to climb up the clay, and suddenly I noticed two bare heels sticking out just above my head. I looked closely and saw: the feet were small, the dirt had dried on the soles and was falling off like plaster, the toes were also dirty and scratched, and the little toe on the left foot was bandaged with a blue rag - apparently it had been damaged somewhere... For a long time I looked at these heels, at the toes , which moved restlessly above my head. And suddenly, I don’t know why, I was drawn to tickle those heels... I can’t even explain to you. But it washes away and washes away... I took a thorny blade of grass and lightly scratched one of the heels with it. At once both legs disappeared into the bushes, and a head appeared in the place where the heels stuck out from the branches. So funny, her eyes are frightened, she has no eyebrows, her hair is shaggy and bleached, and her nose is covered in freckles.

- What are you doing here? - I say.

“I,” he says, “are looking for a cow.” Haven't you seen it, uncle? The name is Marishka. It's white, but there's black on the side. One horn sticks down, but the other is not there at all... Only you, uncle, don’t believe me... I’m lying all the time, I’m trying this. “Uncle,” he says, “have you fought off ours?”

-Who are your people? - I ask.

- It’s clear who is the Red Army... Only ours went across the river yesterday. And you, uncle, why are you here? The Germans will catch you.

“Well, come here,” I say, “Tell me what’s going on here in your area.”

The head disappeared, the leg appeared again, and a boy of about thirteen slid down the clay slope to the bottom of the ravine, as if on a sled, heels first.

“Uncle,” he whispered, “quickly let’s get out of here somewhere.” There are Germans here. They have four cannons near that forest over there, and their mortars are installed on the side here. There is no way across the road here.

“And where,” I say, “do you know all this?”

“How,” he says, “where from?” Am I watching this for nothing in the morning?

- Why are you watching?

- It will be useful in life, you never know...

I began to question him, and the boy told me about the whole situation. I found out that the ravine runs far through the forest and along its bottom it will be possible to lead our people out of the fire zone. The boy volunteered to accompany us. As soon as we began to get out of the ravine, into the forest, there was suddenly a whistle in the air, a howl and such a crash was heard, as if half the trees around us had been split into thousands of dry chips at once. It was a German mine that landed right in the ravine and tore up the ground near us. It became dark in my eyes. Then I freed my head from under the earth that had poured on me and looked around: where, I think, is my little comrade? I see him slowly raise his shaggy head from the ground and begin to pick out clay with his finger from his ears, from his mouth, from his nose.

- This is what it did! - speaks. “We’re in trouble, uncle, with you being rich... Oh, uncle,” he says, “wait!” Yes, you're wounded.

I wanted to get up, but I couldn’t feel my legs. And I see blood floating from the torn boot. And the boy suddenly listened, climbed up to the bushes, looked out onto the road, rolled down again and whispered.

“Uncle,” he says, “the Germans are coming here.” The officer is ahead. Honestly! Let's get out of here quickly. Oh, how many of you...

I tried to move, but it was as if ten pounds were tied to my legs. I can't get out of the ravine. Pulls me down, back...

“Eh, uncle, uncle,” says my friend and almost cries himself, “well, then lie here, uncle, so as not to hear or see you.” And I’ll take their eyes off them now, and then I’ll come back, after...

He turned so pale that there were even more freckles, and his eyes sparkled. “What is he up to?” - I think. I wanted to hold him back, I grabbed him by the heel, but no matter what! Just a glimpse of his legs with grimy toes spread out above my head - on his little finger, as I can see now... I lie there and listen. Suddenly I hear: “Stop!.. Stop! Don't go further!

Heavy boots creaked above my head, I heard the German ask:

- What were you doing here?

“I’m looking for a cow, uncle,” my friend’s voice came to me, “it’s such a good cow, it’s white itself, but there’s black on its side, one horn sticks out, but the other is not there at all.” The name is Marishka. You did not see?

-What kind of cow is this? I see you want to talk nonsense to me. Come here close. What have you been climbing here for a very long time, I saw you climbing.

“Uncle, I’m looking for a cow,” my little boy began to whine again. And suddenly his light bare heels clearly clattered along the road.

- Stand! Where are you going? Back! I'll shoot! - the German shouted.

Heavy forged boots swelled above my head. Then a shot rang out. I understood: my friend deliberately rushed to run away from the ravine in order to distract the Germans from me. I listened, gasping for breath. The shot struck again. And I heard a distant, faint cry. Then it became very quiet... I was having a seizure. I gnawed the ground with my teeth so as not to scream, I leaned my whole chest on my hands to prevent them from grabbing their weapons and hitting the fascists. But I shouldn’t have revealed myself. We must complete the task to the end. Our people will die without me. They won't get out.

Leaning on my elbows, clinging to the branches, I crawled... I don’t remember anything after that. I only remember when I opened my eyes, I saw Andrei’s face very close above me...

Well, that’s how we got out of the forest through that ravine.

He stopped, took a breath and slowly looked around the entire hall.

“Here, comrades, is who I owe my life to, who helped rescue our unit from trouble.” It’s clear that he should stand here, at this table. But it didn’t work out... And I have one more request to you... Let us honor, comrades, the memory of my unknown friend - the nameless hero... I didn’t even have time to ask him what to call him...

And in the large hall, pilots, tank crews, sailors, generals, guardsmen quietly rose - people of glorious battles, heroes of fierce battles, rose to honor the memory of a small, unknown hero, whose name no one knew. The dejected people in the hall stood silently, and each in their own way saw in front of them a shaggy boy, freckled and bare-footed, with a blue stained rag on his bare foot...

Lev Kassil wrote these stories during the Great Patriotic War. Behind each of them there is a real story - about the courage and heroism of the Russian people at the front and in the rear.

Lev Kassil "The Story of the Absent"

— May I speak?

- Please.

“Comrade commander... And here you are, comrades,” the recipient spoke in an intermittent voice, and everyone felt that the man was very excited. - Allow me to say a word. At this moment in my life, when I accepted the great award, I want to tell you about who should be standing here, next to me, who, perhaps, deserved this great award more than me and did not spare his young life for the sake of our military victory.

He extended his hand to those sitting in the hall, on the palm of which the golden rim of the order glittered, and looked around the hall with pleading eyes.

- Allow me, comrades, to fulfill my duty to those who are not here with me now.

“Speak,” said the commander.

- Please! - responded in the hall.

And then he spoke.

“You probably heard, comrades,” he began, “what a situation we had in area R. We then had to retreat, and our unit covered the retreat.” And then the Germans cut us off from their own. Wherever we go, we run into fire. The Germans are hitting us with mortars, hammering into the woods where we were hiding with howitzers, and combing the edge of the forest with machine guns. The time has expired, according to the clock, it turns out that ours have already gained a foothold on the new line, we have drawn off enough enemy forces, it’s time to get home: it’s time to delay the connection. But, we see, it’s impossible to get into any of them. And there is no way to stay here longer. The German found us, pinned us in the forest, sensed that there were only a handful of us left here, and took us by the throat with his pincers. The conclusion is clear: we must make our way in a roundabout way.

Where is this roundabout way? Which direction should I choose? And our commander, Lieutenant Andrei Petrovich Butorin, says: “Nothing will work out here without preliminary reconnaissance. You need to look and feel where they have a crack. If we find it, we’ll get through.” That means I immediately volunteered. “Allow me,” I say, “should I try, Comrade Lieutenant?” He looked at me carefully. This is no longer in the order of the story, but, so to speak, on the side, I must explain that Andrei and I are from the same village - buddies. How many times have we gone fishing to Iset! Then both worked together at a copper smelter in Revda. In a word, friends and comrades. He looked at me carefully and frowned. “Okay,” he says, “Comrade Zadokhtin, go. Is the task clear to you?”

He took me out onto the road, looked back, and grabbed my hand. “Well, Kolya,” he says, “let’s say goodbye to you, just in case.” The matter, you understand, is deadly. But since I volunteered, I don’t dare refuse you. Help me out, Kolya... We won't last here for more than two hours. The losses are too big...” “Okay,” I say, “Andrey, this is not the first time you and I have found ourselves in such a situation. Wait for me in an hour. I'll see what's needed there. Well, if I don’t return, bow to our people there, in the Urals...”

And so I crawled and buried myself behind the trees. I tried in one direction - no, I couldn’t get through: the Germans were covering that area with thick fire. Crawled in the opposite direction. There, at the edge of the forest, there was a ravine, a gulley, quite deeply washed out. And on the other side, near the gulley, there is a bush, and behind it there is a road, an open field. I went down into the ravine, decided to get close to the bushes and look through them to see what was happening in the field. I began to climb up the clay, and suddenly I noticed two bare heels sticking out just above my head. I looked closely and saw: the feet were small, the dirt had dried on the soles and was falling off like plaster, the toes were also dirty and scratched, and the little toe on the left foot was bandaged with a blue rag - apparently it had been damaged somewhere... For a long time I looked at these heels, at the toes , which moved restlessly above my head. And suddenly, I don’t know why, I was drawn to tickle those heels... I can’t even explain to you. But it washes away and washes away... I took a thorny blade of grass and lightly touched one of the heels with it. At once both legs disappeared into the bushes, and a head appeared in the place where the heels stuck out from the branches. So funny, her eyes are frightened, she has no eyebrows, her hair is shaggy and bleached, and her nose is covered in freckles.

- What are you doing here? - I say.

“I,” he says, “are looking for a cow.” Haven't you seen it, uncle? The name is Marishka. It's white, but the side is black. One horn sticks down, but the other is not there at all... Only you, uncle, don’t believe me... I’m lying all the time... I’m trying this. Uncle,” he says, “have you fought off ours?”

-Who are your people? - I ask.

- It’s clear who - the Red Army... Only ours went across the river yesterday. And you, uncle, why are you here? The Germans will catch you.

“Well, come here,” I say. - Tell me what is happening here in your area.

The head disappeared, the leg appeared again, and a boy of about thirteen slid down the clay slope to the bottom of the ravine, as if on a sled, heels first.

“And where,” I say, “do you know all this?”

“How,” he says, “where from?” Am I watching this for nothing in the morning?

- Why are you watching?

- It will be useful in life, you never know...

I began to question him, and the boy told me about the whole situation. I found out that the ravine runs far through the forest and along its bottom it will be possible to lead our people out of the fire zone. The boy volunteered to accompany us. As soon as we began to get out of the ravine into the forest, there was suddenly a whistle in the air, a howl and such a crash was heard, as if half the trees around us had been split into thousands of dry chips at once. It was a German mine that landed right in the ravine and tore up the ground near us. It became dark in my eyes. Then I freed my head from under the earth that had poured on me and looked around: where, I think, is my little comrade? I see him slowly raise his shaggy head from the ground and begin to pick out clay with his finger from his ears, from his mouth, from his nose.

- This is what it did! - speaks. “We’re in trouble, uncle, with you being rich... Oh, uncle,” he says, “wait!” Yes, you're wounded.

I wanted to get up, but I couldn’t feel my legs. And I see: blood is floating from a torn boot. And the boy suddenly listened, climbed up to the bushes, looked out onto the road, rolled down again and whispered:

“Uncle,” he says, “the Germans are coming here.” The officer is ahead. Honestly! Let's get out of here quickly. Oh, how many of you...

I tried to move, but it was as if ten pounds were tied to my legs. I can't get out of the ravine. Pulls me down, back...

He turned so pale that there were even more freckles, and his eyes sparkled. “What is he up to?” - I think. I wanted to hold him back, I grabbed him by the heel, but no matter what! Just a glimpse of his legs with grimy toes splayed above my head—on his little toe, as I can see now, is a blue rag. I lie and listen. Suddenly I hear: “Stop!.. Stop! Don't go further!

Heavy boots creaked above my head, I heard the German ask:

- What were you doing here?

“I’m looking for a cow, uncle,” my friend’s voice reached me, “it’s such a good cow, it’s white itself, but there’s black on its side, one horn sticks out, but the other is not there at all, its name is Marishka.” You did not see?

-What kind of cow is this? I see you want to talk nonsense to me. Come here close. What have you been climbing here for a very long time, I saw you climbing.

“Uncle, I’m looking for a cow...” my little boy began to whine again. And suddenly his light bare heels clearly clattered along the road.

- Stand! Where are you going? Back! I'll shoot! - the German shouted.

Heavy, forged boots swelled above my head. Then a shot rang out. I understood: my friend deliberately rushed to run away from the ravine in order to distract the Germans from me. I listened, gasping for breath. The shot struck again. And I heard a distant, faint cry. Then it became very quiet... I was having a seizure. I gnawed the ground with my teeth so as not to scream, I leaned my whole chest on my hands to prevent them from grabbing their weapons and hitting the fascists. But I shouldn’t have revealed myself. We must complete the task to the end. Our people will die without me. They won't get out.

Leaning on my elbows, clinging to the branches, I crawled. I don’t remember anything after that. I only remember: when I opened my eyes, I saw Andrei’s face very close above me...

Well, that’s how we got out of the forest through that ravine.

He stopped, took a breath and slowly looked around the entire hall.

“Here, comrades, is who I owe my life to, who helped rescue our unit from trouble.” It’s clear that he should stand here, at this table. Well, that didn't work out. And I have one more request to you... Let us honor, comrades, the memory of my unknown friend, the nameless hero... I didn’t even have time to ask him what to call him...

Lev Kassil “Line of Communication”

In memory of Sergeant Novikov

Only a few brief lines of information were printed in newspapers about this. I will not repeat them to you, because everyone who read this message will remember it forever. We don’t know the details, we don’t know how the person who accomplished this feat lived. We only know how his life ended. In the feverish rush of battle, his comrades had no time to write down all the circumstances of that day. The time will come when the hero will be sung in ballads, inspired pages will protect the immortality and glory of this act. But each of us, having read a short, meager message about a man and his feat, wanted immediately, without delaying for a minute, without waiting for anything, to imagine how it all happened... Let those who participated in this battle correct me later , maybe I don’t quite accurately imagine the situation or I missed some details and added something of my own, but I will tell you about everything as my imagination, excited by a five-line newspaper article, saw this person’s action.

I saw a spacious snowy plain, white hills and sparse copses, through which a frosty wind rushed, rustling against brittle stems. I heard the annoying and hoarse voice of the staff telephone operator, who, fiercely turning the handle of the switchboard and pressing buttons, in vain called the unit occupying a distant line. The enemy surrounded this unit. It was necessary to urgently contact her, report the enemy’s encircling movement that had begun, and transmit from the command post the order to occupy another line, otherwise death... It was impossible to get there. In the space that separated the command post from the unit that had gone far ahead, snowdrifts burst like huge white bubbles, and the entire plain foamed, like the foaming and seething surface of boiled milk.

German mortars fired across the entire plain, throwing up snow along with clods of earth. Last night, signalmen laid a cable through this mortal zone. The command post, monitoring the development of the battle, sent instructions, orders through this wire and received response messages about how the operation was going. But now, when it was necessary to immediately change the situation and withdraw the advanced unit to another line, communication suddenly stopped. The telephone operator struggled in vain over his device, pressing his mouth to the receiver:

- Twelfth!.. Twelfth!.. F-fu... - He blew into the phone. - Arina! Arina!.. I am Soroka!.. Answer... Answer!.. Twelve eight fraction three!.. Petya! Petya!.. Can you hear me? Give me feedback, Petya!.. Twelfth! I am Soroka!.. I am Soroka! Arina, can you hear us? Arina!..

There was no connection.

“Break,” said the telephone operator.

And then the man who only yesterday crawled across the entire plain under fire, burying himself behind snowdrifts, crawling over hills, burying himself in the snow and dragging a telephone cable behind him, the man we later read about in a newspaper article, stood up, pulled his white robe around him, and took rifle, a bag with tools and said very simply:

- I went. Break. Clear. Will you allow me?

I don’t know what his comrades said to him, what words his commander gave him. Everyone understood what the person going to the cursed zone decided to do...

The wire ran through scattered fir trees and sparse bushes. The blizzard rang in the sedge over the frozen swamps. The man was crawling. The Germans must have soon noticed him. Small whirlwinds from machine-gun bursts, smoking, danced in a round dance around. Snow tornadoes of explosions approached the signalman like shaggy ghosts, and, bending over him, melted into the air. He was covered in snow dust. Hot fragments of mines squealed disgustingly above my head, stirring the wet hair that came out from under the hood, and, hissing, melted the snow very close by.

He did not hear pain, but he must have felt a terrible numbness in his right side and, looking back, he saw a pink trail stretching behind him in the snow. He didn't look back again. Three hundred meters later, he felt the barbed end of the wire among the twisted, icy clods of earth. The line was interrupted here. A mine that fell nearby broke the wire and threw the other end of the cable far to the side. This entire hollow was shot through with mortars. But it was necessary to find the other end of the broken wire, crawl to it, and splice the open line again.

It crashed and howled very close. An overwhelming pain fell on the man, crushing him to the ground. The man, spitting, got out from under the clods that had fallen on him and shrugged his shoulders. But the pain did not shake off, it continued to press the man to the ground. The man felt that a suffocating weight was falling on him. He crawled away a little, and it probably seemed to him that where he was lying a minute ago, on the blood-soaked snow, everything that was alive in him remained, and he was moving separately from himself. But like a man possessed, he climbed further up the hillside. He remembered only one thing: he had to find the end of the wire hanging somewhere there, in the bushes, he had to get to it, grab it, pull it, tie it. And he found a broken wire. The man fell twice before he could get up. Something hot hit him again on the chest, he fell, but again stood up and grabbed the wire. And then he saw that the Germans were approaching. He could not shoot back: his hands were full... He began to pull the wire towards himself, crawling back, but the cable got tangled in the bushes. Then the signalman began to pull up the other end. It became more and more difficult for him to breathe. He was in a hurry. His fingers were numb...

And so he lies awkwardly, sideways in the snow and holds the ends of the broken line in his outstretched, ossified hands. He tries to bring his hands closer, to bring the ends of the wire together. He tenses his muscles until he cramps. Mortal resentment torments him. It is bitterer than pain and stronger than fear... Only a few centimeters now separate the ends of the wire. From here, a wire runs to the front line of the defense, where cut-off comrades are waiting for messages... And it stretches back to the command post. And the telephone operators strain themselves until they are hoarse... And the saving words of help cannot break through these few centimeters of the damned cliff! Is there really not enough life, there won’t be time to connect the ends of the wire? A sad man gnaws snow with his teeth. He tries to stand up, leaning on his elbows. Then he clamps his teeth on one end of the cable and, in a frenzied effort, grabs the other wire with both hands and drags it to his mouth. Now no more than a centimeter is missing. The person no longer sees anything. Sparkling darkness burns out his eyes. He gives the wire a final tug and manages to bite it, squeezing his jaw until it hurts and crunches. He feels the familiar sour-salty taste and a slight tingling sensation on his tongue. There is current! And, fumbling for the rifle with his lifeless, but now free hands, he falls face down into the snow, furiously, gritting his teeth with all the rest of his strength. Just don’t let go!.. The Germans, emboldened, run at him screaming. But again he scraped up the remnants of life in himself, sufficient to rise for the last time and release the entire clip at the nearby enemies... And there, at the command post, the beaming telephone operator shouts into the receiver:

- Yes Yes! I hear you! Arina? I am Soroka! Petya, dear! Take: number eight through twelve.

The man did not return. Dead, he remained in the ranks, on the line. He continued to be a guide for the living. His mouth was forever numb. But, piercing a weak current through his clenched teeth, words rushed from end to end of the battlefield, on which the lives of hundreds of people and the result of the battle depended. Already disconnected from life itself, he was still included in its chain. Death froze his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in the frozen vessels. But the man’s furious dying will triumphed in the living connection of people to whom he remained faithful even in death.

When, at the end of the battle, the advanced unit, having received the necessary instructions, hit the Germans on the flank and escaped the encirclement, the signalmen, reeling in the cable, came across a man half-covered by drifting snow. He lay face down, his face buried in the snow. He had a rifle in his hand, and his numb finger froze on the trigger. The clip was empty. And nearby, four dead Germans were found in the snow. They lifted him up, and behind him, tearing up the whiteness of the snowdrift, dragged the wire he had bitten. Then they realized how the communication line was restored during the battle...

The teeth that held the ends of the cable were clenched so tightly that they had to cut the wire at the corners of the numb mouth. Otherwise, there was no way to free the man who, even after death, steadfastly carried out the communications service. And everyone around was silent, gritting their teeth from the pain that pierced their hearts, just as Russian people know how to remain silent in grief, how they are silent if they fall, weakened from wounds, into the clutches of the “dead heads” - our people, who have no pain, no torture. Unclench your clenched teeth, do not rip out a word, a groan, or a bitten wire.

Lev Kassil "Green Twig"

On the Western Front, I had to live for some time in the dugout of technician-quartermaster Tarasnikov. He worked in the operational part of the guards brigade headquarters. His office was located right there in the dugout. A three-line lamp illuminated the low frame. It smelled of fresh wood, earthy dampness and sealing wax. Tarasnikov himself, a short, sickly-looking young man with a funny red mustache and a yellow, stoned mouth, greeted me politely, but not too friendly.

“Set yourself here,” he told me, pointing to the trestle bed and immediately bending over his papers again. “Now they’ll set up a tent for you.” I hope my office won't bother you? Well, I hope you won’t bother us too much either. Let's agree this way. Have a seat for now.

And I began to live in Tarasnikov’s underground office. He was a very restless, unusually meticulous and picky worker. He spent whole days writing and sealing packages, sealing them with sealing wax heated over a lamp, sending out some reports, accepting papers, redrawing maps, tapping with one finger on a rusty typewriter, carefully knocking out each letter. In the evenings he was tormented by attacks of fever, he swallowed quinine, but categorically refused to go to the hospital:

- What are you, what are you! Where will I go? Yes, the whole thing will happen without me! Everything depends on me. I should go away for a day, but then you won’t be able to unravel here for a year...

Late at night, returning from the front line of defense, falling asleep on my trestle bed, I still saw Tarasnikov’s tired and pale face at the table, illuminated by the fire of the lamp, delicately lowered for my sake, and shrouded in tobacco fog. Hot smoke came from a clay stove stacked in the corner. Tarasnikov's tired eyes watered, but he continued to write and seal the bags. Then he called a messenger, who was waiting behind a raincoat hung at the entrance to our dugout, and I heard the following conversation.

- Who is from the fifth battalion? - asked Tarasnikov.

“I’m from the fifth battalion,” answered the messenger.

— Accept the package... Here. Take it in your hands. So. You see, it says here: “Urgent.” Therefore, deliver immediately. Hand it over personally to the commander. It's clear? If there is no commander, hand it over to the commissar. There won't be a commissioner - find him. Do not pass it on to anyone else. Clear? Repeat.

“Deliver the package urgently,” the messenger repeated monotonously, as in a lesson. - Personally, the commander, if he doesn’t, the commissar, if he doesn’t, find him.

- Right. What will you carry the package in?

- Yes, as usual... Right here, in my pocket.

- Show me your pocket. - And Tarasnikov approached the tall messenger, stood on tiptoe, put his hand under his raincoat, into the bosom of his overcoat, and checked if there were any holes in his pocket. - Yes, okay. Now keep in mind: the package is secret. Therefore, if you are caught by the enemy, what will you do?

- What are you talking about, comrade technician-quartermaster, why would I get caught!

“There’s no need to get caught, that’s absolutely true, but I’m asking you: what will you do if you get caught?”

- Yes, I will never get caught...

- And I ask you, if? So, listen. If there is any danger, eat the contents without reading. Tear the envelope and throw it away. Clear? Repeat.

- In case of danger, tear the envelope and throw it away, and eat what is in between.

- Right. How long will it take to deliver the package?

- Yes, it’s about forty minutes and it’s only a walk.

- More precisely, I ask.

- Yes, comrade technician-quartermaster, I think it will take me no more than fifty minutes.

- More precisely.

- Yes, I’ll definitely deliver it in an hour.

- So. Notice the time. — Tarasnikov clicked his huge conductor’s watch. — It’s twenty-three fifty now. This means that they must deliver it no later than zero fifty minutes. Clear? You can go.

And this dialogue was repeated with every messenger, with every liaison. Having finished with all the packages, Tarasnikov packed up. But even in his sleep, he continued to teach the messengers, took offense at someone, and often at night his loud, dry, abrupt voice woke me up.

- How are you standing? Where have you come? This is not a hair salon, but a headquarters office! - he spoke clearly in his sleep.

- Why did you enter without reporting? Log out and log in again. It's time to learn order. So. Wait. Do you see the man eating? You can wait, your package is not urgent. Give the man something to eat... Sign... Departure time... You can go. You are free...

I shook him, trying to wake him up. He jumped up, looked at me with an uninformed look and, falling back onto his bed, covering himself with his overcoat, instantly plunged into his staff dreams. And again he began to speak quickly.

All this was not very pleasant. And I was already thinking about how I could move to another dugout. But one evening, when I returned to our hut, thoroughly wet from the rain, and squatted in front of the stove to light it, Tarasnikov got up from the table and came up to me.

“So it turns out like this,” he said somewhat guiltily. “You see, I decided not to light the stoves for the time being.” Let's abstain for five days. And then, you know, the stove gives off fumes, and this, apparently, affects her growth... It has a bad effect on her.

I, not understanding anything, looked at Tarasnikov.

- How tall are you? On the growth of the stove?

- What does the stove have to do with it? - Tarasnikov was offended. — I think I express myself quite clearly. This same child, he apparently acts poorly... She stopped growing completely.

- Who stopped growing?

- Why haven’t you paid attention yet? - Tarasnikov shouted indignantly, staring at me. - And what's that? Don't you see? - And he looked with sudden tenderness at the low log ceiling of our dugout.

I stood up, lifted the lamp and saw that the thick round elm tree in the ceiling had sprouted a green sprout. Pale and tender, with unsteady leaves, it stretched up to the ceiling. In two places it was supported by white ribbons pinned to the ceiling with buttons.

- Do you understand? - Tarasnikov spoke. — It grew all the time. Such a nice branch sprang up. And then we started heating it often, but she apparently didn’t like it. Here I made notches on the log, and I have the dates stamped on it. You see how quickly it grew at first. Some days I pulled out two centimeters. I give you my honest, noble word! And since you and I started smoking here, I haven’t seen any growth for three days now. So it won't take long for her to wither away. Let's abstain. And I should smoke less. The little stalk is delicate, everything affects it. And, you know, I’m wondering: will he make it to the exit? A? After all

So, the little devil, he reaches closer to the air, where he smells the sun from under the ground.

And we went to bed in an unheated, damp dugout. The next day, in order to gain Tarasnikov’s favor, I myself started talking to him about his twig.

“Well,” I asked, throwing off my wet raincoat, “is it growing?”

Tarasnikov jumped out from behind the table, looked me carefully in the eyes, wanting to check if I was laughing at him, but, seeing that I was speaking seriously, with quiet delight he lifted the lamp, moved it a little to the side so as not to smoke his twig, and almost in a whisper told me:

“Imagine, she stretched out almost one and a half centimeters.” I told you, there is no need to drown. This is simply an amazing natural phenomenon!..

At night, the Germans brought down massive artillery fire on our location. I woke up from the roar of nearby explosions, spitting out earth, which, due to the shaking, fell abundantly on us through the log ceiling. Tarasnikov also woke up and turned on the light bulb. Everything was hooting, trembling and shaking around us. Tarasnikov put the light bulb in the middle of the table and leaned back on the bed, putting his hands behind his head.

- I think there is no great danger. Won't it hurt her? Of course, it’s a concussion, but there are three waves above us. Is it just a direct hit? And, you see, I tied her up. As if he had a presentiment...

I looked at him with interest.

He lay with his head thrown back on his hands behind the back of his head, and looked with tender care at the weak green sprout curling under the ceiling. He simply forgot, apparently, that a shell could fall on us, explode in the dugout, and bury us alive underground. No, he was only thinking about the pale green branch stretching under the ceiling of our hut. He was only worried about her.

And often now, when I meet demanding, very busy, dry at first glance, seemingly unfriendly people at the front and in the rear, I remember the technician-quartermaster Tarasnikov and his green branch. Let the fire roar overhead, let the dank dampness of the earth penetrate into the very bones, all the same - as long as the timid, shy green sprout survives, if only it reaches the sun, the desired exit.

And it seems to me that each of us has our own treasured green branch. For her sake, we are ready to endure all the ordeals and hardships of the wartime, because we know for sure: there, behind the exit, hung today with a damp raincoat, the sun will certainly greet, warm and give new strength to our branch that has reached out, grown and saved by us.

Stories

L.A. Kassil

STORY ABOUT THE ABSENT

The commander took a short step towards him, presented the order, firmly shook the recipient’s hand, congratulated him and handed him the order box.

May I contact you?

Please.

Comrade commander... And here you are, comrades,” the recipient spoke in an intermittent voice, and everyone felt that the man was very excited. “Allow me to say a word.” At this moment in my life, when I accepted the great award, I want to tell you about who should be standing here, next to me, who, perhaps, deserved this great award more than me and did not spare his young life for the sake of our military victory.

He extended his hand to those sitting in the hall, on the palm of which the golden rim of the order gleamed, and looked around the hall with pleading eyes.

Allow me, comrades, to fulfill my duty to those who are not here with me now.

“Speak,” said the commander.

Please! - responded in the hall.

And then he spoke.

“You’ve probably heard, comrades,” he began, “what a situation we had in area R. We then had to retreat, and our unit covered the retreat. And then the Germans cut us off from their own. Wherever we go, we run into fire. The Germans are hitting us with mortars, hammering the woods where we took cover with howitzers, and combing the edge of the forest with machine guns. Time has expired, according to the clock, it turns out that ours have already gained a foothold on a new line, we have drawn off enough enemy forces, it’s time to get home, it’s time to delay the connection. But, we see, it’s impossible to get into any of them. And there is no way to stay here longer. The German found us, pinned us in the forest, sensed that there were only a handful of us left here, and took us by the throat with his pincers. The conclusion is clear - we must make our way in a roundabout way.

He looked at me carefully. This is no longer in the order of the story, but, so to speak, on the side, I must explain that Andrei and I are from the same village - buddies. How many times have we gone fishing to Iset! Then both worked together at a copper smelter in Revda. In a word, friends and comrades.

He looked at me carefully and frowned. “Okay,” says Comrade Zadokhtin, let’s go. Is your mission clear?”

He took me out onto the road, looked back, and grabbed my hand. “Well, Kolya,” he says, let’s say goodbye to you, just in case. It’s a deadly matter, you know. But since I volunteered, I don’t dare refuse you. Help me out, Kolya...

We won't last more than two hours here. The losses are too great..." -

“Okay, I say, Andrey, this is not the first time you and I have found ourselves in such a turn. Wait for me in an hour. I’ll look out for what’s needed there. Well, if I don’t come back, bow to our people there, in the Urals...”

And so I crawled and buried myself behind the trees. I tried in one direction - no, I couldn’t get through: the Germans were covering that area with thick fire. Crawled in the opposite direction. There, at the edge of the forest, there was a ravine, a gulley, quite deeply washed out. And on the other side, near the gulley, there is a bush, and behind it there is a road, an open field. I went down into the ravine, decided to get close to the bushes and look through them to see what was happening in the field. I began to climb up the clay, and suddenly I noticed two bare heels sticking out just above my head. I looked closer and saw: the feet were small, the dirt had dried on the soles and was falling off like plaster, the toes were also dirty and scratched, and the little toe on the left foot was bandaged with a blue rag - apparently it had been damaged somewhere... For a long time I looked at these heels, at the toes , which moved restlessly above my head. And suddenly, I don’t know why, I was drawn to tickle those heels... I can’t even explain to you. But it washes away and

washes away... I took a thorny blade of grass and lightly touched one of the heels with it. At once both legs disappeared into the bushes, and a head appeared in the place where the heels stuck out from the branches. So funny, her eyes are frightened, she has no eyebrows, her hair is shaggy and bleached, and her nose is covered in freckles.

What are you doing here? - I say.

“I’m looking for a cow,” he says. Haven't you seen it, uncle? The name is Marishka. It's white, but there's black on the side. One horn sticks down, but the other is not there at all...

Only you, uncle, don’t believe me... I’m lying all the time... I’m trying this. “Uncle,” he says, “have you fought off ours?”

Who are your people? - I ask.

It’s clear who the Red Army is... Only ours went across the river yesterday. And you, uncle, why are you here? The Germans will catch you.

Well, come here,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on here in your area.”

The head disappeared, the leg appeared again, and a boy of about thirteen slid down the clay slope to the bottom of the ravine, as if on a sled, heels first.

And where, I say, do you know all this?

“How,” he says, “where from?” Am I watching this for nothing in the morning?

Why are you watching?

It will be useful in life, you never know...

The boy volunteered to accompany us. As soon as we began to get out of the ravine, into the forest, there was suddenly a whistle in the air, a howl and such a crash was heard, as if half the trees around us had been split into thousands of dry chips at once.

It was a German mine that landed right in the ravine and tore up the ground near us. It became dark in my eyes. Then I freed my head from under the earth that had poured on me and looked around: where, I think, is my little comrade? I see him slowly raise his shaggy head from the ground and begin to pick out clay with his finger from his ears, from his mouth, from his nose.

This is what it did! - he says. - We got it, uncle, with you, as if you were rich... Oh, uncle, - he says, - wait! Yes, you're wounded.

I wanted to get up, but I couldn’t feel my legs. And I see blood floating from a torn boot. And the boy suddenly listened, climbed up to the bushes, looked out onto the road, rolled down again and whispered:

“Uncle,” he says, “the Germans are coming here.” The officer is ahead. Honestly!

Let's get out of here quickly. Oh, how many of you...

I tried to move, but it was as if ten pounds were tied to my legs. I can't get out of the ravine. Pulls me down, back...

He turned so pale that there were even more freckles, and his eyes sparkled. "What is he up to?" - I think. I wanted to hold him back, I grabbed him by the heel, but no matter what! Just a glimpse of his legs with grimy toes spread out above my head - on his little finger, as I can see now... I lie there and listen. Suddenly I hear: “Stop!.. Stop! Don’t walk further!”

Heavy boots creaked above my head, I heard the German ask:

What were you doing here?

What kind of cow is this? I see you want to talk nonsense to me. Come here close. What have you been climbing here for a very long time, I saw you climbing.

“Uncle, I’m looking for a cow,” my little boy began to whine again.

And suddenly his light bare heels clearly clattered along the road.

Stand! Where are you going? Back! I'll shoot! - the German shouted.

Leaning on my elbows, clinging to the branches, I crawled... I don’t remember anything after that. I only remember when I opened my eyes, I saw Andrei’s face very close above me...

Well, that’s how we got out of the forest through that ravine.

He stopped, took a breath and slowly looked around the entire hall.

Here, comrades, to whom I owe my life, who helped rescue our unit from trouble. It’s clear that he should stand here, at this table. But it didn’t work out... And I have one more request to you... Let us honor, comrades, the memory of my unknown friend - the nameless hero... I didn’t even have time to ask what his name was...

NOTES

This is one of the very first works of Soviet literature that captured 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 based on a real event, which was mentioned in a letter sent to the Radio Committee. Lev Kassil was then working on the radio and, having read this letter, immediately wrote a story, which was soon broadcast on the radio and was included in the collection of stories of the writer “There are such people,” published in Moscow by the publishing house “Soviet Writer” in 1943, and also in the collection “Ordinary Guys”, etc. It was broadcast on the radio several times.

COMMUNICATION LINE

In memory of Sergeant Novikov

about everything as my imagination, excited by a five-line newspaper article, saw this man’s action.

I saw a spacious snowy plain, white hills and sparse copses, through which a frosty wind rushed, rustling against brittle stems. I heard the annoying and hoarse voice of the staff telephone operator, who, fiercely turning the handle of the switchboard and pressing buttons, in vain called the unit occupying a distant line. The enemy surrounded this unit. It was necessary to urgently contact her, report the enemy’s encircling movement that had begun, and transmit from the command post the order to occupy another line, otherwise death... It was impossible to get there. In the space that separated the command post from the part that had gone far ahead, the snowdrifts burst like huge white bubbles, and the entire plain foamed, like the boiled surface of boiling milk foams and seethes.

German mortars fired across the entire plain, throwing up snow along with clods of earth. Last night, signalmen laid a cable through this mortal zone. The command post, monitoring the development of the battle, sent instructions and orders through this wire and received response messages about how the operation was going. But now, when it was necessary to immediately change the situation and withdraw the advanced unit to another line, communication suddenly stopped. The telephone operator struggled in vain over his device, pressing his mouth to the receiver:

Twelfth!.. Twelfth!.. F-fu... - He blew into the phone. - Arina! Arina!.. I am Soroka!.. Answer... Answer!.. Twelve eight fraction three!.. Petya! Petya!.. Can you hear me? Give me feedback, Petya!.. Twelfth! I am Soroka!.. I am Soroka! Arina, can you hear us? Arina!..

There was no connection.

“Break,” said the telephone operator.

I went. Break. Clear. Will you allow me?

I don’t know what his comrades said to him, what words his commander gave him. Everyone understood what the person going to the cursed zone decided to do...

He was covered in snow dust. Hot fragments of mines squealed disgustingly above my head, stirring the wet hair that came out from under the hood, and, hissing, melted the snow very close...

crawl to it, join the open line again.

He remembered only one thing - he had to find the end of the wire hanging somewhere there, in the bushes, he had to get to it, grab onto it, pull it, tie it. And he found a broken wire. The man fell twice before he could get up. Something hot hit him again on the chest, he fell, but again stood up and grabbed the wire. And then he saw that the Germans were approaching. He could not shoot back: his hands were full... He began to pull the wire towards himself, crawling back, but the cable got tangled in the bushes.

Then the signalman began to pull up the other end. It became more and more difficult for him to breathe. He was in a hurry. His fingers were numb...

pain, squeezing my jaw until it crunches. He feels the familiar sour-salty taste and a slight tingling sensation on his tongue. There is current! And, fumbling for the rifle with his lifeless, but now free hands, he falls face down into the snow, furiously, gritting his teeth with all the rest of his strength. Just don’t let go... The Germans, emboldened, run at him screaming. But again he scraped up the remnants of life in himself, sufficient to rise for the last time and release the entire clip at the nearby enemies... And there, at the command post, the beaming telephone operator shouts into the receiver:

Yes Yes! I hear you! Arina? I am Soroka! Petya, dear! Take: number eight through twelve.

The man did not return. Dead, he remained in the ranks, on the line. He continued to be a guide for the living. His mouth was forever numb.

But, piercing a weak current through his clenched teeth, words rushed from end to end of the battlefield, on which the lives of hundreds of people and the result of the battle depended. Already disconnected from life itself, he was still included in its chain. Death froze his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in the frozen vessels. But the man’s furious dying will triumphed in the living connection of the people to whom he remained faithful even in death.

When, at the end of the battle, the advanced unit, having received the necessary instructions, struck the Germans on the flank and escaped the encirclement, the signalmen, reeling in the cable, came across a man half-covered by drifting snow. He lay face down, his face buried in the snow. He had a rifle in his hand, and his numb finger froze on the trigger. The clip was empty. And nearby, four dead Germans were found in the snow. They lifted him up, and behind him, tearing up the whiteness of the snowdrift, dragged the wire he had bitten. Then they realized how the communication line was restored during the battle...

The teeth that held the ends of the cable were clenched so tightly that they had to cut the wire at the corners of the numb mouth. Otherwise, there was no way to free the man who, even after death, steadfastly carried out the communications service. And everyone around was silent, gritting their teeth from the pain that pierced their hearts, just as Russian people know how to remain silent in grief, how they are silent if they fall, weakened from wounds, into the clutches of the “deadheads” - our people, who have no pain, no torture. Unclench your clenched teeth, do not rip out a word, a groan, or a bitten wire.

NOTES

The story was written at the beginning of the war and dedicated to the memory of Sergeant Novikov, whose feat was mentioned in one of the front-line reports of that time.

At the same time, the story was broadcast on the radio and published in a collection of stories by Lev Kassil, published in 1942 in the library of the Ogonyok magazine.

The collection was called “Line of Communication”.

GREEN TRANCH

A three-line lamp illuminated the low frame. It smelled of fresh wood, earthy dampness and sealing wax. Tarasnikov himself, a short, sickly-looking young man with a funny red mustache and a yellow, stoned mouth, greeted me politely, but not too friendly.

Set yourself up here,” he told me, pointing to the trestle bed and immediately bending over his papers again. “Now they’ll lay out a tent for you.” I hope my office won't bother you? Well, I hope you won’t bother us too much either. Let's agree this way. Have a seat for now.

And I began to live in Tarasnikov’s underground office.

He was a very restless, unusually meticulous and picky worker. He spent whole days writing and sealing packages, sealing them with sealing wax heated over a lamp, sending out some reports, accepting papers, redrawing maps, tapping with one finger on a rusty typewriter, carefully knocking out each letter. In the evenings he was tormented by attacks of fever, he swallowed quinine, but categorically refused to go to the hospital:

What are you, what are you! Where will I go? Yes, this is where the whole thing will happen without me! Everything depends on me. I should go away for a day, but then you won’t be able to unravel here for a year...

Late at night, returning from the front line of defense, falling asleep on my trestle bed, I still saw Tarasnikov’s tired and pale face at the table, illuminated by the fire of the lamp, delicately, for my sake, lowered, and shrouded in tobacco fog. Hot smoke came from a clay stove stacked in the corner. Tarasnikov's tired eyes watered, but he continued to write and seal the bags. Then he called a messenger, who was waiting behind a raincoat hung at the entrance to our dugout, and I heard the following conversation.

Who is from the fifth battalion? - asked Tarasnikov.

“I’m from the fifth battalion,” answered the messenger.

Accept the package... Here. Take it in your hands. So. You see, it says “Urgent” here. Therefore, deliver immediately. Hand it over personally to the commander. It's clear? If there is no commander, hand it over to the commissar. There won't be a commissioner - look for him. Do not pass it on to anyone else. Clear? Repeat.

Deliver the package urgently,” the messenger repeated monotonously, as in a lesson. “Personally to the commander, if not, to the commissar; if not, find him.”

Right. What will you carry the package in?

Yes, as usual... Right here, in your pocket.

Show me your pocket.” And Tarasnikov approached the tall messenger, stood on tiptoe, put his hand under his raincoat, inside the bosom of his overcoat, and checked if there were any holes in his pocket.

Yes, okay. Now keep in mind: the package is secret. Therefore, if you get caught by the enemy, what will you do?

What are you talking about, comrade technician-quartermaster, why would I get caught!

There is no need to get caught, absolutely true, but I ask you: what will you do if you get caught?

I'll never get caught...

And I ask you, if? So, listen. If there is any danger, eat the contents without reading. Tear the envelope and throw it away. Clear? Repeat.

In case of danger, tear the envelope and throw it away, and eat what is in between.

Right. How long will it take to deliver the package?

Yes, it’s about forty minutes and it’s only a walk.

More precisely, I ask.

Yes, comrade technician-quartermaster, I think I will walk no more than fifty minutes.

I'll definitely deliver it in an hour.

So. Notice the time.” Tarasnikov clicked the huge conductor’s watch. “It’s twenty-three fifty.” This means they are required to deliver it no later than zero fifty minutes. Clear? You can go.

And this dialogue was repeated with every messenger, with every liaison.

Having finished with all the packages, Tarasnikov packed up. But even in his sleep, he continued to teach the messengers, took offense at someone, and often at night I was woken up by his loud, dry, abrupt voice:

How are you standing? Where have you come? This is not a hair salon, but a headquarters office! - he spoke clearly in his sleep.

Why did they enter without announcing themselves? Log out and log in again. It's time to learn order. So. Wait. Do you see the man eating? You can wait, your package is not urgent. Give the man something to eat... Sign... Departure time... You can go. You are free...

I shook him, trying to wake him up. He jumped up, looked at me with a little meaningful look and, falling back onto his bed, covering himself with his overcoat, instantly plunged into his staff dreams. And again he began to speak quickly.

“It turns out like this,” he said somewhat guiltily. “You see, I decided not to light the stoves for the time being.” Let's abstain for five days. And then, you know, the stove gives off fumes, and this, apparently, affects her growth... It has a bad effect on her.

I, not understanding anything, looked at Tarasnikov:

At whose height? On the growth of the stove?

What does the stove have to do with it? - Tarasnikov was offended. - I think I express myself quite clearly. This same child, he apparently acts badly...

She stopped growing completely.

Who stopped growing?

Why haven't you paid attention yet? - Tarasnikov shouted, staring at me with indignation. “What is this?” Don't you see? - And he looked with sudden tenderness at the low log ceiling of our dugout.

I stood up, lifted the lamp and saw that a thick round elm tree in the ceiling had sprouted a green sprout. Pale and tender, with unsteady leaves, it stretched up to the ceiling. In two places it was supported by white ribbons, pinned to the ceiling with buttons.

Do you understand? - Tarasnikov spoke. “Growing all the time.” Such a nice branch sprang up. And then we started heating it often, but she apparently didn’t like it. Here I made notches on the log, and I have the dates stamped on it. You see how quickly it grew at first. Some days I pulled out two centimeters. I give you my honest, noble word! And since you and I started smoking here, I haven’t seen any growth for three days now. So it won't take long for her to wither away. Let's abstain. And I should smoke less. The little stalk is delicate, everything affects it. And, you know, I’m wondering: will he make it to the exit? A? After all, this is how the little devil reaches out closer to the air, where he senses the sun from under the ground.

And we went to bed in an unheated, damp dugout. The next day, in order to gain Tarasnikov’s favor, I myself started talking to him about his twig.

“Well,” I asked, throwing off my wet raincoat, “is it growing?”

Imagine, she stretched out almost one and a half centimeters. I told you, there is no need to drown. This is simply an amazing natural phenomenon!..

At night, the Germans brought down massive artillery fire on our location. I woke up from the roar of nearby explosions, spitting out earth, which, due to the shaking, fell abundantly on us through the log ceiling. Tarasnikov also woke up and turned on the light bulb. Everything was hooting, trembling and shaking around us. Tarasnikov put the light bulb in the middle of the table, leaned back on the bed, putting his hands behind his head:

I think there is no great danger. Won't it hurt her? Of course, it’s a concussion, but there are three waves above us. Is it just a direct hit? And, you see, I tied her up. As if he had a presentiment...

I looked at him with interest.

Let the fire roar overhead, let the dank dampness of the earth penetrate into the very bones, all the same - as long as the timid, shy green sprout survives, if only it reaches the sun, the desired exit.

And it seems to me that each of us has our own treasured green branch. For her sake, we are ready to endure all the ordeals and hardships of the wartime, because we know for sure: there, behind the exit, hung today with a damp raincoat, the sun will certainly meet, warm and give new strength to our branch that has reached out, grown and saved by us.

NOTES

Written at the beginning of the war based on the writer’s personal impressions at the front. The story is dedicated to S.L.S., that is, Svetlana Leonidovna Sobinova, the writer’s wife. It was published in the collection “There are such people”, M., 1943, and in other collections by L. Kassil.

EVERYTHING WILL COME BACK

The man has forgotten everything. Who is he? Where? There was nothing - no name, no past. Dusk, thick and viscous, enveloped his consciousness. Those around him could not help him. They themselves knew nothing about the wounded man. He was picked up in one of the areas cleared of Germans; he was found in the frozen basement, severely beaten, thrashing about in delirium. There were no documents with him.

The wounded Red Army soldiers, thrown by the Germans into the same basement with him, also did not know who he was... He was sent with a train to the rear, placed in a hospital there. On the fifth day, while still on the road, he came to his senses. But when they asked him what unit he was from, what his last name was, he looked at the nurses and the military doctor in confusion, knitted his eyebrows so intensely that the skin in the wrinkle on his forehead turned white, and suddenly said dully, slowly and hopelessly:

I don’t know anything... I forgot everything. What is this, comrades? Eh, doctor? What now? Where did everything go? I forgot everything as it is... What now?..

He looked helplessly at the doctor, grabbed his shorn head with both hands, felt for the bandage and timidly removed his hands.

Well, it popped out, everything popped out as it was. It’s spinning here,” he twirled his finger in front of his forehead, “and as soon as you turn towards it, it will float away... What happened to me, doctor?

“Calm down, calm down,” the young doctor Arkady Lvovich began to persuade him and signaled to his sister to come out, “everything will pass, remember everything, everything will come back.” Just don't worry, don't worry. Leave your head alone, let's give your memory a break. In the meantime, allow me, we will enroll you as Comrade Nepomniachtchi. Can?

So above the bed they wrote: “Nepomnyashchy. Head wound, damage to the occipital bone, multiple bruises of the body...”

The young doctor was very interested in a rare case of such severe memory damage. He closely watched Nepomniachtchi. Like a patient tracker, he, using the fragmentary words of the patient, and the stories of the wounded, selected with him, gradually got to the origins of the disease.

“This is a man with a tremendous will,” the doctor said to the head of the hospital. “I understand how it all happened.” The Germans interrogated and tortured him. But he didn’t want to tell them anything. He tried to seem to forget everything he knew. Characteristically, one of the Red Army soldiers who was present during that interrogation later said that Nepomniachtchi answered the Germans like this: “I don’t know anything. I don’t remember...” The matter is depicted to me in this way: he locked his memory That's when I threw the key away. During interrogation, he forced himself to forget everything that could interest the Germans, everything that he knew. But they beat him mercilessly on the head and actually knocked out his memory. The result is complete amnesia. But I am sure that everything will recover for him. Enormous will! She locked the memory with a key, and she will unlock it.

The young doctor had a long conversation with Nepomniachtchi. He carefully shifted the conversation to topics that might remind the patient of something. He talked about wives who wrote to other wounded, talked about children. But Nepomniachtchi remained indifferent. Sometimes the sharp pain that flared up in the broken joints came to life in my memory. The pain brought him back to something not entirely forgotten. He saw in front of him a dimly glowing light bulb in the hut, and recalled that they persistently and cruelly questioned him about something, but he did not answer. And they beat him, they beat him... But as soon as he tried to concentrate, this scene, faintly illuminated in his consciousness by the light of a smoky lamp, suddenly became foggy, everything remained unseen, shifted somewhere away from consciousness, just as it disappears, elusively hiding from view, a speck that had just floated before my eyes. Everything that happened seemed to Nepomniachtchi to have gone to the end of a long, poorly lit corridor. He tried to enter this narrow passage, to squeeze into its depths as far as possible, but the tunnel became narrower and more stuffy. The wounded man was deaf and suffocating in the darkness. Severe headaches were the result of these efforts.

The doctor tried to read the newspapers to Nepomniachtchi, but the wounded man began tossing and turning heavily, and the doctor realized that he was touching upon some of the most painful areas of his affected memory. Then the doctor decided to try other, more harmless methods. He brought the holy calendar he had obtained somewhere and read all the names aloud to Nepomniachtchi in a row: Agathon, Agamemnon, Haggai, Anempodist... Nepomniachtchi listened to all the saints with equal indifference and did not respond to a single name. The doctor decided to try another remedy he had invented. One day he came to Nepomniachtchi, who was already getting out of bed, and brought him a military tunic, trousers, and boots. Taking the convalescent man by the hand, the doctor led him along the corridor, suddenly stopped at one of the doors and sharply opened it. A tall dressing table flashed in front of Nepomniachtchi. A thin man in a military tunic and military boots, with short hair, stared at the newcomer from the mirror.

Well, how? - asked the doctor. “Don’t you recognize it?”

“No,” Nepomniachtchi said abruptly, peering into the mirror, “he’s an unfamiliar person.” New, or what? - And he began to look around restlessly, searching with his eyes for the person reflected in the mirror.

By the New Year, parcels with gifts began to arrive at the hospital. They began to prepare the Christmas tree. Arkady Lvovich deliberately involved Nepomniachtchi in the case. The doctor hoped that the sweet fuss with toys, tinsel and sparkling balls, the fragrant smell of pine needles would give rise to in the forgotten person at least some memories of the days that all people remember for a long life and, while the consciousness lives, sparkle in him like sparkles, hiding in the Christmas tree branches. Nepomniachtchi carefully decorated the Christmas tree. Obediently, without smiling, he hung trinkets on the resinous branches, but all this reminded him of nothing.

Early in the morning Arkady Lvovich came to Nepomniachtchi. The patient was still sleeping. The doctor carefully adjusted the blanket on him, went to the window and opened the large transom window. It was half past seven, and the soft breeze of the thaw brought from below, from under the hill, a whistle of a thick, velvety tone. It was one of the nearby factories calling for work. It either hummed at full power, or seemed to subside a little, obeying the waves of the wind, like the waves of an invisible conductor's hand; Echoing him, neighboring factories responded, and then distant beeps sounded in the mines...

And suddenly Nepomniachtchi sat up on his bed.

What time is it? - he asked worriedly, without opening his eyes, but lowering his legs from the bed. “Has ours hummed yet?” Oh, damn, I overslept...

He rubbed his closed eyelids, grunted, shook his head, driving away the sleep, then jumped up and began to ruffle his hospital gown. He tore up the whole bed, looking for clothes. He grumbled that he was touching his tunic and trousers somewhere. Arkady Lvovich flew out of the room like a whirlwind and immediately returned, carrying the suit in which he dressed Nepomniachtchi on the day of the experiment with the mirror. Without looking at the doctor, Nepomniachtchi hurriedly got dressed, listened to the whistle, which was still wide and imperiously entering the room, bursting through the open transom. Adjusting his belt as he walked, Nepomniachtchi ran along the corridor towards the exit. Arkady Lvovich followed him and managed to throw someone's overcoat over Nepomniachtchi's shoulders in the locker room. Nepomniachtchi walked down the street without looking around. It was not memory yet, but only a long-standing habit that now led him along the street, which he suddenly recognized. For many years in a row, every morning he heard this beep, jumped out of bed, half asleep, and reached for his clothes. Arkady Lvovich walked first behind Nepomniachtchi. He already realized what happened. Happy coincidence! The wounded man, as had happened more than once, was brought to his hometown, and now he recognized the whistle of his factory. Having made sure that Nepomniachtchi was confidently walking towards the plant, the doctor got ahead of him and ran into the staff booth. The elderly timekeeper at the checkpoint was stunned when she saw Nepomniachtchi.

Yegor Petrovich,” she whispered, “Lord God, he’s alive and healthy!”

Nepomniachtchi nodded briefly to her:

She was healthy, Comrade Lakhtina. I was a little late today.

He began to rummage in his pockets, restlessly looking for his pass. But a watchman came out of the guardhouse and whispered something to the timekeeper. Nepomniachtchi was missed.

And so he came to his workshop and went straight to his machine. Quickly, with a master's eye, he examined the machine, looked around, looked with his eyes in the silent crowd of workers, who were delicately looking at him in the distance, for the adjuster, and beckoned him with his finger.

Great, Konstantin Andreevich, fix the disk on the dividing head for me.

No matter how much Arkady Lvovich begged, the people were interested to look at the famous milling machine operator, who had returned to his factory so unexpectedly, so unusually. “Barychev is here...” echoed throughout all the workshops. Yegor Petrovich Barychev was considered dead. There has been no news of him for a long time. Arkady Lvovich looked after his patient from afar.

Barychev once again critically examined his machine, grunted approvingly, and the doctor heard the young guy standing next to him sigh with relief, apparently replacing Barychev at the machine. But then the bass of the factory whistle sounded over the workshop. Egor Petrovich Barychev inserted the part into the mandrel, strengthened, as he always did, two large-diameter cutters at once, started the machine manually, then gently turned on the feed. The emulsion splashed and metal shavings began to bristle. “It works in its own way, still in Barychev’s way,” they whispered respectfully around. Memory has already returned to the master's hands.

What is this verse you found on everyone today? - he said, turning to a friend-adjuster. - Look, Konstantin Andreevich, our young ones are from the early ones.

“You’re too old,” the repairman joked. “You haven’t turned thirty yet, but you also sound like a grandfather.” As for the products, now our entire workshop has taken to working like Barychev. We give two hundred and twenty percent. You understand, there is no time to delay. How did you leave for active duty...

“Wait,” Yegor Petrovich said quietly and dropped the wrench from his hands.

The metal hit the floor tiles loudly. Arkady Lvovich hurried to this sound. He saw how Barychev’s cheekbones first turned purple and then slowly moved away, turning white.

Kostya... Konstantin Andreevich, doctor... and how is your wife? My guys? After all, I haven’t seen them since the first day I left for the front...

And the memory rushed into him, turning into a living longing for home. The memory struck his heart with a burning joy of return and an unbearable furious resentment towards those who tried to steal from him everything he had gained in life! Everything has returned.

NOTES

The dramatic story described in the story took place in a hospital in the Urals shortly after the start of the war. The writer learned about her from a doctor at this hospital. At the same time, the story was broadcast on the radio and published in L. Kassil’s collection “Line of Communication”, M., 1942.

1. Saints - a list of “holy” people revered by the Christian Church and holidays in their honor in calendar or alphabetical order.

AT THE BLACKBOARD

They said about teacher Ksenia Andreevna Kartashova that her hands sing. Her movements were soft, leisurely, round, and when she explained the lesson in class, the children 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 some noise in the class, she will raise her light hand, move it - and the whole class seems to listen, and immediately becomes quiet.

Wow, she’s strict with us! - the guys boasted. - He notices everything right away...

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

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

Nothing, nothing, he’s moving little by little,” the teacher answered, “he’s a good boy.” He's just lazy sometimes. Well, this happened to my father too. Isn't that right?

The policeman embarrassedly straightened his belt: once he himself sat at a desk and answered Ksenia Andreevna’s board at the board and also heard to himself that he was a good guy, but he was just lazy sometimes... And the chairman of the collective farm was once Ksenia Andreevna’s student, and the director machine and tractor station studied with her. Over the course of thirty-two years, many people have passed through Ksenia Andreevna’s class. She was known as a strict but fair person. Ksenia Andreevna’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 gaze involuntarily became cheerful and began to think that, honestly, he was not such a bad person and it was certainly worth living in the world. These are the eyes Ksenia Andreevna had!

And her gait was also light and melodious. Girls from high school tried to adopt her. No one had ever seen the teacher hurry up or hurry. And at the same time, all work progressed quickly and also seemed to sing in her skillful 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 deliciously squeezed out of the chalk, like from a tube, writing letters and numbers on the black surface of the board. "Don't rush! Don't rush, think carefully first!" - Ksenia Andreevna said softly when the student began to get lost in a problem or in a sentence and, diligently writing and erasing what he had written with a rag, floated in clouds of chalk smoke.

Ksenia Andreevna was in no hurry this time either. As soon as the sound of engines was heard, the teacher sternly looked 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 hill. The classroom windows faced the cliff above the river. Ksenia Andreevna lived at the school. There were no classes. The front passed very close to the village. Somewhere nearby battles rumbled. Units of the Red Army retreated across the river and fortified there. And the collective farmers gathered a partisan detachment and went to the nearby forest outside the village. Schoolchildren brought them food there and told them where and when the Germans were spotted. Kostya Rozhkov, the best swimmer of the school, more than once delivered reports from the commander of the forest partisans to the Red Army soldiers on the other side. Shura Kapustina once bandaged the wounds of two partisans injured in battle herself - Ksenia Andreevna taught her this art. Even Senya Pichugin, a well-known quiet man, once spotted a German patrol outside the village and, having scouted out where he was going, managed to warn the detachment.

In the evening, the children gathered at the school and told the teacher about everything. It was the same this time, when the engines began to roar very close. Fascist planes had already raided the village more than once, dropped bombs, and scoured the forest in search of partisans. Kostya Rozhkov once even had to lie in a swamp for an entire hour, hiding his head under wide leaves of water lilies. And very close by, cut off by machine-gun fire from the plane, a reed fell into the water... And the guys were already accustomed to raids.

But now they were wrong. It wasn't the planes that were rumbling. The boys had not yet managed to hide in the gap when three dusty Germans ran into the school yard, jumping over a low palisade. Car glasses with casement lenses gleamed on their helmets. These were motorcycle scouts. They left their cars in the bushes. From three different sides, but all at once, they rushed towards the schoolchildren and aimed their machine guns at them.

Stop! - shouted a thin, long-armed German with a short red mustache, who must be the boss. “Pioniren?” - he asked.

The guys were silent, involuntarily moving away from the barrel 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 into the backs and necks of the schoolchildren.

Schneller, schneller, bistro! - the fascist shouted.

Ksenia Andreevna stepped forward straight towards 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 gaze confused the involuntarily retreating fascist.

Who is V? Answer this very minute... I speak some Russian.

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

Don't teach me! - the scout hissed.

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

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

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

“Now I’ll give you a short exam,” said the boss. “Sit down!”

But the kids 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 guys carefully sat down. They sat in silence, not taking their eyes off the teacher. Out of habit, they sat down in their seats, as they usually sat in class: Senya Pichugin and Shura Kapustina in front, and Kostya Rozhkov behind everyone, on the last desk. And, finding themselves in their familiar places, the guys gradually calmed down.

Outside the classroom windows, on the glass of which protective strips were glued, the sky was calmly blue, and on the windowsill there were flowers grown by the children in jars and boxes. As always, a hawk filled with sawdust hovered on the glass cabinet. And the wall of the classroom was decorated with carefully pasted herbariums.

The older German touched one of the pasted sheets with his shoulder, and dried daisies, fragile stems and twigs fell onto the floor with a slight crunch.

This cut the boys' hearts painfully. Everything was wild, everything seemed contrary to the usual established order within these walls. And the familiar classroom seemed so dear to the children, the desks on whose lids the dried ink smudges shone like the wing of a bronze beetle.

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

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

Well! - the fascist shouted.

Quiet Senya Pichugin silently slipped from his desk and went to get a chair. He didn't 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 the chair from him, placed it in front of him and sat down. Shura Kapustina raised her hand:

Ksenia Andreevna... can I leave the class?

Sit, Kapustina, sit.” And, looking knowingly at the girl, Ksenia Andreevna barely audibly added: “There’s still a sentry there.”

Now everyone will listen to me! - said the boss.

And, distorting his words, the fascist began to tell the guys that the Red partisans were hiding in the forest, and he knew it very well, and the guys knew it too. German intelligence officers more than once saw schoolchildren running back and forth into the forest. And now the guys must tell the boss where the partisans are hiding. If the guys tell you where the partisans are now, naturally, everything will be fine. If the guys don’t say it, naturally, everything will be very bad.

Now I will listen to everyone! - the German finished his speech.

Then the guys understood what they wanted from them. They sat motionless, only managed to glance at each other and froze again on their desks.

A tear slowly crawled down Shura Kapustina’s face. Kostya Rozhkov sat leaning forward, placing his strong elbows on the tilted lid of his desk. The short fingers of his hands were intertwined. Kostya swayed slightly, staring at his desk. From the outside it seemed that he was trying to unclasp his hands, but some force was preventing him from doing this.

The guys sat in silence.

The boss called his assistant and took the card from him.

Order them,” he said in German to Ksenia Andreevna, “to show me this place on a map or plan.” Well, it's alive! Just look at me... - He spoke again in Russian: - I warn you that I understand the Russian language and what you will say to the children...

He went to the board, took a 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 scribbled curls of smoke.

Maybe you’ll think about it and tell me everything you need? - the boss 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 don't know where it is.

The fascist, grabbing Ksenia Andreevna by the shoulders with his long hands, roughly shook her:

Ksenia Andreevna freed herself, took a step forward, walked 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. Is it true?

We don’t know, we don’t know!.. - the guys made a noise. - Who knows where they are! They went into the forest - that's all.

“You are really bad students,” the German tried to joke, “you can’t answer such a simple question.” Ay, ay...

He looked around the class with feigned cheerfulness, but did not meet a single smile. The guys sat stern and wary. It was quiet in the class, only Senya Pichugin was snoring gloomily on 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, do you know? - And the German pointed the muzzle of his pistol at Senya’s drooping chin.

“I know that,” said Senya. “A Walther automatic pistol...

Do you know how many times he can kill such bad students?

Don't know. Consider for yourself... - Senya muttered.

Who is this! - the German shouted. “You said: count it 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 doesn’t say. I started counting! Once!..

He grabbed Ksenia Andreevna’s hand and pulled her towards the wall of the classroom. Ksenia Andreevna did not utter a sound, but it seemed to the children that her soft, melodious hands themselves began to groan. And the class buzzed. Another fascist immediately pointed his pistol at the guys.

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

Alzo, so none of you know where the partisans are,” said the German. “Great, we’ll count.” I already said “one”, now there will be “two”.

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

Shut up, Shura, shut up,” whispered Ksenia Andreevna, and her lips hardly moved. “Let everyone be silent,” she said slowly, looking around the class, “whoever is scared should turn away.” No need to look, guys. Farewell! Study hard. And remember this lesson of ours...

“I’ll say “three” now!” the fascist interrupted her.

And suddenly Kostya Rozhkov stood up in the back row and raised his hand:

She really doesn't know!

Who knows?

“I know...” Kostya said loudly and clearly. “I went there myself and I know.” But she wasn’t and doesn’t know.

“Well, show me,” said the boss.

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... - began Ksenia Andreevna.

But Rozhkov interrupted her:

Ksenia Andreevna, I know it myself...

The teacher stood, turned away from him, dropping her white head on her chest. Kostya went to the board where he had answered the lesson so many times. He took the chalk. He stood indecisively, fingering the white crumbling pieces. The fascist approached the board and waited. Kostya raised his hand with a chalk.

“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 both hands with all his might. This is what they do when, having written on one side, they are about to turn the board over to the other. The board turned sharply in its frame, squealed and hit the fascist in the face with a flourish. He flew to the side, and Kostya, jumping over the frame, instantly disappeared behind the board, as if behind a shield. The fascist, clutching his bloody face, fired uselessly at the board, putting bullet after bullet into it.

In vain... Behind the blackboard there was a window overlooking the cliff above the river. Kostya, without thinking, jumped through the open window, threw himself off the cliff into the river and swam to the other bank.

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

At this time, hearing gunfire in the village, the partisans who were tracking down the motorcyclists jumped out of the forest. Seeing them, the German guarding 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, piercing leaves, cutting off branches, a machine-gun burst from the Red Army patrol, which was on the other side, lashed...

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

No, no, no! I'll bring you another one now,

And he instantly dragged another chair from the corridor, and pushed this one behind the board. The commander of the partisan detachment sat down and called the chief of the fascists to the table for interrogation. And the other two, rumpled and quiet, sat next to each other on the desk of Senya Pichugin and Shura Kapustina, carefully and timidly placing their legs there.

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

“That’s not entirely true,” the German muttered, “that’s not right at all...

He, he! - shouted the quiet Senya Pichugin. “He still has a mark... I... when I was dragging the chair, I accidentally spilled ink onto the oilcloth.”

The commander leaned over the table, looked and grinned: there was a dark ink stain on the back of the fascist’s gray pants...

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

Get up! - the commander shouted at them. “In our class you are supposed to stand up when the teacher enters.” Apparently that’s not what you were taught!

And the two fascists obediently stood up.

May I continue our lesson, Ksenia Andreevna? - asked the commander.

Sit, sit, Shirokov.

No, Ksenia Andreevna, take your rightful place,” Shirokov objected, pulling up a chair, “in this room you are our mistress.” And I’m here, at that desk over there, I’ve gained my wits, and my daughter is here with you... Sorry, Ksenia Andreevna, that I had to allow these cheeky people into your class. Well, since this has happened, you should ask them properly yourself. 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 the chalkboard, pierced by bullets, a long-armed, red-mustachioed brute was hesitating, nervously straightening his jacket, humming something and hiding his eyes from the blue, stern gaze of the old teacher.

“Stand properly,” said Ksenia Andreevna, “why are you fidgeting?” My guys don't behave like that. That's it... Now take the trouble to answer my questions.

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

NOTES

Written in the first years of the war. Broadcast on the radio. First published in L. Kassil's collection "Friends and Comrades", Sverdlgiz, 1942.

MARKS OF RIMMA LEBEDEVA

The girl Rimma Lebedeva came to the city of Sverdlovsk with her mother. She entered third grade. The aunt with whom Rimma now lived came to school and told teacher Anastasia Dmitrievna:

Please don't approach her strictly. After all, he and his mother barely made it out. The Germans could easily have been captured. Bombs were thrown at their village. All this had a great effect on her. I think she's nervous now. She probably can't study properly. Please keep this in mind.

“Okay,” said the teacher, “I will keep this in mind, but we will try so that she can study like everyone else.”

The next day, Anastasia Dmitrievna came to class early and told the kids this:

Lebedeva Rimma hasn’t come yet?.. Now, guys, while she’s gone, I want to warn you: this girl may have been through a lot. They were not far from the front with their mother. The Germans bombed their village. You and I must help her come to her senses and organize her studies. Don't ask her too much. Agreed?

Agreed! - the third graders answered unanimously.

Manya Petlina, the first excellent student in the class, sat Rimma on her desk, next to her. The boy who had been sitting there earlier gave up his seat to her. The guys gave Rimma their textbooks. Manya gave her a tin box of paints. And the third graders didn’t ask Rimma anything.

But she didn’t study well. She did not prepare lessons, although Manya Petlina helped her study and came to Rimma’s house to solve given examples with her. The overly caring aunt was disturbing the girls.

Enough for you to study,” she said, going up to the table, closing the textbooks and putting Rimma’s notebooks in the closet. “You, Manya, have completely tortured her.” She is not like you who were sitting here at home. Don't compare yourself to her.

And these aunt’s conversations eventually had an effect on Rimma. She decided that she no longer needed to study, and completely stopped preparing her homework. And when Anastasia Dmitrievna asked why Rimma again didn’t know her lessons, she said:

That incident had a great impact on me. I am unable to study properly. I'm getting nervous now.

And when Manya and her friends tried to persuade Rimma to study properly, she again stubbornly insisted:

I was almost at the war itself. Were you there? No. And don't compare.

The guys were silent. Indeed, they were not at war. True, many of them had fathers and relatives who went into the army. But it was difficult to argue with the girl, who herself was quite close to the front. And Rimma, seeing the boys’ embarrassment, now began to add her own words to her aunt’s. She said that she was bored with studying and was not interested, that she would soon go to the very front again and become a scout there, and she didn’t really need all sorts of dictations and arithmetic.

There was a hospital not far from the school. The guys often went there. They read books aloud to the wounded, one of the third-graders played the balalaika well, and the schoolchildren sang to the wounded in a quiet chorus “The moon is shining” and “There was a birch tree in the field.” The girls embroidered pouches for the wounded. In general, the school and the hospital became very friendly. At first the guys didn’t take Rimma with them. They were afraid that the sight of the wounded would remind her of something difficult. But Rimma begged to be taken. She even made her own tobacco pouch. True, it didn’t turn out very well for her. And when Rimma gave the pouch to the lieutenant who was lying in ward E 8, for some reason the wounded man tried it on his healthy left hand and asked:

What's your name? Rimma Lebedeva? - and sang quietly: Oh yes, Rimma - well done! What a craftswoman! I sewed a pouch for the wounded - the mitten came out.

But, seeing that Rimma was blushing and upset, he hastily caught her sleeve with his left, healthy hand and said:

Nothing, nothing, don’t be embarrassed, I meant it as a joke. Wonderful pouch! Thank you. And it’s even good that it can pass for a mitten. It will come in handy. Moreover, now I only need it for one hand.

And the lieutenant nodded sadly at his right hand, wrapped in bandages.

“But you will serve as my friend,” he asked. “I also have a daughter, she’s studying in the second grade.” My name is Olya.. She writes letters to me, but I can’t write an answer... Hand... Maybe you can sit down and take a pencil? And I will dictate to you. I will be very grateful.

Of course, Rimma agreed. She proudly took the pencil, and the lieutenant slowly dictated a letter to her for his daughter Olya.

Well, let's see what you and I have come up with together.

He took the piece of paper Rimma had written with his left hand, read it, frowned and whistled sadly:

Phew!.. It turns out ugly. You are making very serious mistakes. What class are you in? In the third, it’s time to write more clearly. No, that won't do. My daughter will laugh at me. “He found, he will say, literate people.” Even though she’s in the second grade, she already knows that when you write the word “daughter”, after the “h” a soft sign is absolutely not required.

Rimma was silent, turning away. Manya Petlina jumped up to the lieutenant’s bed and whispered in his ear:

Comrade Lieutenant, she is not yet able to study properly. She hasn't come to her senses yet. It had a great effect on her. They were almost near the front with their mother. - And she told the wounded man about everything.

“So,” said the lieutenant. “This is not quite the right conversation.” They don’t brag about misfortune and grief for a long time. Either they endure it, or they try to help the misfortune so that it does not exist. That’s why I probably gave my right hand, and many have completely given up, so that our kids can study properly, as we want them to have a life according to all our rules... That’s it, Rimma: come- “Tomorrow after school we’ll talk for an hour, and I’ll dictate another letter to you,” he unexpectedly finished.

And now every day after classes, Rimma came to ward E 8, where the wounded lieutenant lay. And he dictated - slowly, loudly, separately - letters to his friends. The lieutenant had an unusually large number of friends, relatives and acquaintances. They lived in Moscow, Saratov, Novosibirsk, Tashkent, Penza.

- “Dear Mikhail Petrovich!” Exclamation mark, baton up,” the lieutenant dictated. “Now write on a new line.” “I want to know,” comma, “how things are going...” After the “t” there is no need for a soft sign in this case... “how things are going at our plant.” Dot.

Then the lieutenant, together with Rimma, sorted out the mistakes, corrected them and explained why it was necessary to write this way and not that way. And he forced me to find on a small map the city where the letter was sent.

Two more months passed, and one evening Rimma Lebedeva came to ward E 8 and, turning away slyly, handed the lieutenant a sheet with marks for the second quarter. The lieutenant carefully looked through all the marks.

Wow! This is order! - he said. - Well done, Rimma Lebedeva: not a single “mediocre”. And even “excellent” in Russian and geography. Well, get your certificate! An honorary document.

But Rimma pulled away the sheet handed to her with her hand.

He was later found by Red Army soldiers in someone else's hut, not far from the house where the chairman of the village council Sukhanov lived. Grisha was unconscious. Blood was gushing from a deep wound on his leg.

No one understood how he got to the Germans. After all, first he and everyone went into the woods behind the pond. What made him come back?

This remains unclear.

One Sunday the Lutokha boys came to Moscow to visit Grisha.

Four forwards from the school team “Voskhod” went to visit their captain, with whom Grisha formed the famous attacking five just this summer. The captain himself played in the center. To his left was the nimble Kolya Shvyrev, who loved to play the ball for a long time with his tenacious legs, for which he was called Hookman. On the right hand of the captain played the stooped and wobbling Eremka Pasekin, who was teased “Eremka-snow drift, blow low across the field” because he ran, bent low and dragging his feet. On the left edge was the fast, accurate, quick-witted Kostya Belsky, who earned the nickname “The Hawk”. On the other side of the attack was the lanky and foolish Savka Golopyatov, nicknamed “Balalaika”. He always found himself in an offside position - “outside the game”, and the team, by his grace, received penalty kicks from the referee.

Varya Sukhanova also got involved with the boys, an overly curious girl who dragged herself to all the matches and clapped the loudest when Voskhod won. Last spring, with her own hands, she embroidered the sign of the Sunrise team on the captain’s blue T-shirt - a yellow semicircle above the ruler and pink rays spread out in all directions.

The guys contacted the chief doctor in advance, secured a special pass, and were allowed to visit the wounded captain.

The hospital smelled, as all hospitals smell, of something acrid, alarming, and specifically doctor's. And I immediately wanted to speak in a whisper... The cleanliness was such that the guys, crowded together, scraped their soles on the rubber mat for a long time and could not decide to step from it onto the sparkling linoleum of the corridor. Then they were put on white robes with ribbons. Everyone became similar to each other, and for some reason it was awkward to look at each other. “They’re either bakers or pharmacists,” Savka couldn’t resist joking.

Well, don’t strum here in vain,” Kostya Yastrebok stopped him in a stern whisper. “I found the same place, Balalaika!”

They were led into a bright room. There were flowers on the windows and cabinets. But it seemed that the flowers also smelled like a pharmacy. The guys carefully sat down on benches painted with white enamel paint.

Soon the doctor, or maybe the nurse, also all in white, brought Grisha in. The captain was wearing a long hospital gown. And, clattering with his crutches, Grisha still clumsily hopped on one leg, tucking, as it seemed to the boys, the other under his robe. Seeing his friends, he did not smile, he only blushed and nodded to them somehow very tiredly with his short-cropped head.

The guys stood up and, walking behind each other, bumping shoulders, began to extend their hands to him.

“Hello, Grisha,” said Kostya, “we’ve come to see you.”

“Lord Byron,” the captain read, “who remained lame from childhood throughout his life, nevertheless enjoyed enormous success and fame in society. He was a tireless traveler, a fearless rider, a skilled boxer and an outstanding swimmer...”

The captain re-read this passage three times in a row, then put the book on the nightstand, turned his face to the wall and began to dream.

NOTES

During the war, the writer visited hospitals where wounded children lay. The incident described in the story actually happened. The story was first published in 1943 in the collection “There are such people” and in the collection “Ordinary Guys.”

1. Rusakovskaya Hospital - hospital named after I. Rusakov in Moscow; named after a prominent figure in the Bolshevik Party.

2. Lord George Gordon Byron - famous English poet. Despite his limp, he was an outstanding athlete.

This is a story about the exploits of children, schoolchildren, and pioneers during the Great Patriotic War.

Alexey Andreevich. Author: L. A. Kassil

The commander never saw Alexei Andreevich in person, but heard about him every day. A week ago, the soldiers, returning from reconnaissance, reported that a barefoot boy met them in the woods, took seven white stones, five black ones out of his pockets, then pulled out a rope tied with four knots, and finally shook out three pieces of wood. And, looking at the goods taken from his pockets, the unknown boy reported in a whisper that seven German mortars, five enemy tanks, four guns and three machine guns had been spotted on the other side of the river. To the question: “Where did he come from?” — the boy replied that Alexey Andreevich himself sent him.

He came to the scouts the next day and the third. And each time he rummaged in his pockets for a long time, pulling out multi-colored pebbles and slivers, counting the knots on the string and saying that Alexey Andreevich sent him. The boy did not say who Alexey Andreevich was, no matter how much he was questioned. “It’s wartime—there’s no point in talking too much,” he explained, “and Alexey Andreevich himself did not order anything to be said about it.” And the commander, daily receiving very important information in the forest, decided that Alexey Andreevich was some kind of brave partisan, a mighty hero with a thick mustache and a low voice. For some reason, this is exactly how Alexey Andreevich seemed to the commander.

One evening, when warmth came from the wide river and the water became completely smooth, as if frozen, the commander checked the guard posts and got ready to have dinner. But then he was informed that some guy had arrived at the outpost sentries and was asking to see the commander. The commander allowed the boy to pass through.

A few minutes later he saw in front of him a short boy of about thirteen or fourteen years old. There was nothing special about him. The boy seemed simple-minded and even a little slow-witted. He walked with a slightly unsteady gait, and his too-short trouser legs swung from side to side over his bare feet. But it seemed to the commander that the boy was only pretending to be such a simpleton. The commander sensed some kind of trick. And indeed, as soon as the boy saw the commander, he immediately stopped yawning around, pulled himself up, took four firm steps, froze, stretched out and said:

- May I report, comrade commander? Alexey Andreevich...

- You?! — the commander didn’t believe it.

- I'm the one. Head of the crossing.

- How? What is the manager? - the commander asked.

- Crossing! - came from behind the bush, and a boy of about nine poked his head through the foliage.

- And who are you? - asked the commander.

The boy crawled out of the bush, stretched out and, looking first at the commander, then at his senior comrade, diligently said:

- I am for special assignments.

The one who called himself Alexei Andreevich looked at him menacingly.

“For errands,” he corrected the baby, “it’s been said a hundred times!” And don't interfere while the elder is talking. Do I need to teach you all over again?

The commander hid his smile and looked at both of them carefully. Both the elder and the little one stood at attention in front of him.

“This is Valek, my guarantor,” explained the first, “and I am the head of the crossing.”

The little “guarantor” kept moving the toes of his bare, dusty feet, his heels neatly moved together, out of excitement.

- Manager? Crossing? — the commander was surprised.

- Yes sir.

-Where is your crossing?

“In a well-known place,” said the boy.

- What kind of crossing is this? - the commander got angry. “He’s turning my head here: crossing, crossing... but he doesn’t really explain anything.”

- Can I stand freely? - asked the boy.

- Yes, stand freely, stand as you want, just tell me clearly: what do you want from me?

The guys became “at ease.” At the same time, the little one carefully put his leg to the side and funny twisted his heel.

“An ordinary crossing,” the elder began leisurely. - So there is a raft. Called “Coffin for the Nazis.” They tied us up ourselves. There are eight of us, and I am the manager. And we transported three of our wounded from the bank where the Germans were to this side. They're over there in the forest. We hid them there and created disguises. It’s just hard to drag them far. Now we have arrived to you. They need to be taken to the village, the wounded.

- Well, the Germans didn’t notice you? How are you traveling on your raft under their noses?

- And we are all under the bank, under the bank, and then, we have a snag there, we cross from it to the other side. There is a bend in the river here. So we can't be seen. They noticed, started shooting, and we had already arrived at our destination.

- Well, if you’re telling the truth, well done, Andrei Alekseevich! - said the commander.

“Alexey Andreevich,” the boy quietly corrected, modestly looking to the side.

Half an hour later, Alexey Andreevich and his “guarantor” Valek led the commander and orderlies to the wounded, who were hidden in the forest, where the river

made a deep ravine in the bank and the thick roots of the trees intertwined like a hut.

- Right here! - Alexey Andreevich pointed out.

Soon three seriously wounded Red Army soldiers

were placed on stretchers by orderlies. Two of the wounded soldiers were unconscious and only occasionally moaned quietly; the third, grabbing the commander’s elbow with his weakened hand, moving his lips heavily, kept trying to say something. But all he could come up with was:

- The pioneers... the kids... are very grateful... the fighters... the pioneers... They would have disappeared... But here they are...

The orderlies took the wounded to the village, and the commander invited the guys to have dinner at his place. But Alexey Andreevich said that the time was right for work and he could not leave.

The next day, Alexey Andreevich brought the commander a piece of paper on which a plan for the location of the Germans was drawn. He drew it himself, making his way to the other side.

— Did you notice how many machine guns and guns they have? - asked the commander.

“Now you will get everything exactly,” answered Alexey Andreevich and whistled.

Immediately a lanky guy with glasses poked his head out of the bushes.

“This is the accountant Kolka on our raft,” explained Alexey Andreevich.

“Not an accountant, but an accountant,” the lanky man corrected gloomily.

- Accountant! It's been said a hundred times! - said Alexey Andreevich.

The “accountant” had an exact list, tied in a knot on a rope, collected from pebbles and sticks, of all the machine guns and guns that the Germans had installed on the other side.

- What about armored cars? Haven't you seen it?

“You should ask Seryozhka about that,” answered Alexey Andreevich. “I deliberately dispersed it among everyone, so that everyone had a little.” But the Germans won’t recognize you by the pebbles and splinters. It happens in everyone's pocket. If anyone gets caught, the rest will finish theirs. Hey, Seryozhka! - he shouted, and immediately a shorn-haired and tanned hulk came out from behind the bushes; he had a dozen shells representing German armored cars and tanks. - Maybe you need rifles? - Alexey Andreevich suddenly asked sternly.

The commander laughed:

- What, you not only make rafts, but also rifles? So, what?

“No,” Alexey Andreevich answered without smiling. — We have ready-made ones, made in Germany. Send for them to the crossing in the evening, at zero fifteen minutes. Just to be sure.

At a quarter past twelve, as agreed, the commander himself arrived at the crossing point. He was accompanied by several soldiers. The commander began to go down to the water and tripped over something iron and heavy. He bent down and felt the wet rifle.

“Take the weapon,” Alexey Andreevich whispered.

Eighty German rifles were handed over to the Red Army pioneers that night. Alexey Andreevich carefully counted them, noted each one in his notebook and ordered his “accountant” to get a receipt from the commander...

The commander put the guys in his tent. Alexey Andreevich wanted to leave the guards on duty at the raft, but the commander posted his own sentry there. A real sentry guarded the glorious pioneer raft that night, and the head of the crossing and his seven assistants, covered with greatcoats, snored sweetly in the commander’s tent.

In the morning, some left for new positions. The guys were woken up and fed a delicious breakfast. The commander approached Alexei Andreevich and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Well, Alexey Andreevich,” he said, “thank you for your service.” Your crossing was useful to us.

The commander more than once remembered the little manager of the crossing that day. The guys gave the commander very important information. The fascist battalion with tanks and two platoons of motorcyclists was defeated that day. In the evening, the commander compiled a list of soldiers nominated for the award, and the first to put the name of Alexei, the head of the crossing of the N. River, the glorious commander of the raft “Coffin for the Nazis.”

When, in the large hall of the front headquarters, the commander's adjutant, looking at the list of those awarded, named another name, a short man stood up in one of the back rows. The skin on his sharpened cheekbones was yellowish and transparent, which is usually observed in people who have lain in bed for a long time. Leaning on his left leg, he walked towards the table. The commander took a short step towards him, presented the order, firmly shook the recipient’s hand, congratulated him and handed him the order box.

The recipient, straightening up, carefully took the order and box into his hands. He thanked him abruptly and turned around clearly, as if in formation, although his wounded leg hampered him. For a second he stood indecisive, looking first at the order lying in his palm, then at his comrades in glory gathered here. Then he straightened up again.

May I contact you?

Please.

Comrade commander... And here you are, comrades,” the recipient spoke in an intermittent voice, and everyone felt that the man was very excited. - Allow me to say a word. At this moment in my life, when I accepted the great award, I want to tell you about who should be standing here, next to me, who, perhaps, deserved this great award more than me and did not spare his young life for the sake of our military victory.

He extended his hand to those sitting in the hall, on the palm of which the golden rim of the order gleamed, and looked around the hall with pleading eyes.

Allow me, comrades, to fulfill my duty to those who are not here with me now.

“Speak,” said the commander.

Please! - they responded in the shaft. And then he spoke.

You probably heard, comrades,” he began, “what a situation we had in area R. We then had to retreat, and our unit covered the retreat. And then the Germans cut us off from their own. Wherever we go, we run into fire. The Germans are hitting us with mortars, hammering the woods where we took cover with howitzers, and combing the edge of the forest with machine guns. Time has expired, according to the clock, it turns out that ours have already gained a foothold on a new line, we have drawn off enough enemy forces, it’s time to get home, it’s time to delay the connection. But, we see, it’s impossible to get into any of them. And there is no way to stay here longer. The German found us, pinned us in the forest, sensed that there were only a handful of us left here, and took us by the throat with his pincers. The conclusion is clear - we must make our way in a roundabout way.

Where is this roundabout way? Which direction should I choose? And our commander, Lieutenant Andrei Petrovich Butorin, says: “Nothing will work out here without preliminary reconnaissance. You need to look and feel where they have a crack. If we find it, we’ll get through.” That means I immediately volunteered. “Allow me, I say, should I try, Comrade Lieutenant?” He looked at me carefully. This is no longer in the order of the story, but, so to speak, on the side, I must explain that Andrei and I are from the same village - buddies. How many times have we gone fishing to Iset! Then both worked together at a copper smelter in Revda. In a word, friends and comrades. He looked at me carefully and frowned. “Okay,” says Comrade Zadokhtin, go. Is the task clear to you?”

He took me out onto the road, looked back, and grabbed my hand. “Well, Kolya,” he says, let’s say goodbye to you, just in case. The matter, you understand, is deadly. But since I volunteered, I don’t dare refuse you. Help me out, Kolya... We won't last here for more than two hours. The losses are too great...” - “Okay, I say, Andrey, this is not the first time you and I have found ourselves in such a situation. Wait for me in an hour. I'll see what's needed there. Well, if I don’t come back, bow to our people there, in the Urals...”

And so I crawled and buried myself behind the trees. I tried in one direction - no, I couldn’t get through: the Germans were covering that area with thick fire. Crawled in the opposite direction. There, at the edge of the forest, there was a ravine, a gulley, quite deeply washed out. And on the other side, near the gulley, there is a bush, and behind it there is a road, an open field. I went down into the ravine, decided to get close to the bushes and look through them to see what was happening in the field. I began to climb up the clay, and suddenly I noticed two bare heels sticking out just above my head. I looked closer and saw: the feet were small, the dirt had dried on the soles and was falling off like plaster, the toes were also dirty and scratched, and the little toe on the left foot was bandaged with a blue rag - apparently it had suffered somewhere... For a long time I looked at these heels, at the toes that moved restlessly above my head. And suddenly, I don’t know why, I was drawn to tickle those heels... I can’t even explain to you. But it washes away and washes away... I took a thorny blade of grass and lightly touched one of the heels with it. At once both legs disappeared into the bushes, and a head appeared in the place where the heels stuck out from the branches. So funny, her eyes are frightened, she has no eyebrows, her hair is shaggy and bleached, and her nose is covered in freckles.

What are you doing here? - I say.

“I,” he says, “are looking for a cow.” Haven't you seen it, uncle? The name is Marishka. It's white, but there's black on the side. One horn sticks down, but the other is not there at all... Only you, uncle, don’t believe me... I’m lying all the time... I’m trying this. Uncle, he says, have you fought off ours?

Who are your people? - I ask.

It’s clear who the Red Army is... Only ours went across the river yesterday. And you, uncle, why are you here? The Germans will catch you.

“Well, come here,” I say. - Tell me what is happening here in your area.

The head disappeared, the leg appeared again, and a boy of about thirteen slid down the clay slope to the bottom of the ravine, as if on a sled, heels first.

Uncle,” he whispered, “quickly let’s get out of here somewhere.” There are Germans here. They have four cannons near that forest over there, and their mortars are installed on the side here. There is no way across the road here.

And where, I say, do you know all this?

“How,” he says, “from where?” Am I watching this for nothing in the morning?

Why are you watching?

It will come in handy in life, you never know...

This is what it did! - speaks. “We’re in trouble, uncle, with you being rich... Oh, uncle,” he says, “wait!” Yes, you're wounded.

Uncle, he says, the Germans are coming here. The officer is ahead. Honestly! Let's get out of here quickly. Oh, how many of you...

I tried to move, but it was as if ten pounds were tied to my legs. I can't get out of the ravine. Pulls me down, back...

Eh, uncle, uncle,” says my friend and almost cries himself, “well, then lie here, uncle, so as not to hear or see you.” And I’ll take their eyes off them now, and then I’ll come back, after...

Heavy boots creaked above my head, I heard the German ask:

What were you doing here?

What kind of cow is this? I see you want to talk nonsense to me. Come here close. What have you been climbing here for a very long time, I saw you climbing.

“Uncle, I’m looking for a cow,” my little boy began to whine again. And suddenly his light bare heels clearly clattered along the road.

Stand! Where are you going? Back! I'll shoot! - the German shouted. Heavy forged boots swelled above my head. Then a shot rang out. I understood: my friend deliberately rushed to run away from the ravine in order to distract the Germans from me. I listened, gasping for breath. The shot struck again. And I heard a distant, faint cry. Then it became very quiet... I was having a seizure. I gnawed the ground with my teeth so as not to scream, I leaned my whole chest on my hands to prevent them from grabbing their weapons and hitting the fascists. But I shouldn’t have revealed myself. We must complete the task to the end. Our people will die without me. They won't get out.

Leaning on my elbows, clinging to the branches, I crawled... I don’t remember anything after that. I only remember when I opened my eyes, I saw Andrei’s face very close above me...

Well, that’s how we got out of the forest through that ravine.

He stopped, took a breath and slowly looked around the entire hall.

Here, comrades, to whom I owe my life, who helped rescue our unit from trouble. It’s clear that he should stand here, at this table. But it didn’t work out... And I have one more request to you... Let’s honor, comrades, the memory of my unknown friend - the nameless hero... I didn’t even have time to ask what his name was...

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