Evgenia Grigorievna Levitskaya
member of the CPSU since 1903
The first post-war spring on the Upper Don was unusually friendly and assertive. At the end of March, warm winds blew from the Azov region, and within two days the sands of the left bank of the Don were completely exposed, snow-filled ravines and gullies in the steppe swelled up, breaking the ice, steppe rivers leaped madly, and the roads became almost completely impassable.
During this bad time of no roads, I had to go to the village of Bukanovskaya. And the distance is small - only about sixty kilometers - but overcoming them was not so easy. My friend and I left before sunrise. A pair of well-fed horses, pulling the lines to a string, could barely drag the heavy chaise. The wheels sank right up to the hub into the damp sand mixed with snow and ice, and an hour later, white fluffy flakes of soap appeared on the horses’ sides and hips, under the thin harness straps, and in the morning fresh air there was a pungent and intoxicating smell of horse sweat and the warm tar of generously oiled horse harness.
Where it was especially difficult for the horses, we got off the chaise and walked. The soaked snow squelched under the boots, it was hard to walk, but along the sides of the road there was still crystal ice glistening in the sun, and it was even more difficult to get through there. Only about six hours later we covered a distance of thirty kilometers and arrived at the crossing over the Elanka River.
A small river, drying up in places in summer, opposite the Mokhovsky farm in a swampy floodplain overgrown with alders, overflowed for a whole kilometer. It was necessary to cross on a fragile punt that could carry no more than three people. We released the horses. On the other side, in the collective farm barn, an old, well-worn “Jeep” was waiting for us, left there in the winter. Together with the driver, we boarded the dilapidated boat, not without fear. The comrade remained on the shore with his things. They had barely set sail when water began to gush out in fountains from the rotten bottom in different places. Using improvised means, they caulked the unreliable vessel and scooped water out of it until they reached it. An hour later we were on the other side of Elanka. The driver drove the car from the farm, approached the boat and said, taking the oar:
If this damned trough doesn’t fall apart on the water, we’ll arrive in two hours, don’t wait earlier.
The farm was located far to the side, and near the pier there was such silence as only happens in deserted places in the dead of autumn and at the very beginning of spring. The water smelled of dampness, the tart bitterness of rotting alder, and from the distant Khoper steppes, drowned in a lilac haze of fog, a light breeze carried the eternally youthful, barely perceptible aroma of land recently freed from under the snow.
Nearby, on coastal sand, lay a fallen fence. I sat down on it, wanted to light a cigarette, but, putting my hand into the right pocket of the cotton quilt, to my great chagrin, I discovered that the pack of Belomor was completely soaked. During the crossing, a wave lashed over the side of a low-lying boat and washed me waist-deep. muddy water. Then I had no time to think about cigarettes, I had to abandon the oar and quickly bail out the water so that the boat would not sink, and now, bitterly annoyed at my mistake, I carefully took the soggy pack out of my pocket, squatted down and began to lay it out one by one on the fence damp, browned cigarettes.
It was noon. The sun was shining hotly, like in May. I hoped that the cigarettes would dry out soon. The sun was shining so hotly that I already regretted wearing military cotton trousers and a quilted jacket for the journey. It was the first truly warm day after winter. It was good to sit on the fence like this, alone, completely submitting to silence and loneliness, and, taking off the old soldier’s earflaps from his head, drying his hair, wet after heavy rowing, in the breeze, mindlessly watching the white busty clouds floating in the faded blue.
Soon I saw a man come out onto the road from behind the outer courtyards of the farm. He led by the hand little boy, judging by his height, he is no more than five or six years old. They walked wearily towards the crossing, but when they caught up with the car, they turned towards me. A tall, stooped man, coming close, said in a muffled basso:
Hello, brother!
Hello. - I shook the large, callous hand extended to me.
The man leaned towards the boy and said:
Say hello to your uncle, son. Apparently, he is the same driver as your dad. Only you and I drove a truck, and he drives this little car.
Looking straight into my eyes with eyes as bright as the sky, smiling slightly, the boy boldly extended his pink, cold little hand to me. I shook her lightly and asked:
Why is it, old man, that your hand is so cold? It's warm outside, but you're freezing?
With touching childish trust, the baby pressed himself against my knees and raised his whitish eyebrows in surprise.
What kind of old man am I, uncle? I’m not a boy at all, and I don’t freeze at all, but my hands are cold - because I was rolling snowballs.
Taking the skinny duffel bag off his back and wearily sitting down next to me, my father said:
I'm in trouble with this passenger! It was through him that I got involved. If you take a wide step, he will already break into a trot, so please adapt to such an infantryman. Where I need to step once, I step three times, and we walk with him separately, like a horse and a turtle. But here he needs an eye and an eye. You turn away a little, and he’s already wandering across the puddle or breaking off an ice cream and sucking it instead of candy. No, it’s not a man’s business to travel with such passengers, and at a leisurely pace at that. “He was silent for a while, then asked: “What are you, brother, waiting for your superiors?”
It was inconvenient for me to dissuade him that I was not a driver, and I answered:
We have to wait.
Will they come from the other side?
Don't know if the boat will arrive soon?
In two hours.
In order. Well, while we rest, I have nowhere to rush. And I walk past, I look: my brother, the driver, is sunbathing. Let me, I think, I’ll come in and have a smoke together. One is sick of smoking and dying. And you live richly and smoke cigarettes. Damaged them, then? Well, brother, soaked tobacco, like a treated horse, is no good. Let's smoke my strong drink instead.
He took out a worn raspberry silk pouch rolled into a tube from the pocket of his protective summer pants, unfolded it, and I managed to read the inscription embroidered on the corner: “To a dear fighter from a 6th grade student at Lebedyansk Secondary School.”
We lit a strong cigarette and were silent for a long time. I wanted to ask where he was going with the child, what need was driving him into such muddiness, but he beat me to it with a question:
What, you spent the entire war behind the wheel?
Almost all of it.
At the front?
Well, there I had to, brother, take a sip of bitterness up the nostrils and up.
He put the big ones on his knees dark hands, hunched over. I looked at him from the side, and I felt something uneasy... Have you ever seen eyes, as if sprinkled with ashes, filled with such an inescapable mortal melancholy that it is difficult to look into them? These were the eyes of my random interlocutor.
Having broken out a dry, twisted twig from the fence, he silently moved it along the sand for a minute, drawing some intricate figures, and then spoke:
Sometimes you don’t sleep at night, you look into the darkness with empty eyes and think: “Why, life, did you cripple me like that? Why did you distort it like that?” I don’t have an answer, either in the dark or in the clear sun... No, and I can’t wait! - And suddenly he came to his senses: gently nudging his little son, he said: - Go, dear, play near the water, big water There is always some kind of prey for the kids. Just be careful not to get your feet wet!
While we were still smoking in silence, I, furtively examining my father and son, noted with surprise one circumstance that was strange in my opinion. The boy was dressed simply, but well: in the way he was wearing a long-brimmed jacket lined with a light, well-worn jacket, and in the fact that the tiny boots were sewn to be worn on wool sock, and a very skillful seam on the once torn sleeve of the jacket - everything betrayed feminine care, skillful motherly hands. But the father looked different: the padded jacket, burnt in several places, was carelessly and roughly darned, the patch on his worn-out protective trousers was not sewn on properly, but rather sewn on with wide, masculine stitches; he was wearing almost new soldier's boots, but his thick woolen socks were eaten away by moths and were not touched female hand... Even then I thought: “Either he’s a widower, or he’s at odds with his wife.”
Nobody likes war. But for thousands of years people suffered and died, destroyed others, burned and broke. Conquer, take possession, destroy, take over - all this was born in greedy minds both in the depths of centuries and in our days. One force collided with another. Some attacked and robbed, others defended and tried to preserve. And during this confrontation, everyone had to show everything they were capable of. There are enough examples of heroism, courage, perseverance and bravery in Russian history. This is the invasion of the Tatar-Mongols, when the Russians had to fight for every piece of land without sparing themselves. native land, when their multimillion-strong army was forced to take cities for weeks, defended by one or two hundred heroes. Or during the invasion of Napoleon, beautifully described by Tolstoy in “War and Peace,” we meet the boundless strength, courage and unity of the Russian people. Each individual person and the entire nation were a hero. The larger the world's population became, the more hatred accumulated in the hearts, the more fierce the wars became. With the development of science, the military equipment, military art. Everything depended less on each individual person; everything was decided in battles of huge armies and equipment. Still, people remained the determining factor. The combat effectiveness of companies, regiments, and armies depended on the behavior of each. There are no superheroes in war. All heroes. Everyone accomplishes their own feat: some are eager to fight, facing bullets, others, outwardly invisible, establish communications and supplies, work in factories until exhaustion, and save the wounded. Therefore, it is the fate of an individual person that is especially important for writers and poets. Mikhail Sholokhov told us about a wonderful man. The hero experienced a lot and proved what strength a Russian person can have.
Before the war, he lived an ordinary, inconspicuous life. He worked “in a carpentry artel, then went to a factory and learned to be a mechanic.” I found myself a good, kind, loving wife. Their children were born and went to school. Everything was calm, quiet, smooth. And the man began to think about happy old age. “And here it is, war.” It crosses out all hopes and forces you to leave your home. But duty to the Motherland and to himself forces Sokolov to boldly go to meet the enemy. Any person experiences terrible torment when he is torn away from his beloved family, and only for real courageous people can go to death not only for the sake of their home and relatives, but also for the sake of the life and peace of other people.
But fighting is not as easy as it seems. It is difficult to maintain order and clarity during combat. Where is the enemy, where are our friends, where to go, who to shoot at - everything is mixed up. So Sokolov, in the chaos of the war, was shell-shocked and captured. “I woke up, but I couldn’t get to my feet: my head was twitching, I was shaking all over, as if I had a fever, there was darkness in my eyes...” That’s when the Nazis took him. And here, in captivity, the most terrible trials begin. People are cut off from their homeland, there is no chance of survival, and they are also subjected to bullying and torture. “They beat you because you are Russian, because you White light you’re still looking…” The food was bad: water, gruel, sometimes bread. And they were forced to work from morning to evening.
But being in captivity does not mean being useless to the country. This is not betrayal, not weakness. Even in captivity there is a place for heroic deeds. You must not lose heart, you must believe in victory, believe in your strength and not lose hope of deliverance. Despite the fact that a person has been deprived of shoulder straps and weapons, he must still remain a soldier and be faithful to his homeland to the end. This is why Sokolov cannot accept Kryzhnev’s betrayal. This vile and vile man is ready to betray his friends for the sake of his life. “Your shirt is closer to your body,” says this nonentity. And therefore, fulfilling my soldier's duty,
Sokolov strangled the traitor with his own hands and did not experience either pity or shame, but only disgust: as if I was strangling not a person, but some creeping reptile...” Sokolov had to see and experience a lot more in captivity. They drove them all over Germany, humiliated them, forced them to bend their backs. And more than once death passed nearby. But the strongest, most acute test happened to Sokolov during a meeting with the commandant of the B-14 camp, when a real threat of death hung over him. It was here that Sokolov’s fate as a soldier, as a true son of the Motherland, was decided. After all, you also need to be able to die with dignity! Sokolov was able to not follow the commandant’s lead and preserve human dignity to the end. He did not give in to the authorities, but, on the contrary, showed himself with dignity. And with an unbending will, Sokolov won the right to life from fate. And even the German officer recognized Sokolov as a person, and not as a slave meekly going to his death.
From that moment on, Sokolov felt better. He even got a job as a driver. The Russians were advancing and were already close. The craving for the Motherland increased with extraordinary force in Sokolov. Both fear and the sense of danger receded into the background, risking his life - all that he had left - Sokolov breaks through the front line. “My darling lip-slapper. Dear son! What kind of Fritz do you think I am when I’m a natural Voronezh resident?” - he exclaims when meeting his people. His joy is immeasurable.
Sokolov’s fate was difficult and terrible. He lost loved ones and relatives. But it was important not to break, but to endure and remain a soldier and a man to the end: “That’s why you’re a man, that’s why you’re a soldier, to endure everything, to endure everything...” And main feat Sokolov is that he did not become hardened in soul, did not become angry with the whole world, but remained capable of love. And Sokolov found himself a “son,” the very person to whom he would give his entire destiny, life, love, strength. It will be with him in joy and sorrow. But nothing will erase this horror of war from Sokolov’s memory; it will be carried with them by “his eyes, as if sprinkled with ashes, filled with such an inescapable mortal melancholy that it is difficult to look into them.”
Sokolov lived not for himself, not for fame and honor, but for the sake of the lives of other people. Great is his feat! A feat in the name of life!
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Mikhail Sholokhov was born on May 11 (24), 1905 in the Kruzhilin farmstead (now Rostov region) in the family of an employee of a trading enterprise.
The first education in Sholokhov’s biography was received in Moscow during the First World War. Then he studied at a gymnasium in the Voronezh province in the city of Boguchar. Having arrived in Moscow to continue his education and not being admitted, he was forced to change many working specialties in order to feed himself. At the same time, in the life of Mikhail Sholokhov there was always time for self-education.
The beginning of a literary journey
His works were first published in 1923. Creativity has always played an important role in Sholokhov’s life. After publishing feuilletons in newspapers, the writer publishes his stories in magazines. In 1924, the first of the series was published in the newspaper “Young Leninist” Don stories Sholokhov - “Birthmark”. Later, all the stories from this cycle were combined into three collections: “Don Stories” (1926), “Azure Steppe” (1926) and “About Kolchak, Nettles and Others” (1927).
Creativity flourishes
Sholokhov became widely famous for his work about the Don Cossacks during the war - the novel “Quiet Don” (1928-1932).
Over time, this epic became popular not only in the USSR, but also in Europe and Asia, and was translated into many languages.
One more famous novel M. Sholokhov is “Virgin Soil Upturned” (1932-1959). This novel about the times of collectivization in two volumes received the Lenin Prize in 1960.
From 1941 to 1945, Sholokhov worked as a war correspondent. During this time, he wrote and published several stories and essays (“The Science of Hate” (1942), “On the Don”, “Cossacks” and others).
Sholokhov’s famous works are also: the story “The Fate of a Man” (1956), the unfinished novel “They Fought for the Motherland” (1942-1944, 1949, 1969).
It is worth noting that important event in the biography of Mikhail Sholokhov in 1965 there was a receipt Nobel Prize in literature for the epic novel “Quiet Don”.
last years of life
Since the 60s, Sholokhov practically stopped studying literature and loved to devote time to hunting and fishing. He donated all his awards to charity (the construction of new schools).
The writer died on February 21, 1984 from cancer and was buried in the courtyard of his house in the village of Veshenskaya on the banks of the Don River.
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Is it easy creative path writer? After all, every great novelist started somewhere and experienced defeat. What is Mikhail Sholokhov famous for? The works, the list of which we will consider in the article, are all dedicated to the tragedy of war, the historical past.
Works of Sholokhov. Always about the eternal
The Civil War of 1917 found Mikhail Sholokhov still very young and left an unforgettable imprint on his work. He was born in 1905 into a family of Don Cossacks. But during the revolution he joined the Reds. And he later depicted all the military vicissitudes that his native village experienced in his main novel “Quiet Don”.
After young Mikhail came to study in the capital and met the writers of the Young Guard circle, he began to make his first attempts at writing, which were assessed as talented work. The first story was published in the Moscow newspaper in 1924. It was called "Mole". Several more stories about Cossack life were later included in the writer’s first collection, “Don Stories.”
Sholokhov, taking on a new manuscript, was always guided by the rule - to write only the truth. Most of his books are an artistically meaningful story in detail. During the Patriotic War, the writer conveyed what he saw of the suffering of people in the unfinished novel “They Fought for the Motherland,” as well as in the story “The Fate of a Man.” This story became Soviet Russia a real proclamation of goodness and humanity, despite all the hardships of everyday life in post-war life.
A novel recognized by the world. Nobel Prize
Above the very famous work- the four-volume novel “Quiet Don” - the writer began working at the age of 22. And the first volume was already ready by 1927. He provided the second to printed publications by 1928. His talent touched the hearts of both Soviet and foreign readers.
The writing work of Mikhail Sholokhov was appreciated in 1965; he was awarded the most coveted prize for the novel “Quiet Don” - the writer became a Nobel Prize laureate. The novel received recognition not only as literary work, with lively characters and an exciting multi-faceted plot, but also as a historical work based on a deep study of real chronicles.
Mikhail Sholokhov: works. List of the most famous
But his other novels are also worthy of recognition. All of Sholokhov’s works, the list of which is not small, deserve high status, since a man of a strong, enlightened soul and great mind worked on them. In the midst of the disastrous events of the past, he managed to highlight the main thing - the strength and beauty of the individual, and the variability of fate.
While working on Quiet Don, Sholokhov began writing his second novel. Also big and with several storylines. The book “Virgin Soil Upturned” is a novel about the events of collectivization. It highlights times of conspiracies and deaths associated with differences of opinion.
Next big historical novel the book “They Fought for the Motherland” was supposed to be. But, unfortunately, the writer did not have time to finish it; he died in 1984 in the same village of Veshenskaya where he was born.
on years
The writer’s enormous diligence was manifested in the fact that his books were published regularly, and no difficulties of fate, not even the war, forced him to quit working on prose. What other works by Sholokhov are there? A list of them is presented below. All of them have become classics of both Russian and world literature.
- 1923 - feuilletons in newspapers.
- 1924 - collection “Don Stories”.
- 1924 - collection “Lazarus Steppe”. It included the following stories: “Kolovert”, “Food Commissioner”.
- 1928 - 2 volumes of “Quiet Don” were published at once.
- 1932 - 3 volume “Quiet Don” and 1 volume “Virgin Soil Upturned”.
- 1940 - last 4th volume. The entire novel “Quiet Don” was then translated into many European and Oriental languages.
- 1942 - several chapters from the book “They Fought for the Motherland” were published.
- “The Word about the Motherland” is a story.
- "The Science of Hate" is a story published in July 1942.
- 1956 - “The Fate of Man.”
- 1956 - Volume 2 of the novel “Virgin Soil Upturned”.
As you can see, Sholokhov’s works, the list of which is not so small, are all historical. But at the same time, they reflect the thoughts and feelings of the heroes, the way of life of the Cossacks of that time, and the philosophy of both opposing sides of the conflict. Sholokhov was truly talented. Monuments have been erected to him in many cities of Russia and in his native village, which is now located in the Rostov region.
In addition to the Nobel, he received the Lenin Prize (in 1960) and 1st degree in 1941. He was also awarded the international Sophia Prize, intended to reward Asian writers - Lotus, and the World Peace Council Prize in the field of culture.
Filmed works of Sholokhov: list
Books are wonderful! But life goes on as usual. With the development of cinema, many of Sholokhov’s works were staged and filmed; the list of films based on the writer’s books is also large. Picture based on 4 volumes of the novel " Quiet Don"was filmed most fully by director Sergei Gerasimovich in 1958, receiving several awards for this work.
"Mosfilm" made a film based on the story "The Fate of a Man", in 1961 the story "Nakhalenok" was filmed, in 1963 the film "When the Cossacks Cry" was made, and in 2005 - short film The colt. Perhaps in the future other works of Sholokhov will be filmed. His list of works inspires new writers. All his works comprise 8 full volumes.
Ilya stepped towards the drunken man, grabbed his lamb collar with his fingers and threw his obese body against the wall. The drunk groaned, burped, stared at Ilya with a bullish, senseless gaze and, feeling the guy’s hard, animal-like eyes, turned and, stumbling, looking back and falling, ran down the alley.
A girl in a red scarf and a worn leather jacket tightly grabbed onto Ilya’s sleeve.
- Thank you, comrade... What a thank you!
- Why did he touch you? – Ilya asked, shifting awkwardly.
- Drunk, bastard... Got attached. I didn’t see it with my eyes...
The girl thrust a piece of paper with her address into his hands and, until they reached Zubovskaya Square, she kept repeating:
- Come in, comrade, for freedom. I'll be glad...
Ilya came to her one Saturday, went up to the sixth floor, stopped at a shabby door with the inscription “Anna Bodrukhina”, groped in the darkness with his hand, feeling for the door handle, and knocked carefully. She opened the door herself, stood on the threshold, squinting myopically, then she guessed right and burst out smiling.
- Come in, come in.
Breaking his embarrassment, Ilya sat down on the edge of the chair, looked around timidly, and in response to questions squeezed out short and heavy words:
- Kostroma... carpenter... came to work... I’m twenty-first.
And when he inadvertently mentioned that he had run away from his marriage and his pious bride, the girl burst into laughter and became attached:
- Tell me, tell me.
And looking at rosy face blazing with laughter, Ilya himself laughed; clumsily waving his arms, he talked for a long time about everything, and together they punctuated the story with young, spring-like laughter. Since then I've been visiting more often. The room with faded wallpaper and a portrait of Ilyich connected with my heart. After work I felt drawn to go sit with her, listen to an unwise story about Ilyich and look into her gray, light blue eyes.
The streets of the city were blooming with spring mud. One day he came straight from work, placed a tool near the door, grabbed the door handle and was burned by a chilly chill. On the door, on a piece of paper, in familiar, slanted handwriting: “I went on a business trip to Ivanovo-Voznesensk for a month.”
He walked down the stairs, looking into the black passage, spitting sticky saliva at his feet. My heart was aching with boredom. He calculated how many days later he would return, and the closer the desired day crept, the more acute his impatience grew.
On Friday I didn’t go to work - in the morning, without eating, I went into a familiar alley, filled with the rich smell of flowering poplars, met and followed with my eyes every red bandage. Before evening I saw her come out of the alley, could not restrain himself and ran towards her.
Again in the evenings with her - either at the apartment, or at the Komsomol club. I taught Ilya how to read letters and then write. The pen in Ilya’s fingers shakes like an aspen leaf and throws blots onto the paper; because the red bandage is bending close to him, in Ilya’s head it’s like a forge is knocking in his temples, measured and hot.
The pen jumps in his fingers, writes broad-shouldered, stooped letters on a sheet of paper, the same as Ilya himself, and in his eyes there is fog, fog...
A month later, Ilya submitted an application to the secretary of the construction committee cell for membership in the RLKSM, and not just a simple application, but written in the hand of Ilya himself, with lines slanted and curly, falling onto the paper like foamy shavings from a plane.
And a week later in the evening Anna met him at the entrance of the frozen six-story colossus, shouting joyfully and loudly:
– Greetings to comrade Ilya, a Komsomol member!..
- Well, Ilya, it’s already two o’clock. It's time for you to go home.
- Wait, won’t you have time to sleep?
“This is the second night I haven’t slept.” Go, Ilya.
- It’s painfully dirty on the street... At home the landlady barks: “You’re dragging around, and I don’t need to unlock and lock the door for all of you at all...”
“Then leave early, don’t stay until midnight.”
- Maybe you can... somewhere... spend the night?
Anna stood up from the table and turned her back to the light. On the forehead, an oblique, transverse wrinkle formed a ditch.
“Here’s what, Ilya... if you’re getting close to me, then leave.” I see for last days, what are you getting at... If only you knew that I’m married. My husband has been working in Ivanovo-Voznesensk for four months, and I’m leaving to visit him one of these days...
Ilya’s lips seemed to be covered with gray ash.
-Are you married?
– Yes, I live with one Komsomol member. I'm sorry I didn't tell you this sooner.
I didn't go to work for two weeks. He was lying on the bed, plump and green. Then he stood up somehow, touched the rust-covered saw with his finger and smiled tightly and crookedly.
The guys in the cell were bombarded with questions when he arrived:
-What kind of disease has bitten you? You, Ilyukha, are like a dead man come to life. Why are you turning yellow?
In the corridor of the club I came across the secretary of the cell.
- Ilya, is that you?
- Where had you been?
“I was sick... I had a headache.”
– We have one business trip to agronomic courses, do you agree?
- I’m very illiterate. Otherwise I would have gone...
- Don't worry! There will be training there, probably they will learn...
A week later, in the evening, Ilya was walking from work to his courses when they called out from behind:
I looked around - she, Anna, was catching up and smiling from a distance. She shook hands firmly.
- Well, how are you living? I heard that you are studying?
- Little by little, I live and learn. Thank you for teaching me to read and write.
They walked side by side, but the proximity of the red bandage no longer made one dizzy. Before parting, she asked, smiling and looking to the side:
– Has that sore healed?
“I’m learning how to treat the earth for various ailments, but on the enta...” He waved his hand, threw the instrument from his right shoulder to his left and walked, smiling, further on - heavy and awkward.
Aleshkin's heart
For two summers in a row, drought licked the peasants' fields black. For two summers in a row, a cruel eastern wind blew from the Kyrgyz steppes, ruffled the reddish tresses of grain and dried the eyes of the men and the stingy, prickly tears of the peasants, fixed on the dry steppe. Hunger followed. Alyoshka imagined him as a huge, eyeless man: he walked roadlessly, rummaged through villages, farmsteads, villages with his hands, strangled people and was about to squeeze Alyoshka’s heart to death with his callous fingers.
Alyosha has a large, saggy belly, plump legs... If he touches his bluish-purple calf with his finger, first a white pit forms, and then slowly, slowly, the skin swells up in blisters over the pit, and the place where he touched it with his finger fills with earthy blood for a long time.
Alyoshka’s ears, nose, cheekbones, chin are tightly covered with leather, and the skin is like dried cherry bark. The eyes have sunk so deep inside that they seem like empty sockets. Alyosha is fourteen years old. Alyoshka has not seen bread for five months. Alyoshka is plump from hunger.
Early in the morning, when the flowering Siberians scatter a honeyed and sugary smell near the wattle fence, when the bees swing drunkenly on their yellow flowers, and the morning, washed with dew, rings with transparent silence, Alyoshka, swaying from the wind, reached the ditch, groaning, climbed over it for a long time and sat down near the fence, sweaty from the dew. Alyoshka’s head was sweetly spinning with joy, and there was a sadness in the pit of his stomach. That’s why my head was spinning joyfully because next to Alyoshka’s blue and motionless legs lay the still warm corpse of the foal.
The neighbor's mare was pregnant. The owners overlooked it, and during the run, the pot-bellied mare was stabbed under the belly by the steep horns of a farm bull - the mare threw it off. A warm foal, steaming with blood, lies by the fence; Alyoshka sits next to him, resting his jointed palms on the ground, and laughs, laughs...
Alyoshka tried to lift everything, but he couldn’t. I returned home and took a knife. Until I reached the fence, and in the place where the foal lay, the dogs were gathered together, fighting and pulling pinkish meat along the dusty ground. From Alyoshka’s twisted mouth: “A-ah-ah...” Stumbling, waving a knife, he ran towards the dogs. I gathered everything up to the last thin intestine in a heap and dragged it home in half.
By evening, having eaten too much fibrous meat, Alyoshka’s younger, black-eyed sister died.
