Platonov's recovery of the dead summary. The ideological and artistic meaning of the title of story A

After the war, when a temple of eternal glory to soldiers is built on our land, then opposite it... a temple of eternal memory to the martyrs of our people should be built. On the walls of this temple of the dead the names of decrepit old men, women, and infants will be inscribed.
They equally accepted death at the hands of the executioners of humanity...

A.P. PLATONOV

The 20th century became for the Russian Orthodox Church a time of confessional and martyrdom that was extraordinary in its scale. During the years of temptation that befell our Motherland, Russia showed the world a host of clergy and laity who preserved and increased by their feat of faith love and loyalty to Christ even to death. In 2000, the Russian Orthodox Church canonized many new saints who suffered during the years of persecution for the faith of Christ.

Andrei Platonovich Platonov cannot be called a confessor and martyr in the exact canonical sense. But he is the one about whom it is said in the Gospel - salt of the earth, which will not lose its saltiness either in trials or in torment. The life and work of a writer is the unfolding and growth of that gospel buckwheat grain into a wondrous tree, in the shadow of which we find the breath of grace, sources of spiritual light.
How is it possible to talk about a person whose memories do not give us visible traces of confession, who has never been seen in obvious or hidden dissidence, open opposition to the godless government, who can be “reproached” for his ardent desire to serve with his work, even his life, building the communist the future of the Motherland? We dare, because Platonov is spoken for by his fate and his writings, which contain the genetic code of Christianity - the humble Russian Orthodox consciousness.
One can say about Platonov’s life that it was a life in Christ even when, as a youth, he was mistaken and accepted the workers’ and peasants’ revolution as the fulfillment of God’s will and justice. And then, when, realizing that “without God it is impossible to create anything,” he denied the revolutionary builders the right to be “co-workers with God in the universe” (father Sergius Bulgakov), and then, when with his writings he testified that the people’s soul, God-given, will not exchange a spiritual gift for material benefits that do not come from God, and when in his very destiny, in his free human choice, he implements the formula of conciliar consciousness based on faith in the unity of the earthly and heavenly Church, the living and heavenly Christian people.
Can Platonov be considered a confessor... Probably, it is possible, because contemporary critics of Platonov, with a trained eye, recognized the writer’s structure of thought and style, hostile to the spirit of the times: “as according to the Gospel”! Platonov was reproached for his “religious Christian idea of ​​Bolshevism”, persecuted for “Christian holy fool’s sorrow and great martyrdom”, “religious Christian humanism”. Unacceptable for the era of spiritual “Westernism”, the brainchild of which was the idea and embodiment of the socialist revolution, was Plato’s “gathering of the people”, a gathering based on the reminder of those spiritual foundations that once made up Holy Rus', helped it survive and maintain spiritual and material self-identification in the conditions foreign oppression, destructive wars, fiery temptations.

Icon of the Mother of God "Seeking the Lost"

Can Platonov be considered a martyr?..
On January 5, 2002, a funeral service was served at the grave of the Armenian Cemetery for the servant of God Andrei, who died 51 years ago. In the funeral prayers, the names of the people most beloved by Andrei Platonovich were heard - “eternal Mary,” the writer’s wife, and Plato’s son. God was pleased to take them away almost on the same day: Maria Alexandrovna - January 9, 1983, Plato - January 4, 1943, perhaps so that from now on they would be remembered inseparably, with one sigh of love, as they once lived and would like to live forever.
“You see how difficult it is for me. But as for you, I don’t see or hear,” Platonov writes in 1926, in the seemingly unattainable distance of Moscow from Tambov in the grief of separation. “I’m thinking about what you’re doing there now with Totka. How is he? Everything somehow became alien, distant and unnecessary to me. Only you live in me - as the cause of my melancholy, as living torment and unattainable consolation...
Also Totka is so expensive that you suffer from the mere suspicion of losing it. I’m scared of something that is too beloved and precious – I’m afraid of losing it...”
Platonov will lose his son and perceive this loss as retribution for his beliefs. He would lose his son twice. The first time was when Plato was arrested on May 4, 1938. In September, the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the USSR sentenced him to 10 years in prison on charges of treason and complicity in a terrorist act. The arrest was authorized by Yezhov's deputy Mikhail Frinovsky. A fifteen-year-old boy was forced to admit that he discussed the issues of committing terrorist acts against Stalin, Molotov and Yezhov. Later Plato will say: “I gave false, fantastic testimony with the help of the investigator<…>which in fact did not happen, but I signed this testimony under the threat of the investigator that if I did not sign the testimony, my parents would be arrested.”
The second time was after the miraculous return of his son home in 1940. Then this return was immeasurably helped by Mikhail Sholokhov, who was connected with Platonov by the feeling of the unity of his small homeland, the homeland of his ancestors, the homeland of his childhood - the love of the Don expanses. Plato returned from the camps mortally ill with tuberculosis.

At the beginning of the war, Platonov is preparing for publication a book with the symbolic title “The Passage of Time.” The war will stop its exit. The evacuation to Ufa for Platonov will be short-lived; he will succeed in being sent to the front. In the fall of 1942, Platonov was confirmed as a war correspondent in the active army. Since April 1943, he has been a special correspondent for the Krasnaya Zvezda newspaper, captain of the administrative service, such is his military rank.
“Behind the Red Army theater there was a hospital where Tosha was lying, in the winter of 1943 the doctors called me: “Maria Alexandrovna, take him, he’s dying.” There was no car. Sobolev gave me gasoline, I brought Toshenka home and called Platonov with a telegram front..." recalled the widow of A.P. Platonov. Summoned to see his dying son, Platonov leaves for the front the day after the funeral, not yet knowing that he is taking with him a material sign of memory of his departed son - his fatal illness.
“I feel like a completely empty person, physically empty - there are such summer beetles. They fly and don’t even buzz. Because they are empty through and through. The death of my son opened my eyes to my life. What is it now, my life? For what and for whom should I live? The Soviet government took my son away from me - the Soviet government stubbornly wanted to take away the title of writer from me for many years. But no one will take my work away from me. Even now they publish me, gritting their teeth. But I am a persistent person. My suffering They're just hardening me. I'll never leave my position anywhere, ever. Everyone thinks I'm against the communists. No, I'm against those who are destroying our country. Who wants to trample our Russianness, dear to my heart. And my heart hurts. Oh, how hurts!<…>Now I see a lot at the front and observe a lot (Bryansk Front. - D.M.). My heart is breaking from grief, blood and human suffering. I will write a lot. The war taught me a lot" (from the report of the senior operational commissioner to the secret political department of the NKVD of the USSR dated February 15, 1943 to A.P. Platonov).
“What is it now, my life? For whom and for whom should I live...” With the loss of his dearest earthly attachment, Platonov finally loses his adoption into the temporary. The loss strengthens in him that always inherent special feeling of kinship with his people, who are now dying on the fronts of the war, and holy hatred for those who want to trample our Russian, dear to the heart - the immortal soul of the people. The departure of a beloved being fills him with new strength of life - not for himself: his “I” died in order to give space to an extra-personal existence: “And my heart hurts. Oh, how it hurts!<…>My heart is breaking from grief, blood and human suffering. I will write a lot. The war taught me a lot." Letters came from the front: "Mary, go to church and serve a memorial service for our son."

Suffering not only strengthens, it can enlighten, sharpen vision - spiritually circumcise. This was the case with Platonov. The writer’s war prose is imbued with extraordinary light, although all of it is a truthful and unvarnished document of human suffering and death. Its pinnacle was the story “Recovery of the Dead,” written in October 1943, nine months after the death of his son.
In the first edition of the story, as N.V. testifies. Kornienko, a description of Kyiv has been preserved (the story is dedicated to the heroic crossing of the Dnieper); it was excluded later, perhaps for censorship reasons: “But strong young eyes, even on moonlit nights, could see in the daytime in the distance the ancient towers of the holy city of Kiev, the mother of all Russian cities. He stood on the high bank of the ever-rushing, singing Dnieper - petrified, with blinded eyes, exhausted in a German grave crypt, but yearning, like all the earth that had fallen around him, for resurrection and life in victory..."
For Platonov, Kiev was the founder of Russian holiness, of which he felt involved: after all, the writer’s childhood homeland, Yamskaya Sloboda, was located on the famous Voronezh-Zadonsky pilgrimage route, along which pilgrims, wanderers, and old women of God went to worship from the Voronezh shrines to the Zadonsky monastery. The Kiev pilgrimage route ran along the Zadonskoye Highway, and images of wanderers going to worship at the Kiev Pechersk Lavra through Voronezh did not leave Platonov’s prose of the 1920s.
The beginning of the story firmly linked the theme of resurrection and life in victory, so clear in its literal sense to soldiers fighting for the Motherland, with the theme of holiness - a concept alien only to the material sense. The image of the city - the mother of Russian cities, exhausted, blind, but not losing its holiness and faith in the triumph of the true resurrection and the final victory over death and destruction, like an overture, sets the theme of the story - the theme of the holiness of the mother, seeking all her lost children in repentance and hope the resurrection of the dead and the life of the next age.
It is amazing how Platonov manages to tangibly convey the presence of holiness, its immaterial, but formidable power even for a material enemy.

M.A. Vrubel. Funeral lament. Sketch of a painting for the Vladimir Cathedral in Kyiv. 1887

“Mother returned to her home. She was a refugee from the Germans, but she could not live anywhere other than her native place, and returned home.<…>On her way she met Germans, but they did not touch this old woman; It was strange for them to see such a sad old woman, they were horrified by the sight of humanity on her face, and they left her unattended to die on her own. It happens in life this vague alien light on the faces of people, frightening the beast and the hostile person, and such people are beyond the power of anyone to destroy, and it is impossible to approach them. Beast and man fight more willingly with their own kind, but unlike he leaves aside afraid to be scared of them and be defeated unknown force"(Italics in quotations are ours throughout. – D.M.).
What is the writer talking about for those who have ears to hear? About holiness born of suffering, the holiness of a mother going to the grave of her children. The image of holiness in Platonov’s description has a canonical character: “ vague alien light" reminds us that the radiance of holiness is truly alien to the beast and hostile man - it is the radiance of divine love. His “riddle” cannot be solved and cannot be defeated by the forces of the prince of this world, who really “more willingly fight with their own kind”: “Spiritual enemies do not give peace to anyone anywhere, especially if they find a weak side in us,” said the Monk Ambrose of Optina. Holiness truly defeats the beast and tames the enemy’s ferocity, as evidenced by the lives of St. Mary of Egypt, St. Sergius of Radonezh, Seraphim of Sarov...
Amazing in its simplicity, Christian humility, in its conciliar spirit is her conversation with her neighbor, Evdokia Petrovna, a young woman, once plump, but now weakened, quiet and indifferent: her two young children were killed by a bomb when she was leaving the city, and her husband disappeared missing at the earthworks, “and she returned back to bury the children and live out her time in a dead place.
“Hello, Maria Vasilievna,” said Evdokia Petrovna.
“It’s you, Dunya,” Maria Vasilievna told her. – Sit down with me, let’s talk to you.<…>
Dunya humbly sat down next to<…>. It was easier for both now<…>.
- Are all yours dead? – asked Maria Vasilievna.
- That's it, why not! - Dunya answered. - And all of yours?
“That’s it, there’s no one,” said Maria Vasilievna.
“You and I have no one equally,” said Dunya, satisfied that her grief is not the greatest in the world: other people have the same.”
Maria Vasilievna’s sick soul agrees with Dunya’s advice to “live like a dead person,” but her yearning, loving heart does not come to terms with the fact that her loved ones are “lying there, freezing now.” The image of a mass grave, covered with “a little earth”, with a cross of two branches, placed by the hand of Evdokia Petrovna, is reminiscent of an old Cossack song about a “merciful man” who buried 240 people in the grave and put up an oak cross with the inscription: “Here lie from the Don heroes. Glory to the Don Cossacks! ", with the only difference that Dunya does not believe that eternal glory and memory will be protected by this cross: "I tied a cross of two branches for them and put it up, but it’s of no use: the cross will fall down, even if you make it iron, and people will forget the dead..."
Apparently, the point is not in the material from which the cross is made: the glory of the Don Cossacks was strong in the memory of the living people, forever remembering them liturgically, and secularly - in songs. Dunya does not believe in the memory of her people. Maria Vasilievna doesn’t believe in her either. This is the main reason for her grief. “Then, when it was already getting light, Maria Vasilievna got up<…>and went into the darkness where her children lay - two sons in the near land and a daughter in the distance.<…>The mother sat down at the cross; under it lay her naked children, killed, abused and thrown into the dust by the hands of others<…>
-...Let them sleep, I’ll wait - I can’t live without children, I don’t want to live without the dead...”
And as if in answer to a prayer, she heard her daughter’s calling voice sound from “the silence of the world.”<…>, speaking about hope and joy, that everything that has not come true will come true, and the dead will return to live on earth, and those separated will hug each other and will never part again.

The mother heard that her daughter’s voice was cheerful, and realized that this meant hope and trust in her daughter to return to life, that the deceased was expecting help from the living and did not want to be dead.”
This sounding “silence of the world” and the tangible joy heard in the daughter’s voice are amazing - so tangible are the visits of the inhabitants of the Heavenly Kingdom for the inhabitants of the world below. The news he heard changes the direction of the mother’s thoughts: “How, daughter, can I help you? I’m barely alive myself.”<…>I won’t lift you up alone, daughter; if only all the people loved you and corrected all the untruths on earth, then you and He raised all those who died righteously to life: after all death is the first untruth!.."
Platonov again directly and unequivocally addresses with these words of a simple Orthodox woman those who have ears to hear with a reminder that only the liturgical conciliar love of the whole people (“if all the people loved you”) and nationwide repentance (“he corrected all the untruths on earth”) can “ “to raise all those who died righteously” to life, that is, to recover those who died from sin, because death is the consequence of sin, “and is the first untruth!..”
Reading these words filled with canonical faith, it is difficult to imagine with what eyes one must read Platonov in order to attribute occultism and sectarian views to him, and yet it is precisely such ideas that are sometimes imposed on the writer even on the pages of church periodicals.
“By midday, Russian tanks reached the Mitrofanevskaya road and stopped near the settlement for inspection and refueling.<…>. Near a cross connected from two branches, the Red Army soldier saw an old woman with her face pressed to the ground.<…>
“Go to sleep for now,” the Red Army soldier said aloud at parting. – No matter whose mother you are, I, too, remained an orphan without you..
He stood a little longer, in the languor of his separation from someone else's mother.
- It’s dark for you now, and you’ve gone far from us... What can we do? Now we have no time to grieve for you, we must first put down the enemy. And then the whole world must come into understanding, otherwise it will not be possible, otherwise everything will be of no use!..
The Red Army soldier went back, and it became boring for him to live without the dead. However, he felt that it was now all the more necessary for him to live. It is necessary not only to completely destroy the enemy of people’s lives, but also to be able to live after that victory the higher life that the dead silently bequeathed to us<…>. The dead have no one to trust except the living - and we need to live this way now, so that the death of our people is justified by the happy and free fate of our people and thus their death is exacted."

Thus, Platonov clearly links the theme of death with “untruth on earth,” that is, sin as a consequence of the reluctance to live a “higher life.” He unequivocally testifies that duty to the “righteously dead” (remember that righteousness is a church concept, meaning life in truth, that is, in accordance with divine commandments) requires the conciliar memory of the living about the dead, possible only in church liturgical prayer, of which Russia is almost lost, because her sons ceased to live a “higher life” and lost that radiance of holiness, which could prevent the approach of the “beast”.
The title of the story does not allow for any misunderstanding of the meaning of Plato's testament to us living today, contained in the artistic flesh of the text. “Seeking the Lost” is the name of one of the most revered icons of the Most Holy Theotokos in Rus', an icon that has the grace of consoling parental grief, an icon of fathers and mothers praying for their children. For the non-Orthodox extra-church consciousness, this name is associated with the idea of ​​​​searching for missing people, while the Church prays before it for the lost and lost, primarily spiritually, and not physically. Prayer before this icon is an expression of the last hope for the help of the Most Pure Virgin in liberation from eternal death of a person over whom good has finally lost its power.
The story does not give us any reason to believe that it is about the “righteously dead” children of Maria Vasilievna, that the prayer for the recovery of the dead refers specifically to them: together with the mother, we hear the cheerful voice of her daughter, testifying that the Private Court elevated her to a monastery, where there is no sighing and crying: “And my daughter took me from here wherever my eyes look, she loved me, she was my daughter, then she left me, she fell in love with others, she loved everyone, she regretted one thing - she was a kind girl, she my daughter,” she leaned towards him, he was sick, he was wounded, he became as if lifeless, and she was also killed then, killed from above from an airplane...” Maria Vasilievna says and laments. And the epigraph of the story “From the abyss I cry. Words of the dead,” as is known, is a paraphrase of the words of the living, the words of the psalm of David, so often heard in worship: From the depths I cry to You, Lord, and hear me , indicates to us that the story is a warning to the Heavenly Church, the Church of the righteous, confessors, martyrs of the Russian land to those living today, that the whole story is an artistic projection of the prayer of the Holy Mother Motherland for her unrighteously living children, who with their sins have opened the gates of physical death - war – and spiritual – oblivion of the “higher life”.
The warning of the Red Army soldier sounds menacing, in which Platonov himself is guessed, because his main character bears the name his mother, that “the whole world must come into understanding, otherwise it will not be possible, otherwise everything will be of no use!”
We talked about the insubstantial light with which this sad story is filled, in which death and destruction so visibly triumph. This immaterial light is composed of the radiance of love, which makes the mother “go through the war,” because “she needed to see her home, where she lived her life, and the place where her children died in battle and execution.” Love that protects her from accidental death; love that seeks eternal life for the departed; love that helps Dunya endure her own inconsolable pain; love even to the death of daughter Maria Vasilievna for a wounded soldier unfamiliar to her; love, which allows the Red Army soldier to recognize his mother in the deceased old woman and languish in grief in separation from her; love, which clearly gives rise to the image of communal love, the love of the dead for the living and the living for the dead, love that promises that “everything that has not come true will come true, and the dead will return to live on earth, and the separated will embrace each other and will never part again.”

© Daria MOSKOVSKAYA,
Candidate of Philology,
senior researcher at the Institute of World Literature
them. A.M. Gorky RAS

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Andrey Platonov

Recovery of the dead

From the abyss I call again the dead

The mother returned to her house. She was a refugee from the Germans, but she could not live anywhere other than her native place, and returned home.

She passed through intermediate fields past German fortifications twice, because the front here was uneven, and she walked along a straight, nearby road. She had no fear and was not afraid of anyone, and her enemies did not harm her. She walked through the fields, sad, bare-haired, with a vague, as if blind, face. And she didn’t care what was in the world now and what was happening in it, and nothing in the world could disturb her or make her happy, because her grief was eternal and her sadness was insatiable - her mother lost all her children dead. She was now so weak and indifferent to the whole world that she walked along the road like a withered blade of grass carried by the wind, and everything she met also remained indifferent to her. And it became even more difficult for her, because she felt that she did not need anyone, and that no one needed her anyway. This is enough to kill a person, but she did not die; she needed to see her home, where she lived her life, and the place where her children died in battle and execution.

On her way she met Germans, but they did not touch this old woman; It was strange for them to see such a sad old woman, they were horrified by the sight of humanity on her face, and they left her unattended to die on her own. In life there is this vague, alienated light on people’s faces, frightening the beast and the hostile person, and no one can destroy such people, and it is impossible to approach them. Beast and man are more willing to fight with their own kind, but he leaves those unlike him aside, fearing to be frightened by them and to be defeated by an unknown force.

Having gone through the war, the old mother returned home. But her homeland was now empty. A small, poor one-family house, plastered with clay, painted yellow, with a brick chimney that looked like a man’s head in thought, had long since burned out from the German fire and left behind embers already overgrown with the grass of the grave. And all the neighboring residential areas, this entire old city also died, and it became light and sad all around, and you could see far away across the silent land. A little time will pass, and the place where people live will be overgrown with free grass, the winds will blow it out, the rain streams will level it, and then there will be no trace of man left, and all the torment of his existence on earth will be no one to understand and inherit as good and teaching for the future, because no one will survive. And the mother sighed from this last thought and from the pain in her heart for her unmemorable dying life. But her heart was kind, and out of love for the dead, she wanted to live for all the dead in order to fulfill their will, which they took with them to the grave.

She sat down in the middle of the cooled fire and began to sort through the ashes of her home with her hands. She knew her fate, that it was time for her to die, but her soul did not resign herself to this fate, because if she dies, then where will the memory of her children be preserved and who will save them in their love when her heart also stops breathing?

The mother did not know this, and she thought alone. A neighbor, Evdokia Petrovna, approached her, a young woman, pretty and plump before, but now weakened, quiet and indifferent; Her two young children were killed by a bomb when she left the city with them, and her husband went missing at earthworks, and she returned back to bury the children and live out her time in the dead place.

“Hello, Maria Vasilievna,” said Evdokia Petrovna.

It’s you, Dunya,” Maria Vasilievna told her. - Come with me, let’s talk to you. Search my head, I haven't washed for a long time.

Dunya humbly sat down next to her: Maria Vasilyevna put her head on her lap, and the neighbor began to search in her head. It was now easier for both of them to do this activity; one worked diligently, and the other clung to her and dozed off in peace from the proximity of a familiar person.

Are all yours dead? - asked Maria Vasilievna.

That's it, what else! - Dunya answered. - And all of yours?

That's it, no one is there. - said Maria Vasilievna.

You and I have no one equally,” said Dunya, satisfied that her grief is not the greatest in the world: other people have the same.

“I’ll have more grief than yours: I’ve lived as a widow before,” said Maria Vasilyevna. - And two of my sons lay down here near the settlement. They entered the work battalion when the Germans left Petropavlovka on the Mitrofanevsky tract. And my daughter took me from here wherever my eyes looked, she loved me, she was my daughter, then she left me, she fell in love with others, she fell in love with everyone, she took pity on one - she was a kind girl, she is my daughter, - she leaned towards him, he was sick, he was wounded, he became as if lifeless, and she was also killed then, killed from above from an airplane. And I came back, what do I care! What do I care now! I don't care! I'm like dead now

What should you do: live like you’re dead, I live like that too, said Dunya. - Mine are lying, and yours are lying. I know where yours are lying - they are where they dragged everyone and buried them, I was here, I saw it with my own eyes. First they counted all the dead people killed, they drew up a paper, put our people separately, and dragged our people away further away. Then we were all stripped naked and all the profits from our things were recorded on paper. They took such care for a long time, and then they began to bury them.

Who dug the grave? - Maria Vasilievna was worried. -Did you dig deep? After all, they buried the naked, chilly ones; a deep grave would have been warmer!

No, how deep it is! - Dunya said. - A shell hole, that’s your grave. They piled more in there, but there wasn’t enough room for others. Then they drove a tank through the grave over the dead, the dead calmed down, the place became empty, and they also put whoever was left there. They have no desire to dig, they are saving their strength. And they threw a little earth on top, the dead are lying there, getting cold now; Only the dead can endure such torment - lying naked in the cold for centuries

And were mine also mutilated by the tank, or were they placed on top whole? - asked Maria Vasilievna.

Yours? - Dunya responded. - Yes, I didn’t notice that. There, behind the suburb, right next to the road, they’re all lying, if you go, you’ll see. I tied a cross for them from two branches and put it up, but it was of no use: the cross would fall over, even if you made it iron, and people would forget the dead. Maria Vasilievna got up from Dunya’s knees, put her head to herself and began to look in her hair. . And the work made her feel better; manual work heals a sick, yearning soul.

Then, when it was already getting light, Maria Vasilyevna got up; she was an old woman, she was tired now; She said goodbye to Dunya and went into the darkness, where her children lay - two sons in the near land and a daughter in the distance.

Maria Vasilievna went out to the suburb, which was adjacent to the city. Gardeners and market gardeners used to live in wooden houses in the suburb; they fed from the lands adjacent to their homes, and thus existed here from time immemorial. Nowadays there is nothing left here, and the earth above is baked from the fire, and the inhabitants either die, or go into wandering, or they are captured and taken away to work and death.

From the settlement the Mitrofanevsky tract went into the plain. In former times, willows grew along the side of the road, but now the war had gnawed them down to the very stumps, and now the deserted road was boring, as if the end of the world was already close and few people came here.

Maria Vasilievna came to the grave site, where there was a cross made of two mournful, trembling branches tied across. The mother sat down at this cross; beneath him lay her naked children, killed, abused and thrown into the dust by the hands of others.

Evening came and turned into night. The autumn stars lit up in the sky, as if having cried, surprised and kind eyes opened there, motionlessly peering into the dark earth, so sorrowful and alluring that out of pity and painful attachment no one can take their eyes off it.

If only you were alive, - the mother whispered into the ground to her dead sons, - if only you were alive, how much work you have done, how much fate you have experienced! And now, well, now you’re dead, where is your life that you didn’t live, who will live it for you?.. How old was Matvey? He was twenty-third, and Vasily was twenty-eighth. And my daughter was eighteen, now she would have turned nineteen, yesterday she was the birthday girl. I spent so much of my heart on you, how much of my blood wasted, but that means it was not enough, my heart and my blood alone was not enough, since you died, since I I didn’t keep my children alive and didn’t save them from death. Well, they are my children, they didn’t ask to live in the world. And I gave birth to them - I didn’t think; I gave birth to them, let them live on their own. But it’s obvious that it’s impossible to live on earth yet, nothing is ready for the children here: they only cooked, but they couldn’t manage it!.. They can’t live here, and they had nowhere else, so what can we, mothers, do? gave birth to children. How else could it be? Living alone is probably not worth it. She touched the grave soil and lay down with her face on it. It was quiet in the ground, nothing could be heard.

Andrey Platonov

Recovery of the dead

From the abyss I call again the dead
The mother returned to her house. She was a refugee from the Germans, but she could not live anywhere other than her native place, and returned home.
She passed through intermediate fields past German fortifications twice, because the front here was uneven, and she walked along a straight, nearby road. She had no fear and was not afraid of anyone, and her enemies did not harm her. She walked through the fields, sad, bare-haired, with a vague, as if blind, face. And she didn’t care what was in the world now and what was happening in it, and nothing in the world could disturb her or make her happy, because her grief was eternal and her sadness was insatiable - her mother lost all her children dead. She was now so weak and indifferent to the whole world that she walked along the road like a withered blade of grass carried by the wind, and everything she met also remained indifferent to her. And it became even more difficult for her, because she felt that she did not need anyone, and that no one needed her anyway. This is enough to kill a person, but she did not die; she needed to see her home, where she lived her life, and the place where her children died in battle and execution.
On her way she met Germans, but they did not touch this old woman; It was strange for them to see such a sad old woman, they were horrified by the sight of humanity on her face, and they left her unattended to die on her own. In life there is this vague, alienated light on people’s faces, frightening the beast and the hostile person, and no one can destroy such people, and it is impossible to approach them. Beast and man are more willing to fight with their own kind, but he leaves those unlike him aside, fearing to be frightened by them and to be defeated by an unknown force.
Having gone through the war, the old mother returned home. But her homeland was now empty. A small, poor one-family house, plastered with clay, painted yellow, with a brick chimney that looked like a man’s head in thought, had long since burned out from the German fire and left behind embers already overgrown with the grass of the grave. And all the neighboring residential areas, this entire old city also died, and it became light and sad all around, and you could see far away across the silent land. A little time will pass, and the place where people live will be overgrown with free grass, the winds will blow it out, the rain streams will level it, and then there will be no trace of man left, and all the torment of his existence on earth will be no one to understand and inherit as good and teaching for the future, because no one will survive. And the mother sighed from this last thought and from the pain in her heart for her unmemorable dying life. But her heart was kind, and out of love for the dead, she wanted to live for all the dead in order to fulfill their will, which they took with them to the grave.
She sat down in the middle of the cooled fire and began to sort through the ashes of her home with her hands. She knew her fate, that it was time for her to die, but her soul did not resign herself to this fate, because if she dies, then where will the memory of her children be preserved and who will save them in their love when her heart also stops breathing?
The mother did not know this, and she thought alone. A neighbor, Evdokia Petrovna, approached her, a young woman, pretty and plump before, but now weakened, quiet and indifferent; Her two young children were killed by a bomb when she left the city with them, and her husband went missing at earthworks, and she returned back to bury the children and live out her time in the dead place.
“Hello, Maria Vasilievna,” said Evdokia Petrovna.
“It’s you, Dunya,” Maria Vasilievna told her. - Come with me, let’s talk to you. Search my head, I haven't washed for a long time.
Dunya humbly sat down next to her: Maria Vasilyevna put her head on her lap, and the neighbor began to search in her head. It was now easier for both of them to do this activity; one worked diligently, and the other clung to her and dozed off in peace from the proximity of a familiar person.
- Are all yours dead? - asked Maria Vasilievna.
- That's it, why not! - Dunya answered. - And all of yours?
- That's it, there's no one. - said Maria Vasilievna.
“You and I have no one equally,” said Dunya, satisfied that her grief is not the greatest in the world: other people have the same.
“I’ll have more grief than yours: I’ve lived as a widow before,” said Maria Vasilievna. - And two of my sons lay down here near the settlement. They entered the work battalion when the Germans left Petropavlovka on the Mitrofanevsky tract. And my daughter took me from here wherever my eyes looked, she loved me, she was my daughter, then she left me, she fell in love with others, she fell in love with everyone, she took pity on one - she was a kind girl, she is my daughter, - she leaned towards him, he was sick, he was wounded, he became as if lifeless, and she was also killed then, killed from above from an airplane. And I came back, what do I care! What do I care now! I don't care! I'm like dead now
“What should you do: live like you’re dead, I live like that too,” said Dunya. - Mine are lying, and yours are lying. I know where yours are lying - they are where they dragged everyone and buried them, I was here, I saw it with my own eyes. First they counted all the dead people killed, they drew up a paper, put our people separately, and dragged our people away further away. Then we were all stripped naked and all the profits from our things were recorded on paper. They took such care for a long time, and then they began to bury them.
-Who dug the grave? - Maria Vasilievna was worried. -Did you dig deep? After all, they buried the naked, chilly ones; a deep grave would have been warmer!
- No, how deep it is! - Dunya said. - A shell hole, that’s your grave. They piled more in there, but there wasn’t enough room for others. Then they drove a tank through the grave over the dead, the dead calmed down, the place became empty, and they also put whoever was left there. They have no desire to dig, they are saving their strength. And they threw a little earth on top, the dead are lying there, getting cold now; Only the dead can endure such torment - lying naked in the cold for centuries
- And were mine also mutilated by the tank or were they placed on top whole? - asked Maria Vasilievna.
- Yours? - Dunya responded. - Yes, I didn’t notice that. There, behind the suburb, right next to the road, they’re all lying, if you go, you’ll see. I tied a cross for them from two branches and put it up, but it was of no use: the cross would fall over, even if you made it iron, and people would forget the dead. Maria Vasilievna got up from Dunya’s knees, put her head to herself and began to look in her hair. . And the work made her feel better; manual work heals a sick, yearning soul.
Then, when it was already getting light, Maria Vasilyevna got up; she was an old woman, she was tired now; She said goodbye to Dunya and went into the darkness, where her children lay - two sons in the near land and a daughter in the distance.
Maria Vasilievna went out to the suburb, which was adjacent to the city. Gardeners and market gardeners used to live in wooden houses in the suburb; they fed from the lands adjacent to their homes, and thus existed here from time immemorial. Nowadays there is nothing left here, and the earth above is baked from the fire, and the inhabitants either die, or go into wandering, or they are captured and taken away to work and death.
From the settlement the Mitrofanevsky tract went into the plain. In former times, willows grew along the side of the road, but now the war had gnawed them down to the very stumps, and now the deserted road was boring, as if the end of the world was already close and few people came here.
Maria Vasilievna came to the grave site, where there was a cross made of two mournful, trembling branches tied across. The mother sat down at this cross; beneath him lay her naked children, killed, abused and thrown into the dust by the hands of others.
Evening came and turned into night. The autumn stars lit up in the sky, as if having cried, surprised and kind eyes opened there, motionlessly peering into the dark earth, so sorrowful and alluring that out of pity and painful attachment no one can take their eyes off it.
“If only you were alive,” the mother whispered into the ground to her dead sons, “if only you were alive, how much work you have done, how much fate you have experienced!” And now, well, now you’re dead, where is your life that you didn’t live, who will live it for you?.. How old was Matvey? He was twenty-third, and Vasily was twenty-eighth. And my daughter was eighteen, now she would have turned nineteen, yesterday she was the birthday girl. I spent so much of my heart on you, how much of my blood wasted, but that means it was not enough, my heart and my blood alone was not enough, since you died, since I I didn’t keep my children alive and didn’t save them from death. Well, they are my children, they didn’t ask to live in the world. And I gave birth to them - I didn’t think; I gave birth to them, let them live on their own. But it’s obvious that it’s impossible to live on earth yet, nothing is ready for the children here: they only cooked, but they couldn’t manage it!.. They can’t live here, and they had nowhere else, so what can we, mothers, do? gave birth to children. How else could it be? It’s probably no use to live alone. She touched the grave soil and lay down with her face on it. It was quiet in the ground, nothing could be heard.
- Sleeping“,” the mother whispered, “no one will move,” it was difficult to die, and they were exhausted. Let them sleep, I'll wait - I can't live without children, I don't want to live without the dead. Maria Vasilievna took her face off the ground; she thought that her daughter Natasha called her; she called her without saying a word, as if she had said something with one weak breath. The mother looked around, wanting to see where her daughter was calling to her, where her meek voice sounded from - from a quiet field, from the depths of the earth or from the heights of the sky, from that clear star. Where is she now, her dead daughter? Or is she nowhere else and the mother only imagines Natasha’s voice, which sounds like a memory in her own heart?
Maria Vasilievna listened again, and again from the silence of the world her daughter’s calling voice sounded to her, so distant that it was like silence, and yet pure and clear in meaning, speaking of hope and joy, that everything that had not come true would come true , and the dead will return to live on earth and the separated will embrace each other and will never part again.
The mother heard that her daughter’s voice was cheerful, and realized that this meant hope and trust in her daughter to return to life, that the deceased was expecting help from the living and did not want to be dead.
“How, daughter, can I help you? “I’m barely alive myself,” said Maria Vasilievna; she spoke calmly and intelligibly, as if she were in her home, at peace, and was having a conversation with the children, as happened in her recent happy life. - I won’t lift you up alone, daughter; if all the people loved you and corrected all the untruths on earth, then he would raise you and all those who died righteously to life: after all, death is the first untruth!.. And how can I help you alone? I’ll just die of grief and then I’ll be with you!” The mother spoke words of reasonable consolation to her daughter for a long time, as if Natasha and the two sons in the land were listening to her attentively. Then she dozed off and fell asleep on the grave.
The midnight dawn of war rose in the distance, and the roar of cannons came from there; there the battle began. Maria Vasilievna woke up and looked towards the fire in the sky, and listened to the rapid breathing of the guns. “It’s our people coming,” she believed. - Let them come quickly, let there be Soviet power again, she loves the people, she loves work, she teaches people everything, she is restless; maybe a century will pass, and the people will learn so that the dead become alive, and then they will sigh, then the orphaned heart of the mother will rejoice.”
Maria Vasilievna believed and understood that everything would come true as she wished and as she needed to console her soul. She saw flying airplanes, but they were also difficult to invent and make, and all the dead could be returned from the earth to life in the sunlight if people’s minds turned to the need of a mother who gives birth and buries her children and dies from separation from them.
She again fell to the soft earth of the grave to be closer to her silent sons. And their silence was a condemnation to the whole world-villain who killed them, and grief for the mother, who remembers the smell of their childish body and the color of their living eyes. By noon, Russian tanks reached the Mitrofanevskaya road and stopped near the village for inspection and refueling; Now they did not shoot in front of themselves, because the German garrison of the lost town was protected from the battle and retreated to their troops ahead of time.
One Red Army soldier from the tank moved away from the car and began to walk along the ground, over which the peaceful sun was now shining. The Red Army soldier was no longer so young, he was old, and he loved to see how the grass lived, and to check whether the butterflies and insects to which he was accustomed still existed.
Near a cross connected from two branches, the Red Army soldier saw an old woman with her face pressed to the ground. He leaned towards her and listened to her breathing, and then turned the woman’s body on its back and, for good measure, pressed his ear to her chest. “Her heart is gone,” the Red Army soldier realized and covered his calm face with the deceased clean canvas, which he had with him as a spare footcloth.
“She really had nothing to live with: look how her body was consumed by hunger and grief - the bone glows outward through the skin.”
- Live for now, - the Red Army soldier said aloud at parting. - No matter whose mother you are, I, too, remained an orphan without you.
He stood a little longer, in the languor of his separation from someone else's mother.
- It’s dark for you now, and you’ve gone far from us. What can we do? Now we have no time to grieve for you, we must first put down the enemy. And then the whole world must come to understanding, otherwise it will be impossible, otherwise everything will be of no use!..
The Red Army soldier went back. And he became bored with living without the dead. However, he felt that it was now all the more necessary for him to live. It is necessary not only to completely destroy the enemy of human life, we must also be able to live after the victory with that higher life that the dead silently bequeathed to us; and then, for the sake of their eternal memory, it is necessary to fulfill all their hopes on earth, so that their will comes true and their heart, having stopped breathing, is not deceived. The dead have no one to trust except the living - and we need to live this way now, so that the death of our people is justified by the happy and free fate of our people, and thus their death is exacted.

We can say that the story of A.P. Platonov’s “Recovery of the Lost” is named in Orthodox Christian traditions - there is an icon of the Mother of God bearing the same name. Moreover, the writer chose the following lines as the epigraph to the story: “I call from the abyss.” And indeed, the whole story, in fact, boils down to a single thought - about the memory of the dead and the duty of the living to them.

At the center of the story is the image of an old woman - the mother of Maria Vasilievna, who lost three children in the war: “How old was Matvey? He was twenty-third, and Vasily was twenty-eighth. And my daughter was eighteen...” The heroine walked thousands of kilometers in order to return to her home - to the place where her children died.

Grief made Maria Vasilievna fearless and unharmed. Even animals and enemies did not touch this woman - they felt that she no longer belonged to this world, although physically she still remained alive. The heroine’s soul died: she was where her children lay - dead, crushed by cruel tanks: “I myself am now as if dead.”

That is why Marya Vasilievna’s connection with her children was not lost - the writer cites a mental conversation between a woman and her daughter Natalya: “How, daughter, can I help you? I myself am barely alive... if all the people loved you and corrected all the untruths on earth, then he would raise you and all those who died righteously to life: after all, death is the first untruth!”

In these words, in my opinion, lies the meaning of Platonov’s story - the duty of the living is to prevent any more of the great grief and injustice that the war brought. It is not for nothing that the writer introduces into the story the image of another mother who lost her children - the image of Evdokia Petrovna. This young and once beautiful woman, full of life, has now become “weak, quiet and indifferent.” This woman's two small children were killed by a bomb and her husband went missing while working on the earthworks, "and she came back to bury the children and live out her time in the dead place."

It is Evdokia Petrovna who talks about how their loved ones were buried: “Then they drove a tank through the grave over the dead, the dead calmed down, the place became calm, and they also put there who was left. They have no desire to dig, they are saving their strength.”

It seems that this blasphemy does not touch women at all - the tone of the entire story is Platonic measured and calm. However, we understand that behind this calm there is a terrible, devastating grief, the broken lives of millions of people who have lost their loved ones. Physically, the heroines still continue to live - to do something, talk about something. But all this is just an appearance: all their thoughts are with their dead relatives.

Not only did millions of mothers' souls die, the entire earth turned into one charred piece. However, in spite of everything, there are certain higher powers in the world that are able to help and support hope in a person: “The autumn stars lit up in the sky, as if, having cried, surprised and kind eyes opened there, motionlessly peering into the dark land, so sorrowful and attracting that out of pity and painful attachment no one can take their eyes off her.”

It seems as if God sympathizes with his foolish children and tries with all his might to guide them on the right path, to somehow help them. But people still bear the main responsibility for their actions - only they can change something, never allow such grief and atrocities to happen again. And people, according to Platonov’s entire story, are simply obliged to do this - in the name of the memory of loved ones who unjustly died, taking with them the lives and souls of their relatives.

In the story, the writer connects these changes for the better with the Soviet government - it is not for nothing that Marya Vasilievna thinks: “... let there be Soviet power again, it loves the people, it loves work, it teaches people everything, it is restless; maybe a century will pass, and the people will learn so that the dead become alive.” And at the end of the story, in continuation of this thought, it is the Soviet soldier who is entrusted with the mission to destroy evil, to improve life, to fulfill the covenant of the dead: “The dead have no one to trust except the living - and we need to live in such a way now that the death of our people will be justified by the happy and free fate of our people, and thus their death was exacted.”

Thus, the meaning of the title of Platonov’s story “Recovery of the Dead” lies in the thought of the duty of the living to the dead, primarily in the Great Patriotic War. According to the author, the memory of the dead should be confirmed by the actions of the living, their desire to build a new happy life for their children. Only then will the recovery of the dead be exhaustive.

yЪ VEDOSCH CHASCHBA

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OEF, LBLPChP FBN ZMHVPLP! - UPPVEIMB dXOS. - SNB PF UOBTSDB, CHPF FEVE Y NPZYMB. oBCBMYMY FKhDB DPRPMOB, B DTHZYN NEUFB OE ICHBFYMP. fPZDB POY FBOLPN RTPEYBMY YUETE NPZYMKH RP NETFCHSHCHN, RPLPKOILY HNSMYUSH, NEUFP UFBMP, Y POY EEE FHDB RPMPTSYMY, LFP PUFBMUS. yN LPRBFSH TSEMBOYS OEFH, POY UYMKH UCHPA VETEZHF. b UCHETIKH ЪBVTPUBMY YUKHFSH-YUKhFSH ENMEK, RPLPKOILY Y METSBF FBN, UFSCHOKHF FERETSH; FPMSHLP NETFCHSHCHE UFETRSF FBLHA NHLH - METSBFSH CHEL ABOUT IMPDA

B NPYI-FP - FPTSE FBOLPN HCHEYUYUMY YMY YI ACCOUNTING GEMSHOSCHNY RPMPTSYMY? - URTPUYMB nBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB.

FChPYI-FP? - PFPЪЧБМБУШ дХОС. - dB S FPZP OE KHZMSDEMB fBN, ЪB RPUBDPN, X UBNPK DPTPZY CHUE METSBF, RPKDEYSH - KHCHYDYYSH. s YN LTEUF YJ DCHHI CHEFPL UCHSBMB Y RPUFBCHYMB, DB LFP OH L YUENKH: LTEUF RPCBMYFUS, IPFSH FSH EZP TSEMEOSCHK UDEMBC, B MADI ЪBVHDHF NETFCHSHCHI

NBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB CHUFBMB U LPMEOEK DHOY, RPMPTSYMB EE ZPMPCHH L UEVE Y UBNB UFBMB YULBFSH KH OEE CH ZPMPCHOSHI CHPMPUBI. th PF TBVPFSH EK UFBMP MEZUE; THYOOBS TBVPFB MEYUYF VPMSHOHHA FPULHAEKHA DKHYKH.

rPFPN, LPZDB HCE UCHUETEMP, nBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB RPDOSMBUSH; POB VSHMB UFBTBS TsEOYOB, POB FERETSH KHUFBMB; POB RPRPTPEBMBUSH U DHOEK Y RPIMB CH UHNTBL, ZHE METSBMY ITS DEFY - DCHB USCHOB CH VMYTSOEK YENME Y DPYUSH CH PFDBMEOYY.

nBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB CHSHCHYMB L RPUBDKH, YuFP RTYMEZBM L ZPTPDH. h RPUBDE TSIMY TBOSHYE CH CHILDREN'S OSCHI DPNYILBI UBDPCHPDSH Y PZPTPDOIL; SING LPTNYMYUSH U KHZPDYK, RTYMEZBAEYI L YI TSYMYEBN, Y FEN UKHEEUFCHPCHBMY ЪDEUSH URPLPO CHELB. OSHHOYUE FHF OYUEZP HCE OE PUFBMPUSH, Y YENMS RPCHETIKH URELMBUSH PF PZOS, B TSYFEMY MYVP HNETMY, MYVP KHYMY CH ULYFBOYE, MYVP YI CHSMY CH RMEO Y KHCHEMY CH TBVPFKH Y CH UNETF Sh.

yЪ RPUBDB HIPDIM CH TBCHOYOH nYFTPZHBOSHECHULYK FTBLF. rP PVPYUYOE FTBLFB CH RTETSOE CHTENEOB TPUMY CHEFMSCH, FERETSH YI CHPKOB PVZMPDBMB DP UBNSHCHI ROJEK, Y ULKHYUOB VSHMB UEKYBU VEJMADOBS DPTPZB, UMPCHOP HCE VMYOLP OBIPDIYMUS LPOEG UCHEFB Y TEDLP LFP DPIPDYM UADB.

NBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB RTYYMB ABOUT NEUFP NPZYMSCH, ZDE UFPSM LTEUF, UDEMBOOSCHK YI DCHHI UCHSBOSHI RPRETEL TsBMPVOSCHI, DTPSBEYI CHEFCHEK. nBFSH UEMB X LFPZP LTEUFB; RPD OYN METSBMY EE OZYE DEFY, HNETECHMEOOSCH, RPTKHZBOOSCHY VTPYEOOSCH H RTBI YUKHTSYNY THLBNY.

oBUFKHRIM CHEW Y PVTBFYMUS CH OPYUSH. PUEOOYE ЪЧеЪДШ ЪBUCHEFYMYUSH ABOUT OEVE, FPYuOP, CHShchRMBLBCHYYUSH, FBN PFLTSCHMYUSH KhDYCHMEOOSH Y DPVTSHCHE ZMBB, OERPDCHYTSOP CHUNBFTYCHBAEYEUS CH FENOCHA YENMA, UFPMSH ZP TEUFOKHA Y CHMELKHEKHA, YuFP Y TSBMPUFY Y NHYUIFEMSHOPK RTYCHSBOOPUFY OILPNKH OEMSH'S PFCHEUFY PF OEE CHPTB.

VSHCHMY VSC CHSC CYCHSHCH, - RTPYERFBMB NBFSH CH ЪENMA UCHPYN NETFCHSHCHN USCHOPCHSHSN, - VSHCHMY VSHCH CHSC CYCHSHCH, ULPMSHLP TBVPFSH RPDEMBMY, ULPMSHLP UHDSHVSH YURSHCHFBMY! b FERETSH YUFP Ts, FERTSH CHSCH HNETMY, - WHERE CHBYB TSYOSH, LBLHA CHSCH OE RTPTSYMY, LFP RTPTSYCHEF ITS EB CHBU?.. nBFCEA-FP ULPMSHLP Ts VSHMP? dChBDGBFSH FTEFYK YEM, B chBUYMA DCHBDGBFSH CHPUSHNPK. b DPYULE VSHMP CHPUENOBDGBFSH, FERETSH HTs DECHSFOBDGBFSHCHK RPYEM VSHCH, CHUETB POB YNEOYOOYGB VSHMB... uFPMSHLP S UETDGB UCHPEZP YUFTBFYMB ABOUT ChBU, ULPMSHLP LTPCHY NPEC KHYMP, OP, OB YUYF, NBMP VShchMP, NBMP VShchMP PDOPZP UETDGB NPESP Y LTPCHY NPEK, TB ChSCH HNETMY, TB S DEFEC UCHPYI TSYCHSHNY OE KHDETSBMB Y PF UNETFY YI OE URBUMB poy YuFP TSE, POY DEFY NPI, POY TSYFSH ABOUT UCHEF OE RTPUYMYUSH. b S YI TPTSBMB - OE DKHNBMB; S YI TPDYMB, RHULBK UBNY TSICHHF. b TsYFSH ABOUT ENME, CHYDOP, OEMSHЪS EEE, FHF OYUEZP OE ZPFPChP DMS DEFEC: ZPFPCHYMY FPMSHLP, DB OE KHRTBCHYMYUSH! N, NBFETSN, DEMBFSH-FP, Y NSCH TPTSBMY DEFEC. b YOBYUE LBL CE? pDOPK-FP TSYFSH OEVPUSH Y OY L YUENKH

POB RPFTPZBMB NPZYMSHOKHA YENMA Y RTYMEZMB L OEK MYGPN. h ЪENME VSHMP FYIP, OYUEZP OE UMSHCHYOP.

URSF, - RTPYERFBMB NBFSH, - OILFP Y OE RpyechemshOEFUS, - KHNYTBFSH VSHMP FTHDOP, Y POY KHNPTYMYUSH. RKHUFSH URSF, S PVPTSDH - S OE NPZH TsYFSH VE' DEFEK, S OE IYUH TsYFSH VE' NETFCHSHCHI

nBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB PFOSMB MYGP PF YENMY; EK RPUMSHCHYBMPUSH, UFP ITS RPЪChBMB DPYUSH oBFBIB; POB RPJCHBMB EE, OE RTPNPMCHYCH UMPCHB, VKhDFP RTPYOEUMB YuFP-FP PDOYN UCHPYN UMBVSHCHN CHJDPIPN. nBFSH PZMSDEMBUSH CHPLTHZ, TsEMBS KHCHYDEFSH, PFLKHDB CHSHCHCHBEF L OEK DPYUSH, PFLKHDB RTPJCHKHYUBM EE LTPFLYK ZPMPU - YЪ FYIPZP RPMS, YЪ ЪЪ Ъ Ъ ЪНОПК ЗМХВІОШЧ YMY У CHSCUPF Shch OEVB, U FPK SUOPK ЪCHEDSCH. HERE IS POB UEKUBU, ITS RPZYVYBS DPYUSH? yMY OEF ITS VPMSHYE OYZDE Y NBFETY MYYSH YUKhDYFUS ZPMPU oBFBYY, LPFPTSCHK ЪCHHUYF CHPURPNYOBOYEN CH EE UPVUFCHEOOPN UETDGE?

NBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB UOPCHB RTYUMKHYBMBUSH, Y PRSFSH YY FYYOSHCH NYTB RTPCHKHYUBM

EK ЪПЧХЭйК ЗПМПУ ДПУUEТY, УФПМШ ХДБМОВШЧК, YuFP VShchM RPDPVEO VEЪNPMCHYA, Y, PDOBLP, YUYUFSHCHK Y CHOSFOSHCHK RP UNSHUMKH, ZPCHPTSEYK P OBDETSDE Y TBDPUFY, P FPN, YUFP UVHDE FUS CHUE, YuFP OE UVSHMPUSH, B KHNETYE CHPCHTBFSFUS TSYFSH ABOUT YENMA Y TBMHYUEOOOSCH PVOINHF DTHZ DTHZB Y OE TBUUFBOKHFUS VPMEE OILZDB.

NBFSH TBUUMSHCHYBMB, YuFP ZPMPU EE DPUETY VSHM CHUEMSCHK, Y RPOSMB, YuFP LFP POBYUBEF OBDETSDH Y DPCHETYE DPPUETY ABOUT CHPTBEEOYE L TsYOY, YuFP KHNETYBS PTSIDBEF RPNPEY Ts YCHSHCHY OE IPUEF VSHFSH NETFCHPK.

"lBL CE, DPYULB, S FEVE RPNPZH? s UBNB EME TSYCHB, - ULBJBMB nBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB; POB ZPCHPTYMB URPLPCOP Y CHTBHNYFEMSHOP, UMPCHOP POB OBIPYMBUSH CH UCHPEN DPNE, CH RPLPE, Y CHEMB VEUEDH U DEFSHNY, LBL VSHCHBMP CH HER OEDBCHOEK UYUBUFMYCHPK TSYOY. - with PDOB OE RPDSHCHNH FEVS, DPYLB; EUMY V CHEUSH OBTD RPMAVYM FEVS, DB CHUA OERTBCHDH ABOUT ENME YURTBCHYM, FPZDB VSHCH Y FEVS, Y CHUEI RTBCHEDOP KHNETYI PO LTSYOY RPDOSM: CHEDSH UNET FS-FP Y EUFSH RETCHBS OERTBCHDB!.. b S PDOB YUEN FEVE RPNPZH? UBNB FPMSHLP KHNTKH PF ZPTS Y VKHDH FPZDB U FPVPK!"

nBFSH DPMZP ZPCHPTYMB UCHPEK DPYUETY UMPCHB TBHNOPZP HFEYEOYS, FPYuOP oBFBIB Y DCHB USHCHOB CH YENME CHOINBFEMSHOP UMHYBMY EE. rPFPN POB ЪBDTENBMB Y KHUOKHMB ABOUT NPZYME.

rPMOPYUOBS ЪBTS CHPKOSH CHЪPYMB CHDBMELE, Y ZHM RKHYEL TBBDBMUS PFFHDB; FBN OBYUBMBUSH VYFCHB. nBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB RTPUOHMBUSH, Y RPUNPFTEMB CH UFPTPOH PZOS ABOUT OEVE, Y RTYUMKHYBMBUSH L YUBUFPNKH DSCHIBOIA RKHYEL. "fFP OBIY YDHF, - RPCHETYMB POB. - rHUFSH ULPTEE RTYIPDSF, RHUFSH PRSFSH VHDEF UPCHEFULBS CHMBUFSH, POB MAVYF OBTPD, POB MAVYF TBVPFKH, POB CHUENKH OBKHUBEF MADEK, POB VEURPLPKOBS; NPTsEF - CHEL RTPKDEF, Y OBTPD OBKHUIFUS, YUFPV NETFCHSHE UFBMY TsICHSHCHNY, Y FPZDB CHJDPIOEF, FPZDB PVTBDHEFUS PUYTPFEMPE UETDGE NBFETY."

NBTYS chBUYMSHECHOB CHETYMB Y RPOINBMB, UFP CHUE FBL Y UVHDEFUS, LBL POB TSEMBMB Y LBL EK VSHMP OEPVIPDYNP DMS HFEYEOYS UCHPEK DKHYY. POB CHYDEMB MEFBAEYE BTPRMBOSHCH, B YI FPTSE FTHDOP VSHMP CHSHCHDHNBFSH Y UDEMBFSH, Y CHUEI KHNETYI NPTsOP CHPCHTBFYFSH YЪ ENMY L TSYOY ABOUT UPMOEUSCHK UCHEF, EUMY V TBHN M ADEC PVTBFYMUS L OHTSDE NBFETY, TPTsDBAEEK Y IPPTPOSEEK UCHPYI DEFEC Y KHNYTBAEEK PF TBBMHLY U OYNY.

POB UOPCHB RTYRBMB L NPZYMSHOPK NSZLPK YENME, YUFPVSH VMYTSE VSCHFSH L UCHPYN KHNPMLYN USCHOPCHSHSN. th NPMYUBOYE YI VSHMP PUKHTSDEOYEN CHUENH NYTH-ЪMPDEA, KHVYCHYENH YI, Y ZPTEN DMS NBFETY, RPNOSEEK ЪBRBI YI DEFULPZP FEMB Y GCHEF YI TSYCHSHI ZMB L RPMKHDOA TKHUULYE FB OLY CHCHYMYY ABOUT NYFTPZHBOSHECHULHA DPTPZH Y PUFBOPCHYMYUSH CHP'ME RPUBDB ABOUT PUNPFT Y ЪBRTBCHLH; SING FERTSH OE UFTEMSMY CHREDED UEVS, RPFPNH YuFP OENEGLYK ZBTOYPO RPZYYEZP ZPTPDLB KHVETEZUS PF VPS Y ЪBZPDS PFPYEM L UCHPYN CHPKULBN.

pDYO LTBUOPBTNEEG U FBOLB PFPYEM PF NBYOSCH Y RPYEM RPIPDYFSH RP ЪENME, OBD LPFPTPK UEKYUBU UCHEFYMP NYTOPE UPMOG. lTBUOPBTNEEG VSHM HCE OE UFPMSH NPMPD, BY VSHM CH MEFBI, Y BY MAVYM RPUNPFTEFSH, LBL TSYCHEF FTBCHB, Y RTPCHETYFSH - UHEEUFCHHAF MY EEE VBVPYULY Y OBUELPNSHCHE, L LPFPTSHN BY RTY CHCHL.

LTBUOPBTNEEG RPYEM PVTBFOP. th ULHYUOP ENKH UFBMP TSYFSH VEЪ NETFCHSHCHI. pDOBLP ON RPYUKHCHUFCHBM, YuFP TsYFSH ENKH FERETSH UFBMP FEN VPMEE OEPVIPDYNP. ohTsOP OE FPMSHLP YUFTEVYFSH OBNETFChP ChTBZB TsYOY MADEK, OHTSOP EEE UKHNEFSH TSYFSH RPUME RPvedsch FPK CHCHUYEK TSYOSHA, LPFPTHA OBN VEENNMCHOP UBCHEEBMY NETFCHSHCHE; Y FPZDB, TBDY YI CHEYUOPK RBNSFY, OBDP YURPMOYFSH CHUE YI OBDETSDSCH ABOUT YENMA, YUFPVSH YI CHPMS PUKHEEUFCHYMBUSH Y UETDGE YI, RETEUFBCH DSCHYBFSH, OE VSHMP PVNBOKHFP. NETFCHSHCHN OELPNH DPCHETYFUS, LTPNE TSYCHSHCHI, - Y OBN OBDP FBL TSYFSH FERETSH, YUFPVSH UNETFSH OBUYI MADEK VSHMB PRTBCHDBOB YUBUFMYCHPK Y UCHPVPDOPK UHDSHVPK OBEZP OBTPDB Y FEN VSHCHMB CHSHCHUL BOB YI ZYVEMSH.

pRHVM.: rMBFPOPCH b. RPCHEUFYY TBUULBSHCH. n.: iKhD.MYF., 1983.

oBVPT FELUFB: pMShZB uFBTYGSHCHOB