Jean-Claude Murleva. Winter Battle - BiblioGuide

I read this book on the advice of a friend. At first I thought that the volume was large and the name was banal. But I started reading... And I just fell in love with it! Such lively emotions! Love and struggle, life and death are intricately intertwined, creating a unique plot. At the end I cried... This book taught me compassion, empathy, mutual assistance... I recommend it to everyone!

Ratueva Nadezhda0, Tula/Russia

To the extent that “The Grief of the Dead King” did not let go of me, I thought that all the author’s books were like this. It's not a real book, maybe I just didn't like it. The characters seemed stilted, sketchy, about love it was written in such a way that “I don’t believe it.” It's a shame, it could have turned out better. I'm very ashamed, but the cover of this book stood out to me the most.

Elena, 45, Kemerovo

The history of open confrontation, the fight against dictatorship and totalitarianism. How such a situation arose in an unnamed abstract (but no less plausible) country is unclear. Yes, it doesn’t matter. The main thing is that the people of the Phalanx came to power, divorced the cruel and clueless man-dogs, got rid of all dissidents, and put their children in special boarding camps. But this cannot go on forever. And now these children have grown up, matured and wanted to break free. Moreover, they decided that they were strong enough to fight the regime and could join forces with the meager handful of oppositionists who are sure to be found in any, even the most totalitarian, country. But it is impossible to defeat the enemies of freedom with their own weapons - that is, with fists and force. Something exceptional is needed here, some kind of miracle. This miracle is the singing talent of one of the heroines. Because art is eternal and stronger than any weapon. It is the most powerful and a remedy for any misfortune. Well, of course, love, because without love people can’t live!

Can be recommended as a gift for a high school student - a boy or girl 15-17 years old. Adults will think that social transformation happened unnaturally simply (although there were barricades and underground). The ease with which the revolution took place and the sun shone makes us remember “The Three Fat Men” (who was the leader of the opposition there - the gymnast Tibulus or the gunsmith Prospero?). But if you don’t consider “The Winter Battle” a serious adult book - Murleva wrote for teenagers, after all - then it turns out that for its audience this work is very, very serious. The plot is fascinating: love, friendship, the fight for freedom... It will be especially relatable to those who learn to sing, play an instrument, or are generally interested in music. Main character, the daughter of the deceased singer, barely remembers her mother, but remembers the melodies folk songs heard from her in childhood. The theme of memory, spiritual connection with deceased parents, the desire to learn and remember as much as possible - connects everyone characters in addition to mutual sympathy. First love is described touchingly and tenderly, but the author focuses on the theme of growing up, responsibility, and first serious actions. The young man had to kill - to defend himself and his girlfriend - but this does not come to him as easily as they show in modern action films. Shock and moral suffering make him think painfully, and these lonely thoughts in captivity gradually prepare him for main battle in his life. Winter Battle.. The enemies wanted to turn him into a gladiator (the guy was very gifted in the sporting sense), but they could not kill his soul. In winter, the capital hosts the main competitions - something like olympic games. If you enter the arena and do not fight, a painful public punishment will follow, very bloody, to please the audience. You could say it's an execution. This is the thought of every fighter before battle. The guy won - he refused to kill. After the romanticization of gladiators in movies, various bandits and cowboys, killing dozens and hundreds of innocent and guilty people right and left - and at the same time remaining "nice guys" - this book has a sobering effect. Like a breath of fresh air.

Yakushkina Tatyana0, Novosibirsk

I read “The Winter Battle” by Jean-Claude Murlev and was captivated. Finally, you can enjoy a high-quality and competent translation. Without stylistic blunders, clumsy phrases and inept interlinear translation. Winter's Battle is fiction, not a second-rate rehash. Of course, it contains the spirit of E. Zamyatin’s novel “We”, and involuntary associations with Kurt Wimmer’s “Equilibrium”, and a reference to other dystopias... But the book only benefits from this. A brilliant translation + a thoroughly constructed plot - and we get a work that will take your breath away; you want to quickly turn the page and find out what’s next. In the frosty winter city, where the walls breathe cold and the houses freeze, seethe human feelings, prohibitions crumble, pride is revived and love flares up. All for the sake of freedom, all for the sake of the fall of the imposed rules of life. At the center of the Resistance are four teenagers. Four against the Phalanx (Evil). Not everyone will be able to win and survive, because the book is reality, not a cute fairy tale. Frankly, Jean-Claude Murleva does not let go of the reader’s attention until last pages, and then doesn’t allow you to forget about the existence of the “Winter Battle” two hours later, you remember it! This is the literature to which we are all accustomed, almost a classic. Why almost? It is not people who decide this, but time. Fantastic book with controversial heroes. There is a System, but there are also people who tend to make mistakes, love, hate, drive people crazy, give orders and fight for the lives of friends, forgetting about themselves. There are no blacks and whites, and there are no grays either. Colored? Perhaps so. In the book, the characters come to life; they cannot be accused of being one-sided and false. I never thought that I would be delighted with a modern book published in a children's publishing house, but it happened. As they say, never say never.

WINTER BATTLE

THE ENTIRE WEEK before leaving camp, Milos was on the lookout for a jay. No matter how hard he tried not to succumb to superstition, the hope that the motley bird would appear at least once again and bring him good luck did not leave him, and he could not do anything about it. Every morning and every evening he wandered around the back of the infirmary, where he had seen it in the fall, but the jay never appeared - neither on the windowsill, nor on the branches behind the fence, nor anywhere else. Milos saw this as a bad omen.

He was not the only one who became sensitive to signs. There was a case when one “candidate” literally became furious because someone took his usual place in the cafeteria. He turned the bench over, shaking the intruder off it, and began beating him, yelling: “Do you want my death, you bastard? Do you want them to kill me? Two men barely pulled him away.

Workouts in lately acquired some kind of ferocious character. It seemed that now, when there were only a few days left before the battles, the gladiators tried to become as hardened as possible, to get rid of any weakness in themselves. On the last evening, after dinner, Miricus gathered them all in the arena. The lamps were turned off - only the red reflections of the torches mounted on the log walls illuminated the gloomy faces. The gladiators scattered around the arena and stood motionless, clutching swords in their hands. Miricus walked slowly between them, then went up to the gallery and spoke in his deep bass voice:

- Gentlemen, look at each other. Take a good look at each other, everyone: Kai, Ferox, Delicatus, Messor...

He named the names, all thirty, without forgetting a single one, slowly, in order, and this stern litany gave an ominous solemnity to what was happening.

“Look carefully, because in a few days, when I gather you here again, in this same place, many of you will not be alive.” Look at each other.

A heavy silence followed. The gladiators stood staring at the sand. Not one raised their head as Miricus demanded.

“At this very moment when I am addressing you,” the coach continued, “the same thing is being said to the fighters in five other camps.” They stand now, like you, in the light of torches, and everyone wonders: will I be among the dead or among the living? I say to newcomers, I repeat to others: your only weapon is hatred. You must hate your opponent as soon as he appears in the arena. You should hate him in advance for wanting to take your life. And firmly confirm to yourself that his life is not worth yours.

He paused. The gladiators remained silent, lost in their tormenting thoughts. Milos looked up and saw Vasil’s shaved head and powerful shoulders a few meters in front of him, moving up and down in time with his measured breathing. He felt better, and then the question arose - which of the two would fight first? Milos silently prayed that they would start with him.

Miricus continued to speak for a long time. He recalled the great gladiators of antiquity - Flamma, who won thirty victories, Urbicus, who won thirteen times and died because he did not inflict fatal blow and gave his defeated opponent a chance.

“We leave tomorrow,” he announced in conclusion. “Put your swords at your feet and leave them here.” You won't need them on the road. We will collect them and give them to you before the battle.

No one had nightmares that night. A kind of unnatural calm reigned in the dormitory. Hardly anyone really slept. Every time Milos began to doze off, it was as if something was pushing him, and now there was no sleep in either eye, as if it was a pity to waste these hours, perhaps his last, on him. Vasil couldn’t sleep either. Somewhere in the middle of the night he suddenly asked:

– What’s your girlfriend’s name?

“Helen...” Milos whispered in response.

“Helen,” he repeated louder, and in the silence it sounded like a call.

-What is she like?

– Some-what... normal.

“Well, tell me plainly,” Vasil insisted. - I won’t get disheveled.

“Okay,” Milos muttered, somewhat embarrassed, “she’s short, her hair is short, her face is... well, round...

It wasn’t enough for Vasil general description.

- You say something, I don’t know... something special, well, that she, for example, can do...

– She... she, for example, is good at climbing a rope.

- Here you go! – the horse-man said with satisfaction and fell behind.

In the morning, the camp gates opened and three military-style wagons, accompanied by two covered trucks containing armed soldiers, entered the compound and stood in front of the mess hall. The soldiers lined up in the wind, under the wet snow. Fulgur's task was to divide them into groups and in each group handcuff them to a common chain. He set to work with a perverse delight, looking for signs of fear on faces. Milos tried his best to look calm, but his pallor gave him away, and when Fulgur winked at him nastily, as if to say: “What, are your veins shaking?” – he barely restrained himself from smashing his face with a blow to his head.

To last minute he desperately looked for the jay with his eyes. “Fly, please! Show yourself! Just for a second, so that I can see you one last time and take with me your bright colors, your image is the image of life itself!”

They pushed him so as not to delay the landing.

Fulgur took care to separate him from Vasil. Milos and his group were placed in the second van and sat on one of the wooden benches that lined the sides. The convoy started moving and left the camp. One truck with soldiers led it, the second brought up the rear. Any attempt to escape would be pure suicide. The small barred window of the van showed only a complex pattern of bare oak branches. Only towards noon did they finally leave the forest onto the high road and drive south towards the capital.

Soon after, the convoy, moving at a moderate speed, was overtaken by a roaring bus from the north. Having caught up with the second van, he rode side by side with it for some time. On the bus, Paula dozed, occupying two seats with her ample bottom, her hands on her knees. Behind her, by the window, Helen was trying to read a book. She raised her head and glanced absentmindedly at the van in which Milos rode as a prisoner with his hands shackled and his heart heavy. For a few seconds, just three meters separated the lovers, and then the bus picked up speed, and their paths diverged.

The convoy arrived at its destination late at night. Those of the gladiators who had never been to the capital before took turns twisting their necks, looking out the barred window, but from miracles big city All they saw was the gray facades of the houses, the same as any others. When they got out of the wagons, the damp cold of the night immediately chilled everyone to the bones. The cars turned around to drive away, and the headlights darted across the base of a huge dark massif - the arena. This means their journey is over. Last path?

Milos and his comrades in misfortune, shackled and under escort, were driven to the building. They were led through huge double doors, which were immediately closed behind them and secured with a bolt as thick as a whole log. The floor was earthen. They walked under the stands, then along some kind of corridor and finally found themselves in the cell reserved for them - a vast room with adobe walls that smelled of mold. All the furniture consisted of straw mattresses on the floor. The gladiators fell on them as soon as the handcuffs were removed from them. Some, exhausted from the long journey on the hard benches of the vans, immediately crawled under the blankets to fall asleep; others sat on mattresses, peering with inflamed eyes at the stains on the walls in search of some secret signs of the fate awaiting them. Four armed soldiers watched over them, standing at the door.

- Will they at least give you something to eat? – Vasil asked. - I'm hungry - it's terrible!

They had to be patient - only an hour later they brought a bowl of thick stew and a large loaf of bread for their brother.

“And the food here is better than in the camp!” – Vasil was happy. - Tell me, is it delicious? This is so that we will be in shape tomorrow, that’s what!

Milos smiled forcefully in response. For the first time in his life, a piece of food didn’t fit into his throat, but he wasn’t the only one. So Vasil got three extra bowls of stew along with bread, and he greedily devoured it all.

The guards took the bowls with spoons, the soldiers went out with them, you could hear the key turning in the lock. All the lights went out at once, except for the barred pilot light that glowed palely above the door. From time to time the silence was broken by some kind of bustle - the next batch of fighters was arriving, and from the neighboring cells steps, fuss, and the rumble of unfamiliar voices could be heard. “Our opponents,” everyone thought, “those who will kill us or fall by our hands...”

In the morning Milos woke up as if he were a stranger to himself. He could not understand whether he had slept that night or was still sleeping, whether it was all a dream or reality. It smelled like urine. One of the gladiators must have relieved himself right there in the corner. He turned to Vasil: he was lying with his eyes open, pale as a sheet.

- How are you, Vasil?

- Badly. Got sick.

- What's wrong with you?

- From the stew, probably... It got twisted...

The door opened and Miricus entered with some paper in his hand, accompanied by two soldiers.

– Attention: listen to the schedule for today. It's eight o'clock now. The first battle is at ten. You are fighting, Flavius. Get ready.

All eyes turned to the gloomy gladiator, who had hardly uttered a word in recent days. He sat on his mattress, hugging his raised knees, looking as if what was happening did not concern him.

– You are fighting against another newcomer. Good luck! Your victory will lift everyone's spirits. Is there anything you want to tell us?

Flavius ​​did not move.

“Okay,” Mirikus moved on to the next point. “I secured for the youngest the privilege of fighting this very morning - I know how exhausting the wait is.” Rusticus, you fight second, Milos – third. Rusticus, your opponent is a champion. This, as you know, is the most profitable deal...

- Profitable... who? – the horse-man squeezed out with difficulty. His jaw was shaking convulsively, and Milos felt like he was about to throw up.

“The best chance of winning,” the coach corrected himself, remembering who he was talking to. – When a beginner fights a champion, the newcomer often wins. Do you remember?

- I remember. So I should win?

- I'm sure, Rusticus! Just try not to look him in the eye. His gaze is stronger than yours.

- So, don't look?

The coach did not dignify him with an answer and continued:

– Milos, you are fighting against the candidate. I was able to look at it today. He is very tall. Accordingly, take into account the length of your arms so that he doesn’t reach you. And remember: you do not show that you are left-handed until the very last moment, and already in the throw you intercept the sword. Think about how to do this. And one last piece of advice: when you see him, don’t give in to pity. Do you want to say anything?

Milos shook his head and no longer heard anything that Mirikus said. Don't give in to pity? What could have caused such a warning? The names of other fighters passed his mind. He rubbed his hands - his palms were damp; and suddenly, in one second, an undisguised reality overtook him and struck him like lightning: now he had to fight to the death. He thought he had known this for a long time, but now he realized that he knew nothing. He remembered the words of Mirikus: “Until the very end, everyone thinks that somehow it will work out, that they won’t have to actually enter the arena.” And so it was. Without realizing it, he had been deceiving himself with this impossible dream, and now the truth had hit him in the face. He immediately became somehow exhausted, felt completely overwhelmed, unable to cope with the kitten. Will he be strong enough to even lift a sword?

At nine o'clock they brought coffee and bread. Vasil did not touch them. Milos forced himself to chew thoroughly and swallow every last crumb. “I must eat,” he repeated to himself, not really believing it, “I must eat to maintain my strength.”

Miricus left. The agonizing wait began. Flavius ​​sat motionless, like a statue, lost in his gloomy thoughts. Next to him, Delicatus was desperately trying to keep an arrogant, sardonic smile on his face. Kai sat further away, his cheek eaten, his black eyes flashing lightning. For a moment, his completely insane gaze met Milos’s gaze, and it was like a silent duel.

Everyone felt a little better when the swords were brought at nine o'clock. Milos, taking his in his hands, immediately felt calmer. He stroked the handle, the guard, ran his fingers along to the sparkling blade. Many stood up, took off their shirts, took off their shoes and began the usual exercises: jogging with a sword in hand, jumping, falling and rolling, bending, lunging. Some, split into pairs, practiced fighting techniques.

- Shall we go, Vasil? – Milos called. – You need to warm up.

“I can’t,” he groaned, “my stomach hurts.” After…

- No, Vasil! Don't you dare become limp! Found the time! Come on, get up!

The long face of the horse-man appeared from under the blanket, and Milos realized that, of course, it wasn’t just the stew that made him feel bad. The poor fellow was trembling all over, and there was horror in his eyes.

- Okay, Vasil, lie down for now, but as soon as Flavius ​​is called, you pull yourself together, understand?

- I'll try...

Milos joined the rest of the fighters and tried to lose himself in the movements that he had perfected to the point of automatism over months of training.

Suddenly everyone froze at once: the door opened and two soldiers entered. The noise of the arena began to be heard, distant and threatening - the dull growl of a monster that had settled somewhere there, to which they were being prepared as a sacrifice. Following the soldiers, Miricus entered, and his voice boomed throughout the cell:

- Flavius!

The gladiator, half naked, shiny with sweat, slowly, with a fixed gaze, moved towards the exit. His hard face with clenched jaws expressed nothing but pure hatred. Everyone he passed by smelled it and avoided it. As soon as the door closed behind him, Milos rushed to Vasil and stopped him:

- Vasil! Come on, get up!

He didn't move, and he literally picked him up, put him on his feet, put him in right hand sword.

- Come on, Vasil! Fight!

Vasil stood in front of him with the most pathetic look, his hands dangling helplessly. There was no face on it.

- Well, fight! - Milosh yelled at him and began hitting him with the flat of his sword on his arms and legs, forcing him to defend himself.

The horse man did not react. Finally, he nevertheless raised the sword, giving hope that he would now come out of his apathy, but he immediately dropped it, rushed as fast as he could into the corner and curled up in a violent attack of vomiting.

No one took up Delicatus's contemptuous laughter. Vasil also ignored him. He returned to Milos, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, picked up his sword and smiled palely at his comrade:

- It seems like things are going well...

His face was no longer so white. He took off his shirt and began to respond to his partner’s blows with blows that, in Milos’s opinion, were completely untenable.

- Wake up, for God’s sake! – he shouted. – You have to fight in a few minutes, remember?

He was tempted to rush at Vasil, hurt him, maybe even wound him, just to get him to move and really defend himself. He was ready to do just that, but then the door opened again. Miricus entered, accompanied by two soldiers.

- Rusticus!

The horse man stared at him, gasping for air:

- Yes. Went!

- And Flavius? - someone asked.

“Flavius ​​was killed,” the coach answered without any pity.

Since Rusticus did not move, the soldiers stepped towards him, pointing to the exit with the muzzles of their guns. He walked slowly, dragging his feet. His chin trembled like a child about to cry.

- So, don't look at him? – he asked Mirikus.

- Yes, try not to meet his eyes.

Milos came up and wanted to hug his friend, but Vasil quietly pushed him away:

- It’s okay, don’t be afraid... think about it, champion... they didn’t scare you too much... I’ll come back, don’t think so... I’m not Flavius.

That's when the wait became completely unbearable. What’s worse is that it was impossible to hear anything, it was impossible to even guess or imagine anything. Unable to continue his warm-up, Milos squatted down, leaning against the wall and hiding his face in his hands. “Vasil, oh, Vasil, my brother in misfortune, do not leave me alone! Don't die! Come back alive, please!”

It took a long time. All around, gladiators exchanged fierce blows, and the air trembled with the clanging of swords. At some moment of short calm, Milos seemed to catch an explosion of screams from the direction of the arena, muffled by the distance. What's going on there? His heart almost jumped out of his chest. The battle has been going on for an eternity, at least much longer than Flavius's. What could this mean?

When the door scraped open again, he did not dare raise his head and look. I heard the sound of footsteps on concrete, and then Vasil’s faded voice:

- I won...

The horse-man was supported on both sides by Miricus and Fulgur. He walked as if stunned.

“I won,” he repeated, as if convincing himself, but there was no triumph in his voice. Blood flowed in a thick stream from the torn side. He dropped the stained sword that was hanging limply from his hand and said with difficulty:

- He wanted to kill me... I defended myself...

“He fought bravely and won,” Miricus declared loudly. – Take an example from him!

Fulgur, happy with the double luck of getting both the winner and the patient at once, was already pulling him towards the exit:

- Come on, let's go to the infirmary. Now I'll mend you.

Vasil, pressing his hand to the wound, moved after him. At the door he turned around, looking for Milos. There was no joy in those eyes, only deep melancholy and disgust at what had been done.

- Congratulations, friend! - he said. – See you soon... Don’t make a mistake, okay?

“See you soon,” Milos answered, having mastered the spasm squeezing his throat.

Miricus was the last to leave, advising him not to sit still. Next in line were two battles between gladiators from other camps, and after them - Milos.

He immediately began the exercises and, with a feeling close to panic, discovered that all his sensations were somehow dulled - the weight of the sword, his own movements were impossible to coordinate. It was as if he had suddenly lost control of his body. It seemed to him that he was moving too slowly and was unsteady on his feet.

“My arms and legs are not my own,” he groaned in despair.

“It’s okay, it’s normal,” someone nearby responded. “This happens to everyone before a battle.” Stand with me, let's wave.

The man who offered himself to him as a partner was called Messor. During their entire stay in the camp, they never exchanged a word.

“Thank you,” Milos thanked with all his heart.

The very first blows they exchanged broke the stupor, and when Mirikus and the soldiers appeared at the door, Milos already felt a little more confident.

- Milos! – the coach called out dispassionately.

Milos wanted to say goodbye to at least someone when leaving. If not with Vasil, then with this Messor, who shared his last moments with him. He stepped towards him and shook his hand.

- Goodbye, boy. Good luck to you,” the gladiator grumbled.

As they walked along the corridor, Miricus kept repeating his instructions:

- Consider the length of his arms - he is tall. Don't show that you're left-handed until you seize the moment, do you hear?

Milos heard, but the coach’s words came as if from afar and seemed unreal. Twice he was on the verge of fainting, but his legs held him and did not give way.

Still accompanied by soldiers, they now walked under the stands. Voices and shuffling feet were heard overhead. The boards groaned under the weight of the spectators. Then the horn blew - three long, low notes. Milos realized that it was his exit being announced. The soldiers stopped, letting him through to the gate, which the guard standing next to it had already opened. Miricus gave Milos a gentle nudge and he stepped into the arena.

It was a blow of such force that he could barely stand on his feet. Thousands of glances and the blinding light of searchlights, in which the sand turned bright yellow, fell on him at once. “It’s like being born,” he thought. “A child must feel the same shock when he is thrown into life from his mother’s womb.”

They told him the truth: the arena was exactly the same as in the training camp, and the sand under his feet was the same consistency. However, everything, everything was different. Here the space opened up in height: behind the barrier, multi-tiered stands, completely filled with spectators, rose up to the gigantic shell of the roof. Miricus led him to the box of honor, where about ten Phalangists in coats sat. Among them, Milos immediately recognized the red bearded giant whom he had seen several months ago at the boarding school: Van Vlyk! He immediately remembered - here he and Helen, two accomplices, were lying huddled together in the attic... And the girl’s muffled laughter, and the feeling of her shoulder next to his, her breathing, so close in the silence of the attic, and how all this worried him then . Did something so good really happen? And what happened to him, Milos? He then imagined himself invincible. How long ago it was! Now he is at the mercy of the barbarians and must fight to the death for their pleasure and for his own salvation. And in order to see Helen again... She was waiting for him somewhere, he was sure of it. For her sake, he had to forget everything that he had believed in all his life: the rules of a fair fight, respect for his opponent. So that nothing remains but rage and bloodlust - that’s it!

Hot sweat poured into his eyes. He wiped his face with his hand.

- Milos! – Mirikus announced to the attention of government officials. - Newbie! “And he named the camp where they came from.”

A thin little man next to Van Bleek perked up and squinted:

– Milos... Ferenczi?

Milos nodded.

“Come on, come on, let’s see how you manage to kill a man!” – he giggled.

Milos remained silent, nothing wavered in his face. Miricus took him by the elbow and led him to the opposite side of the arena.

“Take into account his height... first work with your right...,” he repeated finally and disappeared.

The gate on the other side opened, and Milos saw his opponent - a tall, thin man with a shaved skull, who entered the arena, accompanied by his trainer, who barely reached his shoulder. Both in turn went to the honor box. From his position, Milos did not hear the name of the person he was supposed to fight with, nor the name of his camp.

Everything fell silent at once as soon as the two gladiators were left alone in the arena. They were separated by twenty meters. Milos moved towards the enemy, who also moved towards him. Stooped, like many too tall people, wrinkled chest, with saggy skin, hairy - and her hair is completely white. The sword hangs freely from an incredibly long arm, sunken cheeks are gray with gray stubble. Milos would give him at least sixty years old. There were no such old people in their camp. “Yes, this is some kind of grandfather,” he thought dumbfounded, “I can’t fight him!” Mirikus’s words came back to him and now made sense: “Don’t give in to pity.” When there were only five meters left between them, both made the same stance: their legs were bent, the hand with the sword was extended forward. Milos resisted the temptation to grab the sword in his usual hand in time. So they stood, almost motionless, studying each other.

Whistles were heard in the audience, then shouts: “Come on, come on! Move!” - and mocking instigations - “fas! face!” – as if they were pitting animals against each other.

“They can’t wait to see our blood,” Milos thought with disgust. “They sit safely in the stands, confident in their impunity. I wonder if any of them would have the courage to come out from behind the barrier here on the sand and fight? No, why should they, they are cowards! And just present your life like this?”

Now only three meters separated him from his opponent, whose forehead was cut by deep wrinkles, and in his eyes Milos read the same fear that was squeezing his heart. He forced himself not to think about it. You should have hated this man, not pitied him. He exhaled sharply, hardened his gaze, clenched his sword until his fingers hurt, and stepped forward. It was precisely this moment that his opponent chose to suddenly, bending his whole body, lunge. He stabbed Milos in the ankle and immediately jumped away. Milos cried out in pain and saw that his foot was immediately stained with blood, while laughter and applause greeted the successful strike. The unconscious sympathy he had previously experienced immediately disappeared. This one is too skinny old man here to kill him, and will do it without hesitation at the first opportunity. Milos decided not to yawn in the future. When the enemy rushed to attack again, he grabbed the sword with his left hand and, quickly stepping over, began to move to the side, so that it was out of his hands to attack. The old man was taken aback, then lunged again, and again, and again, each time targeting his legs. “Are you thinking of taking me with this? – Milos laughed to himself, feeling all the reflexes of an experienced wrestler come to life in him. “So you’re going to hit me ten times from below, so that all I know is to protect my legs, and on the eleventh you’ll suddenly stab me in the chest?” Well, well, go ahead, I’ll wait...”

So they continued this dance of death, each sticking to their own tactics. The old man hit his legs without a break, Milos danced around him. Very little time had passed since the start of the battle, but the tension was such that both were already out of breath and drenched in sweat.

“Hit the body! – Milos prayed to himself. The wounded leg was burning, and every step left a bloody trail on the sand. “Hit me in the body, please... Just one time... Look, I’m bending over... I’m opening my chest... Come on, don’t delay...”

He didn't have to wait long. The old gladiator suddenly lunged, holding the sword horizontally in his hand, extended to its incredible length, with a cry that contained more despair than anger. Although this was exactly what Milos had been waiting for, the blow almost caught him by surprise. He barely managed to dodge and, unable to stay on his feet, fell on his side. The enemy, having missed, also lost his balance and fell face down into the sand. Milos, being younger, turned out to be more agile: a split second - and he was already on his feet. He jumped, pressing his knee against the white back of his too-slow opponent, wet with sweat, and, raising his hand high, placed the tip of his sword against the wrinkled neck just under the back of the head.

He pressed his head with his free hand and his lower body with his foot. But this was no longer necessary. The old man was a pitiful sight: he was breathing intermittently, groaning, saliva flowing from his distorted mouth, mixing with the sand. The crowd roared in anticipation of the sacrifice for which they had gathered here. For a few short seconds, Milos felt one thing with frantic force: “I won!” But this feeling was almost immediately replaced by another - the feeling of a recurring nightmare. Here he is again, without meaning to, holding a person’s life in his hands.

Then, a few months ago, in the mountains, alone and cold, he decided on a terrible thing to save Helen, who was trembling behind a rock from cold and fear, in order to protect two other fugitives. And now he had to kill to save himself - in the blinding light of the spotlights, under the gazes of spectators merging into a muddy haze, jumping to their feet in excitement. What do they want? See his shame? To see him finish off an old man who was old enough to be his father? He realized that he was unable to perform the slaughter that was required of him. How to plunge this blade into the body of the vanquished? How to live after this? He imagined that he could do this while defending himself in the heat of battle. And here there was a murder - no more, no less. No, he won't give them that kind of pleasure. Now he will let go of the defeated man, get up, and everything that should follow will follow. The old man is recognized as the winner. And against him, Milos, unarmed, they will release one gladiator, then a second, then, if necessary, a third, and he will die by their hand. “We’ll see about that later,” he thought. - Let's see…"

The crowd was now shouting something, some words that he did not understand. He leaned towards his opponent, almost laying on top of him.

- What are you doing? - the old man wheezed. - Kill me. And live... You are young...

“I can’t,” said Milos.

He drew back the sword, the tip of which left a bloody comma on the wrinkled neck, threw it aside and. on his knees, frozen in anticipation. “Now do whatever you want with me.”

And then, instead of the seemingly inevitable explosion of indignation, a strange silence reigned in the stands - like a calm before something terrible, an earthquake, for example. From the first dull blow, the entire building shook to the ground. Their mouths opened in amazement, everyone turned their ears - and heard a second blow, just as heavy and echoing. The Phalanx representatives jumped up and hastily left the box. The rest of the spectators followed suit, and there was a bustle in the stands.

The old man, pale as death, rose and knelt next to Milos.

- What is this?

Nobody paid any attention to them anymore.

- They're breaking down the doors! - someone yelled.

Panic began. Everyone was rushing about, bursting into the passages, choking and pushing in search of some kind of emergency exit.

What are “they”? Who breaks down the doors? Milos, cut off from the outside world for months now, was afraid to believe. However, the fact was clear: the ranks of the Phalanx left the stands, the soldiers looked around in confusion, waiting for orders that no longer came, and the public was only thinking about how to run away. What else, if not the Resistance, could be the reason for such a stampede?

As Milos and the old man stood up, their hearts almost leaping out of their chests, the gates on both sides of the arena swung open and gladiators poured out, bursting out of their cells, screaming wildly and brandishing their swords. They filled the arena like some kind of army of savages and climbed the barriers. Their ferocious faces and wild screams terrified the already frightened spectators.

- Vasil! - Milos shouted, looking for his friend in this violent crowd. The horse man did not know how the battle ended, and it was necessary to calm him down. Then Milos remembered that he was wounded, and remembered the blood pouring down his side. What if the injury was serious? Where could this “infirmary” that Fulgur spoke about be? Probably somewhere next to the cameras. He pushed against the flow to the gate, walked under the stands, shaking from the tramp of spectators, then along the corridor, and soon he was looking into the cell where he spent that night. It was empty. Only the shirt and sandals of Flavius, who died in the arena, and him, Milos, who survived, were lying around. He put them on and went out.

- Vasil!

Now he went to the right, opening all the doors in a row. At the end of the corridor, an almost vertical wooden staircase, worn by worms, led to the second floor - above it there was an open hatch. Milos put his sword on the floor and climbed up.

- Vasil! Are you there, or what?

He stuck his head into the hatch to inspect the room. An empty room, lit only by a small hole in the adobe wall. He went back down, and when he turned around, Kai was standing in front of him, blocking his path, with a sword in his hand. His own sword lay further away, out of reach.

-Ahhh, a cat's sprinkle, will you still hiss?

Milos was dumbfounded.

- Kai, come to your senses... We are free...

He didn't hear. He advanced, all braced up, arms outstretched, ready to jump. His eyes were like those of a sleepwalker, his hand clenched his sword until his knuckles turned white.

- I'll show you how to scratch, you trash! – he growled through his teeth.

On a face distorted with hatred, the scars seemed even more terrible. They appeared in a relief glossy purple pattern.

“Kai,” Milos begged, “stop it!” Let's talk calmly, okay? What did the cats do to you? Tell me, Kai... Let's talk... okay...

The madman heard nothing. He stepped even closer, breathing raggedly, drunk with anger.

“I’ll show you how to scratch,” he repeated, and his eyes burned with bloodlust.

- At least give me a sword! – Milos said, trying not to make sudden movements. - I'm a gladiator like you! I have the right to defend myself! Give me my sword! Do you hear, Kai?

He didn't answer.

“Kai,” Milos breathed out, “please... this is too stupid... we’re free... you know we’re free?” And I’m not a cat, you know... I’m not a cat...

Kai didn't hear. No words could break through his obsession. Then Milos realized that death was in front of him. He shouted at the top of his lungs:

- Help! Someone help!

No answer. The corridor was too narrow to slip past Kai, and he - Milos saw - was about to rush. Without thinking any more, he jumped back to the stairs and flew up, helping himself with his hands. Two steps broke under his weight. He pressed himself against the far wall. Kai didn't lag behind. And again the same terrible confrontation, this time in the twilight. Milos searched and did not find words that could overcome the madness of this man, a dark silhouette towering some two meters from him. They stood like that for several seconds, and only their intermittent breathing broke the silence.

But by some quick movement, by a change in the rhythm of his breathing, Milos felt that the enemy was about to rush at him and hit him. Then he did the only thing left - he rushed first.

Everything happened very quickly. The steel entered his stomach like a long, cold bolt of lightning. And that was the only blow. He fell to his knees and lost consciousness.

When Milos woke up, he was alone. From somewhere in the distance, dull knocks could still be heard on the arena doors. He was lying on his side with his knees tucked up. The damp earthen floor felt cold on my cheek. A few centimeters from his face sat a gray mouse and looked at him friendly. I just wanted to stroke her delicate fur. The quivering antennae swayed like the thinnest veil, from behind which the black agate eyes glittered. The mouse was not afraid at all. “She understands that I’m not a cat...” Milos tried to move, but his body did not obey. He wanted to call for help, but was afraid that his own scream would tear him to death. He felt fragile, like a light in the wind. The slightest whiff and it will fade away. The stomach was sticky with blood. “It’s the life flowing out of me...” he thought and pressed the wound with both hands. “Help...” he groaned, “I don’t want to die...” His tears flowed down onto the floor, soaking the ground into mud. The mouse came closer in tiny steps, hesitated a little, as if in thought, and lay down, pressing against his cheek. “You are not alone,” she seemed to say. “I’m just a little thing, but I’m with you.”

Then the visions came.

The first was Bartolomeo - he hugged him on the bridge with his long arms and walked away with long strides: “We will meet again, Milos! We will all meet, both the living and the dead!”

“Why did you leave me, Bart?” – he asked. The friend didn't answer. He simply squatted down next to Milos and smiled affectionately at him.

Vasil also came. It was nice to see his honest, rough face. He awkwardly consoled: “Don’t be afraid, friend... everything is fine... Look, it’s already passed!” - and showed his healed wound.

Then all sorts of other faces followed. The coach who once taught him how to fight: “I repeat once again, boys, you can’t choke!” Milos was just a boy again and was practicing a series of somersaults in the gym. More and more long-forgotten faces emerged from the past: little comrades from the orphanage who exchanged marbles with him, boarding school friends who clapped him on the shoulder. “How are you, Milos? - they called out cheerfully. “We’re glad to see you!” His comforter let everyone in, seated them, and grumbled at those who were too rowdy. She carefully asked if they were hungry, and immediately began to prepare some food. Milos was surprised - where could she cook here, when there were so many people, and how they could fit in such a cramped room - and he felt funny.

Finally Helen appeared. Frozen, in a boarding school cape with a hood. Snow fell on her shoulders, white and weightless. She also knelt down next to him and carefully took his face into the oval of her icy palms. “Don’t go, Milos,” she cried, “don’t go, my love...” He looked into the round face of the young woman bending over him, into her deep eyes, and she seemed incomparably beautiful to him. “I won’t leave,” he wanted to answer, but his lips were stony and did not move. And he told her with his heart: “I won’t leave, my love.” I'm staying with you. Word".

And then everyone who bent over him - Bartolomeo, Vasily, everyone with whom his life brought him, and Helen, who illuminated this short life such a dazzling light - everyone quietly parted and turned towards the entrance, where a man and a woman stood, young, beautiful. A woman in a light spring dress and a hat with flowers and a man, tall, strong, with laughing eyes just like Milos’s. Milos, whose eyelids were already heavy, smiled at them, and they immediately stood next to him and knelt down beside him. The woman put her hands under his shaved head and stroked it gently. “Where are your curls, son?” – she asked. The man nodded at him from behind her shoulder and looked at him with approval and pride. There was no alarm in their faces. On the contrary, they shone with joyful confidence, like those who met a loved one after a long separation and know that now they will live happily and will never be separated.

“Father…” Milos whispered. - Mom... Have you found it?

“Sh-sh-sh...” the woman said, putting her finger to her lips. And the man also said “sh-sh-sh...”

Then Milos became, as before, small and obedient. He curled up in a ball, protecting with his body the warmth and tenderness given to him, in order to take them with him to where he was going.

Then he closed his eyes and left.

The mouse ran back and forth along his leg, along his shoulder, along his back. She returned, rubbed herself against the motionless face, pressed herself against him for a minute or two, twitching her sensitive nose. She waited for some signs of life, but there were none. Suddenly, a particularly powerful blow was heard from afar, followed by a terrible crash. It was the massive bolt that finally broke. entrance doors. The frightened mouse rushed to the wall and ducked into a hole.

Jean-Claude Murleva is already familiar to those who have read his allegorical fairy tale “The River Flowing Backward,” also published by Samokat (see: Murleva J.-K. River flowing backwards). And here we have a new book French writer- “Winter Battle” (“Le combat d’hiver”, 2006).

A quick glance through first of all evokes a cowardly desire to put the novel aside - scary! In fact, one feels uneasy from the oppressive atmosphere of closed boarding schools, reminiscent of maximum security colonies, from the ruthless henchmen of the sinister Phalanx, which treacherously seized power in an unnamed European country and established its barbaric rules there, from the creepy semi-intelligent human dogs, which the Phalanx uses to persecute and physically eliminate the dissatisfied... But once you read it, the narrative is captivating, forcing you to acutely empathize with the heroes, young and brave, and fiercely hate the villains who committed unrighteousness and cruelty coup d'état.

Every teenager is partly a dissident and underground worker. With what truly manic zeal he invents secret ways of communicating with peers - he develops ingenious systems of “appearances and passwords”, letters and notes not intended for the eyes of teachers and parents, thereby trying to protect his inner world from the obsessive and well-intentioned interference of adults. Usually this is just a game designed to help a teenager find his own way to independence. What if it’s a dire necessity?..

Helen and Milena, prisoners of one of these boarding prisons, have no time for games. Their entire extremely ordered life is permeated through and through with various kinds of prohibitions - they cannot do without notes. Even singing in a circle of female classmates is strictly prohibited, except perhaps a falsely cheerful boarding school anthem. The only outlet is the so-called “comforters”, kind women, trying their best to brighten up the girls’ dreary time in the boarding school. True, they are allowed to visit them only occasionally and with an escort, and any attempt to escape threatens another pupil, arbitrarily chosen as a victim, with imprisonment in a cold and dark punishment cell.

However, it is impossible to completely stifle the maturing resistance, and soon four teenagers - Milena, Helen and two students from a boarding school for boys, Milos and Bartolomeo - become fugitives. They'll find out the terrible truth about their parents, who once tried to resist the Phalanx and died, and decide to continue the unequal fight against the invaders.

Despite the fantastic nature of the form, Murleva wrote an unusually truthful and convincing novel. A novel about the ineradicable desire for freedom and the desire for it, about true love and about the power of real art to give people hope.

And this is also a difficult novel - not every teenager will be able to do it. “Samokat” does not hide this and points out honestly: "for high school age".

Jean-Claude Murleva

Jean-Claude Murleva

Winter Battle is the battle of four teenagers who escape from boarding schools, more like prisons, in order to resume the fight for freedom lost by their parents fifteen years ago. Do they have at least one chance to escape from the terrible man-dogs chasing them in the icy mountains? Should they hope for the generous help of a tribe of horse people? Will they survive in the arenas where the Phalanx's newly fashionable barbarian gladiator fights take place? Their battle is a grandiose hymn to courage and freedom - one that is said to be lost in advance. And yet…

I want to thank the people

who accompanied me in my work

on this novel:

Thierry Laroche from Gallimard Jeunesse for his insightful and always friendly comments;

Jean-Philippe Arroux-Vigneault of Gallimard Jeunesse, who was able to allay my concerns about writing by touch;

doctor Patrick Carrer - for information related to medicine;

musician Christopher Murray - for equally valuable assistance in musical matters;

Rachel and my children Emma and Colen - for the fact that all three of them are nearby, and this is a priceless and always new gift for me.

I would also like to express my deep gratitude British singer Kathleen Ferrier, whose moving voice and fate echoed in everything written here.

Without her, this novel would not have happened.

In memory of Roni,

my boarding school friend

I AT THE BOARDING HOUSE

AT A SIGN from the matron, one of the girls sitting in the front row stood up, walked to the switch and flicked the metal lever. Three bare light bulbs illuminated the classroom with a harsh white light. It was getting dark, and it had long been difficult to read, but the rule was strictly observed: in October the lights were turned on at eighteen-thirty and not a minute earlier. Helen waited another ten minutes before finally making up her mind. She hoped that the light would dispel the pain that had been nesting in her chest since the very morning, and was now rising to her throat - Helen knew very well what this oppressive lump was called: melancholy. She had already experienced this, and she was convinced from experience that she was not able to fight it, and there was no point in waiting for it to pass, it would only get worse.

So, so be it, she will go to her comforter, and that it is October and the year is just beginning - well, nothing can be done. Helen tore a piece of paper from her rough notebook and wrote: “I want to go to the comforter. Should I take you as an escort? I didn't subscribe. The person to whom the note was intended would recognize her handwriting out of a thousand. Helen folded the paper in half, then twice more, and wrote the name and address: “Milena. Window row. Third table."

She slipped a note to her neighbor Vera Plazil, who was dozing with her eyes open over her biology textbook. Secret mail has started working. The note passed from hand to hand along the corridor row where Helen was sitting, to the fourth table, from there it flew unnoticed to the central row, then to the window row, and then continued on its way to the other end of the class, straight into Milena’s hands. All this took no more than a minute. This was the unwritten law: messages must be transmitted without fail, quickly and must reach the addressee. They were passed on without hesitation, even if they hated the sender or the recipient. This forbidden correspondence was the only way communication both in class and during independent studies because the rules dictated complete silence. In more than three years spent here, Helen has never seen a note sent be lost or returned without being handed over, much less read - if this had happened, the culprit would have been in trouble.

Milena scanned the note. Lush blond hair spilled over her shoulders and back - a real lion's mane. Helen would have given a lot to have such hair, but she had to be content with her own, coarse and short, like a boy’s, with which nothing could be done. Milena turned around, frowning disapprovingly. Helen understood perfectly well what she wanted to say: “You’re crazy!” It's only October! Last year you lasted until February!”

In response, Helen raised her head impatiently and narrowed her eyes harshly: “So be it, but I want to go now. Are you coming with me or not?”

Milena sighed. This meant agreement.

Helen carefully placed all her school supplies on the table, stood up and, followed by a dozen curious glances, walked to the matron's desk.

The matron, Mademoiselle Zesch, smelled strongly of sweat; despite the cold, unhealthy perspiration appeared on her neck and upper lip.

“I want to go to my comforter,” Helen said in a whisper.

The matron did not show the slightest surprise. She just opened the large black notebook lying in front of her.

- Surname?

- Dohrmann. “Helen Dohrmann,” Helen answered, confident that she knew her name very well, but did not want to show it.

The warden ran her bold finger down the list and stopped at the letter “D.” I checked to see if Helen had reached her limit.

- Fine. Escort?

“Bang,” Helen said. - Milena Bach.

The warden's finger crawled up to the letter "B". Bach Milena from September – beginning academic year– went out as an escort no more than three times. Mademoiselle Zesh raised her head and barked so loudly that the girls jumped:

– BANG MILENA!

Milena stood up and walked over to the table.

– Do you agree to accompany Dormann Helen to her comforter?

“Yes,” Milena answered, without looking at her friend.

The matron looked at her watch and wrote down the time in the journal, then rattled off without expression, like a lesson learned:

“It’s eighteen hours and eleven minutes now.” You must return in three hours, that is, be here at twenty-one hours and eleven minutes. If you do not return on time, one of the students will be placed in Heaven and will remain there until you return. Do you have any suggestions regarding the candidacy?

“Then it will be...” Mademoiselle Zesh’s finger went over the list, “let it be... Pansec.”

Helen's heart sank. Imagine little Katarina Pansek in Heaven... But another unwritten law of the boarding school said: never choose the one who will be punished for you if something happens. Let this be on the conscience of the warden. She, of course, could get mad at someone and choose ten times for this role, but at least solidarity between the girls remained, and not one could be blamed for deliberately putting someone at risk.

"Sky" did not deserve such a name. This punishment cell was not located at heights, on the contrary, even below the basements. It took a long time to get there from the dining room along a narrow spiral staircase, along the steps of which icy water oozed. The closet was about two meters by three. The floor and walls smelled of earth and mold. When the door closed behind you, all you had to do was find a wooden trestle bed by touch, sit or lie on it and wait. Alone with myself, in silence and darkness, hour after hour. They said that when you enter, you need to quickly look at the top of the wall opposite the door. There, on the ceiling beam, someone depicted the sky. A piece of blue sky with white clouds. Whoever manages to see him, even if only for a moment, until the door slams shut, will find the strength to endure the darkness and not fall into despair. That’s why this place was called “Heaven” and why they were so afraid to go there or, even if not of their own free will, to send someone there.

“Anyway,” Zesh continued, “you’re skipping dinner, do you know that?”

“Yes,” Helen answered for both of them.

“Then go,” said the matron. She put the date and time, stamped the girls' personal cards and lost all interest in them.

Milena put her textbooks away and caught up with Helen, who was waiting for her in the corridor, already wrapped in a cape with a hood. She took hers off the hanger, got dressed, and both walked along the corridor, illuminated at the top by the windows of the classrooms opening into it. We went down a wide stone staircase with steps erased in the middle to the first floor. Another corridor, this time dark - here were school classes, where they didn’t study in the evening. It was cold. The huge cast iron radiators did not work. Have they ever worked? Without exchanging a word, the girls went out into the yard. Helen walked ahead, Milena, frowning, kept pace behind. At the gate, according to the rules, they went into the gatekeeper's room to see Skeletina. She was an old woman with a rather big greeting, frighteningly thin and always shrouded in a cloud of acrid smoke...