Characteristics of the main characters of the story star Emmanuil Kazakevich. Heroic-romantic story “Star” by E. Kazakevich: philosophical pathos, figurative symbolism, stylistic features. Prisoners and the return journey

Platoon Soviet intelligence officers entered the village. It was an ordinary Western Ukrainian village. The reconnaissance commander, Lieutenant Travkin, thought about his people. Of the eighteen former, proven fighters, he only had twelve left. The rest were just recruited, and what they will be like in action is unknown. And ahead was a meeting with the enemy: the division was advancing.

Travkin in highest degree He was characterized by a selfless attitude to business and absolute selflessness - it was for these qualities that the intelligence officers loved this young, withdrawn and incomprehensible lieutenant.

A light reconnaissance raid showed that the Germans were not far away, and the division went on the defensive. The rear gradually tightened up.

The head of the army intelligence department, who came to the division, set division commander Serbichenko the task of sending a group of reconnaissance officers behind enemy lines: according to available data, a regrouping was taking place there, and the availability of reserves and tanks had to be ascertained. The best candidate to lead this unusually difficult operation was Travkin.

Now Travkin conducted classes every night. With his characteristic tenacity, he drove the scouts through an icy stream, forced them to cut wire, check fake minefields with long army probes and jump over a trench. A newly graduated student asked to join the scouts. military school Junior Lieutenant Meshchersky is a slender, blue-eyed twenty-year-old youth. Looking at how zealously he was practicing, Travkin thought approvingly: “It will be an eagle...”

We had our last communications training session. The call sign of the reconnaissance group was finally established - “Zvezda”, the call sign of the division - “Earth”. At the last moment, it was decided to send Anikanov instead of Meshchersky, so that if something happened, the scouts would not be left without an officer.

The ancient game of man with death began. Having explained the order of movement to the scouts, Travkin silently nodded to the officers remaining in the trench, climbed over the parapet and silently moved to the river bank. Other scouts and accompanying sappers did the same after him.

The scouts crawled through the cut wire, passed through a German trench... an hour later they went deeper into the forest.

Meshchersky and the commander of the sapper company continuously peered into the darkness. Every now and then other officers approached them to find out about those who had gone on the raid. But the red rocket - the signal “detected, retreat” - did not appear. So they passed.

The forests where the group walked were swarming with Germans and German equipment. Some German, shining a flashlight, came close to Travkin, but, half asleep, did not notice anything. He sat down to recover, groaning and sighing.

For a kilometer and a half they crawled almost over the sleeping Germans, at dawn they finally got out of the forest, and something terrible happened at the edge of the forest. They literally ran into three unsleeping Germans lying in a truck, one of them, accidentally looking at the edge of the forest, was dumbfounded: seven shadows in green robes were walking along the path completely silently.

Travkin was saved by his composure. He realized that he could not run. They walked past the Germans with an even, unhurried step, entered the grove, quickly ran across this grove and meadow and went deeper into the next forest. Having made sure that there were no Germans here, Travkin transmitted the first radiogram.

We decided to move on, sticking to the swamps and forests, and at the western edge of the grove we immediately saw a detachment of SS men. Soon the scouts came to the lake, on the opposite shore of which stood a large house, from which at times either groans or screams could be heard. A little later, Travkin saw a German leaving the house with a white bandage on his arm and realized: the house served as a hospital. This German has been discharged and is going to his unit - no one will look for him. The German gave valuable testimony. And, despite the fact that he turned out to be a worker, he had to be killed. Now they knew that the SS was concentrated here tank division"Viking". Travkin decided not to take any “tongues” for now, so as not to reveal himself prematurely. All you need is a well-informed German, and he will need to be obtained after reconnaissance of the railway station. But the Black Sea resident Mamochkin, who was prone to daring, violated the ban - a hefty SS man rushed into the forest right at him. When the Hauptscharführer was thrown into the lake, Travkin contacted “Earth” and handed over everything that had been established to him. From the voices from “Earth” he realized that there his message was received as something unexpected and very important.

Anikanov and Mamochkin took the well-informed German, as planned, at the station. The pigeon had died by then. The scouts went back. On the way, Brazhnikov died, Semyonov and Anikanov were wounded. The radio station hanging on Bykov's back was flattened by bullets. She saved his life, but was no longer suitable for work.

The detachment walked, and the noose of a huge raid was tightening around it. The reconnaissance detachment of the Viking division, the forward companies of the 342nd Grenadier Division and the rear units of the 131st Infantry Division were raised in pursuit.

The Supreme High Command, having received the information obtained by Travkin, immediately realized that something more serious was hidden behind this: the Germans wanted to counterattack the breakthrough of our troops to Poland. And the order was given to strengthen the left flank of the front and transfer several units there.

And in love with Travkin good girl Katya, a signal operator, sent the call sign “Star” day and night. "Star". "Star".

No one was waiting anymore, but she was waiting. And no one dared to turn off the radio until the offensive began.

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Emmanuil Kazakevich
Star

E. G. Kazakevich

Kazakevich is perhaps the first of those now widely famous writers military topics, which during the war years did not write - they went through the four-year “normal school” of war, that is, they fought. The war was for them everyday work and life - in the trenches or on the march - with rest in the rear in a hospital bed after another wound.

From there, from the fire, they came to literature, when the war ended, they came with their own, special value, artistic testimony about it.

And although the pen of those whom the war called with their professional experience and literary name honestly served its service in these formidable years, now it could no longer always equal the unconditional authenticity, richness of colors and accuracy of detail with the pen of the new, post-war replenishment of Soviet literature.

Among the works of these writers, the leading place rightfully belongs to Kazakevich’s “Star,” a short story about military labor and the tragic death of a group of scouts.

The appearance of this story immediately signaled the arrival of a great, quite original and bright talent in Russian Soviet literature and, moreover, a new stage in the development of material from the Great Patriotic War.

Unlike his literary peers, who still adhered to the methods of the memoir-chronicle or essay genre in covering front-line life, Kazakevich in “Zvezda” gave a brilliant example of the genre of the story itself, the artistic organization of the material, independent of the passport authenticity of the names of the characters, calendar accuracy of time and geographical - places of action.

The rare refinement of the form, the proportionality of the parts and the completeness of the whole, the musical echo of the beginning with the ending with deep lyricism and dramatic content, the unforgettable liveliness of the characters' faces, their human charm put this story in a row best works Soviet literature, which do not lose their impressive power over time.

In the work of Kazakevich himself, “Star” remains the main thing among his works devoted to military themes: “Spring on the Oder”, “House on the Square”, “Heart of a Friend”, several stories and essays, although they aroused great interest from readers, numerous responses print. Kazakevich's death prevented him from delighting us with, perhaps, the same landmark work of his literary maturity as “Star” was for his literary youth.

In the last weeks and even days of a serious illness, overcoming suffering, he tried to dictate the continuation of the new novel “The Thirties,” on which he had been working for a number of years; shared with friends related ideas, among other things, the idea of a book about Soviet doctors, whose noble work he had the sad opportunity to study from the experience of the last years of his life.

A few days before the end, in a conversation with me, as always avoiding the topic of illness, so typical and quite understandable in his position, he only said that he was yearning for work.

“I don’t want anything, no pleasures of an idle life, no rest - I want to write: this is terrible, turning everything over in my head in vain...

Everyone who knew him closely noted the rare charm of his personality, intelligence and kindness, wit and gaiety of harmless mischief, love of life and hard work, firmness and integrity in his views, assessments, judgments on issues of literary and political life.

External portrait of this intelligent person in glasses, with deep early bald patches and gray hair, giving an idea of the armchair only inclinations and skills of a bookworm and homebody, absolutely did not coincide with his most significant behavioral traits and character traits.

Sometimes it seemed to me that he consciously, with the strength of his spirit, resisted such a banal idea of an intelligent, armchair-looking person. He really wrote a lot and read even more at home and in special rooms of book depositories - he was one of the most ardent readers among our writers, already in adulthood he diligently and successfully studied foreign languages, in a word, was a hard worker, a man of strict labor discipline, perseverance and regularity.

But he was also a passionate traveler, a hunter, an excellent shot, he drove a car without any discounts on his amateur license, he was a merry fellow and a wit, the soul of a friendly feast, he sang Russian folk and soldier songs well - it was not for nothing that at one time he was a company singer. Finally, he was a truly brave man in the war, although this was never clear from his own oral memories.

For example, I had been friends with him for many years when I heard from General Vydrigan, the commander of the division where Kazakevich was the head of intelligence, that Emmanuel Genrikhovich received his first order for the extraction of “tongue” during the most difficult time for such a task during a long defense .

Only then did he himself tell me how, having carefully studied the planned area of the enemy’s defense, at a certain hour of dawn, which promised luck more than the most impenetrable night, he, with a small selected group of scouts, fell into a trench among the Germans and, after a short hand-to-hand fight, captured one of them, dragged to his location. “Most of all,” he said with his usual humor, “we were afraid, crawling away with our burden under enemy machine-gun fire, that a bullet would hit this German, and then everything would be dust, since it would be impossible to repeat such an operation.”

In direct combat communication with soldiers and army officers during the harsh times of the war, Kazakevich with all his being deeply perceived the historical experience of the people, their truly unprecedented feat, full of greatness and tragedy. And there, during the war, an outstanding master of Russian Soviet prose was born, who before the war was known only as the author of poetry and poems in Hebrew.

This is a particularly difficult circumstance literary biography set before Kazakevich, of which he was fully aware, the special task of deepening and enriching his memory with knowledge of the living Russian language in the very depths of people's life.

Soon after the war, Kazakevich goes on a “business trip” to one of the villages Vladimir region for a year, with his wife and children - the whole house. There I found him one summer day, in a collective farm hut with his favorite books, a typewriter, a gun and small fishing tackle.

Another time he goes to Magnitogorsk for a long period of time, studies the life of a large metallurgical enterprise, meets people, and keeps detailed daily notes. The long-term goal here was to collect material for a novel about the 30s, but the immediate result of this trip was his excellent essay, “In the Capital of Ferrous Metallurgy,” which was remembered by many.

Once I saw Emmanuel Genrikhovich in some kind of simple short coat with breast pockets, unusual for a metropolitan resident, and wearing army boots. “On the road,” he explained, and indeed he and his artist friend set off on foot to tour several areas of the middle zone in winter time. Ill health turned him back halfway, but this business trip of his - sometimes on foot, sometimes with a passing car or sleigh, with overnight stays in village huts and district houses collective farmer, unusual meetings and amusing adventures - he recalled with particular pleasure.

Least of all could the writing life of this Muscovite writer be put into the notorious formula “apartment - dacha - resort”. By the way, I don’t remember that Kazakevich just went to the resort, just to relax. And in last years weeks and months of involuntary rest began in sanatoriums and hospitals.

Remembering those who have passed away forever, we often talk about their sensitivity and responsiveness, but more in a general form. But, in my opinion, although small, not flashy, but a very expressive example of active responsiveness to someone else’s need or misfortune.

One old writer, who somehow lost the rights to his apartment during the years of evacuation, approached Kazakevich with a request for help. Kazakevich, who at one time spent his time hanging out in corners and rooms rented for different periods of time, now occupied a good apartment. Of course, he called and wrote where necessary, but, seeing that this was a protracted matter, and the man, who, by the way, was neither his brother nor his matchmaker, simply had nowhere to spend the night, he made room, settling the old man and his wife with him pending the intercession them housing. They lived with him for about a year. I don't think it's like that simple form Responsiveness was encountered too often among us.

And how many examples could one give of Emmanuel Genrikhovich’s constant readiness to help in the most active, practical way a brother writer who came to him with a manuscript that got into an editorial and publishing jam, a beginner from the provinces, a student, a disabled front-line soldier, anyone? good man who knocked on his door.

As rarely as anyone, he knew how to rejoice at the well-deserved success of a comrade, rush around with some magazine novelty or recommend, promote someone’s manuscript, in which he saw something real, significant, even if not yet perfect in form.

Familiar to all of us, his friends, was his caustic, merciless characterization of what is found in literature as pretentiously inflated, false, and self-interested.

For a long time we will miss his amazingly acute understanding in a conversation, no matter what the conversation turns to - from half a word, from a hint.

Not during a business meeting in the editorial office, not at home, not on a long journey (I completed one of my Siberian trips with him; we passed places where he was once the director of a theater, then the chairman of a collective farm), not at home, neither abroad ( in early spring this year we wandered with him late at night through the streets of Rome, he had excellent intelligence skills - he could navigate in any new place) - it could never be boring with him anywhere, except perhaps at one of our long meetings. But in the latter case, you just had to take a moment to go out with him to smoke, and everything that was languidly discussed at the meeting acquired a much more lively interest.

However, I note that, despite his liveliness of character, energy and acquired habits of a combat commander, he, unlike many of our brothers, was not an orator - here he was shy to the extreme.

For a long time, I will miss the opportunity to talk with him about the book I just read, the newspaper news, about some trip, about an incident in the field of literary life, about the funny and serious, the most serious and significant (up to such thoughts that cannot help but to come to us in these days is still such a fresh loss).

And millions of his readers will miss that feeling of interested expectation that is directed at those of us who are firmly remembered for something, whose word is especially precious and needed every day.

Perhaps it never happens otherwise, but it is bitter that this is not the only case when we, having lost a comrade, whom we seemed to value, respect, and love during life, only now suddenly comprehend in a new, much greater volume the significance of his work, his capabilities, his presence among us...

A. Tvardovsky

Chapter first

The division, advancing, went deep into the endless forests, and they swallowed it up. What didn't work German tanks, neither German aviation nor the gangs of bandits raging here, managed to make these vast forest spaces with roads broken by the war and washed out by the spring thaw. Trucks carrying ammunition and food were stuck in the distant forest edges. Ambulance buses got stuck in villages lost among the forests. Left without fuel, he scattered his guns on the banks of nameless rivers artillery regiment. All this was catastrophically moving away from the infantry with each passing hour. But the infantry, alone, still continued to move forward, cutting their rations and trembling over every cartridge. Then she began to give in. Its pressure became weaker and more uncertain, and, taking advantage of this, the Germans escaped the attack and hastily retreated to the west.

The enemy has disappeared.

Infantrymen, even when left without an enemy, continue to do the job for which they exist: they occupy territory conquered from the enemy. But there is nothing more depressing than the sight of scouts separated from the enemy. As if having lost the meaning of existence, they walk along the sides of the road like bodies without a soul.

The division commander, Colonel Serbichenko, caught up with one such group in his Jeep. He slowly got out of the car and stopped in the middle of the muddy, broken road, putting his hands on his hips and smiling mockingly. The scouts, seeing the commander, stopped.

“Well,” he asked, “have you lost your enemy, eagles?” Where is the enemy, what is he doing?

He recognized Lieutenant Travkin walking ahead (the division commander remembered the faces of all his officers) and shook his head reproachfully:

- And you, Travkin? - And he continued caustically: - It’s a fun war, there’s nothing to say - wandering around the villages and drinking milk... So you’ll get to Germany and you won’t see the enemy with you. That would be nice, wouldn't it? – he asked unexpectedly cheerfully.

The chief of staff of the division, Lieutenant Colonel Galiev, who was sitting in the car, smiled wearily, surprised by the unexpected change in the colonel’s mood. A minute before this, the colonel had mercilessly scolded him for his lack of management, and Galiev remained silent with a defeated look.

The division commander's mood changed at the sight of the scouts. Colonel Serbichenko began his service in 1915 as a foot reconnaissance officer. He received a baptism of fire as a scout and earned the Cross of St. George. Scouts remained his weakness forever. His heart played at the sight of their green camouflage coats, tanned faces and silent steps. They walk relentlessly one after another along the side of the road, ready at any moment to disappear, to dissolve in the silence of the forests, in the unevenness of the soil, in the flickering shadows of twilight.

However, the division commander’s reproaches were serious reproaches. Letting the enemy escape, or - as they say in the solemn language of military regulations - letting him break away - is a major nuisance for the scouts, almost a shame.

The colonel's words conveyed his oppressive anxiety for the fate of the division. He was afraid of meeting the enemy because the division was bleeding and the rear had lagged behind. And at the same time, he wanted to finally meet this vanished enemy, grapple with him, find out what he wants, what he is capable of. And, besides, it’s simply time to stop, put people and the economy in order. Of course, he didn’t even want to admit to himself that his desire contradicted the passionate impulse of the entire country, but he dreamed that the offensive would stop. These are the secrets of the craft.

And the scouts stood silently, shifting from foot to foot. They looked rather pitiful.

“Here they are, your eyes and ears,” the divisional commander said dismissively to the chief of staff and got into the car. The Willys started moving.

The scouts stood for another minute, then Travkin slowly moved on, and the rest followed him.

Out of habit, listening to every rustle, Travkin thought about his platoon.

Like the division commander, the lieutenant both desired and feared meeting the enemy. He wanted it because his duty commanded him to do so, and also because days of forced inaction have a detrimental effect on the scouts, entangling them in a dangerous web of laziness and carelessness. He was afraid because out of the eighteen people he had at the beginning of the offensive, only twelve remained. True, among them are Anikanov, known throughout the division, the fearless Marchenko, the dashing Mamochkin and tried and tested old intelligence officers - Brazhnikov and Bykov. However, the rest were mostly yesterday's riflemen, recruited from units during the offensive. These people still really enjoy being scouts, following each other in small groups, taking advantage of freedom that is unthinkable in an infantry unit. They are surrounded by honor and respect. This, of course, cannot but flatter them, and they look like eagles, but what they will be like in practice is unknown.

Now Travkin realized that it was precisely these reasons that forced him to take his time. He was upset by the division commander’s reproaches, especially since he knew Serbichenko’s weakness for intelligence officers. The green eyes of the colonel looked at him with the cunning gaze of an old, experienced intelligence officer from the last war, non-commissioned officer Serbichenko, who, from the distance of years and destinies separating them, seemed to say searchingly: “Well, let’s see how you are, young, against me, old.”

Meanwhile, the platoon entered the village. It was an ordinary Western Ukrainian village, scattered like farmsteads.

From a huge cross, three times the height of a man, the crucified Jesus looked at the soldiers. The streets were deserted, and only the barking of dogs in the courtyards and the barely noticeable movement of homespun canvas curtains on the windows showed that people, intimidated by gangs of bandits, were closely watching the soldiers passing through the village.

Travkin led his squad to a lonely house on a hill.

An old woman opened the door.

She drove away big dog and slowly looked at the soldiers with deep-set eyes from under thick grayish eyebrows.

“Hello,” said Travkin, “we’ll come to you to rest for an hour.”

The scouts followed her into a clean room with a painted floor and many icons. The icons, as soldiers had noticed more than once in these parts, were not the same as in Russia - without vestments, with the candy-beautiful faces of saints. As for the grandmother, she looked exactly like the Ukrainian old women from near Kyiv or Chernigov, in countless canvas skirts, with dry, sinewy hands, and differed from them only in the unkind light of her prickly eyes.

However, despite her gloomy, almost hostile silence, she served the visiting soldiers fresh bread, milk, thick as cream, pickles and a full cast iron of potatoes. But all this - with such unfriendliness that the piece did not fit into the throat.

- That's a bandit mom! – one of the scouts grumbled.

He got it half right. Younger son The old woman really went along the bandit forest path. The eldest joined the Red partisans. And while the bandit’s mother was hostilely silent, the partisan’s mother hospitably opened the door of her hut to the fighters. Having served the scouts with fried lard and kvass in a clay jug for a snack, the partisan’s mother gave way to the bandit’s mother, who, with a gloomy look, sat down at the loom, which occupied half the room.

Sergeant Ivan Anikanov, a calm man with a broad, rustic face and small eyes of great insight, told her:

“Why are you silent, like a mute grandma?” She would like to sit down with us and tell us something.

Sergeant Mamochkin, stooped, thin, nervous, muttered mockingly:

- What a gentleman this Anikanov is! He wants to chat with the old lady!..

Travkin, busy with his thoughts, left the house and stopped near the porch. The village was dozing. Hobbled peasant horses walked along the slope. It was completely quiet, as quiet can only be in a village after the rapid passage of two warring armies.

“Our lieutenant is thinking,” Anikanov spoke when Travkin left. – What did the division commander say? Fun War? Hanging around the villages and drinking milk...

Mamochkin boiled:

“What the division commander said is his business.” Why are you climbing? If you don’t want milk, don’t drink it, there’s water in the tub. This is none of your business, but the lieutenant's. He answers to senior management. You want to be a nanny for the lieutenant. Who are you? Hillbilly. If I caught you in Kerch, I would strip you in five minutes, take your shoes off, and sell you to the fish for lunch.

Anikanov laughed good-naturedly:

- It's right. Undressing, taking off your shoes - that’s your thing. Well, you’re a master when it comes to dinners. The division commander spoke about this.

- So what? - Mamochkin jumped in, as always, wounded by Anikanov’s calmness. - And we can have lunch. The intelligence officer dines better than the general. Lunch adds courage and ingenuity. It's clear?

The rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired Brazhnikov, the chubby, freckled Bykov, the seventeen-year-old boy Yura Golubovsky, whom everyone called “Dove,” the tall, handsome Feoktistov and the rest smiled and listened to Mamochkin’s hot southern accent and Anikanov’s calm, smooth speech. Only Marchenko - broad-shouldered, white-toothed, dark - stood all the time next to the old woman at the loom and repeated with the naive surprise of a city man, looking at her small, dry hands:

- This is a whole factory!

In Mamochkin’s disputes with Anikanov, there are either funny or furious disputes on any issue: about the advantages of Kerch herring over Irkutsk omul, about the comparative qualities of German and Soviet machine guns, about whether Hitler is crazy or just a bastard, and about the timing of the opening of a second front - Mamochkin was the attacking party, and Anikanov, slyly narrowing his smartest little eyes, good-naturedly but caustically defended himself, plunging Mamochkin into fury with his calmness.

Mamochkin, with his lack of restraint as a troublemaker and a neurasthenic, was irritated by Anikanov’s village solidity and good nature. Mixed with the irritation was a feeling of secret envy. Anikanov had an order, but he only had a medal; The commander treated Anikanov almost as an equal, and he treated him almost like everyone else. All this stung Mamochkin. He consoled himself with the fact that Anikanov was a party member and therefore, they say, enjoyed special trust, but in his heart he himself admired Anikanov’s cold-blooded courage. Mamochkin’s courage was often posing, it needed a constant boost of pride, and he understood this. Mamochkin had more than enough pride, his reputation as a good intelligence officer was established, and he really participated in many glorious affairs, where Anikanov played the first role.

But during breaks between combat missions, Mamochkin knew how to show off his goods. Young intelligence officers who had not yet been in action admired him. He sported wide trousers and chrome yellow boots, the collar of his tunic was always unbuttoned, and his black forelock was willfully sticking out from under his kubanka with a bright green top. Where was the massive, broad-faced and simple-minded Anikanov before him!

The origin and pre-war existence of each of them: the collective farm acumen of the Siberian Anikanov, the ingenuity and precise calculation of the metal worker Marchenko, the port recklessness of Mamochkin - all this left its mark on their behavior and character, but the past already seemed extremely distant. Not knowing how long the war would last, they plunged into it headlong. War became their everyday life and this platoon became their only family.

Family! It was strange family, whose members did not enjoy life together for too long. Some went to the hospital, others went even further, to where no one returns. She had her own small but vivid story, passed on from “generation” to “generation”. Some people remembered how Anikanov first appeared in the platoon. For a long time he did not participate in the case - none of the elders dared to take him with them. True, the Siberian’s enormous physical strength was a great advantage - he could freely grab and strangle, if necessary, even two. However, Anikanov was so huge and heavy that the scouts were afraid: what if he was killed or wounded? Try to pull this one out of the fire. In vain he begged and swore that if he was wounded, he would crawl on his own, and they would kill him: “To hell with you, leave me, what will a German do to me, dead!” And only relatively recently, when a new commander, Lieutenant Travkin, came to them, replacing the wounded Lieutenant Skvortsov, the situation changed.

Travkin took Anikanov with him on his first search. And “this hulk” grabbed the hefty German so deftly that the rest of the scouts didn’t even have time to gasp. He acted quickly and silently, like a huge cat. Even Travkin found it hard to believe that a half-strangled German, a “tongue,” was fighting in Anikanov’s raincoat—the dream of the division for a whole month.

Another time, Anikanov, together with Sergeant Marchenko, captured a German captain, while Marchenko was wounded in the leg, and Anikanov had to drag the German and Marchenko together, gently pressing comrade and enemy to each other and fearing to damage both equally.

Stories about the exploits of highly experienced scouts were main theme long night conversations, they excited the imagination of newcomers, nourished in them a proud sense of the exclusivity of their craft. Now, in a period of long inactivity, far from the enemy, people have become lazy.

After eating heartily and taking a sweet puff of shag, Mamochkin expressed a desire to stop in the village for the night and get some moonshine. Marchenko said vaguely:

– Yes, there’s no need to rush here... We won’t catch up anyway. The German is leaking well.

At this time the door opened, Travkin came in and, pointing his finger out the window at the hobbled horses, asked the hostess:

- Grandma, whose horses are these?

One of the horses, a large bay mare with a white spot on her forehead, belonged to the old woman, the rest belonged to neighbors. About twenty minutes later these neighbors were called to the old woman’s hut, and Travkin, hastily scrawling a receipt, said:

“If you want, send one of your guys with us, he will bring the horses back.”

The peasants liked this proposal. Each of them knew perfectly well that only thanks to rapid advancement Soviet troops The German did not have time to drive away all the cattle and burn the village. They did not interfere with Travkin and immediately allocated a shepherd who was supposed to go with the detachment. A sixteen-year-old boy in a sheepskin coat was both proud and frightened by the responsible assignment entrusted to him. Having unraveled the horses and bridled them, and then watered them from the well, he soon announced that it was possible to set off.

A few minutes later, a detachment of horsemen set off at a large trot to the west. Anikanov drove up to Travkin and, glancing sideways at the boy jumping next to him, quietly asked:

- Won’t you, Comrade Lieutenant, get punished for such a requisition?

“Yes,” replied Travkin, after thinking, “it might burn.” But we will still catch up with the German.

They smiled knowingly at each other.

While pushing his horse, Travkin peered into the silent distance of the ancient forests.

The wind blew fiercely in his face, and the horses looked like birds.

The West was illuminated by a bloody sunset, and, as if catching up with this sunset, the horsemen rushed to the west.

The scouts crawled through the cut wire, passed through a German trench... an hour later they went deeper into the forest.

The German gave valuable testimony. And, despite the fact that he turned out to be a worker, he had to be killed. Now they knew that the SS Viking tank division was concentrated here. Travkin decided not to take any “tongues” for now, so as not to reveal himself prematurely. All you need is a well-informed German, and he will need to be obtained after reconnaissance of the railway station. But the Black Sea resident Mamochkin, who was prone to daring, violated the ban - a hefty SS man rushed into the forest right at him. When the Hauptscharführer was thrown into the lake, Travkin contacted “Earth” and handed over everything that had been established to him. From the voices from “Earth” he realized that there his message was received as something unexpected and very important.

And the good girl Katya, a signalman, in love with Travkin, sent call signs day and night:

"Star". "Star". "Star".

No one was waiting anymore, but she was waiting. And no one dared to remove the radio from reception until the offensive began.

Emmanuil Genrikhovich Kazakevich 1913-1962

Star Tale (1946)

Despite the high rate of industrialization, Japan until the Second World War remained a country of average development, in which national income per capita was approximately 2.5-3 times less than in other countries Western Europe, and 3.5-4 times less than in the USA. The bombing of Japanese territory, the senseless waste of enormous material and human resources during the war, the defeat and subsequent occupation by the US armed forces plunged the Japanese economy into chaos, into a state of almost complete paralysis, after which a slow recovery began, lasting about 10 years. At the same time, the first post-war years were marked by serious socio-political reforms, which, as has been noted more than once in Marxist studies, in their nature and consequences for Japan turned out to be equivalent to the final stage of the bourgeois-democratic revolution
Agrarian reform eliminated the landowner class, the most reactionary class in Japanese society. The disarmament and liquidation of the samurai military freed the country for a long time from the heavy burden of militarism. In the conditions of the rapid rise of the democratic movement, the bourgeois-parliamentary system was recreated and strengthened, democratic parties, trade unions and other democratic opposition organizations were legalized, and the conditions for the workers’ struggle against capitalist exploitation were improved.
Among post-war reforms An important role was played by decartelization measures, which undermined the power and influence of the largest Japanese monopolies - the zaibatsu. The initial goal of the reform carried out by the American occupation authorities was to neutralize the dangerous rivals and competitors of American capital, but its real consequences went beyond these goals. The reform created a situation rare in the history of monopoly capitalism - the revival and strengthening of competition within the country, which subsequently contributed to economic growth. In addition, Japan, having not yet completed its post-war reconstruction, was forced to enter into a bitter struggle for foreign markets and sources of raw materials, without which its economy could not exist. The radical change in comparison with the past was that this struggle could no longer be waged by military means and that economic competition in the world markets for goods and capital came to the fore. The success of competition was facilitated by the fact that the growth of labor productivity in Japan outpaced the growth of wages, as a result of which increased exploitation and expanded opportunities for capital accumulation.

Emmanuil Kazakevich. Star

CHAPTER FIRST

The division, advancing, went deep into the endless forests, and they swallowed it up.

What neither German tanks, nor German aircraft, nor the gangs of bandits raging here could do, these vast forest spaces with roads broken by the war and washed out by the spring thaw were able to do. Trucks carrying ammunition and food were stuck in the distant forest edges. Ambulance buses got stuck in villages lost among the forests. On the banks of nameless rivers, left without fuel, an artillery regiment scattered its guns. All this was catastrophically moving away from the infantry with each passing hour. But the infantry, alone, still continued to move forward, cutting their rations and trembling over every cartridge. Then she began to give in. Its pressure became weaker and more uncertain, and, taking advantage of this, the Germans escaped the attack and hastily retreated to the west.

The enemy has disappeared.

The scouts, seeing the division commander, stopped.

“Well,” he asked, “have you lost your enemy, eagles?” Where is the enemy, what is he doing?

He recognized Lieutenant Travkin in the scout walking ahead (the division commander remembered the faces of all his officers) and shook his head reproachfully:

- And you, Travkin? - And he continued caustically: “It’s a fun war, there’s nothing to say - drinking milk in the villages and hanging around with women... So you’ll get to Germany and you won’t see the enemy with you.” That would be nice, wouldn't it? – he asked unexpectedly cheerfully.

The division commander's mood changed at the sight of the scouts. Colonel Serbichenko began his service in 1915 as a foot reconnaissance officer. He received a baptism of fire as a scout and deserved St. George's cross. Scouts remained his weakness forever. His heart played at the sight of their green camouflage coats, tanned faces and silent steps. They walk relentlessly one after another along the side of the road, ready at any moment to disappear, to dissolve in the silence of the forests, in the unevenness of the soil, in the flickering shadows of twilight.

However, the division commander’s reproaches were serious reproaches. Let the enemy leave, or - as they say in the solemn language of military regulations - let him come off - This is a major nuisance for intelligence officers, almost a disgrace.

The colonel's words conveyed his oppressive anxiety for the fate of the division. He was afraid of meeting the enemy because the division was bleeding and the rear had lagged behind. And at the same time, he wanted to finally meet this vanished enemy, grapple with him, find out what he wants, what he is capable of. And besides, it was simply time to stop, put people and the economy in order. Of course, he didn’t even want to admit to himself that his desire contradicted the passionate impulse of the entire country, but he dreamed that the offensive would stop. These are the secrets of the craft.

And the scouts stood silently, shifting from foot to foot. They looked rather pitiful.

“Here they are, your eyes and ears,” the divisional commander said dismissively to the chief of staff and got into the car. The Willys started moving.

The scouts stood for another minute, then Travkin slowly moved on, and the rest followed him.

Out of habit, listening to every rustle, Travkin thought about his platoon.

Meanwhile, the platoon entered the village. It was an ordinary Western Ukrainian village, scattered like farmsteads. From a huge cross, three times the height of a man, the crucified Jesus looked at the soldiers. The streets were deserted, and only the barking of dogs in the courtyards and the barely noticeable movement of homespun canvas curtains on the windows showed that people, intimidated by gangs of bandits, were closely watching the soldiers passing through the village.

Travkin led his squad to a lonely house on a hill. An old woman opened the door. She drove the big dog away and leisurely looked at the soldiers with deep-set eyes from under thick grayish eyebrows.

“Hello,” said Travkin, “we’ll come and rest with you for an hour.”

However, despite her gloomy, almost hostile silence, she served the visiting soldiers with fresh bread, milk as thick as cream, pickles and a whole load of potatoes. But all this - with such unfriendliness that the piece did not fit into the throat.

- That's a bandit mom! – one of the scouts grumbled.

Emmanuil Kazakevich. Star

CHAPTER FIRST

The division, advancing, went deep into the endless forests, and they swallowed it up.

The enemy has disappeared.

The scouts, seeing the division commander, stopped.

“Well,” he asked, “have you lost your enemy, eagles?” Where is the enemy, what is he doing?

He recognized Lieutenant Travkin in the scout walking ahead (the division commander remembered the faces of all his officers) and shook his head reproachfully:

The colonel's words conveyed his oppressive anxiety for the fate of the division. He was afraid of meeting the enemy because the division was bleeding and the rear had lagged behind. And at the same time, he wanted to finally meet this vanished enemy, grapple with him, find out what he wants, what he is capable of. And besides, it was simply time to stop, put people and the economy in order. Of course, he didn’t even want to admit to himself that his desire contradicted the passionate impulse of the entire country, but he dreamed that the offensive would stop. These are the secrets of the craft.

And the scouts stood silently, shifting from foot to foot. They looked rather pitiful.

“Here they are, your eyes and ears,” the divisional commander said dismissively to the chief of staff and got into the car. The Willys started moving.

The scouts stood for another minute, then Travkin slowly moved on, and the rest followed him.

Out of habit, listening to every rustle, Travkin thought about his platoon.

Characteristics of the main characters of the story star Emmanuil Kazakevich. Heroic-romantic story “Star” by E. Kazakevich: philosophical pathos, figurative symbolism, stylistic features. Prisoners and the return journey

Emmanuil Kazakevich Star

E. G. Kazakevich

Chapter first

Emmanuil Genrikhovich Kazakevich 1913-1962

Emmanuil Kazakevich
Star