Our acquaintance took place when the axis was already. In those early years

Yuri Markovich Nagibin

IN THE YOUNG YEARS

To the R-nyh family, who gave a prominent scientist, a promising literary critic, a talented artist and a fearless soldier

What could I do for you, Oska? .. I could neither protect you nor save you, I was not next to you when death looked into your slanting eyes, but even if I were there, nothing would have changed. Or maybe something would have changed, and it’s not true that everyone dies alone?.. But why talk about something that you can’t return, you can’t change, you can’t replay? The only thing I could do for you was not to forget. And I didn't forget. I remembered you and Pavlik every day of that long and such short life that lived without you, and forced a short meeting with you from eternity. I not only believe, but I know that this meeting took place. She brought neither joy, nor satisfaction, nor cleansing with tears, she did not untie anything, she did not calm her soul. And yet I will begin my story, no, my crying for you from this meeting and will not look for new words for her, but I will use the old ones - they are close to the essence.

It happened a few years ago in the forest, not far from my suburban housing, on a long and mysterious path, which I could not manage to go to the end - the forest inexorably drove me away. And then I realized that I must pound along this overgrown path until I prevail over something that has no name *.

“... Now I did this: I walked the usual route for a long time, and then I seemed to forget about the path, stopped looking for it under the needles, plantain, burdock and wandered off at random. And a dull alarm gnawed at my heart.

Once I went out to an unfamiliar forest meadow. It seemed that the sun was reflected in countless mirrors, the world was filled with such brilliance. And the green meadow is flooded with the sun, only in the center it was covered with a dense round shadow from a small immovable cloud hanging low. In a patch of this small shadow on a hill - a hillock is not a hillock, a stone is not a stone - they stood: Pavlik and Oska. Or rather, little Oska was reclining, leaning against the legs of Pavlik, who seemed even taller than in life. They were in overcoats, helmets and boots, Pavlik had a machine gun hanging on his chest. I did not see Oskin's weapons. Their faces are dark and gloomy, this was aggravated by the shadow from the helmets that hid their eyes. I wanted to rush to them, but I did not dare, pinned to the spot by their aloofness.

For you to be here. On the ground. Live.

You know that we are killed.

What about a miracle?.. I was waiting for you.

You thought about us. - It seemed to me in Pavlik's terrible uncolored voice a faint echo of something of the past, native with unique kinship. - Thought every day, that's why we're here.

Dead. Half of his skull has been blown off, you can't see it under his helmet. My heart has been torn apart by a bullet. Don't self-deceive. Do you want to ask something?

What's there?

Tell him.

Why are you lying about us? - In the voice was not a reproach - contemptuous dryness. I never burned in a rural school surrounded by fascists, and he could not take a comrade out of battle. I was shot by a German fighter, and the back of his head was blown off by a shell fragment when he was writing a letter. They blame the dead as if they were dead, but you shouldn't do that. Do you think we need it? You remember us as boys, we never dreamed of exploits. And because we were killed, we did not become different.

Do you feel bad there?

There is no "there" - harshly sounded in response - Remember this. Everyone is here. All beginnings and all ends. Nothing will pay off and will not be redeemed, will not open, will not be rewarded, everything is here.

Tell you something?

No. Anything you say will be too small before our big death.

I didn't catch them disappearing. The glade was suddenly flooded with sunlight, the cloud melted, and where there was a shadow that sheltered the dead soldiers, damp grass smoked with a slight sweat.

From time to time I try to find this forest meadow, but I know that attempts are in vain ... "

And now I'll start from the beginning. My mother took me to the "city", as her shopping trips to Kuznetsky Most, Petrovka, Stoleshnikov Lane were called. A strange solemn and exciting ritual, the meaning of which I did not fully comprehend, because my mother bought almost nothing there. At the time when the goods were - due to lack of money, later - due to the absence of goods. Nevertheless, the day when my mother went to the "city" shone with a special light. Preparations began in the morning: mother washed her hair with some fragrant liquid, dried it and combed it beautifully; then she would do something for a long time with her face at the dressing table and get up because of it, transformed: with pink cheeks, a scarlet mouth, black long eyelashes, in the shadow of which her light green eyes, alien and inaccessible, darkened emerald green, which intensified my constant longing for her; all my life, no matter how closely life shifted us, no matter how close we were at sharp turns, I missed my mother, and now that she is gone, a new feeling of loss has not arisen in me, only the sharper and hopeless thing has become with which I woke up to life.

Sometimes my mother took me to the "city". It was an indescribable pleasure with a slight narcotic aftertaste that prevented the wondrous visions covered with sweet mist and delirious visions from lingering in my memory. I distinctly remember only upside-down human figures in the low-lying windows of a shoe store at the corner of Kuznetsky and Petrovka, but what kind of glass they were and why they reflected the crowd outside the window, and even upside down - God forbid, I don’t know and don’t guess. This is probably easy to find out, but I want to keep for myself the secret of an inverted world, sometimes inhabited only by big feet walking across the gray asphalt sky, sometimes by tiny figures, under whose head the sky blue shone. I also remember a terrible beggar on Petrovka, near the Passage, he thrust the stump of his severed hand to passers-by and, spraying with saliva, yelled: "Dear, stockbroker, give to the hero of all wars and revolutions!" The New Economic Policy was already running out, and the former stockbrokers frightenedly gave to the loud-mouthed and dangerous cripple. The captivating jerking on the spring of the fur toy monkey Foka with a cub has also been preserved in my memory: "Monkey Foka dances without rest and time, goes for a walk on Kuznetsky, teaches his daughter to dance. Merry fun for children and young people!" Cheerful and, apparently, expensive fun, because my mother stubbornly did not notice the touching looks that I threw at the monkey Foka, and the pleading ones - at her. Only once did I come close to realizing my dream of a tireless dancer: the remains of a gigantic sum of ten rubles, collected by me in altyns and nickels for the purchase of a Montecristo pistol and stolen from my pocket in the shop of Mur and Marylis, were to go to Fok.

Read the text and complete tasks A28-A30; B1-B8.

(1) Oska left for the war at the end of October from the deserted Moscow. (2) He was already twice demanded with things to the recruiting station, but for some reason they let him go home. (3) And now it became known for sure: Oska and his fellow graduates were sent east to a three-month infantry school. (4) He came to say goodbye to my family, then we went to see him on Markhlevsky. (5) I knew that he was waiting girl, ash-haired Anya, and wanted to say goodbye at the entrance, but Oska insisted that I get up. (6) When we escorted Pavlik to the real one, he divided his modest wealth among us. (7) Pavlik was not spoiled at home and raised in a Spartan way. (8) True, in the eighth grade they sewed a Boston suit “to go out” for him, and Pavlik carried it to the army, from time to time letting out sleeves and trousers, since the supply was large. (9) But he had an uncle, an outstanding chemist, and one day this uncle was sent to an international scientific conference across the cordon, which at that time happened infrequently. (10) In an elderly, unsociable, dandruff-covered, neglected bachelor, buried up to his ears in his science, the soul of a dude lurked. (11) At the end of the conference, he spent the rest of the money on buying pearl-gray spats - then a flash of fashion, a dark silk shirt, two sweaters, a luxurious tie and dark glasses, almost not found in Moscow. (12) But, returning home, he realized that he had nowhere to dress up, because he didn’t go to the theater, or to visit, or to balls, and it’s a shame to carry such dazzling things to work, and it’s impractical: you’ll burn it with chemicals, and then he remembered his young nephew, and a golden rain fell on the modest Pavlik. (13) By the time he left for the army, things were a little worn out, lost their gloss, but still Oska and I were shocked to the core when Pavlik handed over his treasures to us with a royal gesture. (14) I had to give up the costume - it was extremely dilapidated, we shared the rest: Oska took the smoky glasses, I immediately put on leggings. (15) Oska took a tie with a spark, I took a shirt, each got a sweater. (16) Now Oska terribly wanted to repeat the courageous rite of farewell, when, without snot and empty words, everything that you own in this world is given to a comrade. (17) But it turned out to be much more difficult for Oska to do this than for Pavlik: he gave the camera to the hero of the Moscow Rain photo series, his mother took the library, and his father took the pictures. (18) Household items remained, and Oska gave me a reflector, an electric iron, a coffee grinder, a shoehorn, a hacksaw, and two cans of mustard; from spoiled sewing machine I refused - it was not possible to convey all this burden; Oska also forced on me ski boots and a moth-eaten Finnish hat, made of cloth and with lambskin fur. (19) It may seem strange and unworthy of this junk fuss before parting, most likely forever, an insignificant digging in clothes in the middle of such a war. (20) Was there really nothing to talk about, was there really no serious and lofty words for each other? (21) Everything was, but not spoken aloud. (22) We were raised in a harsh wind and taught not to smear the oily porridge of words on the table. (23) And you can also speak with simple, rough objects that are “useful”. (24) “Hold it! ..” - and after this: I won’t be, and you wear my hat and boots and warm yourself with a reflector when it’s cold ... (25) “Take a coffee grinder, don’t break!” - this means: we had a good friendship! .. (26) “Come on, to hell with you!” - and inside: my dear friend, golden friend, is it really true, and nothing else will happen? .. (27) “In a colander!” - but it was, it was, and you can’t take that away from us. (28) It is forever with us. This means that there is in the world and will remain in it ... (According to Yu. Nagibin *)

“And don’t forget,” Oska stuck his nose out, “that they are only recently revived corpses and still don’t want to believe that everything is over, so they imitate what was familiar in life.

The fox shrugged his shoulders and, squeezing my hand tightly, went to the castle. I had to follow, turning my head around and constantly stumbling over the scattered cobblestones here and there.

- Come here. - Dick waved to us from the open doors of the castle, and we obediently went to him.

We had to climb rather dirty and chipped steps. Oska was mischievous, saying that since he created a mirage, so be kind and clean it at least sometimes.

“This mirage has only one owner,” Dick shook his head, “and he seems to have begun to understand what happened to him, so the castle falls into disrepair as no longer needed.

- Why "not needed"? - I was surprised, entering a dark room full of dirt, dust and cobwebs - the latter was even indecently much. Some kind of bugs swarming underfoot, and mice ran around the corners, food and softly clattering their paws on the floor.

- He needed him as a living person, but the dead no longer need much, so he is trying to figure out what to do now.

- And where he? - the Fox cut in, disgustedly kicking a rat that had thrown itself at his feet with his boot. She squealed angrily, but didn't attack again.

- Upstairs. Sitting in one of the rooms. And, apparently, for a long time.

Are you going to draw a circle?

Dick looked at me thoughtfully, and then removed the cobwebs from his hair and showed them to me. I looked with curiosity at a small blue spider, gleaming with tiny black eyes, but it almost immediately ran away somewhere, cheerfully jumping to the floor along one of the strings.

- No, I will not.

- Why? Oska leaned out of the hood in surprise.

– The Mirage disappears along with the elimination of its creator.

“Then why did you destroy the mirage of the village?” I was surprised.

All three of us looked at him expectantly. Dick somehow looked at us strangely - if I didn’t know him, I would think that he was embarrassed. No, it's impossible.

“Alright, let’s go, there’s nothing to talk about!” – he frowned and the first began to rise to the second floor.

- Hm ... well, I would have said that I was a fool, - the Fox shrugged.

Dick froze and tensed. I realized it was time to defuse the situation.

- Fox, tell me, why did you come with us? You wanted to get the bracelets, you almost killed me, and now you're chasing Dick like you're best friends.

It was Lisa's turn to blush. Oska had fun, saying that he was also interested in this.

- Yes, everything is very simple. I am the youngest son large family, the inheritance of a wealthy family does not threaten me with any side, so I began to enrich my family, stealing for it various pieces of art commissioned by my beloved dad. He squirmed, and I gently stroked his shoulder. - Once again I was sent for these bracelets. They said that they were guarded by a winged guard in the guise of an angel and with the essence of a demon.

I hiccupped in surprise, Oska yelling, “Who are you calling a demon, you bastard?!” got into a fight. Barely kept, he pulled out terribly.

“I didn’t know that I would go through a portal to another world. Damn, I didn’t even know anything about portals then, and then ... then I decided that I had enough of being on errands with my father. Another world is a chance to start your own life without looking back at the rules and laws of the family, without fear of the all-powerful ancestor and evil brothers. No one else will judge me by the color of my hair and the shape of my ears, deciding what needs to be done before meeting me: to suck up or punch me in the eye, or even stab me in a dark alley. And then ... - He looked at me somehow strangely and even ruffled the feathers on the top of the still escaping Oska. Oska froze like a statue from such familiarity, looking at him with round eyes. “I really almost killed an angel. And I could never forgive myself for that.

I blushed, not knowing what to do with myself, but then, fortunately, Dick's angry voice came from above:

- Hey, where are you stuck? Am I supposed to wait here until the end of time?

I shuddered, shouted back and hurriedly ran up the stairs, and the Fox looked after me, smiling at something.

A long dark corridor, dirt underfoot and doors, doors, doors on both sides of it. Some of them were almost new, even the paint had not yet had time to peel off their surface. Others were old and badly cracked, and some even glowed in the dark with some kind of ghostly light. I shivered, trying to figure out if there was an end to this corridor at all.

“Bad,” Dick frowned, “if he can already play with space, it means he has begun to understand something and it will not be easy to destroy him.

- What? Oska asked, sitting on my shoulder.

“The corridor has no end,” I explained to him, “and to create such a thing, you need a force greater than those three.

“Ahh…” he nodded understandingly.

- Well, where is the owner himself? Lis asked.

- I think at the very end of this corridor.

We were surprised.

“So it’s endless,” Oska got in timidly.

Yes, but I will make it final. At least for the next two hours - I won’t pull it anymore.

We looked at him respectfully, Oska even blurted out something approvingly.

“But for this we need the blood of the Fox and the feathers of an owl. Yes, and angel hair would work too. All these ingredients will greatly reduce the contribution of my own forces, and I will be able to fight.

- What?! Oska clung to me in horror. - Who am I to you, a fluff factory? I'm not giving it! There, better slaughter the Fox, take more blood. Do not be shy. Perhaps, and feathers are not needed.

I looked reproachfully at Oska, the Fox looked around in search of something heavier, but then Dick took out a knife, deftly grabbed his hand and made a small cut on his finger. I gasped, Oska closed his eyes, and the Fox sniffed indignantly while Dick collected drops of his blood in a bottle that appeared from nowhere.

“Now you,” he turned to us.

Oska was already taking a breath of air in order to yell in protest, but at that time I deftly pulled out several feathers from his tail. Oska choked on air, coughed, and looked at me extremely reproachfully. I smiled sympathetically at him and quickly pulled out three hairs. All this was solemnly handed over to Dick and placed in the same vial.

- Are not you ashamed? - still could not stand Oska.

“It’s a shame,” I nodded dejectedly, lowering my head.

Oska immediately melted.

“Okay, okay, I forgive you.

I smiled happily. And the bottle in Dick's hands lit up and hissed softly, thick smoke poured out of it and somehow began to cloud everything around too quickly. I prepared to hold my breath, but there was almost no smoke. At least he didn't want to cough.

“Now get ready to run fast,” Dick turned to us and froze, listening to something.

I started listening too, but I didn't hear anything. And the next moment, Dick shouting “All follow me!” veered off to the left. The fox, running past, grabbed my hand and also ran forward. I had to follow along. Oska was already sitting in my hood and begged me to look under my feet, and if anything, in no case should I fall on my back. I promised.

The run through the castle was impressive. Firstly, we saw rather poorly where we were running: the Fox was guided by Dick's back, dimly visible in front, and I - by his back, since I could no longer see Dick because of the fog. Various things constantly came across under our feet, vague outlines of walls, columns and even stairs appeared from nowhere, the corridor rapidly turned into some kind of chaotic heap of everything that we had previously seen in the castle, and to run, dodging these objects and at the same time trying not to falling, stumbling over another book or stone, was quite difficult. But so far I've been able to. Bye. For the first five minutes I held on, then I began to get tired, feeling an unpleasant heaviness in my quickly stiffening legs. Oska sang hymns to the glory of physical education and tried to cheer me up as best he could, but I was already beginning to choke. Then I stumbled on a cobblestone, but survived and even for another two minutes I galloped briskly after the purposefully rushing Fox. But there is a limit to everything, my lungs were already burning from an excess of oxygen, I was breathing like a steam locomotive, my legs found absolutely all the corners and ledges of the floor, and my head refused to think. Then I stumbled on something again and, unable to resist, collapsed on the floor, hitting my elbow and stomach painfully. The fox stopped, returned to me, jerked me to my feet and tried to rush further, but ... I fell again and, it seems, crushed Oska.

I was grabbed by the shoulders from behind. I looked around and saw my mother's face contorted with anger. She easily became enraged, however, and quickly cooled down.

Well, why are you standing like an idol? We won't get anywhere. And then Musya forced her hat on me! ..

Musya was my mother's old friend, one of the few that I liked - she brought a holiday into the house by her very appearance: red-haired, with a large, bright, always laughing mouth, fragrant and invariably in a jubilant mood. Musya lived three steps away from us, but as if on the other side of the world, she always had summer, always sunshine. The shadow of a hunch touched my soul and slid away. I was supposed to ask my mom about something, but I missed what. My attention was on the boy on the other side of the alley. He no longer laughed and jumped. He looked around, looking for something. And I found: a piece of clean, recently plastered and whitewashed wall to the right of the entrance. He approached white spot, came up and waved his hand, squeezing a piece of coal. Here his painting will be better preserved, it will not be trampled on by pedestrians, it will survive until the next morning, when an angry janitor will wash it out of its rubber gut. Then the boy will find another clear plane. It is important to draw, and not to shake over your drawing, put it in a frame and hang it on the wall.

This boy, - I said to my mother, showing my hand, - he draws great.

Mother looked at me in surprise.

Have you forgotten?.. Musya brought him to us. This is her son - Oska ...

Nothing faltered in my soul when this name first sounded, which became for me short and probably the happiest years of joy, celebration, carnival, and for the rest of my life - longing and pain. No friendship, no love, and all the human indifference, inseparable from my fate, could extinguish in my memory the kind and mocking light of the slanted eyes of a boy who was killed forty years ago ...

Probably, a reservation should be made already now in order to prevent the legitimate bewilderment of the readers of these notes. How could it be: he undertook to talk about his friend, but he talks all the time about himself. But this is inevitable. Oska's character did not have time to harden, it was still being formed. He was not allowed time for deeds, for participation not only in adult, but even in youthful life, except for hasty attempts that do not say anything about his essence. He did not even have time to fall in love, although, it seems, he managed to fall in love with the girl who accompanied him to the war, and, as it turned out much later, mature woman crying for him. He was in the souls of his parents, who considered him a child, and his friends, who knew that he was a person. Of these friends, I am the only one left in the world. Pavlik died near Moscow, another friend, a talented actor, poet and translator, broke a love boat about life and took his own life.

Our date on earth was so short. In addition, three years of age difference - it does not mean anything on the slope of days, but a lot - at the dawn of life. We were leveled by his breakthrough to maturity already near parting. And what do I know about Oska? I have a lot of love, longing and pain, but little building material. I can recreate it only through myself, from the contacts, coincidences and discrepancies of our essences. One cruel man said: all young people are alike. This was said from the depths of contempt for people, but there is a certain amount of truth here. Of course, all young people are different, but it is difficult to overlook this difference, since they solve one problem - the first and most difficult adaptation to life, asserting themselves in it. Any normal young man is characterized by an inflated idea of ​​\u200b\u200bhis own value, idealism (which does not interfere with protective skepticism, sometimes cynicism), vulnerability, and hence a fierce desire to save his inner life from outsiders (the most outsiders - parents and relatives). I did not have, and could not have, due to my youth, such insight as to see Oska from the inside. And I can reconstruct at least somehow his image only through myself; in its place, I will tell about the unexpected help that I received from his father ...

On that day, on Markhlevsky Street, my mother was mistaken, thinking that I had already seen Oska. Perhaps Musya brought her son to us, only I was not at home, and my mother forgot to mention the visit of the distinguished guest. Our acquaintance took place when Oska was already at school. Mom said: “Musya and her son will come to us, don’t offend him.” I was surprised: it was not in my rules to offend anyone, and my mother knew that. They offended me, and quite often, and without any reason. I was offended by both the yard guys and the school guys, more often the older ones, the Chistoprudsky and Devyatkinsky guys didn’t let me through; even the peace-loving inhabitants of the military house, where there was a passage yard that shortened the way to school, more than once tested the strength of the swear muscle on me. In my opinion, this was explained by one thing: they did not teach me to be afraid, they did not teach caution. I lived in an atmosphere of love, I was loved in the family, and all the numerous relatives of our housekeeper Veroni, both in Moscow and in the countryside: in the village of Vnukovo, in the villages of Akulovo, Sukhotino, Konura, loved in the yard, with the exception of two or three villains, loved in class, loved, or rather, pretended to love, friends at home. And I stubbornly believed that other people should treat me this way; every manifestation of aggression seemed to me accidental, not noteworthy, I quickly forgot the offense and again climbed on the rampage. This courage from delusion especially irritated the fighting guys of Devyatkin Lane, unfriendly to our house, and Chistoprudnaya punks. But no matter how much my family urged me to walk in safe ways, my legs themselves carried me into enemy territory. I was a physically strong boy, well trained in the trapezoid and ladder hanging in my room with high pre-revolutionary ceilings, as well as dumbbells and English gymnastics, which my grandfather taught me, but I didn’t fight back. Firstly, I was not hurt, and the surprise before the sudden attack outweighed the insult. The desire to stand up for oneself awakened from time to time when everything was already over and my offenders either dispersed or left in close formation in search of a new victim. And one more thing extinguished in me the will to resist: it was difficult for me to make a gesture of blow. Gorky could not raise a hand against a person at all, but I could, but I had to try very hard so that I stepped over the ban imposed by God knows who (but not by my mother). There were still such diligent guys, and I beat them with some strange, calculated fury. But the victories did not bring satisfaction, on the contrary, it was unpleasantly aching and shivering inside. Even after thrashing the storm at home, stupid, cocky and cruel Corn, I remembered only his sad stunnedness, tear-filled eyes, fingers peeled on the cobblestone and the vile hooting of the yard small fry. And it is strange: having stepped half way through life, I suddenly lost faith in the fragility and mimosaic sensitivity of those around me and joyfully used my fists. A lot of time passed before I calmed Vaska Buslaev, who awakened so untimely in the middle-aged writer. As a child, I was very fond of friendly wrestling, but I never got involved with younger guys. My peacefulness and insecurity irritated my mother, why did she suddenly consider it necessary to call me to meekness? She probably knew something about the son of her friend Musi.

I completely forgot about him, no, I didn’t forget, of course, there was too much that hurt my pride in my memory, but I drove into the farthest corner of my consciousness the image of the boy whose drawing I so vilely destroyed. In addition, several years passed, I seemed to have passed into a different weight: I was done with artistic illusions, the framed musketeer, however, still hung on the wall, but he remained like a sweet memory of the past, like a shabby teddy bear; I was unrequitedly in love with a girl two years older than me and a biology teacher with a heavy bun of golden hair, and what do I care about this husk?

Musya and her mother retired to our second room, and I stayed with Oska. He saw fit to introduce himself:

The namesake of Khlestakov's servant! - And he added in a lisp tone; - Walked briskly along the street funny company Misha, Vova, Borya and little Osik. He sighed heavily. - Always the last, always behind, that's it, brother!

Original text

Oska left for the war at the end of October from the deserted Moscow.
He was already twice demanded with things to the recruiting station, but for some reason they let him go home. And then it became known for sure: Oska and his comrades in graduation were sent east to a three-month infantry school. He came to say goodbye to my family, then we went to see him at Markhlevsky. I knew that he was waiting for a girl, Anya with ashen hair, and I wanted to say goodbye at the entrance, but Oska insisted that I get up.

When we escorted Pavlik to the real one, he divided his modest wealth between us. Pavlik was not spoiled at home and raised in a Spartan way. True, in the eighth grade they sewed a Boston suit “to go out” for him, and Pavlik carried it to the army, from time to time letting out sleeves and trousers, since the supply was large. But he had an uncle, an outstanding chemist, and once this uncle was sent to an international scientific conference across the cordon, which at that time happened infrequently. In an elderly, unsociable, dandruff-covered, neglected bachelor, buried up to his ears in his science, lurked the soul of a dude. At the end of the conference, he spent the rest of the money on pearl-gray leggings - then a flash of fashion, a dark silk shirt, two sweaters, a luxurious tie and dark glasses, almost never found in Moscow. But when he returned home, he realized that he had nowhere to dress up, because he didn’t go to the theater, or to visit, or to balls, and it’s a shame to carry such dazzling things to work, and it’s impractical: you’ll burn with chemicals, and then he remembered young nephew, and a golden rain fell on the modest Pavlik.

By the time he left for the army, things were a little worn out, lost their gloss, but still Oska and I were shocked to the core when Pavlik handed over his treasures to us with a royal gesture. I had to give up the costume - it was extremely dilapidated, we shared the rest: Oska took the smoky glasses, I immediately put on leggings. Oska took a tie with a spark, I took a shirt, each got a sweater.

Now Oska terribly wanted to repeat the courageous rite of farewell, when, without snot and empty words, everything that you own in this world is given to a comrade. But it turned out to be much more difficult for Oska to do this than for Pavlik: he gave the camera to the hero of the Moscow Rain photo series, his mother took the library, and his father took the pictures. There were household items left, and Oska gave me a reflector, an electric iron, a coffee grinder, a shoehorn, a hacksaw, and two cans of mustard; I refused the damaged sewing machine - it was impossible to convey all this burden; Oska also forced on me ski boots and a moth-eaten Finnish hat, made of cloth and with lambskin fur.

It may seem strange and unworthy this junk fuss before parting, most likely forever, an insignificant digging in clothes in the middle of such a war. Was there really nothing to talk about, was there really no serious and lofty words for each other? Everything was, but not spoken aloud. We were raised in a harsh wind and taught not to spread the oily porridge of words on the table. And you can also speak with simple, rough objects that “will come in handy”. “Hold it!..” - and after this: I won’t be there, and you wear my hat and boots and warm yourself with a reflector when it’s cold ... “Take a coffee grinder, don’t break!” - this means: we had a good friendship! .. "Come on, to hell with you!" - and inside: my dear friend, golden friend, is it really true, and nothing else will happen? .. "In a colander!" - but it was, it was, and you can’t take that away from us. It's forever with us. So, there is in the world and will remain in it ...

(According to Yu. Nagibin)

Composition

Attention:

The style, spelling and punctuation of the author are fully preserved in the work.

There are many ways to express your feelings. You can talk about them, or you can give some thing, necessary or not very necessary. In this text, Yuri Nagibin talks about how the guys in 1941 saw each other off to the war. A turning point in history. A turning point in the life of friends. Farewell, perhaps forever... How are high human feelings expressed? This problem worries the writer.

There are times when words are not needed. The author shows how feelings can be expressed in simple everyday actions or hidden in the most ordinary things, for example, in donated skis, a coffee grinder and a reflector.

I agree with the author that words are sometimes meaningless. Often actions speak louder than words. Sometimes a person can be overwhelmed by such feelings that you need to experience yourself, without saying anything about them to other people, even those closest to you. Such are the emotions of friends saying goodbye before leaving for the war, knowing that perhaps they will see each other for the last time. Why are there words?

The fact that words are not able to convey a complex range of feelings was reflected by many writers. For example, V. Zhukovsky devotes the poem “Inexpressible” to this problem:

All the immensity is squeezed into a single breath,
And only silence speaks clearly.

F. Tyutchev in the poem "Silentium!" proclaims: "A thought uttered is a lie..." The poet is familiar with the state of inexpressibility, when lofty feelings, hope, dreams are fully felt by those present. In critical moments of life, and it is precisely such moments that the young heroes of Yu. Nagibin are experiencing, an unsuccessful word or insincere intonation can only spoil everything. And heroes avoid lofty words. The main thing for them is not beautiful words but the warm, sincere and very strong relationship that binds them.

"Is there really nothing to talk about, was there really no serious and lofty words for each other? Everything was there, but not spoken aloud." There were feelings, they remained in the world. Having met real feelings in our life today, we will understand them without words.

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