Rybakov unknown soldier read the summary. The Unknown Soldier book read online

The bulldozer was standing in front of a small mound of grass. A low, half-rotted picket fence lay around.

Sidorov picked up a faded wooden star from the grass. The soldier's grave - apparently, remained from the war. It was dug away from the old road. But, laying a new one, we straightened the highway. And Andrey's bulldozer stumbled upon the grave.

Andrei got into the cab, turned on the levers, the knife advanced on the mound.

- What are you doing? - Sidorov stood on the mound.

- What, - Andrey answered, - I will level ...

- I will equalize you! Sidorov said.

- The difference to you where it will lie: above the road, under the road? asked the driver Yura.

“You didn’t lie in the ground, but I lay, maybe next to him,” said Sidorov.

At this time, another truck pulled up. Voronov came out of it, approached us, and frowned:

- Are we standing?

His gaze rested on the grave, on the picket fence; someone had already piled it up and put a faded star on top. Displeasure was reflected on Voronov's face, he did not like delays, and a grave on the road is a delay. And he looked at us with displeasure, as if we were to blame for the fact that this is where the soldier was buried.

Then he said to Andrew:

- Go around this place. Tomorrow I will send diggers to move the grave.

Silent all the time, Sidorov remarked:

- You can see from the fence and the star that someone was courting, it would be necessary to find the owner.

- We will not transfer to Kamchatka. The owner will come and find it. Yes, and there is no owner - everything rotted, - answered Voronov.

“He may have documents or some material evidence with him,” Sidorov insisted.

And Voronov gave in. For which, of course, Sidorov will have to pay later. Then. Until then I paid.

- Krasheninnikov! Go to the city, ask around, whose grave.

I was amazed by this command:

- Who am I going to ask?

- From whom - from local residents.

- Why me?

Because you are local.

- I'm not from here.

- It doesn't matter, you have a grandfather, a grandmother here ...

“I don’t have a grandmother, she died,” I answered gloomily.

“Moreover, old people,” Voronov continued with strange logic. “The whole city is here,” he showed the tip of his nail, “three streets ... If you find the owner, ask: let them take the grave, what is needed, we will help, we will transport it, but if you don’t find the owner, go to the draft office in the morning: they say, they stumbled upon the grave, let them send representative for opening and transfer. Understood? - He turned to Yura: - Take him to the quarry, and then it will come.

- Who will work for me? I asked.

“We’ll find a replacement for your qualifications,” Voronov replied mockingly.

Such a boor!

- Let's go! Yura said.

... On the second run, the plane fired a machine-gun burst on a low-level flight and disappeared again, leaving behind a long, slowly and obliquely bluish stripe of smoke sliding towards the ground.

Sergeant Major Bokarev got up, shook off the ground, pulled up his tunic from behind, straightened the wide commander's belt and belt, turned the medal "For Courage" on the front side and looked at the road.

The cars - two ZISs and three GAZ-AA lorries - stood in the same place, on a country road, alone among the unharvested fields.

Then Vakulin got up, looked apprehensively at the autumn but clear sky, and his thin, youthful, still quite boyish face expressed bewilderment: had death really just flown over them twice?

Krayushkin also got up, brushed himself off, wiped his rifle—a neat, seasoned, elderly soldier.

Parting the tall, crumbling wheat, Bokarev went deep into the field, looked around frowningly, and finally saw Lykov and Ogorodnikov. They were still lying flat on the ground.

- How long are we going to stay?

Lykov turned his head, squinted at the foreman, then looked at the sky, got up, holding a rifle in his hands - a small, round, muzzy soldier, - he said philosophically:

“According to strategy and tactics, he shouldn't fly in here.

“Strategy… tactics… Straighten your tunic, Private Lykov!”

- Gymnastics - it's possible. - Lykov removed and tightened the belt.

Ogorodnikov also got up - a sedate, imposing driver with a belly, took off his cap, wiped his balding head with a handkerchief, remarked peevishly:

- That's what the war is for, so that the planes fly and shoot. Moreover, we go without disguise. Disorder.

This reproach was addressed to Bokarev. But the foreman's face was impenetrable.

“You talk a lot, Private Ogorodnikov!” Where is your rifle?

- In the cockpit.

- Dropped the weapon. The soldier is called! For such cases - the tribunal.

"That's known," snapped Ogorodnikov.

- Go to the cars! Bokarev ordered.

Everyone went out onto an empty country road to their old, battered cars - two ZISs and three lorries.

Standing on the bandwagon, Lykov announced:

- I flashed the cabin, you bastard!

“He was chasing you on purpose, Lykov,” Krayushkin remarked good-naturedly. - “Who, thinks, is Lykov here? ..” But Lykov evon crawled away ...

“He didn’t crawl away, but spread out,” Lykov joked.

Bokarev looked gloomily as Ogorodnikov covered the cabin and body with a felled tree. Wants to prove it!

- By cars! Interval fifty meters! Keeping up!

Five kilometers later they turned off the country road and, crushing small bushes, drove into a young birch forest. A wooden arrow nailed to a tree with the inscription "Struchkov's farm" pointed to the low buildings of the abandoned MTS, pressed against the slope.

- Prepare cars for delivery! Bokarev ordered.

He took out a shoe brush and velvet from under the seat and began polishing his chrome boots.

- Comrade foreman! Lykov turned to him.

- What do you want?

- So what?

- There is a food station in the city, I say ...

- You have been given a dry ration.

- What if they hadn't been released?

Bokarev finally realized what Lykov was hinting at, looked at him.

Lykov raised his finger.

- The city is still ... Koryukov is called. There is a female gender. Civilization.

Bokarev wrapped the brush and ointment in velvet and put it under the seat.

- You take on a lot, Private Lykov!

“I’m reporting the situation, comrade foreman.

Bokarev straightened his tunic, belt, belt, put his finger under the collar, twisted his neck.

- And without you there is someone to make a decision!

The usual picture of the PRB, known to Bokarev, is a marching and repair base, located this time in the evacuated MTS. The motor roars on the stand, the blowtorch hisses, the electric welding crackles; locksmiths in oiled overalls, under which tunics are visible, are repairing cars. The engine moves along the monorail; it is held by a locksmith; another, apparently a mechanic, directs the engine to the chassis.

The motor did not sit down, and the mechanic ordered Bokarev:

- Come on, foreman, hold on!

“He hasn’t started work yet,” Bokarev snapped. - Where is the commander?

What is your commander?

- What ... Commander of the PRB.

- Captain Struchkov?

- Captain Struchkov.

- I'm Captain Struchkov.

Bokarev was an experienced foreman. He could make a mistake, not recognizing the unit commander in the mechanics, but recognizing whether he is being played or not, he will not be mistaken here. He was not played.

- Sergeant Major Bokarev reports. Arrived from a separate autocompany of the 172nd Infantry Division. Delivered five cars for repair.

He famously applied, then threw his hand away from his cap.

Struchkov mockingly examined Bokarev from head to toe, grinned at his polished boots, his dandy appearance.

- Clean the cars of dirt so that they shine like your boots. Put it under a canopy and start disassembling.

- It is clear, comrade captain, it will be done! Allow me to make a request, Comrade Captain!

- What request?

- Comrade Captain! People from the front line, from day one. Let me go to the city, wash in the bathhouse, send letters, buy some little things. Tomorrow we will return, we will work - people are asking very much.

After passing the last exam and graduating from school, Sergei Krasheninnikov arrives in a small town, to his grandfather. The young man begins to work in the construction team. The workers were engaged in the design and construction of roads. In the process of creating another road, the builders discovered a burial place. There was a soldier in it. Sergei decides to find out his name.

After a long search, Sergey learns a lot of interesting things from the history of the city. The military past has left an indelible mark on the life of our entire country. Krasheninnikov, or simply Krosh, seriously approached the search for information on a nameless soldier. In the end, his efforts were not in vain. The young man established the identity of the military man who rested in that grave.

The work teaches to remember the names of the heroes of that war. Thanks to them, we live.

A picture or drawing of an Unknown Soldier

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In December 1966, on the 25th anniversary of the defeat of the Nazi troops near Moscow, the ashes of the Unknown Soldier were transferred to the Alexander Garden from the 41st kilometer of the Leningrad Highway - the place of bloody battles.

The eternal flame of glory, bursting out from the middle of a bronze military star, was lit from a flame blazing on the Field of Mars in St. Petersburg. “Your name is unknown, your feat is immortal” - inscribed on the granite slab of the tombstone.

On the right, along the Kremlin wall, urns are placed in a row, where the sacred land of the hero cities is kept.

Website of the President

FIGHTS AT THE CROSSROADS OF THE LENINGRAD AND LYALOVSKY HIGHWAYS

In 1967, a local forester, an eyewitness to a fierce battle at the 41st kilometer, told about an unusual episode of the battle in 1941 to the builders of Zelenograd, who helped build a monument with a T-34 tank: “German armored vehicles were approaching along the highway from Chashnikov ... Suddenly our tank moved towards them. Having reached the intersection, the driver jumped into the ditch on the move, and a few seconds later the tank was hit. A second tank followed. History repeated itself: the driver jumped, the enemy shot, another tank cluttered the highway. So a kind of barricade of wrecked tanks was formed. The Germans were forced to look for a detour to the left

An excerpt from the memoirs of the commissar of the 219th howitzer regiment, Alexei Vasilyevich Penkov (see: Works of the GZIKM, issue 1. Zelenograd, 1945, p. 65-66): “By 13 o’clock, the Germans, having concentrated superior forces of infantry, tanks and aviation, broke the resistance of our neighbor on the left ... and through the village of Matushkino, tank units entered the Moscow-Leningrad highway, semi-surrounding our rifle units and began shelling firing positions with tank guns. Dozens of German dive bombers hung in the air. Communication with the command post of the regiment was broken. Two divisions deployed for all-round defense. They shot at German tanks and infantry with direct fire. Chuprunov, I and the signalmen were 300 meters from the firing positions of the batteries on the church bell tower in the village of B. Rzhavka.

With the onset of darkness, the Nazis calmed down and fell silent. We went to see the battlefield. The picture for the war is familiar, but terrible: half of the compositions of gun crews died, many commanders of fire platoons and guns failed. 9 guns, 7 tractors were destroyed. The last wooden houses and barns on this western outskirts of the village were burning down...

On December 1, in the area of the village of B. Rzhavka, the enemy only occasionally fired mortars. On this day, the situation stabilized ...

HERE AN UNKNOWN SOLDIER DIE

Newspapers in early December 1966 reported that on December 3, Muscovites bowed their heads in front of one of their heroes - the Unknown Soldier, who died in the harsh days of December 1941 on the outskirts of Moscow. In particular, the Izvestia newspaper wrote: “... he was slain for the Fatherland, for his native Moscow. That's all we know about him."

On December 2, 1966, representatives of the Moscow City Council and a group of soldiers and officers of the Taman division arrived at the place of the former burial place on the 41st km of the Leningradskoye Highway around noon. The Taman soldiers cleared the snow around the grave and proceeded to open the grave. At 2:30 pm, the remains of one of the soldiers resting in a mass grave were placed in a coffin, twined with an orange-black ribbon - a symbol of the soldier's Order of Glory, on the lid of the coffin in the heads - a helmet of the 41st year. A coffin with the remains of the Unknown Soldier was placed on the pedestal. All evening, all night and the next morning, changing every two hours, young soldiers with machine guns, veterans of the war, stood in the guard of honor at the coffin.

Cars passing by stopped, people from the surrounding villages, from the village of Kryukovo, from Zelenograd, walked. On December 3, at 11:45 a.m., the coffin was placed on an open car, which moved along the Leningrad highway to Moscow. And everywhere along the way, the funeral procession was accompanied by residents of the Moscow region, lined up along the highway.

In Moscow, at the entrance to the street. Gorky (now Tverskaya), the coffin was transferred from the car to an artillery carriage. An armored personnel carrier with an unfolded combat banner moved on to the sounds of a mourning march of a military brass band. He was accompanied by soldiers of the guard of honor, participants in the war, participants in the defense of Moscow.

The cortege was approaching the Alexander Garden. Here everything is ready for the rally. On the podium among the leaders of the party and government - participants in the battle for Moscow - Marshals of the Soviet Union G.K. Zhukov and K.K. Rokossovsky.

“The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier near the ancient walls of the Moscow Kremlin will become a monument of eternal glory to the heroes who died on the battlefield for their native land, from now on the ashes of one of those who shielded Moscow with their breasts rest here,” these are the words of Marshal of the Soviet Union K.K. Rokossovsky, said at the rally.

A few months later, on May 8, 1967, on the eve of Victory Day, the monument "Tomb of the Unknown Soldier" was unveiled and the Eternal Flame was lit.

IN NO OTHER COUNTRY

EMAR VILLAGE (Primorsky Territory), September 25, 2014. The head of the presidential administration of the Russian Federation, Sergei Ivanov, supported the proposal to make December 3 the Day of the Unknown Soldier.

“Such a memorable day, if you like, a day of remembrance, could well be done,” he said, responding to a proposal made during a meeting with the winners and participants of the competition among school search teams “Search. Finds. Opening".

Ivanov noted that this is especially relevant for Russia, given that there were no such number of missing soldiers as in the USSR in any country. According to the head of the presidential administration, the majority of Russians will support the establishment of December 3 as the Day of the Unknown Soldier.

THE FEDERAL LAW

ON AMENDMENTS TO ARTICLE 1.1 OF THE FEDERAL LAW "ON THE DAYS OF MILITARY GLORY AND MEMORABLE DATES OF RUSSIA"

To introduce into Article 1.1 of the Federal Law of March 13, 1995 N 32-FZ "On the days of military glory and memorable dates in Russia" ... the following changes:

1) add a new paragraph fourteen of the following content:

President of Russian Federation

Consultant Plus

UNKNOWN SOLDIER

For the first time, this concept itself (as well as a memorial) appeared in France, when on November 11, 1920, an honorary burial of an unknown soldier who died in the First World War was made in Paris near the Arc de Triomphe. And at the same time, the inscription “Un soldat inconnu” appeared on this memorial and the Eternal Flame was solemnly lit.

Then, in England, at Westminster Abbey, a memorial appeared with the inscription "Soldier of the Great War, whose name is known to God." Later, such a memorial appeared in the United States, where the ashes of an unknown soldier were buried at the Arlington Cemetery in Washington. The inscription on the tombstone: "Here lies a famous and honored American soldier, whose name only God knows."

In December 1966, on the eve of the 25th anniversary of the Battle of Moscow, the ashes of an unknown soldier were transferred to the Kremlin wall from a burial place near the 41st kilometer of the Leningradskoye Highway. On the slab lying on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, an inscription is made: “Your name is unknown. Your feat is immortal "(author of the words - poet Sergei Vladimirovich Mikhalkov).

Used: in the literal sense, as a symbol of all the dead soldiers, whose names have remained unknown.

Encyclopedic Dictionary of winged words and expressions. M., 2003

Anatoly Rybakov

Unknown Soldier

As a child, every summer I went to the small town of Koryukov to visit my grandfather. We went with him to swim in Koryukovka, a narrow, fast and deep river three kilometers from the city. We undressed on a hillock covered with sparse, yellow, crushed grass. From the state farm stables came the tart, pleasant smell of horses. There was the sound of hooves on the wooden deck. Grandfather drove the horse into the water and swam beside him, grabbing the mane. His large head, with wet hair stuck together on his forehead, with a black gypsy beard, flickered in the white foam of a small breaker, next to a wildly squinting horse's eye. So, probably, the Pechenegs crossed the rivers.

I am the only grandson and my grandfather loves me. I love him very much too. He brought back good memories of my childhood. They still excite and touch me. Even now, when he touches me with his wide, strong hand, my heart aches.

I arrived in Koryukov on August 20, after the final exam. Got a four again. It became obvious that I would not go to university.

Grandfather was waiting for me on the platform. The same as I left it five years ago, when I was last in Koryukovo. His short, thick beard had gone a little gray, but his broad-cheeked face was still marbled white, and his brown eyes were as lively as ever. The same faded dark suit with trousers tucked into boots. He wore boots in both winter and summer. Once he taught me to put on footcloths. With a deft movement, he twisted the footcloth, admired his work. Pathom was pulling on his boot, grimacing not because the boot was tight, but from the pleasure that he sat so well on his leg.

Feeling like I was performing a comic circus act, I climbed onto the old cart. But no one on the forecourt paid any attention to us. Grandfather touched the reins in his hands. The horse, shaking its head, ran off at a brisk trot.

We drove along the new highway. At the entrance to Koryukov, the asphalt turned into the well-known cobbled pavement. According to grandfather, the city itself should pave the street, and the city has no funds.

What are our incomes? Previously, the tract passed, traded, the river was navigable - it became shallow. There is only one horse farm left. There are horses! There are world celebrities. But the city has little to gain from this.

My grandfather reacted philosophically to my failure at the university:

- You will enter next year, if you don’t enter the next one, you will enter after the army. And all things.

And I was saddened by the failure. Bad luck! "The Role of the Lyrical Landscape in the Works of Saltykov-Shchedrin". Subject! After listening to my answer, the examiner stared at me, waiting for the continuation. There was nothing for me to continue. I began to develop my own thoughts about Saltykov-Shchedrin. The examiner was not interested.

The same wooden houses with gardens and orchards, a small market on the square, a district consumer union store, a Baikal canteen, a school, the same centuries-old oaks along the street.

The only thing new was the motorway, which we again got on, leaving the city to the stud farm. Here it was still under construction. Hot asphalt was smoking; it was laid down by tanned guys in canvas mittens. Girls in T-shirts, headscarves pulled over their foreheads, scattered gravel. Bulldozers cut the ground with shiny knives. Buckets of excavators bit into the ground. Mighty machinery, rattling and clanging, advanced into space. There were residential trailers on the side of the road - evidence of camp life.

We handed over the britzka and the horse to the stud farm and went back along the bank of Koryukovka. I remember how proud I was when I crossed it for the first time. Now I would cross it with one push from the shore. And the wooden bridge, from which I once jumped with my heart beating with fear, hung over the water itself.

On the path, still hard as in summer, cracked in places by the heat, the first fallen leaves rustled underfoot. Sheaves turned yellow in the field, a grasshopper crackled, a lone tractor raised a chill.

Earlier, at this time, I was leaving my grandfather, and the sadness of parting was then mixed with the joyful expectation of Moscow. But now I just arrived, and I did not want to return.

I love my father and mother, I respect them. But something familiar broke, changed in the house, became annoying, even the little things. For example, mother's address to familiar women in the masculine gender: "dear" instead of "sweetheart", "dear" instead of "dear". There was something unnatural, pretentious about it. As well as the fact that she dyed her beautiful, black and gray hair in a reddish-bronze color. For what, for whom?

In the morning I woke up: my father, passing through the dining room where I sleep, clapped flip-flops - shoes without backs. He used to clap them, but then I would not wake up, and now I woke up from one premonition of this clapping, and then I could not fall asleep.

Each person has his own habits, not quite, perhaps, pleasant; we have to put up with them, we have to get used to each other. And I couldn't rub it. Have I become a psycho?

I was no longer interested in talking about my father's and mother's work. People I've heard about for years but never seen. About some scoundrel Kreptyukov - a surname that I have hated since childhood; I was ready to strangle this Kreptyukov. Then it turned out that Kreptyukov should not be strangled, on the contrary, he should be protected, his place could be taken by a much worse Kreptyukov. Conflicts at work are inevitable, it's silly to talk about them all the time. I got up from the table and left. This offended the old people. But I couldn't help myself.

All this was all the more surprising since we were, as they say, friendly family. Quarrels, disagreements, scandals, divorces, courts and lawsuits - we did not have any of this and could not have. I never deceived my parents and knew that they did not deceive me. What they hid from me, considering me small, I perceived condescendingly. This naïve parental delusion is better than the snobbish candor that some consider modern parenting. I am not a prude, but in some things there is a distance between children and parents, there is an area in which restraint should be observed; it does not interfere with friendship or trust. This has always been the case in our family. And suddenly I wanted to leave home, hide in some hole. Maybe I'm tired of exams? Do I have a hard time dealing with failure? The old people did not reproach me for anything, but I let them down, deceived their expectation. Eighteen years old, and still sitting on their neck. I felt ashamed to even ask for a movie. There used to be a prospect - a university. But I have not been able to achieve what tens of thousands of other guys who annually enter higher educational institutions achieve.

Old bent Viennese chairs in grandpa's little house. The shriveled floorboards creak underfoot, the paint on them peeling off in places, and its layers are visible - from dark brown to yellowish-white. There are photographs on the walls: grandfather in cavalry uniform is holding a horse, grandfather is a rider, next to him are two boys - jockeys, his sons, my uncles - are also holding horses, famous trotters, ridden by grandfather.

Yes, yes, please, we'll meet again. We have a lot to discuss. It is necessary to decide with the first book of Sovremennik. A historical fact for us - the first book of the publishing house.

Our business card. And the design, and the cover, and the print - all the very best. I have already spoken with Mikhalkov, Bondarev ... We decided: it will be Anatoly Rybakov's novel "Krosh's Notes" - you, of course, read ... And you, Valentin Vasilyevich? - turned to Sorokin.

No, I haven't read Rybakov. I don't have time for serious writers. Blinov interrupted the director: - Tonight we will meet in the main editorial office and decide. His face turned purple with excitement. He concluded in a firm voice:

But in general, Yuri Lvovich, we will agree right away: the selection of manuscripts and their preparation for publication is the business of the editors and the main editorial board. As for the first edition, I will offer a book by Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov. Maybe we should include his war stories in it.

This was Blinov's first action against Prokushev, Mikhalkov, Kachemasov and Yakovlev - Jewish gods who sought to start a publishing house created for Russian writers by publishing a book by a Jewish author, by the way vile and slanderous in content. With this courageous act of his, Andrei Dmitrievich sharply marked a crack in relations with the director, which will soon turn for him and for us, his deputies, into a deep, insurmountable ditch.

Yes, yes - of course, everything will be so, but you boldly come out from behind my back, fight with this devil - I'm already tired of him, he's starting to bother me.

They walked in silence for a minute. In the dining-room Andrei Dmitrievich continued:

Here is the first book. We have already decided, and the Committee agrees, - we are publishing Sholokhov's stories, and now he is again: "Let's start Krosh's Notes." I flared up: “Yes, how much can you! We have already decided, and everyone agrees, and the editor is already working, we have agreed with Sholokhov. Some obsession!”

Now the prose is your concern, connect quickly. I can't deal with him alone.

That day I got a call from the Union of Russian Writers - from Mikhalkov. An acquaintance from the institute called, a small man in the Union, but, apparently, at someone's prompt.

Congratulations on your appointment. All the new prose of Russian writers will now go through your hands. With whom did you decide to start? Whose book will be the first? - We decided the fate of the first book together: we will publish Sholokhov. And the design is already being prepared, the printing house has been determined ... - That's right, but you, old man, are the deputy chief and are responsible for everything there. - Yes, for what to answer? For Sholokhov? He is our first writer, who should we publish if not him?

The first is the first, but only your publishing house Sovremennik - this, after all, also says something. Should modern literature be published? And Sholokhov is good, of course, but this is a civil war.

Where are you heading? Are you advocating for Natan Rybakov? I tell you the issue is settled. Karelin gave good.

Well, okay, old man... You don't hear the conjuncture well. You need to look higher - not at Karelin. You are now out in the open. Here you will get a draft from all sides. Look, it wouldn't blow. I'm talking to you in a friendly way. And if you want to continue to inform you that here on Olympus they think what kind of winds blow, - keep quiet about our conversation. Keep it a secret, I'll be nice.