Machine and character. What does the iron horse say about its owner?

Cars

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20.07.16 09:47

Have you ever thought about what his faithful four-wheeled friend can tell about the character of a motorist? Do you admit that for a knowledgeable person, a car will be an excellent assistant in recognizing the hidden features of its owner? And it is true! Do you want to check?

Often, when characterizing a person with the help of his car, they pay attention only to the color of the car, which is not true. Here, any details can play a huge role, you just need to look closely. The character of a man is indicated not only by the color of his car, but also by the size, shape, decoration of the body and interior, the presence of tuning and even the gearbox.

The size will show the hidden sides of the character

It is not difficult to guess that a small car is the choice of an insecure man who does not want to stand out from the rest. This size is preferred by shy people with low self-esteem, complexes who want to hide from people. As a rule, small cars are chosen by introverts.

Men who like big cars, strive for leadership, want to look more solid than they are on this moment. Such people are ambitious, they can hide considerable potential. Choose cars big size men of small stature are also inclined.

The form will reveal views on life

What exactly does the shape of the car say? Angular cars are chosen by men of conservative views. This design was more popular in the 20th century, so if your friend’s four-wheeled friend has an angular shape, think about it, he’s probably in Everyday life does not tolerate drastic changes, prefers that everything be in accordance with its established principles.

Cars over modern design prefer, on the contrary, flexible, in all respects mobile people with whom it is easy to communicate. Such men know that change is the main law of life, and this circumstance suits them absolutely.

Long cars are bought by people who want to draw attention to themselves. Such men are very proud, wayward, even outrageous. These motorists always closely monitor their appearance. They focus more on themselves than on changes in the outside world.

Tuning and decoration will indicate inner aspirations

The presence of tuning is a clear clue that it is important for him to stand out from the gray mass, to make it clear that he is unique, not like the rest. Indeed, not every driver is ready to spend so much money on the bells and whistles for his "dumpling". Men who do not focus on this particular attention, in turn, are more thorough and self-confident.

Again, motorists emphasizing their individuality are inclined to decorate the hull. They are easy-going, sociable. Interior decoration is done by more closed people, striving for home comfort, not loving crowds.

Color as an indicator of character

Still, about what features all of the above features of the car would not tell, the color reveals, probably, as much as they are taken together. Let's consider each separately!

A black car looks more solid than orange or blue, so business people prefer cars of this color, for whom it is important that an iron friend emphasizes their representativeness. Such men are usually reasonable, calm, confident in themselves and in their abilities.

Auto white color- the choice of perfectionists. The owner of such a car strives to be perfect in everything, loves cleanliness and luxury. car gray color a real pedant will certainly give his preference. Such a man is proud, punctual, his car is always in excellent condition. The driver of the yellow car is optimistic, cheerful, sociable. This color indicates a predisposition to the creativity of the owner of the car.

Blue cars like balanced ones serious men, often modest, not passionate about fast driving, rarely breaking the rules traffic. Red cars like men who are impulsive, temperamental, strong-willed, capable of taking risks. Drivers of such cars, on the contrary, often sin by speeding and other traffic violations.

orange car - true friend especially sexual males. Such people think outside the box, are able to give out a lot of creative ideas. Cars purple attract men infantile, far from sober thinking. These are creative, subtle natures that need the support of loved ones in everyday life. Salad color of the car indicates the prudence of the driver, his softness, inner harmony. Men behind the wheel of such a car, as a rule, are phlegmatic.

The car is fraught with many secrets of its owner. To reveal them all, you probably have to disassemble the car bolt by bolt. We will not do this. Let every man have his own mystery ...

Read.

“Well, […],” she told him,
If you could sit
So you own me.
Give me a place to rest
Yes take care of me
How much do you understand. Yes, look:
Three morning dawns
Set me free
Walk across the open field.
At the end of three days
I give you two horses -
Yes, such as they are today
It never happened at all;
Yes, I also give birth to a horse
Only three tall an inch,
On the back with two humps
Yes with yard ears< …>

1. Write the name of the author and the title of the work from which this passage is taken.
2. Insert the character name missing on the first line.
3. Write the name of the character who says these words.
4. Explain the meaning of the highlighted words and expressions.
5. Imagine that horses are endowed with the gift of speech. Write a monologue of the horse from the work from which the passage is taken, about your owner. The volume is about 100 words.

Answers and evaluation criteria

1. P.P. Ershov, "Humpbacked Horse" (1 point).
2. Ivan (1 point).
3. (Magic) mare (1 point).
4. A vershok is a measure of length equal to approximately 4.5 cm (1 point).

Arshin is a measure of length equal to approximately 71 cm (1 point). In a fairy tale, these words can be used as examples artistic understatement and exaggeration.

1. horse monologue

Task 2. WORK WITH TEXT

Option 1. Prose text

Read. Write an essay about this story, answering the questions (you can not answer all the questions). Write coherent text

Sasha Cherny (Alexander Mikhailovich Glikberg, 1880-1932)

STRAY DOG

Slowly swaying back from the sea to my forest lodge, I was laden like a mule with a bathing suit, a dressing gown, a net of vegetables, and wild pears picked up from the reeds. At the well, I turned around: behind me someone sighed politely, as if he wanted to say: “Turn around, please.”

Out of the reed jungle came a lean, lanky dog ​​of the same humble breed, with a pretzel tail and dumpling ears. I stopped, the dog too. He carefully, with the experienced eye of a vagabond, examined my belongings, my sun-bleached jacket, my face, and when I began to climb the mountain again, resolutely followed me, as if I were his grandfather, whom he met after many years of separation.

It was not difficult to understand his decision: “An alien… Not a farmer – farmers don’t bathe… He doesn’t eat meat, but you can fill an empty stomach with soup and bread. Not evil, rather kind, therefore, will not drive away. From that breed of people who every year come from all directions to Provence to lie on the sand by the sea and do nothing. Like stray dogs…”

The dog was not mistaken, I did not drive him away, and at the gatehouse door I fulfilled my first duty of hospitality: I gave him cold well water in a sardine tin. The tin was much smaller than a dog's thirst, but I patiently poured water until the dog, out of politeness, wetted last time tongue, did not look at me with grateful eyes:

- Thank you.

He was a little cunning with me, but well - if you don’t cheat, you won’t have dinner ... such is the fate of all vagabonds.

I was sitting in the gatehouse, he was at the threshold, outside. Of course, he tried to explain to me, as best he could, that he did not want to eat at all, that he followed me only because he liked me. Carefully, as if by chance, he moved his front paw over the threshold. But I really love dogs and really dislike fleas - our eyes met, and he realized that it was possible to have dinner in the yard.

I soaked dry bread in sour milk diluted with water (do not run to the neighboring farm for cream!). The dog ate. He was very hungry - sunken sides, slightly hasty throats ... But he did not champ, he tried to eat slowly, with dignity, as even well-fed boys do not always eat.

Then I warmed up rice soup with tomatoes. The dish is not quite suitable, but do I have a dog cooker?

We honestly divided the soup among ourselves, and for a snack I gave him an oiled paper, which he carefully licked, screwing up his eyes with pleasure - he licked it so that the paper became completely transparent. He refused wine. He was even offended, as, indeed, dogs are always offended if a person offers them something absurd. And in fact: if someone offered you copy ink after dinner, wouldn't you be offended?

From the vineyard crawled out with a pick the old man Sanguinetti, the owner of my dwelling, a little man, like a cunning lizard. He looked at the dog lying on the threshold, smacked his badly shaven lip and said:

- Your dog? Not yours? No one here has such a thing - I already know ... I don’t like cats or dogs! Cats are thieves, dogs bite. So you fed her, and she will tear your trousers for this, hee-hee ...

What nonsense! What dog will offend the person who fed her and greeted her at his doorstep?

The dog also did not like the old man's dry voice, like the rustle of faded corn leaves. He pushed me with his nose into my knees, wagged his tail twice (dinner was unimportant, especially not worth wagging), and, contemptuously rounding the old slanderer, disappeared over the hill in the juniper bushes. Full, the evening is quiet and warm - and what will happen tomorrow, only people think about it ...

1. What can be said about the narrator? Justify your conclusions by referring to the text.
2. How does the narrator feel about nature?
3. How is the dog shown in the story? What kind of art techniques?
4. Why does the story need the image of "old man Sanguinetti"?
5. Which artistic details(primarily portrait) do you remember? Why?
6. How do you understand the meaning of the final ( the last sentence) story?

Option 2. Poetic text

Read. Write an essay about this poem, answering the questions (you can not answer all the questions). Write coherent text, freely, clearly, conclusively and competently.

Maya Ivanovna Borisova (1932–1996)

SONG OF THE SPRING SUN

I'll get up early, early, I'm not in a hurry
I'll wake up the ruddy baby.
I caress the sleepy one -
Nothing special -
I will be, the sun, a nanny.
The sky will turn pink above you
Each puddle will become blue.
I will color
It's OK -
I will be, the sun, a painter.
The clouds have been smoky over the winter,
It would be necessary to rinse them in the Neva.
I'll do laundry
Nothing to be ashamed of -
I will be, the sun, a laundress.
Look outside - it's bright.
Go outside - it's warm there.
Sooner or later -
You yourself understood:
It's me, the spring sun!

1. Why is the poem called "Song..."?
2. Is the poem addressed to anyone? If yes, to whom?
3. What is this poem like? folk songs and how is it different from them?
4. Pay attention to rhymes. What is unusual about them?
5. How are stanzas arranged in a poem?
6. Why are repetitions necessary?

Evaluation criteria

Read.

Like a madman, I jumped out onto the porch, jumped on my Circassian, who was led around the yard, and set off at full speed on the road to Pyatigorsk. I mercilessly drove the exhausted horse, which, wheezing and covered in foam, raced me along the rocky road.

The sun was already hidden in a black cloud resting on the crest of the western mountains; the valley became dark and damp. Podkumok, making his way over the stones, roared muffled and monotonous. I jumped, panting with impatience. The thought of not finding her in Pyatigorsk hit my heart like a hammer! - one minute, one more minute to see her, to say goodbye, to shake her hand ... I prayed, cursed, cried, laughed ... no, nothing will express my anxiety, despair! .. With the opportunity to lose her forever [she] became the most precious thing for me in the world - dearer than life, honor, happiness! God knows what strange, what frenzied ideas were swarming in my head... And meanwhile I kept galloping, chasing me mercilessly. And so I began to notice that my horse was breathing more heavily; he had already stumbled twice out of the blue... There were still five versts to Essentuki, a Cossack village where I could change horses.

Everything would have been saved if my horse had had enough strength for another ten minutes! But suddenly rising from a small ravine, when leaving the mountains, on sharp turn, he hit the ground.

1. Determine where this passage comes from. Write the name of the author, the title of the work and chapter, the names of the main character and the heroine mentioned in the passage.
2. Imagine that the horse is endowed with the gift of speech. What could he say about his master? Write a Circassian monologue about the main character of the work from which the passage is taken. The volume is about 200 words.

Answers and evaluation criteria

1. M.Yu. Lermontov (1 point), "Hero of Our Time" (1 point), head "Princess Mary" (1 point), Pechorin (1 point), Vera (1 point). Only 5 points.
2. Monologue of the Circassian.

Task 2. HOLISTIC TEXT ANALYSIS

Option 1

Marietta Sergeevna Shaginyan (1888–1982)

BOUNCE

It is known that malice is the most contagious disease.

In one suburban area near Moscow, it was as common as it was promoted local conditions: the presence of eight wives of NEPmen, the wife of a specialist, a dozen employees of the People's Commissariat for Education and the outrageous proximity of a major party member, one of those that fit the category of "leaders". He settled in this cockroach nest as imprudently as sometimes naked children sit on an ant heap.

The party member was a widow and had a son. In the depths of their souls, the Nepmansh were very flattered that their children were playing with the son of the “leader”. They invited him to their place, asked about the inhabitants of the Kremlin, invited good friends from the city, and in a casual conversation inquired from Vitya:

– Do you know when your dad got a call from the Kremlin today?

When the boys ran away, the Nepmansha shrugged her shoulders and burred to the guest, turning green with envy, that "this unfortunate child" positively could not live without her Gregoire and that such an unforeseen acquaintance would have to continue in the city. The guest, returning to Moscow, did not miss the opportunity to talk about the family circumstances of the "leader" with the air of a man who knows all this like the back of his hand. So a thin, very thin spider web began to weave around the party member. The "leader" himself did not notice her even through his round foreign glasses. He was busy from morning to night. But Vitenka, the son of the "leader", little by little felt its effect on himself.

Vitya was a teenager with a breaking voice, flashing ears and long legs. The comrades accustomed him to special treatment: they spoke rudeness to him, showed disdain, forced him to fulfill requests, run errands, but at the same time looked around to see if there was anyone, so that it would not be wasted, but be seen and delivered to them. in special honor. Vitya has already noticed that no one treats him simply. If something is said, then with an afterthought, if they walk in an embrace, then without fail with special faces and broken lines, which people twist in front of a photographic camera. At first it tormented the boy. He considered himself ugly, uninteresting, unnecessary. Then the truth dawned on him: he suddenly realized that it was he, Vitya, the center of the universe and that all the frills and tricks of his comrades boiled down to one thing - to win him, Vitino, passion, invade his, Vitya, sphere, become him, Vitya, his own brother. Then it became pleasant for the boy to visit summer residents and answer their questions about the Kremlin.

As a reward, he began to demand pleasure for himself: at first this was expressed in the innocent absorption of ice cream paid for by summer residents, then in the predominant use of other people's swings, a hammock, a boat, a croquet. And, finally, in the frequent repetition of the phrase: “I like it,” which entailed the transfer of Gregoire’s gun, Ninochka’s postcards, Dusik’s album, Lyolik’s fishing rod, etc. to his ownership, ad infinitum.

The more Vitya deteriorated, the more maliciously the summer residents became. In the mornings, when Soviet employees left for the city, a coffee pot with mocha was fragrant on the balcony near the special lady and a piece of ice on the amber rustic oil. The NEP men gathered here, and even an employee of the People's Commissariat of Education on vacation, big, smooth, shaven, with drooling lips, resembling an English dog, noisily climbed the stairs, moved chairs, sat down, stretched out her hands to the fringed napkins, saucers, sugar bowl, milk jug, and she did all this as if she was being chased by cars. The special lady rubbed the washed cups, put sugar into them with tweezers, and when a fragrant stream poured from the coffee pot, the thinnest curly paths crawled up from the sugar and diverged at the top like sweet fans. Now find a home where all this happens, where sugar smells in a Saxon cup, where the fringes of napkins are ironed and cast blue.

“Yes, you know, such coffee as you have ...” the employee invariably began, cutting a fried kalach in half and buttering it thickly. “It takes culture to serve that kind of coffee.

Salt followed the butter, then both sides were put together and brought to the mouth, while a cup of heavy cream was placed in front of the guest on a brown mocha background.

Nepmanshi looked enviously at the special lady. The mystery of this coffee culture hurt their vanity. They set the table in the morning with caviar, ham, radishes, pate, pies, olives, and all sorts of fancy biscuits. But all this faded, did not arouse appetite, seemed petty-bourgeois in front of the snow-white serving of the special lady and in front of her coffee, to which only butter, rolls and salt were served.

“Don’t think that our government doesn’t understand this,” the hostess smiled, “no matter what they say, everyone likes good things. Take parenting. They can scold Europe as much as they want, but as soon as it comes down to it, Europe comes first for them. What would we sinners be called if we dared to send our children to study abroad? Do you know, darling, that so-and-so (looking around, lowering his voice, lips forming a heart and approaching the ear of a neighbor) ... is raising his son in college?

- Yes you! What a disgrace! - An employee of the People's Commissariat of Education throws up her hands.

- Nothing is a shame, but on the contrary, very smart. And such and such ( new whisper) keeps both children in Germany, and such and such in Switzerland, and such and such ... Well, really, this is better than raising such a terrible, terrible monster, devoid of the slightest education. Look how disgusting he is. Vitenka, Vitenka, come here, my dear, we missed you!

A boy with clay-stained knees, disheveled, cackling for no reason, slowly approached the balcony. He was followed by dapper, fashionably dressed, clean children of the Nepmanche and the hostess: girls in tight knitted dresses with embroidered pockets - a gift from belle soeur from Paris, boys in white linen suits from a private store on Petrovka.

- Mom, Vitya says that he knows how to make mines, and he has dynamite!

- No, Vitenka, no! the special lady screamed in fright. We know what you can do. But this is by no means possible. Show us something else! You know, dear (she pointedly turned to the employee of the People's Commissariat of Education), Vitya is a wonderful boy. He knows how to shoot, swim, tame bulls. Of course, we do not allow him to endanger, otherwise he would show you such miracles ...

– I can jump from the third floor! Vitenka said hoarsely, not looking at anyone. He knew that these words were expected of him. He boasted already of all the exploits that he subtracted from his children's library. It was possible to brag with impunity: everyone is afraid of his dad and would never let him make even a scratch on himself. He raised his head, looked at the roof of the dacha - just three floors, an exit from the attic window, a flat cornice on which you can heroically stretch out, lift both arms up, sigh.

I'll jump off the roof! - Vitya shouted belligerently, turned and ran to the kitchen, from where it was possible to get into the attic.

“Look after his manners, my dear,” the special lady said not loudly, but squeamishly and clearly, “he’s some kind of fair jester: no pride, no truthfulness, no dignity. I literally burst out laughing sometimes.

She looked up and made her most serious face.

- Vitenka, oh, what a boy! You again! Well, we believe, we believe, now leave the roof!

But before she finished her sentence, before Vitenka made his heroic swing and left the roof, before the employee of the People's Commissariat for Education had time to create a suitable expression, appeared in front of the balcony small man with a round clear forehead, with curly hair and wearing foreign-made glasses - Vitya's father, a man from the Kremlin.

He returned to the dacha in the car, looked for the boy, did not find it, went down to the neighbors through the side gate, past the vegetable gardens and wanted to call his son, as he involuntarily stopped. He became an unintentional witness to the scene that had played out and listened to the entire conversation over coffee from the first to last word. Raising his head, he looked at his son and saw his face. Vitya stood on the roof, neither alive nor dead. His knees shook. high cheekbones child's face with narrow eyes, it kept all the acquired vices on the outside, as they keep nuts on a plate - artlessly and with complete inability to hide them: there was vanity, cowardice, naivety, boastfulness, confusion, readiness to do as required, the simplicity of a bewildered creature.

“Well,” the father said expressively, never taking his eyes off his son, “ jump!

- Vitenka, dad is joking! the special lady shouted charmingly. - Run quickly, run from the roof!

The man from the Kremlin didn't even raise an eyebrow. Vitya on the roof did not move.

Both father and son looked at each other intently.

“Well,” Father repeated slowly, “jump!” One, two, tr...

The boy waved his arms and frantically jumped off the roof. He fell on the round lawn. The squealing ladies crowded around him.

On the gray, dusty grass lay a round head with a face turned upwards - a face resembling a plate, from which with one stroke they brushed away, like nuts, all his childhood vices, and instead of vanity, boasting, cowardice, stupidity, two eyes, guiltily, but with a cunning pleasure, slipped into his father's eyes. But Vitina's lips were pale and weeping. Vitya had a sprained leg.

The bespectacled man bent over his boy and placed his hand on his forehead. Then he picked up his clumsy body, pressed it to himself and carried it away.

Mirra Lokhvitskaya (Maria Alexandrovna Lokhvitskaya) (1869–1905)

If my happiness were a free eagle,
If proudly he soared in the blue sky, -
I would draw my bow with a melodious arrow,
And alive or dead, but would he be mine!

If my happiness were a wonderful flower,
If that flower grew on a steep cliff, -
I would get it without fear of anything,
I would have torn it off and drunk on its breath!

If my happiness were a rare ring
And buried in the river under loose sand,
I would sink to the bottom like a mermaid for him,
It would shine on my hand!

If my happiness were in your heart,
Day and night I would burn him with a secret fire,
So that, without division, forever given to me,
Only I trembled and beat it!

For ease of assessment, we suggest focusing on the school four-point system. So, when assessing according to the first criterion, 0 points correspond to a “two”, 5 points to a “three”, 10 points to a “four” and 15 points to a “five”. Of course, intermediate options are possible (for example, 8 points correspond to a “four with a minus”).

The maximum score for all completed tasks is 70.

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1 ALL-RUSSIAN OLYMPIAD OF SCHOOLCHILDREN IN LITERATURE uch. SCHOOL STAGE. 11 CLASS 1. "FINE HORSES" Read. This chubar horse was very cunning and showed only for the sake of appearance, as if he was lucky, while the native bay and harness coat of color, called the Assessor, because he was acquired from some assessor, worked with all his heart, so that even in their eyes there was noticeably the pleasure they derive from it. "Cunning, cunning! I'll outwit you!" [the coachman] said, rising and whipping the sloth with his whip. “You know your business, you German pantalon! A respectable bay horse, he is doing his duty, I will gladly give him an extra measure, because he is a respectable horse, and the Assessor is also a good horse ... Well, well! what are you shaking your ears? You fool, listen when they say! I'm not going to teach you, ignoramus! Look where it's crawling!" Here he again whipped him with a whip, saying: “O, barbarian! You damned Bonaparte! .. ”Then he shouted at everyone:“ Hey you, my dears! and lashed all three of them, no longer as a punishment, but to show that he was pleased with them. Having delivered such pleasure, he again turned his speech to the chubarom: “You think that you will hide your behavior. No, you live by the truth when you want to be honored. Here is the landowner that we were, good people. I'll be happy to talk if a good person; with a good person we are always our friends, subtle buddies: whether to drink tea or have a snack with pleasure, if a good person. good man everyone will respect. Here everyone respects our gentleman, because, you hear, he performed the state service, he is a scole adviser ... ”1. Determine where this passage is taken from. Write the name of the author, the title of the work, the names of the coachman, gentleman and "landowner". 2. Imagine that the horse is endowed with the gift of speech. What could he say about his owner? Write a monologue of a chubar horse about the coachman and / or about the gentleman. The volume is about 200 words. 2. HOLISTIC TEXT ANALYSIS Select to analytical work only one option: prose or verse text. Write coherently, freely, clearly, convincingly and competently. Suggested word count. 1

2 Option 1 Vasil Vladimirovich Bykov () RELAY RELAY He fell on the fenced pulp of the garden soil, not having reached just some ten steps to the white house cut by fragments with a destroyed tiled roof of yesterday's "landmark three". Before that, having torn his tunic, he made his way through the thicket of a hedge, in which from the very beginning of this fine April morning bees were buzzing, flying, and, having glanced at a rare chain of people running to the outskirts of houses, he waved his arms and shouted through the shots: Take to the left , on the pick!!! Then he bent down, butted the air with his head, and, dropping his pistol, buried his face in the warm flesh of the earth. At this time, Sergeant Lemeshenko, brandishing his machine gun, wearily jogged along the prickly, neatly trimmed green wall of the fence and almost ran into his outstretched platoon. At first he was surprised that he stumbled so inopportunely, then everything became clear to him. The lieutenant froze forever, clinging his fair-haired head to the loose earth, tucking under him left leg, stretching out his right, and several disturbed bees fussed over his motionless sweaty back. Lemeshenko did not stop, only nervously twitched his lips and, picking up the command, shouted: Platoon, move to the left! On the pick! Hey, to hell!!! However, he did not see a platoon, two dozen machine gunners had already reached the fence, gardens, buildings and disappeared in the roar of the growing battle. To the right of the sergeant, in the neighboring courtyard, the face of the machine gunner Natuzhny, gray with fatigue, flashed behind the picket fence, somewhere behind him the young blond Tarasov appeared and disappeared. The rest of the fighters of his squad were not visible, but by the way their machine guns crackled from time to time, Lemeshenko felt that they were somewhere nearby. Holding his PPSh at the ready, the sergeant ran around the house, crunching his dusty boots on broken glass and tiles thrown from the roof. He was smoldering with sorrow for the murdered commander, whose next concern, like a baton, he picked up to turn the platoon to the front of the church. Lemeshenko did not really understand why it was to the church, but the last order of the commander had already gained strength and led him in a new direction. From the house along a narrow path lined with concrete tiles, he ran to the gate. Behind the fence stretched a narrow alley. The sergeant looked from one side to the other. Fighters ran out of the yards and also looked around. There Akhmetov jumped out near the transformer box, looked around and, seeing the squad leader in the middle of the street, went towards him. Somewhere among the gardens, 2

With a fierce roar, a mine exploded in 3 gray cottages and houses, nearby on a steep roof, knocked down by fragments, the tiles moved and fell down. Come on left! On the pick!!! shouted the sergeant, and he himself ran along the wire fence, looking for a passage. Ahead, from behind the curly green of nearby trees, a blue spire pierced into the sky, a new landmark of their offensive. In the meantime, machine gunners appeared one by one in the alley; a short, clumsy machine-gunner, Natuzhny, with crooked legs in windings, ran out; behind him is the novice Tarasov, who from the very morning did not lag behind the experienced, elderly fighter; from some yard, Babich, a bumpkin, climbed over the hedge in a winter hat turned back to front. "Couldn't find another passage, mattress," the sergeant mentally cursed, seeing how he first threw his machine gun over the fence, and then clumsily over the awkward, bearish body. Come here, come on! he waved, angry, because Babich, raising his machine gun, began to shake off his soiled knees. Faster! The submachine gunners finally understood the command and, finding passages, disappeared into the gates of the houses, behind the buildings. Lemeshenko ran into a rather wide asphalted yard, on which there was some kind of low building, apparently a garage. Following the sergeant, his subordinates Akhmetov, Natuzhny, Tarasov ran in here, the last cowardly was Babich. Lieutenant killed! the sergeant called to them, looking for a passage. Near the white house. At this time, from somewhere above and close, a burst rumbled, and the bullets left a scattering of fresh traces on the pavement. Lemeshenko rushed for cover under a blank concrete wall that enclosed the yard, followed by the others, only Akhmetov stumbled and grabbed the flask on his belt, from which water flowed in two streams. Dogs! Wherever they landed, damned Nazis From the pickaxe, Natuzhny said, peering through the branches of the trees towards the spire. His gloomy, smallpox-stained face became preoccupied. Behind the garage there was a gate with a latch tied with wire. The sergeant took out a fin and cut the wire with two strokes. They pushed the door and found themselves under the spreading elms of the old park, but they immediately fell. Lemeshenko cut with a machine gun, followed by bursts of Akhmetov and Tarasov, between the black sinewy trunks, the green, lean figures of the enemies ran in all directions. Not far away, behind the trees and the mesh fence, a square was visible, and behind it rose an already uncovered pickaxe, the Germans ran and fired there. Soon, however, they noticed the fighters, and from the first machine-gun fire, rubble splattered from the concrete wall, covering the cracked bark of old elms. It was necessary to run further, to the square and to the pickaxe, pursuing the enemy, not getting off him, not letting him come to his senses, but there were few of them. The sergeant looked 3

4 aside, no one else has yet made their way to this park: damn courtyards and hedges with their labyrinths held people back. Machine guns hit the wall, the slate roof of the garage, the soldiers sprawled under the trees on the grass and answered in short bursts. Natuzhny released from half a disk and there was nowhere to shoot, the Germans hid near the church, and their fire increased every minute. Akhmetov, lying next to him, only sniffled, flaring his thin nostrils angrily and looking at the sergeant. "Well, what's next?" this look asked, and Lemeshenko knew that others were also looking at him, waiting for a command, but it was not so easy to command something. Where is Babich? There were four of them with a sergeant: Natuzhny on the left, Akhmetov and Tarasov on the right, but Babich never ran out of the yard. The sergeant wanted to order someone to see what had happened to this bumpkin, but at that moment the figures of submachine gunners from their platoon flickered to the left; Lemeshenko did not even think, but rather felt that it was time to move on, towards the church, and, waving his hand to pay attention to those who were on the left, rushed forward. After a few steps, he fell under an elm tree, fired two short bursts, someone muffled muffled nearby, the sergeant did not see who, but felt that it was Natuzhny. Then he jumped up and ran a few more meters. On the left, the queues did not subside, as his submachine gunners advanced deep into the park. “Faster, faster,” the thought pounded in my head in time with my heart. Do not let him come to his senses, press, otherwise, if the Germans have time to look around and see that there are few machine gunners, then it will be bad, then they will get stuck here. After running a few more steps, he fell on the carefully swept, damp-smelling earth; the elms were already left behind, the first spring flowers were modestly yellowing nearby. The park ended, further, behind the green wire mesh, there was a square shining from the sun, paved with small squares of gray paving stones. At the end of the square, near the church, several Germans in helmets were bustling about. "Where is Babich?" for some reason, the thought intrusively drilled, although now he was seized with even greater anxiety: he had to somehow attack the church, running through the square, and this matter seemed to him not easy. Submachine gunners, not shooting very smoothly, ran out from behind the trees and lay under the fence. It was impossible to run further, and the sergeant was very worried about how to get out of this wired park. At last it seemed to dawn on him, he pulled a grenade out of his pocket and turned to shout to the others. But why shout in this roar! The only possible command here was own example, reliable commander's order: do as I do. Lemeshenko pulled the pin out of the fuse and threw a grenade under the fence net. 4

5 The hole turned out to be small and uneven. Having torn his tunic on his shoulder, the sergeant squeezed through the net, looked behind him, crouching down, Akhmetov ran, jumped up with a Natuzhny machine gun, more grenade explosions thundered nearby. Then, without stopping, he rushed forward with all his might, desperately knocking his rubber soles on the slippery paving stones of the square. And suddenly something strange happened. The square swayed, one edge reared up somewhere and hit him painfully in the side and face. He felt how briefly and loudly his medals clanged against the hard stones, close, near his face, drops of someone's blood splashed and froze in the dust. Then he turned on his side, feeling the unyielding rigidity of the stones with his whole body, Akhmetov's frightened eyes looked into his face from somewhere out of the blue sky, but immediately disappeared. For some more time, through the roar of shooting, he felt near him stifled breathing, the booming clatter of feet, and then all this floated further, towards the church, where the shots rattled unabated. "Where is Babich?" a forgotten thought flared up again, and anxiety for the fate of the platoon made him tense, move. "What is it?" drilled his dumb question. “Killed, killed,” someone in him said, and it was not known whether it was about Babich, or about himself. He understood that something bad had happened to him, but he did not feel pain, only fatigue bound his body and fog covered his eyes, preventing him from seeing whether the attack had succeeded, whether the platoon had escaped from the park. After a short gap in consciousness, he again came to his senses and saw the sky, which for some reason lay below, seemed to be reflected in a huge lake, and from above a square with rare bodies of fighters stuck to it fell on his back. He turned, trying to see someone alive, the square and the sky swayed, and when they stopped, he recognized the church, recently attacked without him. Now there were no more shots to be heard, but for some reason submachine gunners ran out of the gate and ran around the corner. Throwing back his head, the sergeant peered, trying to see Natuzhny or Akhmetov, but they were not there, but he saw the newcomer Tarasov running ahead of everyone. Bending down, this young fighter deftly ran across the street, then stopped, resolutely waved to someone: “Here, here!” and disappeared, small and puny next to the tall building of the pickaxe. Soldiers ran after him, and the square was deserted. The sergeant sighed for the last time and somehow immediately and forever calmed down. Others went to victory. (1959) 5

6 Option 2 Yakov Petrovich Polonsky () * * * Blessed is the embittered poet, If only he moral cripple, Crowns to him, hello to him Children of the embittered age. He, like a titan, shakes the darkness, Looking for a way out, then light, He does not trust people's mind, And he does not expect an answer from the gods. With his prophetic verse, Disturbing the sleep of respectable men, He himself suffers under the yoke of obvious contradictions. Loving with all the ardor of his heart, he cannot bear the mask And does not ask for anything purchased In exchange for happiness. Poison in the depths of his passions, Salvation in the power of denial, In love are the germs of ideas, In ideas there is a way out of suffering. His involuntary cry is our cry. His vices are ours, ours! He drinks with us from a common cup, As we are poisoned and great. (1872) The maximum score for all completed tasks is 70. 6

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