RIGHT HAND
That winter I arrived in Tashkent almost dead. That's how I came here to die.
And they brought me back to live.
It's been a month, a month, and another month. The fearless Tashkent spring passed outside the windows, entered the summer, everywhere it was already densely green and it was quite warm when I began to go out for a walk with unsteady legs.
Still not daring to admit to myself that I am recovering, even in my wildest dreams I measure the life span added to me not in years, but months, - I slowly stepped along the gravel and asphalt paths of the park, which had grown between the buildings medical institute. I often had to sit down, and sometimes, from dissecting X-ray nausea, and lie down, lowering my head.
I was like that, but not like the patients around me: I was much more disenfranchised than them and forcedly silent than them. They were visited on dates, their relatives cried for them, and their concern was one, their goal was to recover. And I had almost nothing to recover for: at the age of thirty-five, I had no relatives in the whole world that spring. I didn’t have a passport yet, and if I were to recover now, I would have to leave this greenery, this fruitful side - and return to my desert, where I was exiled forever, under public supervision, with marks every two weeks, and from where the commandant's office for a long time did not comfort me and release the dying man for treatment.
About all this I could not tell those around me. freestyle sick.
If I told you, they wouldn't understand...
But on the other hand, having ten years of slow reflections behind me, I already knew the truth that the true taste of life is comprehended not in many things, but in small things. Here in this uncertain step with still weak legs. In a careful, so as not to cause a prick in the chest, inhale. In one potato not beaten by frost, caught from the soup.
So this spring was for me the most painful and most beautiful in my life.
Everything was forgotten or not seen for me, everything is interesting: even the ice cream cart; even a sweeper with a hose; even vendors with bunches of oblong radishes; and even more so - a foal that wandered onto the grass through a breach in the wall.
Day by day, I dared to move further from my clinic - along the park, planted, probably, at the end of the last century, when these solid brick buildings with open jointing were laid. From the rising of the solemn sun, all through the southern day, and still deep into the yellow-electric evening, the park was filled with lively traffic. The healthy moved quickly, the sick walked slowly.
Where several alleys flowed into one, going to the main gate, a large alabaster whitened, Stalin with a stone grin in his mustache. Further along the path to the gates with even discharge were placed other leaders, smaller ones.
Then there was a stationery kiosk. It sold plastic pencils and tempting notebooks. But not only my money was sternly counted, but I already had notebooks in my life, then they got into not there, and I reasoned that it was better never to have them.
At the very gates there was a fruit stall and a teahouse. Us, the sick, in our striped pajamas, V the teahouse was not allowed, but the fence was open, and one could look through it. I have never seen a live teahouse in my life - these separate teapots for each with green or black tea. I was in a tea house European part, with tables, and Uzbek - with a solid platform. They ate and drank quickly at the tables, left a trifle in a drunken bowl for payment and left. On the platform, on mats under a reed awning stretched from hot days, they sat and lay down for hours, some for days, drank tea after teapot, played dice, and as if the long day did not call them to any duties.
The fruit stall also sold for the sick, but my exiled pennies cringed at the prices. I examined with attention the slides of apricots, raisins, fresh cherries - and departed.
Then there was a high wall, the patients were not allowed out of the gate either. Through this wall, two or three times a day, orchestral funeral marches(because the city is a millionth, and the cemetery was - here, nearby). For about ten minutes they sounded here, while the slow procession passed the town. The beats of the drum beat off a detached rhythm. This rhythm did not affect the crowd, its twitches were more frequent. The healthy ones only slightly looked around and again hurried to where they needed (they all knew very well what was needed). And the patients during these marches stopped, listened for a long time, leaned out of the windows of the buildings.
The more clearly I freed myself from the disease, the more certain it became that I would remain alive, the more sadly I looked around: I was already sorry to leave it all.
At the medical stadium, white figures were tossed with white tennis balls. All my life I wanted to play tennis, and I never did. A muddy-yellow furious Salar was seething under the steep bank. Overshadowing maples, sprawling oaks, tender Japanese acacias lived in the park. And the octagonal fountain tossed thin fresh silver jets - to the tops. And what kind of grass was on the lawns! - juicy, long forgotten (in the camps they ordered to weed it out as an enemy, none grew in my exile). Just lying face down on it, peacefully inhaling the herbal smell and the sun-warmed up soarings - it was already bliss.
Here, in the grass, I was not alone. Here and there, medical students sweetly crammed their plump textbooks. Or, choking in stories, they went off the test. Or, flexible, shaking their sports suitcases, from the shower of the stadium. In the evenings, indistinguishable, and therefore triple attractive, girls in untouched and touched dresses walked around the fountain and rustled the gravel of the alleys.
I felt excruciatingly sorry for someone: not only my peers, frozen near Demyansk, burned in Auschwitz, poisoned in Dzhezkazgan, dying in the taiga - that these girls will not get to us. Or these girls - for what I will never tell them, and they will never know.
And all day long, women, women, women poured down gravel and asphalt paths! - young doctors, nurses, laboratory assistants, registrars, housekeepers, distributors and relatives who visit patients. They passed me in snow-strict robes and in bright southern dresses, often translucent, who are richer - rotating fashionable Chinese umbrellas over their heads on bamboo sticks - sunny, blue, pink. Each of them, flashing in a second, made up a whole plot: her life lived before me, her possible (impossible) acquaintance with me.
I was pathetic. My emaciated face bore what I had experienced - the wrinkles of the forced gloom of the camp, the ashy deadness of hardened skin, the recent poisoning by the poisons of the disease and the poisons of medicines, which added green to the color of my cheeks. From the protective habit of obeying and hiding, my back was hunched. The striped jester's jacket barely reached my stomach, the striped trousers ended above the ankles, the corners of the footcloths, brown from time, hung out of the blunt-toed camp tarpaulin boots.
The last of these women would not have dared to walk beside me!.. But I did not see myself. And my eyes, no less transparent than theirs, let the world inside me.
So one evening before evening I stood at the main gate and looked. The usual stream rushed past, umbrellas swayed, silk dresses flickered, flax trousers with light belts, embroidered shirts and skullcaps. Voices mingled, they sold fruit, they drank tea behind the fence, they threw dice - and at the fence, leaning against it, stood an ungainly little man, like a beggar, and in a breathless voice sometimes addressed:
Comrades... Comrades...
The motley busy crowd did not listen to him. I went:
What do you say, brother?
This man had an exorbitant belly, larger than that of a pregnant woman - sagging like a bag, bursting a dirty-protective tunic and dirty-protective trousers. His boots, with padded soles, were heavy and dusty. Unsuitable for the weather, a thick, unbuttoned coat with a greasy collar and worn cuffs burdened his shoulders. On his head lay an ancient, tattered cap, worthy of a garden scarecrow.
His swollen eyes were cloudy.
He raised one hand clenched into a fist with difficulty, and I pulled out a sweaty crumpled piece of paper from it. It was an application from Citizen Bobrov, written in an angular form with a pen clinging to the paper, with a request to be taken to the hospital - and on the application sideways were two visas, in blue and red ink. The blue ink was city health and expressed a reasonably motivated refusal. Red ink ordered the clinic of the medical institute to admit the patient to the hospital. The blue ink was yesterday and the red ink is today.
Well, - I loudly explained to him, as if he were deaf. - You need to go to the emergency room, to the first building. You will go, that means, right past these ... monuments ...
RIGHT HAND
That winter I arrived in Tashkent almost dead. That's how I came here to die.
And they brought me back to live.
It's been a month, a month, and another month. The fearless Tashkent spring passed outside the windows, entered the summer, everywhere it was already densely green and it was quite warm when I began to go out for a walk with unsteady legs.
Still not daring to admit to myself that I am recovering, even in my wildest dreams I measure the life span added to me not in years, but months- I slowly stepped along the gravel and asphalt paths of the park, which had grown between the buildings of the medical institute. I often had to sit down, and sometimes, from dissecting X-ray nausea, and lie down, lowering my head.
I was like that, but not like the patients around me: I was much more disenfranchised than them and forcedly silent than them. They were visited on dates, their relatives cried for them, and their concern was one, their goal was to recover. And I had almost nothing to recover for: at the age of thirty-five, I had no relatives in the whole world that spring. I didn’t have a passport yet, and if I were to recover now, I would have to leave this greenery, this fruitful side - and return to my desert, where I was exiled forever, under public supervision, with marks every two weeks, and from where the commandant's office for a long time did not comfort me and release the dying man for treatment.
About all this I could not tell those around me. freestyle sick.
If I told you, they wouldn't understand...
But on the other hand, having ten years of slow reflections behind me, I already knew the truth that the true taste of life is comprehended not in many things, but in small things. Here in this uncertain step with still weak legs. In a careful, so as not to cause a prick in the chest, inhale. In one potato not beaten by frost, caught from the soup.
So this spring was for me the most painful and most beautiful in my life.
Everything was forgotten or not seen for me, everything is interesting: even the ice cream cart; even a sweeper with a hose; even vendors with bunches of oblong radishes; and even more so - a foal that wandered onto the grass through a breach in the wall.
Day by day, I dared to move further from my clinic - along the park, planted, probably, at the end of the last century, when these solid brick buildings with open jointing were laid. From the rising of the solemn sun, all through the southern day, and still deep into the yellow-electric evening, the park was filled with lively traffic. The healthy moved quickly, the sick walked slowly.
Where several alleys flowed into one, going to the main gate, a large alabaster whitened, Stalin with a stone grin in his mustache. Further along the path to the gates with even discharge were placed other leaders, smaller ones.
Then there was a stationery kiosk. It sold plastic pencils and tempting notebooks. But not only my money was sternly counted, but I already had notebooks in my life, then they got into not there, and I reasoned that it was better never to have them.
At the very gates there was a fruit stall and a teahouse. Us, the sick, in our striped pajamas, V the teahouse was not allowed, but the fence was open, and one could look through it. I have never seen a live teahouse in my life - these separate teapots for each with green or black tea. There was a European part in the teahouse, with tables, and an Uzbek part with a solid platform. They ate and drank quickly at the tables, left a trifle in a drunken bowl for payment and left. On the platform, on mats under a reed awning stretched from hot days, they sat and lay down for hours, some for days, drank tea after teapot, played dice, and as if the long day did not call them to any duties.
The fruit stall also sold for the sick, but my exiled pennies cringed at the prices. I examined with attention the slides of apricots, raisins, fresh cherries - and departed.
Then there was a high wall, the patients were not allowed out of the gate either. Through this wall, two or three times a day, orchestral funeral marches rolled into the medical town (because the city is a millionth, and the cemetery was right here, nearby). For about ten minutes they sounded here, while the slow procession passed the town. The beats of the drum beat off a detached rhythm. This rhythm did not affect the crowd, its twitches were more frequent. The healthy ones only slightly looked around and again hurried to where they needed (they all knew very well what was needed). And the patients during these marches stopped, listened for a long time, leaned out of the windows of the buildings.
The more clearly I freed myself from the disease, the more certain it became that I would remain alive, the more sadly I looked around: I was already sorry to leave it all.
That winter I arrived in Tashkent almost dead. That's how I came here to die.
And they brought me back to live.
It's been a month, a month, and another month. The fearless Tashkent spring passed outside the windows, entered the summer, everywhere it was already densely green and it was quite warm when I began to go out for a walk with unsteady legs.
Still not daring to admit to myself that I was recovering, even in my wildest dreams I measured the added life span not in years, but in months - I slowly stepped along the gravel and asphalt paths of the park that had grown between the buildings of the medical institute. I often had to sit down, and sometimes, from dissecting X-ray nausea, and lie down, lowering my head.
I was like that, but not like the patients around me: I was much more disenfranchised than them and forcedly silent than them. They came on dates, their relatives cried for them, and their only concern was one goal - to recover. And I had almost nothing to recover for: at the age of thirty-five, I had no relatives in the whole world that spring. I didn’t have a passport yet, and if I were to recover now, then I would have to leave this green, this prolific side and return to my desert, where I was exiled forever, under public supervision, with marks every two weeks, and from where the commandant's office did not for a long time comfort me and release the dying man for treatment.
About all this I could not tell the free patients around me.
If I told you, they wouldn't understand...
But on the other hand, having ten years of slow reflections behind me, I already knew the truth that the true taste of life is comprehended not in many things, but in small things. Here in this uncertain knock with still weak legs. In a careful, so as not to cause a prick in the chest, inhale. In one potato, not beaten by frost, caught from the soup.
So this spring was for me the most painful and most beautiful in my life.
Everything was forgotten or not seen for me, everything is interesting: even the ice cream cart; even a sweeper with a hose; even vendors with bunches of oblong radishes; and even more so - a foal that wandered onto the grass through a hole in the wall.
Day by day, I dared to move further away from my clinic - along the park, planted, probably, at the end of the last century, when these solid brick buildings with open jointing were laid. From the rising of the solemn sun, all through the southern day, and still deep into the yellow-electric evening, the park was filled with busy traffic. The healthy moved quickly, the sick walked slowly.
Where several alleys flowed into one leading to the main gate, a large alabaster Stalin with a stone grin in his mustache stood white. Further along the path to the gates with even discharge were placed other leaders, smaller ones.
Then there was a stationery kiosk. It sold plastic pencils and tempting notebooks. But not only was my money sternly counted - but I had already had notebooks in my life, then they got into the wrong place, and I reasoned that it was better never to have them.
At the very gates there was a fruit stall and a teahouse. We, the sick, in our striped pajamas, were not allowed into the tea house, but the fence was open, and it was possible to look through it. I have never seen a live teahouse in my life - these separate teapots for each with green or black tea. There was a European part in the teahouse, with tables, and an Uzbek part, with a solid platform. They ate and drank quickly at the tables, left a trifle in a drunken bowl for payment and left. On the platform, on mats under a reed awning stretched from hot days, they sat and lay down for hours, some for days, drank tea after teapot, played dice, and as if the long day did not call them to any duties.
The fruit stall also sold for the sick, but my exiled kopecks cringed at the prices. I examined with attention the slides of apricots, raisins, fresh cherries - and departed.
Then there was a high wall, the patients were not allowed out of the gate either. Through this wall, two or three times a day, orchestral funeral marches rolled into the medical town (because the city has a million inhabitants, and the cemetery was right here, nearby). For about ten minutes they sounded here, while the slow procession passed the town. The beats of the drum beat off a detached rhythm. This rhythm did not affect the crowd, its twitches were more frequent. The healthy ones only slightly looked around and again hurried to where they needed (they all knew very well what was needed). And the patients during these marches stopped, listened for a long time, leaned out of the windows of the buildings.
The more clearly I freed myself from the disease, the more certain it became that I would remain alive, the more sadly I looked around: I was already sorry to leave it all.
At the medical stadium, white figures were tossed with white tennis balls. All my life I wanted to play tennis - and never did. Under the steep bank, a muddy-yellow, furious Salar was seething. Overshadowing maples, sprawling oaks, tender Japanese acacias lived in the park. And the octagonal fountain tossed thin fresh silver jets - to the tops. And what kind of grass was on the lawns! - juicy, long forgotten (in the camps they ordered to weed it out as an enemy, none grew in my exile). Just lying face down on it, peacefully inhaling the herbal smell and the sun-warmed up soarings - it was already bliss.
Here, in the grass, I was not alone. Here and there, medical students sweetly crammed their plump textbooks. Or, choking in stories, they went off the test. Or, flexible, shaking sports suitcases, from the shower of the stadium. In the evenings, indistinguishable, and therefore triple attractive, girls in untouched and touched dresses walked around the fountain and rustled the gravel of the alleys.
I felt excruciatingly sorry for someone: not like my peers, who were frozen near Demyansk, burned in Auschwitz, poisoned in Dzhezkazgan, dying in the taiga - that these girls would not get to us. Or these girls - for what I will never tell them, and they will never know.
And all day long, women, women, women poured along gravel and asphalt paths! - young doctors, nurses, laboratory assistants, registrars, housekeepers, distributors and relatives who visit patients. They passed me in snow-strict robes and bright southern dresses, often translucent, who are richer - rotating fashionable Chinese umbrellas over their heads on bamboo sticks - sunny, blue, pink. Each of them, flashing in a second, made up a whole plot: her life lived before me, her possible (impossible) acquaintance with me.
I was pathetic. My emaciated face bore what I had experienced—the wrinkles of forced sullenness in the camp, the ashy deadness of my tanned skin, the recent poisoning by the poisons of the disease and the poisons of medicines, which added green to the color of my cheeks. From the protective habit of obeying and hiding, my back was hunched. The striped jester's jacket barely reached my stomach, the striped trousers ended above the ankles, the corners of the footcloths, brown from time, hung out of the blunt-toed camp tarpaulin boots.
The last of these women would not have dared to walk beside me!.. But I did not see myself. And my eyes, no less transparent than theirs, let the world inside me.
So one evening before evening I stood at the main gate and looked. The usual stream rushed past, umbrellas swayed, silk dresses flashed, flax trousers with light belts, embroidered shirts and skullcaps. Voices mingled, they sold fruit, they drank tea behind the fence, they threw dice, and at the fence, leaning against it, stood an ungainly little man, like a beggar, and sometimes said in a breathless voice:
- Comrades... Comrades...
The motley busy crowd did not listen to him. I went:
- What do you say, brother?
This man had an exorbitant belly, larger than that of a pregnant woman, sagging like a bag, bursting her dirty protective tunic and dirty protective trousers. His boots, with padded soles, were heavy and dusty. Unsuitable for the weather, his shoulders were weighed down by a thick, unbuttoned overcoat with a greasy collar and frayed cuffs. On his head lay an ancient, shabby cap, worthy of a garden scarecrow.
His swollen eyes were cloudy.
With difficulty he lifted one hand, clenched into a fist, and I pulled out a sweaty crumpled piece of paper from it. It was an application from Citizen Bobrov, written in an angular form with a pen clinging to the paper, with a request to be taken to the hospital - and on the application sideways were two visas, in blue and red ink. The blue ink was city health and expressed a reasonably motivated refusal. Red ink ordered the clinic of the medical institute to admit the patient to the hospital. The blue ink was yesterday and the red ink is today.
“Well, then,” I explained loudly to him, as if he were deaf. - You need to go to the emergency room, to the first building. Go, that means, right past these ... monuments ...
But then I noticed that his strength had left him at the very goal, that he could not only question further and move his legs along the smooth asphalt, but he could not bear to hold a 1.5-kilogram worn-out bag in his hand. And I decided:
- All right, dad, I'll see you, let's go. Come on, bag.
He heard well. Relieved, he handed me the pouch, leaned on my outstretched hand and, almost without raising his legs, crawling with his boots along the asphalt, moved. I led him under the elbow through the dusty overcoat. The swollen belly seemed to outweigh the old man to the front. He often breathed heavily.
So we went, two raggedy, along the very alley where in my thoughts I took by the hand the most beautiful girls Tashkent. For a long time, slowly, we trudged past the blunt alabaster busts.
Finally turned around. On our way there was a bench with a lean. My companion asked to sit. I, too, was already beginning to feel nauseous, I had overstayed too much. We sat down. From here you can see the same fountain.
Even on the way, the old man said a few phrases to me, and now, catching his breath, he added: He needed to go to the Urals, and his registration in his passport was Ural, that's the whole problem. And the disease took him somewhere near Takhia-Tash (where, I remembered, some great canal was being built, abandoned later). In Urgench, he was kept in the hospital for a month, they let water out of his stomach and legs, they made it worse - and he was discharged. In Chardzhou, he got off the train and went to Ursatievsky - but he was not accepted anywhere for treatment, they were sent to the Urals, at the place of registration. He did not have the strength to ride the train, and there was no money left for a ticket. And now, in Tashkent, in two days, I managed to get laid.
What he was doing in the south, why he was brought here - I didn’t ask. According to medical certificates, his illness was intricate, and if you look at yourself, so - last disease. Looking at many of the sick, I clearly discerned that there was no longer any vitality left in him. His lips relaxed, his speech was indistinct, and a kind of dullness came over his eyes.
Even the cap tormented him. Raising his hand with difficulty, he pulled her to her knees. Raising his hand again with difficulty, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with an unclean sleeve. The dome of his head was bald, and all around, on the crown of his head, unkempt, dust-knocked hair, still blond, was preserved. Not old age brought him, but illness.
On his neck, pitifully thinner, like a chicken, there was a lot of superfluous skin and a three-sided Adam's apple walked separately in front.
On what was the head to hold on? As soon as we sat down, she fell on his chest, resting her chin.
So he froze, with a cap on his knees, with eyes closed. He seems to have forgotten that we just sat down to rest for a minute and that he needed to go to the emergency room.
In front of us, an almost noiseless fountain jet rose like a silver thread. On the other side were two girls side by side. I followed them in the back. One was in an orange skirt, the other in burgundy. I liked both very much.
My neighbor sighed audibly, rolled his head over his chest and, lifting his yellow-gray eyelids, looked at me from the side below:
- And you can not find a smoke, comrade?
- Get it out of your head, dad! I shouted. - You and I, at least without smoking, would still dig the earth with boots. Look at yourself in the mirror. smoke!
(I gave up smoking myself a month ago, I barely broke away.) He began to sniffle. And again he looked at me from under his yellow eyelids from the bottom up, somehow like a dog.
- All the same, give me three rubles, comrade!
I thought, to give or not to give. Whatever you say, I was still a prisoner, and he was, after all, free. How many years I worked there - I was not paid anything. And when they began to pay, they deducted it like this: for the convoy, for the coverage of the zone, for the bloodhounds, for the authorities, for the gruel.
From the small breast pocket of my buffoon jacket I took out an oilcloth purse and examined the papers in it. He sighed and handed the old man a trifle.
“Thank you,” he hissed.
With difficulty, keeping his hand raised, he took this rubbish, put it in his pocket - and immediately his freed hand fell on his knee. And the head again rested its chin on the chest.
They were silent.
During this time, a woman passed in front of us, then two more students. I liked all three very much.
- It also turned out well that you put up a resolution. And then they would hang around here for a week. Simple business. Many do.
He lifted his chin from his chest and turned to me. Meaning shone in his eyes, his voice trembled, and his speech became more intelligible:
- Son! They put me down because I'm an honored person. I am a veteran of the revolution. Sergey Mironych Kirov personally shook my hand near Tsaritsyn. I have to pay a personal pension.
A faint movement of cheeks and lips—the shadow of a proud smile—were expressed on his unshaven face.
I looked at his rags and again at himself.
Why don't they pay?
“Life is so easy,” he sighed. Now they don't recognize me. Which archives burned down, which ones are lost. And witnesses not to collect. And they killed Sergei Mironych ... It's my own fault, I didn't accumulate any certificates ... There's only one ...
His right hand—her knuckles were round and swollen, and the fingers interfered with each other—he brought it to his pocket, began to squeeze it in—but then his short animation was interrupted, he again dropped his hand, his head, and froze.
The sun was already setting behind the buildings of the buildings, and it was necessary to hurry to the emergency room (a hundred steps to it): in clinics it was never easy with places.
I took the old man by the shoulder:
- Papa! Wake up! Look, see the door? See? I'll go push for now. And you can - come yourself, no - wait for me. I'll take your bag.
He nodded as if he understood.
In the emergency room - a piece of a large shabby hall, fenced off by rough partitions (behind them somewhere there was a bathhouse, a dressing room, a hairdresser) - during the day, the sick always crowded and died for long hours until they were received. But now, surprisingly, there was not a soul. I knocked on the closed plywood window. It was dissolved by a very young sister with a slipper nose, with lips made up not red, but thick purple lipstick.
- What do you want? She was sitting at the table and reading, apparently, a comic book about spies.
She had such quick eyes.
I submitted an application to her with two resolutions and said:
- He can hardly walk. Now I will bring him.
"Don't you dare lead anyone!" she exclaimed sharply, without even looking at the paper. Don't know the order? We accept patients only from nine in the morning!
She didn't know the rules. I put my head through the window and, as much as I could fit, my hand, so that it would not slam me. There, hanging his lower lip crookedly and grimacing the face of a gorilla, he said in a thieves' voice, hissing:
- Listen, young lady! By the way, I'm not in your sixes. She became shy, pushed her chair back into the depths of her room and slowed down:
- There is no reception, citizen! At nine in the morning.
- You - read the paper! I strongly advised her in a low, unfriendly voice. She read.
- Well, so what! The order is general. And tomorrow, maybe there will be no places. This morning it wasn't.
She even uttered it as if with pleasure that this morning there were no places, as if pricking me with this.
But a person is passing through, you understand? He has nowhere to go.
As I got out of the window back and stopped talking with a camp grip, her face took on its former cruelly cheerful expression:
We are all visitors! Where to put them? Are waiting! Let it become an apartment!
- But you go out, see what condition he is in.
- What more! I will go to collect the sick! I'm not a nurse! And proudly trembled with her nose-shoe. She answered so briskly and quickly, as if she were wound up by a spring for answers.
“So who are you here for?” I slammed my palm on the plywood wall, and fine whitewash dust fell. "Then lock the doors!"
You weren't asked! Fuck! she exploded, jumped up, ran around and emerged from the corridor. - Who are you? Don't teach me! Us " ambulance» brings!
If not for those coarse purple lips and the same purple manicure, she would not be bad at all. Her nose adorned her. And she drove her eyebrows very significantly. The dressing gown on the chest was widely laid aside because of the stuffiness - and one could see a scarf, pink, glorious, and a Komsomol badge.
- How? If he had not come to you himself, but an ambulance had picked him up on the street, would you have accepted him? Is there such a rule?
She arrogantly looked at my ridiculous figure, I looked at her. I completely forgot that my footcloths protrude from my boots. She snorted, but took on a dry air and finished:
Yes, sick! There is such a rule.
And she went over the barrier.
A rustle came from behind me. I looked back. My companion was already standing here. He heard and understood. Holding on to the wall and leaning over to a large garden bench set up for visitors, he slightly waved his right hand, holding a worn wallet in it.
- Here ... - he uttered exhaustedly, - ... here, show her ... let her ... here ...
I managed to support him - lowered him onto the bench. With helpless fingers he tried to pull his only certificate out of his wallet and could not.
I took from him this shabby piece of paper, glued along the folds from spilling, and unfolded it. Typewriter typed were purple lines with letters dancing up and down from a row:
PROLETARIANS OF ALL COUNTRIES, UNITE!
This is given to comrade Bobrov N. K in the fact that in 1921 he really was in the glorious Provincial Detachment of Special Purpose named after the World Revolution and with his own hand chopped a lot of the remaining reptiles
Commissioner .......
And a pale purple print.
Stroking my chest with my hand, I asked quietly:
- Is this a Special Purpose? Which?
“Yeah,” he replied, barely keeping his eyelids open. - Show her.
I saw his hand, his right hand - so small, with swollen brown veins, with round swollen joints, almost unable to pull a certificate out of his wallet. And he remembered this fashion - how they cut down a footman from a horse obliquely.
Strange ... At full swing, the arms turned the saber and demolished the head, neck, part of the shoulder, this right hand. And now I couldn't keep my wallet...
Approaching the plywood window, I pressed it again. Guild Girl kept her head down as she read her comic book. On the page upside down, I saw a noble security officer jumping onto the windowsill with a pistol.
I quietly put the torn certificate on top of the book for her and, turning around, all the time stroking my chest from nausea, went to the exit. I had to lie down quickly, with my head down.
- Why are you laying out papers? Take it, sick! - the girl shot through the window after me.
The veteran went deep into the bench. His head and even his shoulders seemed to have sunk into his torso. Helpless fingers dangled. An open coat hung down. The round, swollen belly lay unbelievably in the fold on the hips.
"This dialogue will always remain risky, but will never become hopeless."
S.S. Averintsev
Reading is always a dialogue of equals. Does this mean that the books of A.I. Reading Solzhenitsyn with teenagers is pointless: won't they understand? No, it is absolutely necessary, setting your mind and theirs, consciousness, feelings, soul to the literature of thought, to the special tonality of truth, to a meeting with a warrior of the spirit, to thinking about “autonomy human personality”, as evidence of what one can give one’s life for. Is it easy to enter into a dialogue with Pushkin's "Prophet"? But the hero A.I. Solzhenitsyn is concerned about the same thing. Christian motives repentance, calling, languor of the human spirit, "light and darkness, the memory of death, martyrdom, Christian love, forgiveness, suppression of evil" - the basis of its fabric best books, for, as Georges Niva wrote: “The world of Solzhenitsyn is spiritualized, “pneumatic” - it is thoroughly imbued with the breath of the Beautiful – the True – the Good, which determines the tone, spirit of the works, their poetics. Therefore, a holistic - spiritual and aesthetic analysis of Solzhenitsyn's works is important, to which L.E.Gerasimova: " One cannot understand The Gulag Archipelago without responding to the author's thoughts about "the last situation of man in the world", without absorbing the experience of repentance and faith. I would like to add: it is impossible to understand without feeling the air of inner freedom, courage, boldness, selflessness. Metropolitan Anthony of Surozh wrote that “... a person who is not ready to pay with his whole life for standing in truth, in fidelity, will never live with all his strength. He will always be held back by fear, no matter how he perishes, no matter how he suffers, no matter how much he risks taking more than he is ready ... ”A.I. Solzhenitsyn was ready for this, and his reader has the opportunity to at least ask this question to himself in a dialogue with the author and the characters of his books. “Solzhenitsyn is destined, apparently, to take the place, tragic in his loneliness, of the exorcist of the Russian consciousness, the liberator from all the idols that captivated and captivated him,” Father Alexander Schmemann argued, reflecting on the fact that “sighted love is a mysterious combination of love and vision , where love, cleansed by "sight" from all illusion, addiction, blindness, becomes true love, and vision, deepened by love, becomes complete, capable of containing the whole truth, and not its torn fragments and lies at the basis of Solzhenitsyn's creativity, shows it to us as some miracle of conscience, truth and freedom. in an amazing way plunging into the world of A.I. Solzhenitsyn, reading himself can gain a vision of history if, first of all, the teacher is ready to break through to himself through a dialogue with the author and the text, ready to comprehend the issues of good and evil, ready to be a joyful conversationalist, ready to work on understanding each word, because it is in it, according to the author, "the constant breath of the writer", each sound and intonation, because linguistic commentary, understanding the rhythm, tone of the narration, the sound movement of the phrase, vocabulary are important keys to understanding the world of this author. About the style of A.I. Solzhenitsyn was written by the brightest thinkers of the 20th century. N. A. Struve: “His language is incomparable in terms of the energy of style, the richness of the dictionary, the explosiveness of syntax. It's already enough to pass for great artist. Perhaps there was no such energy in prose from Zamyatin. One is a power engineer, the other, on the contrary, has “poetry”, or that refinement of language, like Lermontov, who has fencing prose (this is the expression of Solzhenitsyn himself). Or in Gogol - juiciness, colorfulness, awe, etc. Everyone has their own. In addition, Solzhenitsyn has a peculiar, what is called in a slightly scientific language, chronotope, that is, the structure of time and space. Georges Niva: “Solzhenitsyn restores the original energy of the words “Beethoven's power of his art, his vision, the special density of his text is obvious. The richness of tonalities, the cruelty of irony, the heat of the polemicist raise him above all the prose of his country ... The verbal fabric of his creations is a symphony, perhaps without analogues. A.M. Kopirovsky: “... the Russian language of the era of socialism comes to life with him, acquiring qualities inherent only in classical Russian literature. This means that, as it were, on top of the sounds of “divine Hellenic speech” and “sharp Gallic sense” living in it, the play of “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” and the frightening depth of the insights of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, he laid angular, hard, even rude verbal “stones”, and they grew, played, resurrected! S.S. Averintsev: “Purely literary, Solzhenitsyn is strongest when he acts as, relatively speaking, a “battalist” ... when he depicts actions and events that are purely dynamic, the unpredictable outcome of which is decided from second to second ... He entered their protected chambers, mansions, district committees a ghoul Archipelago, without mittens, in a CTZ shoe”, - and there have not been such frantic dances of rhythmic prose to the sharp tinkling of consonances in Russian literature since the time of Andrei Bely. A. V. Urmanov noted that “the narration in most of Solzhenitsyn’s works is based not only on the plot-plot deployment historical events And human destinies, but also, to a large extent, on rhythmic repetitions and associative links, repetitive metaphors and symbolic images, motives and leitmotifs.
Summary of the lesson on the story of A.I. Solzhenitsyn "Right hand"
Methodological plan of the lesson:
1. This lesson is a continuation of the conversation about understanding tragedy. little man defenseless before a dead ideology. Lesson on the story of A.I. Solzhenitsyn is held to awaken motivation young man thinking about personal matters moral choice at any life situation. Therefore, the “peak”, the culmination of the lesson should be the answer to an unexpected question about the similarity of absolutely different people– similarity in the space of NOT FREEDOM, because the choice made by them is false, the ideas are false, there is no comprehension.
The position of the teacher: A person who has made a choice in life not in truth, not in conscience, has no vitality, because he is not free, which means he is worthy of PITY. The student reflects on his choice during the lesson.
All the teaching methods used by the teacher are various kinds of catalysts for the situation of BRIGHTNESS, which may or may not occur in the lesson. Such "catalysts" are situations of accumulation, when students systematize the material, identifying similarities, differences, key symbols; the situation of "getting used to the image"; creation of mental maps, syncwines, interviews with adults after reading the work aloud.
Lesson topic:
"Alive" and "dead" in the story of A.I. Solzhenitsyn's Right Hand.
The purpose of the lesson:
Awaken interest in the personality, creativity and worldview of A.I. Solzhenitsyn.
Lesson objectives:
To develop the ability to see the methods of updating the artistic word.
Build teamwork skills.
Develop independent reading skills.
Methods used in the lesson:
Getting used to the image: creating a monologue on behalf of the hero, acting incarnation of the image of the hero;
Group work;
Creation of mental maps;
Creation of charts, reference tables;
Writing syncwines;
Reading aloud by children to parents at home;
Interviews with parents based on the results of a work read aloud at home.
Basic concepts: living and dead as categories of inner freedom, synecdoche, the principle of "inverted situation", antithesis.
This lesson is a final reflection on the story "The Right Hand".
In the first lesson, we talk about the "miracle" of Solzhenitsyn's appearance in Russian literature, the brightest pages of his fate, the uniqueness of his personality, and the peculiarities of style. The main thesis of the lesson was the idea of the theme of sacrifice, self-denial as the main one in the work and fate of this artist. Father Alexander Schmemann believed that "the miracle of Solzhenitsyn is that he was distinguished by his uncompromising commitment to the truth, up to the victim, as his fate shows."
The second lesson we devoted to reading aloud the story "The Right Hand" and compiling mental maps initial perception of the literary text.
(Mind mapping(mindmapping, mental maps) is a convenient and effective technique for visualizing thinking and alternative recording. It can be used to generate new ideas, capture ideas, analyze and organize information, and make decisions. This is not a very traditional, but very natural way of organizing thinking, which has several undeniable advantages over conventional recording methods). The principle of compiling mental maps is that in the center of the sheet is written key concept, and while reading the text aloud by the teacher, the student writes down all the thoughts and feelings that arise in him.
In preparation for the lesson, homework was given:
Questions for the interview:
comrade Bobrov: culprit or victim?
How do you feel about the former Chekist comrade Bobrov?
Why do you think Comrade Bobrov does not feel pangs of conscience?
Why do you think there is no epiphany in the story?
What do you think the author wanted to tell the reader?
2. Group task: do comparison table portraits of a prisoner and security officer, highlighting key artistic details.
3. Group task: the meaning of the title of the story. The role of the image-symbol of the "right hand".
4. Individual task: "getting used to the image." Tell about the main situation of the story "The Right Hand" on behalf of the Chekist, nurse.
5. Group task: choose examples of the “subtleties” of vocabulary and talk about what the author expresses using the expressions: “two rags”, “unafraid spring”, “stupid alabaster busts”, “looked like a dog” ...
6. Group task: choose the most appropriate epigraph to the story "The Right Hand", substantiating it.
Material for choosing an epigraph:
1. “Vengeance is mine and I will repay” (L.N. Tolstoy “Anna Karenina”).
2. “Life has passed, but as if it had not lived” (A.P. Chekhov “The Cherry Orchard”).
3. “The first law of history is not to dare to tell any lies. Then - do not dare to remain silent about any truth and so that what is written does not arouse any suspicion of either partiality or hostility ”(Cicero).
4. “An angel lives in the human soul, sealed with superstition, but love will crush the seal ...” (N.S. Leskov “The Sealed Angel”).
5. ... Few live for eternity,
But if you are momentarily preoccupied -
Your lot is terrible and your house is fragile! (O.E. Mandelstam 1912).
6. “... Terrible is the fate of a man who misunderstood the main thing in his era. No matter how smart and decent he is, he is doomed to lie in everything, to do stupid things and meanness” (L.K. Chukovskaya).
7. “... you won't find such souls anywhere. Only in my city. Armless souls, legless souls, deaf-mute souls, chain souls, cop souls, cursed souls ... Leaky souls, corrupt souls, burnt souls, dead Souls... "(E. Schwartz," Dragon ").
8. “I was exhausted and, bent under a grave crown, went forward, begging fate for the simplest of skills - the ability to kill a person” (I.E. Babel, Cavalry).
9. “To each will be given according to his faith” (M.A. Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita).)
During the classes:
Students sit in groups that performed group tasks: (stylists, the meaning of the name, 2 portraits, “getting used to the image”, an epigraph.
Lesson exposure:
On the board there is a slide with a text about the hero’s death (the teacher intentionally includes the passage about the hero’s death immediately in a literary context in order to show from the very beginning of the lesson how A.I. Solzhenitsyn continues the traditions the best craftsmen Russian literature of the 19th century).
The story of A.I. Solzhenitsyn "The Right Hand":
“The veteran went deep into the bench. His head and even his shoulders seemed to have sunk into his torso. Helpless fingers dangled. An open coat hung down. The round, swollen belly unbelievably lay in the fold on the hips.
The story of I.A. Bunin "The Gentleman from San Francisco":
“... He rushed forward, wanted to take a sip of air - and wheezed wildly; his lower jaw fell off, illuminating his entire mouth with gold fillings, his head fell on his shoulder and wrapped around, his shirt chest bulged out like a box - and his whole body, wriggling, raising the carpet with his heels, crawled to the floor, desperately fighting with someone "
Teacher question:
Would you like to die like this?
Students express their thoughts.
Teacher's word: What do we see at the end of the story?
A helpless, sick old cripple - "veteran" of the CHON punitive detachment, who is not being helped, and he may be dying alone, and the narrator - the patient " cancer corps”, who spent 10 years out of 35 of his life in Stalin's camps and after that was exiled to eternal exile.
Let's try to see the final situation from the point of view of the former Chekist.
The word is given to the student, who, "getting used to" the image of the former Chekist, reads his possible internal monologue- reflection on his perception of the situation of the story.
Monologue of the Chekist (created by a student in the process individual work):
“I’m very tired… It’s very hard for me… I don’t understand why no one around pays attention to me. And I'm a well-deserved man! Veteran of the Revolution! Sergei Mironovich Kirov personally shook my hand near Tsaritsyn! I have to pay a personal pension! And the opposite happens, but because the archives burned down, the documents were lost, it is not possible to collect witnesses to my significant cases. Yes, I myself, probably, am to blame for the fact that I did not accumulate certificates, I only have one, my best document. After all, in the past I was a great man, served a great purpose - destroyed the enemies of the new Soviet state, with his hand he chopped a lot of these reptiles. But now I’ve become old, I don’t need anyone, and now I’ve arrived in Tashkent, despite the fact that I needed to go to the Urals and I have a Ural residence permit, but now the illness has seized, exhausted me, I have no strength, I can’t breathe, I’m sick , everything around seems black, dull, meaningless ... For a month I was kept in one city, then in another. During the illness, where I have only visited, but nowhere was there a single person who would help me. But I deserve gratitude for my great, significant past. I'm tired... No strength... I don't know what to do. No relatives, no relatives, no friends either. I don’t know who to turn to “Comrades, comrades!” - I shout, I say, and people pass by, and no one pays attention to me. The hot sun bakes my head, I'm tired, my body itches, my clothes are dirty, the disease haunts me, I can't even think about anything except this one disease. And then one man, after all, maybe a patient, even gave me three rubles, which I asked for, helped me get to the registry. This patient was the only person who listened to me and was not indifferent to me. He asked me to wait for him at the entrance, and he himself went to the emergency room, but I still, despite the fact that it was very difficult for me, decided to follow him. But when I got inside, I heard the nurse telling the man that they couldn't see me because I didn't come in an ambulance. I gave my friend my certificate to show it to the registrar. I was sure that she could not refuse me. After all, I am an honored person! Veteran of the Revolution! I was in the glorious Special Purpose Detachment named after the World Revolution, and with my own hand I chopped down many reptiles. The nurse can't help but see me. But she did not even look at this certificate.
I'm very tired... I sat down on the bench. Weakness overcame me. Probably, something is wrong in this certificate, probably, it is not written in the right way, since this young girl refused me. It's very hard for me..."
teacher question: What is your attitude towards this person? What did your parents say when you interviewed them?
Teacher Conclusion 1: Freedom of choice is given to a person from birth, and therefore we will not now evaluate different points vision, but if you sympathize (and this is the most lively feeling) with the hero, you are thinking people, because “averageness is devoid of compassion” (L. Borges).
Teacher Conclusion 2 : The main situation of the story: a man in the face of death is a key one for Russian literature. Death as an assessment of life, a test for the viability of everything that a person lived, what he believed in. "Right brush" A.I. Solzhenitsyn is a story-symbol. Here, the death of a hero is a reflection not only of his life, his moral values, but also an assessment of the ideology of the state, an assessment of the revolution, an assessment of the worldview of a person of the Soviet era.
Lesson link:
The teacher gives the floor to the “epigraph” group, which was given materials with quotations from the works studied in the course of literature in advance, from which the students had to choose the most adequate epigraph to the story “The Right Hand”, substantiating it.
The group that chose the epigraphs is given the floor.
After the group talks about their choice, the teacher can also express their thoughts about the epigraph.
Solzhenitsyn, as the heir to Russian literature of the 19th century, evaluates the viability of an event, idea, deed at the cost of the life of one human life.
Raskolnikov, driven by the thought that "Break what you need ... take on suffering ... freedom and power over all trembling creatures and over the whole anthill! That's the goal"
…great person is able to take power into his own hands, regardless of any sacrifices, for the sake of great goals "to give himself permission to step over the blood", at the end of the novel he says: "I'm not an old woman, I killed myself ...".
Bazarov, before his death, sees red dogs in a dream, and this, perhaps, is a reflection on a godless theory proving the absence of spirituality, which collapses upon contact with life and, against the will of the theoretician, introduces him into the world of spirituality so fiercely denied by him.
"Professor Preobrazhensky - You are the creator (blot)," we read in Bulgakov's story " dog's heart» the author’s assessment of the idea of forcible improvement of the human race…
Teacher's conclusion: Thus, the classics of Russian literature expressed their attitude to any form of violence and lies, any manifestation of humiliation human dignity, asserting the unviability of an idea that is not based on humanity.
In order to see when and how the life of the main characters "broke off", let's turn to the text of the work and see how the author allows the reader to look into the world, the soul of the characters, to understand how they live
The word is given to the group, which, comparing the portraits of 2 heroes, singled out key word-symbols.
Before the performance of the group comparing the portraits of the heroes, the floor is given to a group of "stylists" who answer the question why Solzhenitsyn calls his heroes "rags", give a linguistic commentary on this word.
On the board, a slide with a table compiled by the group:
"Two rattlesnakes"
The world of the convict
The world of Chekist comrade Bobrov ("living corpse")
most painful and most beautiful spring in life
Eyes missed the world
Bliss - lie prone on the green grass, peacefully inhale the herbal smell
“I was like that, but not like the patients around me: I was much more deprived of their rights and forcedly silent than them. They were visited on dates, their relatives cried for them, and their concern was one, their goal was to recover. And I had almost nothing to recover for: at the age of thirty-five, I had no relatives in the whole world that spring. I didn’t have a passport yet, and if I were to recover now, then I would have to leave this green, this prolific side and return to my desert, where I was exiled forever, under public supervision, with marks every two weeks, and from where the commandant's office did not take me away for a long time and release the dying man for treatment.
"I was pathetic . My emaciated face bore what I had experienced - the wrinkles of the forced gloom of the camp, the ashy deadness of my hardened skin, the recent poisoning by the poisons of the disease and the poisons of medicines, which added green to the color of my cheeks. From the protective habit of obeying and hiding, my back was hunched. The striped jester's jacket barely reached my stomach, the striped trousers ended above the ankles, the corners of the footcloths, brown from time, hung out of the blunt-toed camp tarpaulin boots.
hardened hand
Desire to play tennis
Weak legs
taste of life
Last sickness
His swollen eyes were cloudy
some dullness found on the eyes
looked like a doggy
holding hands with difficulty
he is often hard exhaled, exhausted pronounce
speech was indistinct, snored
even a cap languished his
unkempt, dusty hair
a lot of superfluous skin hung on his neck, pitifully thinner, like a chicken, and a three-sided Adam's apple walked separately in front
"barely walks", we trudged
the right hand is so small, with swollen brown veins, with round swollen joints, almost unable to pull a certificate out of the wallet ... the joints of her fingers were round swollen, and the fingers interfered with each other ...
A clumsy little man, like beggar
“This man had an exorbitant belly, larger than that of a pregnant woman, sagging like a bag, bursting her dirty-protective tunic and dirty-protective trousers. His boots with padded soles were heavy and dusty. Not according to the weather aggravated shoulders a thick unbuttoned coat with a greasy collar and worn cuffs. On his head lay an ancient, shabby cap, worthy of a garden scarecrow.
“With difficulty, keeping his hand raised, he took this trifle, put it in his pocket - and immediately his freed hand flopped on his knee. And the head again rested its chin on the chest.
Life has died
He had no life force left.
Solzhenitsyn highlights the detail that the Chekist has no vitality, as opposed to the convict, who only comprehends the taste of life.
Why?
Remember the works of A.P. Chekhov, who in all his works fought for the dignity of man and considered the reason for the moral weakness of a person to be the absence of a common idea, a harmonious worldview and a harmonious whole of life. general idea he called the meaning of life, the absence of which deprives a person of integrity and separates from the surrounding people. A person who knows the meaning of life is generous, tolerant, indulgent to the shortcomings of those around him, and is internally free.
Not only the key symbol of the portrait of the former Chekist, but also the key symbol of the whole story is the image of the right hand, just like the “motif of dissection, chopping” (from the point of view of the researcher A.V. Urmanov) in all Solzhenitsyn’s books.
The word is given to a group of students who were preparing a reflection on the meaning of the title of the text.
A slide is projected on the board with the result of the work of the “meaning of the name” group. Pupils talk about what conclusions they came to, considering the title of the work in all possible contexts. Also, in advance, the teacher sets the task for them not only to voice the result of their work, but also to tell how they came to such conclusions, what literature they used, what sources they relied on, so that the rest of the students understand what the algorithm for performing this type of work is:
Conclusion: The image of the right hand is a symbol of everything “dead”: the absence of truth, a symbol of lack of freedom, and therefore the death of everything that does not have a higher meaning: violence, lies, humiliation of human dignity, lack of freedom, the idea of justifying violence for the sake of a great goal. The main character of the work is a brush, not a man, so the motive of retribution is not central.
Sinkwine example:
Right hand
Terrible, saggy, sick
Presses, impoverishes,
Takes the life of a hero
Suffering…
Question: What main character this story?
Conclusion: The main character of this story, as in Turgenev's novel "Fathers and Sons", is life itself. She is the main criterion for evaluating the actions of heroes. Ability to be open life and truth - a criterion for assessing sustainability inner world hero, his vitality, and therefore freedom as a moral category.
The author builds the story on the principle of the antithesis of the living and the dead, uses the technique of an inverted situation, comprehending why a person often replaces living dead. teacher question : Name the manifestations of "alive" and "dead" in the story, using our definition of the lesson: the living is that which has the highest meaning.
Pupils name examples of the manifestation of "alive", and in the course of further conversation and "dead" in the text.
The word is given to a group of "stylists" to explain why Solzhenitsyn calls the spring "unafraid". During the conversation, we also turn to the help of this group.
Table made by a group of students as homework closed on a blackboard.
After the guys offer their options, the table can be opened, giving the floor to the group that compiled it for a comment on their product.
alive
dead
Nature (excruciatingly beautiful unafraid spring)
Mercy
Memory of the past
Empathy
Caring for your neighbor
Humanity
Women
Life itself
wishes
Disease
suffering
A pity
busy traffic
Order
Happiness
Flowers
Fruit stall and teahouse
Ice cream cart
dead brush- key symbol
Help as a symbol of power
Rudeness
selfishness
Coarseness
Ignorance
lack of spirituality
Power
Ideology (idea of just retribution)
Dull alabaster busts
Alabaster Stalin with a stone grin in his eyes
Impudence
Lack of pity
dog look
Contempt
Spy comics
cloudy eyes
Injustice
Nurse's mauve lipstick
funeral march
The word is given to a student from the “getting used to the image” group, who was preparing the nurse’s internal monologue.
“I am very tired of all the hustle and bustle of the working day, these patients are so fastidious: it’s not right for them, it’s not like that, you won’t please. Well, it's finally evening, now you can sit down, maybe no one else will come. I put comics in my purse in the morning. Here they are, and here is my new lipstick, I need to make up my lips, try it, now I will get a mirror. I was told that it is very trendy color Yes, it's really beautiful. Well, now for comics, if only no one interferes, as I love spy stories. I close all the windows, I'm tired of everything. Well, who else is there, just sat down. What do you want? He is going to bring someone else, well, here it is, my whole shift is ending, I've had enough of these patients. Deal with it now for all eternity. They don’t know the order, so in the evening they decided to drag themselves along. It is necessary to answer sharply, let them know the order. I don’t want to talk anymore, I’ll slam the window and that’s it. Yes, he also climbs out the window, maybe a former prisoner will stab him yet, what is on their mind, the former? Let me move a little farther away, you have to be careful with him. I need to somehow explain to him how gladly I will get rid of them. Well, I finally got out, I don’t want to take them and I won’t. I also have to look at them, impudent, he knocks on the wall, but he himself cannot tuck footcloths into boots. Why does he care so much about this old man. What does he care about him, it seems they are not relatives. Well, no, I know the order, they came on their own two feet, after all, they weren’t brought by an ambulance, which means nothing will happen to them. I will spend more time on them. They invent illnesses for themselves and then rode. It seems to have let go, how tired I am. Now you can look through the magazine. So no, he also puts some paper. Take her. How annoying these patients are ... "
The teacher thus prepares a situation of surprise, insight, in which the guys, summarizing the previous material, comparing the known with the unknown proposed by the teacher, make small independent discoveries.
teacher question: What do you feel when listening to this heroine? Is it possible to say that the nurse and the former Chekist have something in common?
After listening to the answers of the students, the teacher can express his opinion on the situation.: Both heroes do not know “order”, they chose false values, and this causes pain, pity, compassion in the reader, because they are doomed to disappointment and bitterness, once having met with the thought that their life has “passed”, and they like they never lived...
Teacher's conclusion:
The principle of an inverted situation helps the reader to evaluate the actions of the hero, to see the author's position, which, it would seem, is not directly expressed anywhere. The author not only expresses the idea of the unacceptability of violence, but also argues that everything is lifeless that is not based on high idea humanity and individual freedom. If the cost of building a great future is a beggar, a lonely cripple, it makes no sense. The tragedy of the fate of a little man is that all the main human values were replaced by opposite ones, and he turned out to be defenseless before such an “order”.
The class works with a table of substitutions, where in column 1 the concepts (mythologems) that it operates with are written former Chekist and now a beggar suffering cripple. The task of the class is to fill in the column right in lesson 2 with words, expressions from the text, answering the teacher's questions, comprehending the essence of the substitution and its lifeless result.
Basic substitution: "alive" and "dead"
Order
What keywords would you use to define a world in which the poor cripple is denied the right to life?
scheme, routine, bureaucracy
services to the Fatherland
How did the world respond to the "victim" of the former Chekist?
indifference, cynicism of "ungrateful" compatriots
former Chekist
Who becomes a former respected person? What is the meaning of such a symbolic "fall"?
wretched, poor cripple
honored person
Through what detail of the text the motive is revealed tragic irony in relation to the thoughtless and senseless sacrifice of the protagonist, his devotion to false values?
comic book about chekists
patriotism
feat
heroism
How is the theme of false heroism revealed in the text?
cut a lot of bastards
killed his compatriots
served in the special forces (punisher)
faith in the idea
What detail of the text emphasizes the blind false faith of the hero?
blunt alabaster busts (a group of stylists provide linguistic commentary)
life died
The teacher asks the epigraph group to remind everyone of the words that she chose as an epigraph for the lesson, in order to make sure once again how accurate their choice was.
teacher question : What is the main idea of the author, which he conveys to the reader? Is the idea of retribution the main one in the work?
teacher's word: Keywords to understand this - order. It is in the world of Solzhenitsyn that which opposes chaos, that which has the highest meaning, which means vitality. Everything that does not make sense is lifeless, dead, and a person who does not understand this is NOT FREE and worthy in the first place. Pity .
Perhaps during the lesson, the guys themselves will come to the definition of what real order is:
“It is necessary to feel sorry for people”, “It is necessary to love the living!”
All are equal in suffering
It is impossible to build a life on faith in dead, meaningless things, because the end of the life of an unfree person can be meaningless and terrible.
Treat another person on the principle of humanity.
Slides on the board: Words by N.A. Struve also reflect main idea story by A.I. Solzhenitsyn: “He was a witness, a herald of the truth. All his work is a hymn to a man who remains a man in all circumstances. Solzhenitsyn's "man" sounds holy, good, this is the crown of creation, but if a person is ready for suffering, for self-restraint in every sense. All his work is the rehabilitation of man in the most inhuman age ”(N.A. Struve).
Finishing our conversation, I would like to hear the voice of another classic of Russian literature, for whom the image of "life" was the main one in his work.
And owe not a single slice
Don't back away from your face
But to be alive, alive and only, alive and only
Alive and only until the end ...
B. Pasternak.
Life, humanity, compassion, mercy are inextricably linked. If this does not happen in our life, it will become meaningless and “dead”, and our finale can be inglorious and terrible. Let's save each other from this.
