Ivan Bogomolov read the summary. Brief plot based on the story by Ivan Bogomolov and the main characters

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The story "Ivan", published in 1958 in the magazine "Znamya", brought recognition and success to the author. Andrei Tarkovsky based the story on the famous film "Ivan's Childhood". Tragic and truthful, in contrast to lisp works such as “Son of the Regiment” by V. Kataev, the story of a boy scout who dies at the hands of the Germans with full consciousness of his professional duty was immediately included in the classics of Soviet prose about the war.

Vladimir Bogomolov
IVAN

1

That night I was going to check the military guard before dawn and, having ordered to wake me up at four o'clock, went to bed at nine o'clock.

I was woken up earlier: the hands on the luminous dial showed five minutes to five.

Comrade senior lieutenant... and comrade senior lieutenant... allow me to address... - They shook me forcefully by the shoulder. In the light of the captured bowl flickering on the table, I saw Corporal Vasilyev from the platoon, who was on guard duty. - One was detained here... The junior lieutenant ordered to be brought to you...

Light the lamp! - I commanded, mentally cursing: they could have sorted it out without me.

Vasiliev lit a cartridge case flattened at the top and, turning to me, reported:

Crawling in the water near the shore. He doesn’t say why, he demands to be taken to headquarters. He doesn’t answer questions: I’ll only talk to the commander. He seems to have weakened, or maybe he’s faking it. The junior lieutenant ordered...

I stood up, pulled my legs out from under the blanket and, rubbing my eyes, sat down on the bunk. Vasilyev, a red-haired fellow, stood in front of me, dropping drops of water from his dark, wet raincoat.

The cartridge flared up, illuminating the spacious dugout - at the very door I saw a thin boy of about eleven, all blue from the cold and trembling; he was wearing a wet shirt and pants that stuck to his body; her small bare feet were covered in mud up to her ankles; At the sight of him, a shiver ran through me.

Go stand by the stove! - I told him. - Who are you?

He approached, examining me with a wary, focused gaze of large, unusually wide-set eyes. His face was high-cheeked, dark gray from dirt ingrained into his skin. Wet hair of an indeterminate color hung in clumps. In his gaze, in his exhausted expression, with tightly compressed, blue lips, one could feel some kind of internal tension and, as it seemed to me, distrust and hostility.

Who are you? - I repeated.

“Let him come out,” the boy said, chattering his teeth, in a weak voice, pointing his gaze at Vasilyev.

Add some wood and wait upstairs! - I ordered Vasiliev.

Sighing noisily, he, slowly, in order to prolong his stay in the warm dugout, straightened the firebrands, filled the stove with short logs and just as slowly left. Meanwhile, I pulled on my boots and looked expectantly at the boy.

Well, why are you silent? Where are you from?

Look! - I couldn’t help but smile. - Well, what next?

Who is "they"? Which headquarters should I report to and who is the fifty-first?

To the army headquarters.

Who is this fifty-first?

He was silent.

What army headquarters do you need?

Field mail ve-che forty-nine five hundred fifty...

Without a mistake, he gave the number of the field post office of our army headquarters. Having stopped smiling, I looked at him in surprise and tried to comprehend everything.

The dirty shirt that reached to his hips and the narrow short ports he wore were old, made of canvas, as I determined, of rustic tailoring and almost homespun; he spoke correctly, noticeably like the way Muscovites and Belarusians generally speak; judging by the dialect, he was a native of the city.

He stood in front of me, looking warily and aloofly from under his brows, quietly sniffling, and trembling all over.

Take everything off and rub yourself. Alive! - I ordered, handing him a not-so-fresh waffle towel.

He pulled off his shirt, revealing a thin body with visible ribs, dark with dirt, and hesitantly looked at the towel.

Take it, take it! It's dirty.

He began to rub his chest, back, and arms.

And take off your pants! - I commanded. - Are you shy?

He just as silently, fiddling with the swollen knot, not without difficulty untied the braid that replaced his belt, and took off his trousers. He was still quite a child, narrow-shouldered, with thin legs and arms, and looked no more than ten or eleven years old, although his face, gloomy, not childishly concentrated, with wrinkles on his convex forehead, gave him, perhaps, everything thirteen. Grabbing his shirt and trousers, he threw them into the corner towards the door.

And who will dry it - uncle? - I asked.

They'll bring everything to me.

That's how! - I doubted. -Where are your clothes?

He said nothing. I was about to ask where his documents were, but I realized in time that he was too young to have them.

I took out from under the bunk the old padded jacket of an orderly who was in the medical battalion. The boy was standing near the stove with his back to me - between his protruding sharp shoulder blades there was a large black mole, the size of a five-alt coin. Higher up, above the right shoulder blade, a scar stood out like a crimson scar, which I determined was from a bullet wound.

What do you have?

He looked over his shoulder at me, but didn't say anything.

I'm asking you, what's that on your back? - I asked, raising my voice, handing him a padded jacket.

Don't teach me! - I shouted at him, irritated. - You don’t understand where you are and how to behave. Your last name means nothing to me. Until you explain who you are, where you came from, and why you came to the river, I won’t lift a finger.

You will be responsible! - he said with obvious threat.

Don't scare me - you're still young! You won't be able to play the silent game with me! Be clear: where are you from?

He wrapped himself in a padded jacket that reached almost to his ankles and was silent, turning his face to the side.

Looking at me coldly and distantly, he turned away and remained silent.

You will talk?

“I don’t owe you anything,” I said irritably. - And until you explain who you are and where you come from, I won’t do anything. Write it down on your nose!.. Who is this fifty-first?

He was silent, fulfilled, concentrated.

Where are you from?.. - I asked with difficulty restraining myself. - Speak up if you want me to report on you!

After a long pause - intense thought - he squeezed out through his teeth:

From that shore.

From that shore? - I didn’t believe it. - How did you get here? How can you prove that you are from the other side?

I won't prove it. - I won’t say anything more. You don't dare question me - you will answer! And don't say anything on the phone. Only the fifty-first knows that I am from the other side. You must tell him right now: Bondarev is with me. That's all! They'll come for me! - he shouted with conviction.

Maybe you can still explain who you are, that they will come for you?

He was silent.

I looked at it for a while and thought. His last name meant absolutely nothing to me, but perhaps they knew about him at army headquarters? During the war, I got used to not being surprised by anything.

He looked pitiful and exhausted, but he behaved independently, and spoke to me confidently and even authoritatively: he did not ask, but demanded. Gloomy, not childishly concentrated and wary, he made a very strange impression; his claim that he was from the other side seemed to me an obvious lie.

It is clear that I was not going to report him directly to army headquarters, but it was my responsibility to report to the regiment. I thought that they would take him in and figure out for themselves what was what; I’ll still sleep for about two hours and go check the security.

I turned the phone handle and, picking up the receiver, called the regimental headquarters.

Bondarev?.. - Maslov asked in surprise. - Which Bondarev? A major from the operational department, a trustee or something? Where did he come to you from? - Maslov bombarded me with questions, as I felt, worried.

No, what a believer! - I don’t know who he is: he doesn’t speak. He demands that I report to Volga 51 that he is with me.

Who is this fifty-first?

I thought you knew.

We do not have the call sign "Volga". Divisional only. Who is he by title, Bondarev, what is his rank?

“He doesn’t have a title,” I said, smiling involuntarily. - This is a boy... you know, a boy of about twelve...

Are you laughing?.. Who are you making fun of?! - Maslov yelled into the phone. - Organize a circus?! I'll show you the boy! I'll report to the major! Have you been drinking or have nothing to do? I tell you...

1926–2003

This unforgotten distant war...

Exciting battle scenes, the roar of tanks, hurricane fire... None of this will happen here.

“Ivan” and “Zosya” are a war, but its other moments are almost quiet, almost peaceful.

With his palm under his cheek, wrapped in blankets, a little boy falls asleep in a front-line dugout... The July garden smells of honey and apples, and young Zosya, singing and dancing, walks through the garden along the path...

Almost quiet moments, but still of the same war that took more than twenty million lives from our people. A cruel, destructive and killing force hangs over these moments. How fragile, how ghostly-brief everything is quiet, peaceful, beautiful... And the sweet image of childhood will only flicker, and first love will end... And this sleeping boy has no future, but in apple orchard there are two hundred and three filled funerals on the table of the loving young chief of staff, and it won’t be long to wait for a new battle.

The man who wrote this book considers it his duty to talk about the war so that those who did not return could not reproach him for lying. He does not give free rein to fiction, and if he speaks about something, he knows it firmly. What was, was! – and this is the main thing that needs to be taken into account. He wants us all, who live in the comfort and warmth of a prosperous world, to feel more strongly how much courage and spiritual fortitude that war demanded from a person. And how much bitterness and pain for the suffering of his loved ones, his people, for a tormented, disfigured life such a courageous man carried within himself. And he also wants us to feel how saving this pain is for human nature, unabated, unquenchable, unforgiving...

Vladimir Bogomolov fought at a very young age, was wounded, and was awarded more than once; The front roads of Belarus, Poland, Germany, and Manchuria were left behind. His novel about military counterintelligence officers (“In August '44..."), first published in 1974, opened up to us an area of military activity with which the author was well acquainted. This novel, like the previously written stories “Ivan” and “Zosya,” belongs to the best works our literature about the Great Patriotic War.

“Ivan” is a story about a twelve-year-old boy. He is rarely called Vanyusha, Vanyushka. Adults are reserved, kind words are inappropriate: you can’t feel sorry for the boy, and then let him go, equip him to a place where it’s not him, but he, who has to risk his life... The adults, the military officers, even seem to be embarrassed by Ivan, they feel awkward, restless, uneasy. A bitter knowledge lives inescapably in them: we, strong, armed, are here, among our own, and he, half-naked, half-starved, defenseless, wanders there, in the enemy’s rear, an inch from death. And nothing can be done, nothing can be changed. This “unchildish concentration” of his gaze, this slow eating without much desire, as if he had lost the habit of eating, as if some kind of internal tension was holding him and would not let him go... Ivan cannot be stopped, not brought to reason, not hidden from the war. He has seen so many terrible things that he cannot live normally, like a child, until this terrible thing is destroyed. He goes there again and again. He must go there. He hopes that he will always go there and return. Leave and return until the war is over. He wants to live, but not enough to listen to adults, go deep into the country, study, grow, gain strength. They say about Ivan that “hatred burns his soul.” This boy probably loved his father, sister, and mother very much. Probably what he saw and experienced is beyond words. The writer does not even look for such words, fearing untruth. He relies on our imagination. He knows: it will shudder, trying to imagine this horror. V. Bogomolov does not describe the catastrophe of a happy children's world, a world of love and hope. It allows us to see the consequences of the disaster. And this invisible, burning flame of hatred.

When no one is there, Ivan plays in the dugout, like all the boys in the world at all times. The dugout is a mess, the boy is hot, he has a knife in his hand, binoculars on his chest... It seems that even while playing, he continues to settle accounts with the enemy, magically powerful and invulnerable. “What else should he play? - a writer might ask us. “What?”

No, Vladimir Bogomolov did not write the adventures of a brave young scout, an elusive avenger behind enemy lines, although he could have, could have... He proceeded from the fact that children have nothing to do in war, and if there is something for them to do there, then this is a misfortune, a misfortune, and there is no reason for admiration or imitation here. He wrote about Ivan with love and tenderness. It makes our hearts shrink from bitterness and love, from a mixed feeling of pity and pride.

The story is structured in such a way that we see Ivan through the eyes of the young senior lieutenant Galtsev. These are kind and attentive eyes. The main thing is well revealed to them: tragic fate children's life during the war. Once upon a time, F. M. Dostoevsky wrote about the irredeemable tears of a child. There are no tears in the story of Ivan Buslov, but his suffering is also irredeemable.

In war you need strong people. This is known. “You’re neurasthenic, you need to get treatment,” intelligence department officer Kholin jokes at Galtsev. “Rotten sentimentalism,” his peer, battalion commander Baykov, is angry with the hero of the story “Zosya”. The author respects the firmness of Kholin and Baikov, he loves and appreciates them, but firmness in his understanding is much more reliable and acceptable when combined with humanity and moral purity.

V. Bogomolov knows well that war does not contribute to the flourishing of subtle and tender feelings. But in “Zos” he talks about how the rudeness and bitterness implanted by war are unable to empty or simplify the human heart. In spite of everything, in the pause between battles, on some fantastically normal days, the purest first youthful love flares up with a quick and timid touch of glances, with its anxiety, despair, hope, with an amazing feeling of the uniqueness and uniqueness of what is happening... What is war to her, what is all the impossibility to her Happy that she has lessons in vulgarity! She appeared and remained forever in grateful memory, and everyone recognizes her who knew her, who is waiting for her and has a presentiment.

These are the quiet moments of war, when in a fighting courageous man everything that was squeezed, dulled, and stunned comes to life. He sees how beautiful the river, grass, garden, sky are, he reads poetry, he remembers his childhood home. He is not able to fill out funeral forms with official words. He still sees these guys alive. He can’t bear to repeat a calligraphically executed example with an official address: “Gr-ke...”, and he is looking for simpler and more humane words to soften this dryness. It must be that when all this happens in a person, something is reflected on his face. We do not see this face, but it is revealed to Zosia, and Zosia prefers this face to all faces. To all the courageous, hardened, experienced people - this is it, and we can guess what it is. Zosya is mistaken, mistaking poetry for prayer, but she felt correctly: this Russian officer is from a people of faith. He is one of those who believe in the beauty of the world, in good and pure feelings, in the power of poetry, in the need for compassion.

At the beginning of the story, the hero makes a reservation: “I was then just a boy, dreamy and in many ways foolish...” But years and years passed, and the feeling experienced by the foolish boy was never forgotten, and nothing could overshadow the memory of the Polish girl Zoe from a garden where it smelled of apples and honey, and in the back of a Dodge, tired Russian lieutenants slept on hay...

Reading Vladimir Bogomolov, you understand: you can trust this writer and person. He talks about the war with a sense of responsibility and pain: “I see in my mind the whole of Russia, where in every second or third family someone did not return...”

Igor Dedkov

Ivan

1

That night I was going to check the military guard before dawn and, having ordered to wake me up at four o'clock, went to bed at nine o'clock.

I was woken up earlier: the hands on the luminous dial showed five minutes to five.

- Comrade senior lieutenant... and comrade senior lieutenant... allow me to address... - They shook me forcefully by the shoulder. In the light of the captured bowl flickering on the table, I saw Corporal Vasilyev from the platoon, who was on guard duty. - One was detained here... The junior lieutenant ordered to be brought to you...

- Light the lamp! – I commanded, mentally cursing: they could have sorted it out without me.

Vasiliev lit a cartridge case flattened at the top and, turning to me, reported:

– Crawling in the water near the shore. He doesn’t say why, he demands to be taken to headquarters. He doesn’t answer questions: I’ll only talk to the commander. He seems to have weakened, or maybe he’s faking it. The junior lieutenant ordered...

The cartridge flared up, illuminating the spacious dugout. At the very door I saw a thin boy of about eleven years old, all blue from the cold and trembling; he was wearing a wet shirt and pants that stuck to his body; her small bare feet were covered in mud up to her ankles; At the sight of him, a shiver ran through me.

- Go stand by the stove! - I told him. - Who are you?

He approached, examining me with a wary, focused gaze of large, unusually wide-set eyes. His face was high-cheeked, dark gray from dirt ingrained into his skin. Wet, indeterminate color hair hung in clumps. In his gaze, in his exhausted expression, with tightly compressed, blue lips, one could feel some kind of internal tension and, as it seemed to me, distrust and hostility.

- Who are you? – I repeated.

“Let him come out,” the boy said in a weak voice, chattering his teeth, pointing his gaze at Vasilyev.

- Put some wood on it and wait upstairs! – I ordered Vasiliev.

Sighing noisily, he, slowly, in order to prolong his stay in the warm dugout, straightened the firebrands, filled the stove with short logs and, just as slowly, left. Meanwhile, I pulled on my boots and looked expectantly at the boy.

- Well, why are you silent? Where are you from?

“I’m Bondarev,” he said quietly with such intonation, as if this name could tell me something or even explain everything. – Now inform the headquarters, the “fifty-first”, that I am here.

- Look! “I couldn’t help but smile.” - Well, what next?

– Who is “they”? Which headquarters should I report to and who is “fifty-first”?

- To the army headquarters.

He was silent.

– What army headquarters do you need?

- Field mail ve-che forty-nine five hundred fifty...

Without a mistake, he gave the number of the field post office of our army headquarters. Having stopped smiling, I looked at him in surprise and tried to comprehend everything.

The dirty shirt that reached to his hips and the narrow short pants he was wearing were old, made of canvas, as I determined, of rustic tailoring and almost homespun; he spoke correctly, noticeably like the way Muscovites and Belarusians generally speak; judging by the dialect, he was a native of the city.

He stood in front of me, looking from under his brows, wary and aloof, quietly sniffling, and trembling all over.

- Take everything off and rub yourself. Alive! – I ordered, handing him a not-so-fresh waffle towel.

He pulled off his shirt, revealing a thin body with visible ribs, dark with dirt, and hesitantly looked at the towel.

- Take it, take it! It's dirty.

He began to rub his chest, back, and arms.

- And take off your pants! – I commanded. -Are you embarrassed?

He, also silently fiddling with the swollen knot, not without difficulty untied the braid that replaced his belt, and took off his trousers. He was still quite a child, narrow-shouldered, with thin legs and arms, and looked no more than ten or eleven years old, although his face, gloomy, not childishly concentrated, with wrinkles on his convex forehead, gave him, perhaps, everything thirteen. Grabbing his shirt and trousers, he threw them into the corner, towards the doors.

- And who will dry it - uncle? – I asked.

- They will bring everything to me.

- That's how it is! – I doubted. -Where are your clothes?

He said nothing. I was about to ask where his documents were, but I realized in time that he was too young to have them.

I took out from under the bunk the old padded jacket of an orderly who was in the medical battalion. The boy stood near the stove with his back to me; between his protruding sharp shoulder blades there was a large black mole, the size of a five-alt coin. Higher up, above the right shoulder blade, a scar stood out like a crimson scar, which I determined was from a bullet wound.

-What do you have?

He looked over his shoulder at me, but didn't say anything.

“I’m asking you, what is that on your back?” – I asked, raising my voice, handing him a padded jacket.

- It does not concern you. And don't you dare shout! – he answered with hostility, his green eyes, like a cat’s, flashing ferociously, but he took the padded jacket. “Your job is to report that I’m here.” The rest doesn't concern you.

– Don’t teach me! – I shouted at him, irritated. – You don’t understand where you are and how to behave. Your last name means nothing to me. Until you explain who you are, where you came from, and why you came to the river, I won’t lift a finger.

- You will answer! – he said with obvious threat.

“Don’t scare me, you’re still young!” You won't be able to play the silent game with me! Be clear: where are you from?

He wrapped himself in a padded jacket that reached almost to his ankles and was silent, turning his face to the side.

“You’ll sit here for a day, three, five, but until you tell me who you are and where you’re from, I won’t report you anywhere!” – I declared decisively.

Looking at me coldly and distantly, he turned away and remained silent.

- You will talk?

“You must immediately report to the headquarters of the Fifty-First that I am here,” he repeated stubbornly.

“I don’t owe you anything,” I said irritably. “And until you explain who you are and where you come from, I won’t do anything.” Get it off your chest!.. Who is this “fifty-first”?

He was silent, fulfilled, concentrated.

“Where are you from?” I asked, struggling to contain myself. - Speak up if you want me to report on you!

After a long pause - intense thought - he squeezed out through his teeth:

- From the other side.

- From the other side? – I didn’t believe it. - How did you get here? How can you prove that you are from the other side?

– I won’t prove it. I won't say anything more. You don't dare question me - you will answer! And don't say anything on the phone. Only “fifty-one” knows that I am from the other side. You must tell him right now: Bondarev is with me. That's all! They'll come for me! – he shouted with conviction.

- Maybe you can still explain who you are, that they will come for you?

He was silent.

I looked at it for a while and thought. His last name meant absolutely nothing to me, but perhaps they knew about him at army headquarters? - During the war, I got used to not being surprised by anything.

I turned the phone handle and, picking up the receiver, called the regimental headquarters.

- Comrade captain, the “eighth” is reporting! I have Bondarev here. Bon-da-roar! He demands that Volga be reported about him...

“Bondarev?..” Maslov asked in surprise. – Which Bondarev? A major from the operational department, a trustee or something? Where did he come to you from? – Maslov bombarded with questions, as I felt, worried.

- No, what a believer! I myself don’t know who he is: he doesn’t speak. He demands that I report to Volga “fifty-first” that he is with me.

– Who is this “fifty-first”?

- I thought you knew.

– We do not have the call sign “Volga”. Divisional only. Who is he by title, Bondarev, what is his rank?

“He doesn’t have a title,” I said, smiling involuntarily. - This is a boy... you know, a boy of about twelve...

– Are you laughing?.. Who are you making fun of?! – Maslov yelled into the phone. - Organize a circus?! I'll show you the boy! I'll report to the major! Have you been drinking or have nothing to do? I tell you...

- Comrade captain! – I shouted, dumbfounded by this turn of events. - Comrade captain, honestly, it’s a boy! I thought you knew about him...

– I don’t know and I don’t want to know! - Maslov shouted passionately. - And don’t bother me with trifles! I'm not your boy! My ears are swollen from work, and you...

- That's what I thought...

– Don’t think so!

- I obey!.. Comrade captain, but what to do with him, with the boy?

- What should I do?.. How did he get to you?

– Detained on the shore by security.

- How did he get to the shore?

“As I understand it...” I hesitated for a moment. - He says it’s on the other side.

- "Speaks"! - Maslov mimicked. - On a magic carpet? He's telling you a story, and you've opened your ears. Put a sentry on him! - he ordered. – And if you can’t figure it out yourself, tell Zotov. These are their functions - let them do it...

“You tell him: if he yells and doesn’t report to the Fifty-First right away,” the boy suddenly said decisively and loudly, “he will answer!”

But Maslov had already hung up. And I threw mine towards the machine, annoyed with the boy and even more with Maslov.

The fact is that I was only temporarily acting as battalion commander, and everyone knew that I was “temporary.” Moreover, I was only twenty-one years old, and, naturally, I was treated differently from other battalion commanders. If the regiment commander and his deputies tried not to show it in any way, then Maslov - by the way, the youngest of my regimental commanders - did not hide the fact that he considered me a boy, and treated me accordingly, although I had fought since the first months of the war, had wounds and awards .

Maslov, of course, would not have dared to speak in such a tone with the commander of the first or third battalion. And with me... Without listening and without really understanding, I started shouting... I was sure that Maslov was wrong. Nevertheless, I said to the boy, not without gloating:

“You asked me to report on you, and I did!” “I have been ordered to put you in a dugout,” I lied, “and to assign guards.” Satisfied?

– I told you to report to the headquarters of the “fifty-first” army, but where did you call?

– You “said”!.. I cannot contact the army headquarters myself.

- Let me call. – Instantly releasing his hand from under his quilted jacket, he grabbed the telephone receiver.

– Don’t you dare!.. Who are you going to call? Who do you know at army headquarters?

He paused, without, however, letting go of the receiver, and said gloomily:

- Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov.

Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov was the head of the army's intelligence department; I knew him not only by hearsay, but also personally.

- How do you know him?

Silence.

-Who else do you know at army headquarters?

Again silence, a quick glance from under the brows and through clenched teeth:

- Captain Kholin.

Kholin, an officer in the intelligence department of headquarters, was also known to me.

- How do you know them?

“Now tell Gryaznov that I’m here,” the boy demanded without answering, “or I’ll call myself!”

Having taken the phone from him, I thought for another half a minute, having made up my mind, I turned the knob, and they connected me with Maslov again.

- “Eighth” is worrying. Comrade captain, please listen to me,” I stated firmly, trying to suppress my excitement. – I’m talking about Bondarev again. He knows Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov and Captain Kholin.

- How does he know them? – Maslov asked tiredly.

- He does not speak. I consider it necessary to report him to Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov.

“If you think it’s necessary, report,” Maslov said with some indifference. “Do you even think it’s possible to bother your boss with all sorts of nonsense?” Personally, I see no reason to disturb the command, especially at night. Unrespectable!

- So let me call?

- I don’t allow you anything, and don’t get me involved... However, you can call Dunaev. I just talked to him, he's not sleeping.

I contacted Major Dunaev, the division’s intelligence chief, and reported that Bondarev was with me and that he demanded that he be immediately reported to Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov...

“I see,” Dunaev interrupted me. - Wait. I'll report.

About two minutes later the phone buzzed sharply and demandingly.

“Eighth”?.. Talk to “Volga,” said the telephone operator.

- Galtsev?.. Hello, Galtsev! – I recognized the low, rough voice of Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov; I couldn’t help but recognize him: Gryaznov was the intelligence chief of our division until the summer, but at that time I was a communications officer and ran into him constantly. - Do you have Bondarev?

- Here, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel!

- Well done! “I didn’t immediately understand who this praise was directed at: me or the boy.” - Listen carefully! Kick everyone out of the dugout so that they don’t see him or pester him. No questions about him - no talking! Got it?.. Say hello to him for me. Kholin goes after him; I think you'll be there in about three hours. In the meantime, create all the conditions! Treat him more delicately, keep in mind: he is a guy with a temper. First of all, give him some paper and ink or a pencil. Whatever he writes, put it in a bag and send it immediately with a reliable person to the regimental headquarters. I will give the command and they will deliver it to me immediately. Create all the conditions for him and don’t interfere with conversations. Give hot water wash, feed, and let him sleep. This is our guy. Got it?

- Yes sir! – I answered, although much was unclear to me.

* * *

- Do you want to eat? – I asked first of all.

“Later,” the boy said without raising his eyes.

Then I put paper, envelopes and a pen on the table in front of him, put ink, then, leaving the dugout, ordered Vasiliev to go to the post and, returning, locked the door with a hook.

The boy sat on the edge of the bench with his back to the red-hot stove; the wet ports he had thrown earlier into the corner lay at his feet. From his pinned pocket, he pulled out a dirty handkerchief, unfolded it, poured it onto the table and laid out grains of wheat and rye, sunflower seeds and pine needles - pine and spruce needles - into separate piles. Then, with the most concentrated look, he counted how much was in each pile and wrote it down on paper.

When I approached the table, he quickly turned the sheet over and looked at me with a hostile look.

“I won’t, I won’t look,” I hastily assured.

Having called the battalion headquarters, I ordered two buckets of water to be immediately heated and delivered to the dugout along with a large cauldron. I caught the surprise in the sergeant’s voice as he repeated my order into the phone. I told him that I wanted to wash, but it was half past two in the morning, and, probably, he, like Maslov, thought that I had drunk or that I had nothing to do. I also ordered that Tsarivny, an agile fighter from the fifth company, be prepared to be sent as a liaison to the regimental headquarters.

While talking on the phone, I stood with my side to the table and out of the corner of my eye I saw that the boy had graphed a sheet of paper lengthwise and crosswise and in the leftmost column vertically wrote in a large child’s handwriting: “...2...4, 5...” I didn’t know and subsequently did not find out what these numbers meant and what he then wrote.

He wrote for a long time, about an hour, scratching the paper with his pen, wheezing and covering the sheet with his sleeve; his fingers had short-gnawed nails and bruises; neck and ears have not been washed for a long time. Stopping from time to time, he nervously bit his lips, thought or remembered, snored and wrote again. It was already hot and cold water, - without letting anyone into the dugout, I myself brought in the buckets and cauldron, - and he still creaked with his pen; just in case, I put a bucket of water on the stove.

Having finished, he folded the written sheets in half, put them in an envelope and, after drooling, carefully sealed them. Then, taking the envelope bigger size, put the first one in it and sealed it just as carefully.

I brought the package to the messenger - he was waiting near the dugout - and ordered:

- Immediately deliver to regimental headquarters. On alert! Report to Kraev about the execution...

Then I went back and diluted the water in one of the buckets, making it not so hot. Having taken off his quilted jacket, the boy climbed into the cauldron and began to wash himself.

I felt guilty before him. He did not answer questions, undoubtedly acting in accordance with instructions, and I shouted at him, threatened him, trying to extract something that I was not supposed to know - as you know, intelligence officers have their own secrets, inaccessible even to senior staff officers.

Now I was ready to look after him as a nanny; I even wanted to wash him myself, but I didn’t dare: he didn’t look in my direction and, as if not noticing me, behaved as if there was no one else in the dugout except him.

“Let me rub your back,” I couldn’t bear it, I suggested hesitantly.

- I myself! – he snapped.

All I had to do was stand by the stove, holding a clean towel and a calico shirt in my hands - he had to wear it - and stir in the pot the dinner I had so conveniently left untouched - millet porridge with meat.

Having washed himself, he turned out to be fair-haired and fair-skinned; only the face and hands were darker from the wind or from sunburn. His ears were small, pink, delicate and, as I noticed, asymmetrical: the right one was pressed down, while the left one stuck out. What was remarkable about his high-cheeked face were his eyes, large, greenish, and surprisingly widely spaced; I've probably never seen eyes so wide apart.

He wiped himself dry and, taking the shirt heated by the stove from my hands, put it on, carefully turning up the sleeves, and sat down at the table. Wariness and aloofness were no longer visible in his face; he looked tired, was stern and thoughtful.

I expected him to attack the food, but he grabbed the spoon several times, chewed it seemingly without appetite and put the pot down, then just as silently drank a mug of very sweet tea - I didn’t spare the sugar - with cookies from my extra ration and stood up, saying quietly:

- Thank you.

Meanwhile, I managed to take out a cauldron with dark, dark water, only grayish from soap on top, and fluffed up the pillow on the bunk. The boy climbed into my bed and lay down with his face to the wall, placing his hand under his cheek. He took all my actions for granted; I realized that this was not the first time he had returned from the “other side” and knew that as soon as his arrival became known at army headquarters, the order would immediately be given to “create all conditions”... Covering him with two blankets, I carefully tucked them in all sides, as my mother once did for me...

Young senior lieutenant Galtsev, acting battalion commander, was woken up in the middle of the night. A boy of about twelve years old was detained near the shore, all wet and shivering from the cold. To Galtsev’s strict questions, the boy only answers that his last name is Bondarev, and demands to immediately report his arrival to headquarters. But Galtsev, not immediately believing it, reports about the boy only when he correctly names the names of the staff officers. Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov really confirms: “This is our guy,” he needs to “create all the conditions” and “be more delicate.” As ordered, Galtsev gives the boy paper and ink. He pours it onto the table and intently counts the grains and pine needles. The received data is urgently sent to headquarters. Galtsev feels guilty for shouting at the boy, now he is ready to look after him.

Kholin arrives, a tall, handsome man and a joker of about twenty-seven. Ivan (that’s the boy’s name) tells a friend about how he couldn’t approach the boat that was waiting for him because of the Germans, and how he had difficulty crossing the cold Dnieper on a log. On the uniform brought to Ivan Kholin, the order Patriotic War and the medal "For Courage". After a joint meal, Kholin and the boy leave.

After some time, Galtsev meets with Ivan again. First, the quiet and modest foreman Katasonych appears in the battalion. From observation points he “watches the Germans”, spending the whole day at the stereo tube. Then Kholin, together with Galtsev, inspects the area and trenches. The Germans on the other side of the Dnieper are constantly keeping our bank at gunpoint. Galtsev must “provide every assistance” to Kholin, but he does not want to “run” after him. Galtsev goes about his business, checking the work of the new paramedic, trying not to pay attention to the fact that in front of him is a beautiful young woman.

the boy's surname). He is originally from Gomel. His father and sister died during the war. Ivan had to go through a lot: he was in the partisans, and in Trostyanets - in the death camp. Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov persuaded Ivan to go to the Suvorov Military School, but he only wants to fight and take revenge. Kholin “didn’t even think that a child could hate so much...”. And when they decided not to send Ivan on the mission, he left on his own. What this boy can do, adult scouts rarely succeed. It was decided that if Ivan’s mother was not found after the war, he would be adopted by Katasonych or the lieutenant colonel.

Kholin says that Katasonych was unexpectedly called to the division. Ivan is childishly offended: why didn’t he come in to say goodbye? In fact, Katasonych had just been killed. Now Galtsev will be third. Of course, this is a violation, but Galtsev, who had previously asked to be taken into intelligence, decides to do so. Having carefully prepared, Kholin, Ivan and Galtsev go for the operation. Having crossed the river, they hide the boat. Now the boy faces a difficult and very risky task: to walk fifty kilometers behind German lines unnoticed. Just in case, he is dressed like a “homeless brat.” Insuring Ivan, Kholin and Galtsev spend about an hour in ambush and then return.

Galtsev orders for Ivan exactly the same Finnish woman as the one he liked. After some time, meeting with Gryaznov, Galtsev, already confirmed as a battalion commander, asks to hand over the knife to the boy. But it turns out that when they finally decided to send Ivan to school, he left without permission. Gryaznov is reluctant to talk about the boy: why less people knows about “out-of-towners”, the longer they live.

But Galtsev cannot forget about the little scout. After being seriously wounded, he ends up in Berlin to seize German archives. In the documents found by the secret field police, Galtsev suddenly discovers a photo with a familiar high-cheekboned face and wide-set eyes. The report says that in December 1943, after fierce resistance, “Ivan” was detained, observing the movement of German trains in the restricted area. After interrogations, during which the boy “behaved defiantly,” he was shot.

Good retelling? Tell your friends on social networks and let them prepare for the lesson too!

BOGOMOLOV VLADIMIR

That night I was going to check the outposts before dawn and,
Having ordered to wake me up at four o'clock, he went to bed at nine o'clock.
I was woken up earlier: the hands on the luminous dial showed without
five o'clock
- Comrade senior lieutenant... and comrade senior lieutenant... allow me
turn... - They shook me forcefully by the shoulder. In the light of a trophy bowl,
flickering on the table, I saw Corporal Vasilyev from the platoon, who was
in combat guards. - They detained one here... The junior lieutenant ordered
deliver to you...
- Light the lamp! - I commanded, mentally swearing: they could
figure it out without me.
Vasiliev lit a cartridge case flattened at the top and, turning to me,
reported:
- Crawling in the water near the shore. He doesn’t say why, he demands to be delivered to
headquarters. He doesn’t answer questions: I’ll only talk to the commander. Like
weakened, or maybe he’s pretending. The junior lieutenant ordered...
I stood up, pulled my legs out from under the blanket and, rubbing my eyes, sat down on
bunk Vasiliev, a red-haired fellow, stood in front of me, dropping drops of water from the dark,
wet raincoat.
The cartridge flared up, illuminating the spacious dugout - right at the door I
I saw a thin boy of about eleven, all blue from the cold and
trembling; he was wearing a wet shirt and pants that stuck to his body; small
his bare feet were covered in mud up to his ankles; At the sight of him, a shiver ran through me.
- Go stand by the stove! - I told him. - Who are you? He came up
examining me with the warily focused gaze of large, unusual
wide-set eyes. His face had high cheekbones; darkish gray from
dirt ingrained into the skin. Wet hair of an indeterminate color hung in clumps.
In his gaze, in the expression of exhaustion, with tightly compressed, blue lips
I could feel some kind of internal tension on my face and, it seemed to me,
mistrust and hostility.
- Who are you? - I repeated.
“Let him come out,” the boy said, chattering his teeth in a weak voice.
pointing his gaze at Vasiliev.
- Put some wood on it and wait upstairs! - I ordered Vasiliev.
Sighing noisily, he took his time to prolong his stay in the warm
dugout, straightened the firebrands, filled the stove with short logs and also
went out in a hurry. Meanwhile, I pulled on my boots and looked expectantly at
boy.
- Well, why are you silent? Where are you from?
“I’m Bondarev,” he said quietly with such intonation, as if this surname
could tell me something or even explain everything. - Now
inform the headquarters of the fifty-first that I am here.
- Look! - I couldn’t help but smile. - Well, what next?
- It doesn’t concern you anymore. They will do it themselves.
- Who is “they”? To which headquarters should I report and who is fifty?
first?
- To the army headquarters.
- Who is this fifty-first? He was silent.
- What army headquarters do you need?
- Field mail ve-che forty-nine five hundred fifty...
Without a mistake, he gave the number of the field post office of our army headquarters. Having ceased
smile, I looked at him in surprise and tried to comprehend everything.
He wore a dirty shirt up to his hips and short, narrow ports.
old, canvas, as I determined, rustic tailoring and almost
homespun; he spoke correctly, noticeably like what they usually say
Muscovites and Belarusians; judging by the dialect, he was a native of the city.
He stood in front of me, looking warily and aloofly from under his brows,
quietly sniffling and trembling all over.
- Take everything off and rub yourself. Alive! - I ordered, handing it to him
waffle towel not the first freshness.
He pulled off his shirt, revealing a thin body with visible ribs,
dark with dirt, and hesitantly looked at the towel.
- Take it, take it! It's dirty.
He began to rub his chest, back, and arms.
- And take off your pants! - I commanded. - Are you shy?
He also silently fiddled with the swollen knot and, with some difficulty, untied
the braid that replaced his belt and took off his trousers. He was just a child
narrow-shouldered, with thin legs and arms, looking no more than ten or eleven
years old, although from the face, gloomy, not childishly concentrated, with wrinkles on
with a convex forehead, he could have been given, perhaps, all thirteen. Grabbing
shirt and trousers, he threw them into the corner towards the door.
- And who will dry it - uncle? - I asked.
- They'll bring everything to me.
- That's how it is! - I doubted. -Where are your clothes?
He said nothing. I was about to ask where his documents were, but
realized in time that he was too small to have them.
I took out from under the bunk the old padded jacket of the orderly who was in
medical battalion. The boy stood near the stove with his back to me - between the sticking
a large mole, the size of a five-altyn ruble, was blackened with sharp blades.
Higher up, above the right shoulder blade, a scar stood out like a purple welt, like me
determined from a bullet wound.
- What do you have?
He looked over his shoulder at me, but didn't say anything.
- I'm asking you, what is that on your back? - raising his voice, he asked
I, handing him a quilted jacket.
- It does not concern you. And don't you dare shout! - he answered with hostility,
His green eyes, like a cat’s, sparkled wildly, but he took the quilted jacket. -
It's your job to report that I'm here. The rest doesn't concern you.
- Don't teach me! - I shouted at him, irritated. - You do not
you figure out where you are and how to behave. Your last name means nothing to me
speaks. Until you explain who you are, where you come from, and why you came to the river, I and
I won't lift a finger.
- You will answer! - he said with obvious threat.
- Don't scare me - you're still young! You can't play the silent game with me
it will succeed! Be clear: where are you from?
He wrapped himself in a padded jacket that reached almost to his ankles and was silent,
turning his face to the side.
- You will sit here for a day, three, five, but until you tell me who you are and
from where, I won’t report you anywhere! - I declared decisively.
Looking at me coldly and distantly, he turned away and remained silent.
- You will talk?
- You must immediately report to headquarters fifty-one that I am
here,” he repeated stubbornly.
“I don’t owe you anything,” I said irritably. - And until you
explain who you are and where you come from, I won’t do anything. Save it for yourself
nose!.. Who is this fifty-first?
He was silent, fulfilled, concentrated.
“Where are you from?” I asked, struggling to contain myself. - Tell me if
Do you want me to report you?
After a long pause - intense thought - he squeezed out through
teeth:
- From that shore.
- From the other side? - I didn’t believe it. - How did you get here? What can you do
prove that you are from the other side?
- I won't prove it. I won't say anything more. Don't you dare me
interrogate - you will answer! And don't say anything on the phone. About,
Only the fifty-first knows that I am from the other side. You must now
tell him: Bondarev is with me. That's all! They'll come for me! - shouted with conviction
He.
- Maybe you can still explain who you are, that *they will be behind you
come?
He was silent.
I looked at it for a while and thought. His last name is exactly the same to me
didn’t say anything, but perhaps the army headquarters knew about him? - I am for the war
I'm used to not being surprised by anything.
He looked pitiful and exhausted, but he behaved independently,
He spoke to me confidently and even authoritatively: he did not ask, but demanded.
Gloomy, not childishly concentrated and wary, he produced a very
strange impression; his assertion that he was from that shore seemed to me
an obvious lie.
Clearly, I was not going to report him directly to army headquarters, but
It was my duty to report to the regiment. I thought they would take him to
they themselves will understand what’s what; I’ll still sleep for about two hours and then I’ll go
check security.
I turned the phone handle and, picking up the receiver, called the regimental headquarters.
- The third one is listening. - I heard the voice of the chief of staff, Captain Maslov.
- Comrade captain, the eighth is reporting! I have Bondarev here.
Bon-da-roar! He demands that Volga be reported about him...
“Bondarev?” Maslov asked in surprise. - Which Bondarev? Major
from the operational department, a trustee, or what? Where did he come to you from? - fell asleep
I felt concerned about Maslov’s questions.
- No, what a believer! I myself don’t know who he is: he doesn’t speak.
Demands that I report to Volga Fifty-First that he
is with me.
- Who is this fifty-first?
- I thought you knew.
- We do not have the call sign “Volga”. Divisional only. Who is he
by position, Bondarev, what rank?
“He doesn’t have a title,” I said, smiling involuntarily. - This is a boy...
you see, a boy of about twelve...
- Are you laughing?.. Who are you making fun of?! - yelled into the phone
Maslov. - Organize a circus?! I'll show you the boy! I'll report to the major! What are you,
have you been drinking or have nothing to do? I'll tell you...
- Comrade captain! - I shouted, dumbfounded by this turn of events. -
Comrade captain, honestly, it's a boy! I thought you knew about him...
- I don’t know and I don’t want to know! - Maslov shouted passionately. - And you come to me with
don't bother with trifles! I'm not your boy! My ears are swollen from work, and you...
- That's what I thought...
- Don’t think so!
- I obey!.. Comrade captain, but what to do with him, with the boy?
- What should I do?.. How did he get to you?
- Detained on the shore by security.
- How did he get to the shore?
- As I understand... - I hesitated for a moment. - He says that with that
sides.
“He says,” Maslov mimicked. - On a magic carpet? He
It's telling you, and you're hanging your ears. Put a sentry on him! - he ordered. -
And if you can’t figure it out yourself, tell Zotov. These are their functions - let them
is doing...
- You tell him: if he yells and doesn’t report fifty immediately
first,” the boy suddenly said decisively and loudly, “he will
reply!..
But Maslov had already hung up. And I threw mine towards the device,
annoyed with the boy and even more with Maslov.
The fact is that I was only temporarily acting as commander
battalion, and everyone knew that I was “temporary”. Besides, I was only
twenty-one years old, and naturally I was treated differently from others
battalion commanders If the regiment commander and his deputies tried nothing, it was not
show, then Maslov - by the way, the youngest of my regimental commanders -
did not hide the fact that he considered me a boy, and treated me accordingly,
although I fought from the first months of the war, I had injuries and awards.
Talk in this tone with the commander of the first or third battalion
Maslov, of course, would not have dared. And with me... Without listening and without understanding
really, to shout... I was sure that Maslov was wrong. Nevertheless
I said to the boy, not without gloating:
- You asked me to report on you, - I reported! Ordered to imprison
take you to the dugout,” I lied, “and assign security.” Satisfied?
- I told you to report to the fifty-first army headquarters, where are you going?
did you call?
- You “said”!.. I cannot contact the army headquarters myself.
- Let me call. - Instantly extending his hand from under his quilted jacket, he
grabbed the telephone receiver.
- Don't you dare!.. Who are you going to call? Who do you know at army headquarters?
He paused, without, however, letting go of the receiver, and said gloomily:
- Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov.
Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznoe was the head of the army's intelligence department; I didn't know him
only by hearsay, but also personally.
- How do you know him?
Silence.
- Who else do you know at army headquarters?
Again silence, a quick glance from under the brows - and through clenched teeth:
- Captain Kholin.
Kholin, an officer in the intelligence department of headquarters, was also to me
famous.
- How do you know them?
“Now tell Gryaznov that I’m here,” he demanded without answering.
boy, or I'll call you myself!
Having taken the phone from him, I thought for another half a minute, having decided, I turned it
pen, and I was again connected to Maslov.
- The eighth one is disturbing. Comrade captain, please listen to me, - firmly
I stated, trying to suppress my excitement. - I'm talking about Bondarev again. He
knows Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov and Captain Kholin.
- How does he know them? - Maslov asked tiredly.
- He does not speak. I consider it necessary to report him to Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov.
“If you think it’s necessary, report,” with some indifference
Maslov said. - Do you even think it’s possible to approach your boss with anything?
nonsense. Personally, I see no reason to disturb the command, especially at night.
Unrespectable!
- So let me call?
- I don’t allow you to do anything, and don’t get me involved... However, you can
call Dunaev. I just talked to him, he's not sleeping.
I contacted Major Dunaev, the division's intelligence chief, and
informed me that Bondarev was with me and that he demanded that information about him be
immediately reported to Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov...
“I see,” Dunaev interrupted me. - Wait. I'll report.
About two minutes later the phone buzzed sharply and demandingly.
- Eighth? Talk to Volga,” said the telephone operator.
- Galtsev?.. Great, Galtsev! - I recognized the low, rough voice
Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov; I couldn’t help but recognize him: he was dirty before the summer
the chief of intelligence of our division, at that time I was a communications officer and
I came across him all the time. - Do you have Bondarev?
- Here, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel!
- Well done! - I didn’t immediately understand who this praise was meant for: me
or to the boy. - Listen carefully! Kick everyone out of the dugout so that he doesn't

Young senior lieutenant Galtsev, acting battalion commander, was woken up in the middle of the night. A boy of about twelve, very wet and shivering from the cold, was detained near the shore. To Galtsev’s strict questions, the boy only answers that his last name is Bondarev, and demands to immediately report his arrival to headquarters. But Galtsev, not immediately believing it, reports about the boy only when he correctly names the names of the staff officers. Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov indeed confirms: “This is our guy,” he needs to “create all the conditions” and “be more delicate.” As ordered, Galtsev gives the boy paper and ink. He pours it out onto the table and intently counts the grains of a pine needle. The received data is urgently sent to headquarters. Galtsev feels guilty for shouting at the boy, now he is ready to look after him.

Kholin arrives, a tall, handsome man and a joker of about twenty-seven. Ivan (that’s the boy’s name) tells a friend about how he couldn’t approach the boat that was waiting for him because of the Germans and how he struggled to cross the cold Dnieper on a log. On the uniform brought to Ivan Kholin, there is the Order of the Patriotic War and the medal “For Courage”. After a joint meal, Kholin and the boy leave.

Ivan, who arrived, is unexpectedly friendly and talkative. Tonight he has to cross to the German rear, but he doesn’t even think about sleeping, but reads magazines and eats candy. The boy is delighted with the Finnish girl Galtsev, but he cannot give Ivan a knife - after all, this is the memory of his deceased best friend. Finally, Galtsev learns more about the fate of Ivan Buslov (this is the boy’s real name). He is originally from Gomel. His father and sister died during the war. Ivan had to go through a lot: he was in the partisans, and in Trostyanets - in the death camp. Lieutenant Colonel Gryaznov persuaded Ivan to go to the Suvorov Military School, but he only wants to fight and take revenge. Kholin “didn’t even think that a child could hate so much...”. And when they decided not to send Ivan on the mission, he left on his own. What this boy can do, adult scouts rarely succeed. It was decided that if Ivan’s mother was not found after the war, he would be adopted by Katasonych or the lieutenant colonel.

Kholin says that Katasonych was unexpectedly called to the division. Ivan is childishly offended: why didn’t he come in to say goodbye? In fact, Katasonych had just been killed. Now the third will be Galtsev. Of course, this is a violation, but Galtsev, who had previously asked to take him on reconnaissance, makes up his mind. Having carefully prepared, Kholin, Ivan and Galtsev set off for the operation. Having crossed the river, they hide the boat. Now the boy faces a difficult and very risky task: to pass fifty kilometers behind German lines unnoticed. Just in case, he is dressed like a “homeless brat.” Insuring Ivan, Kholin and Galtsev spend about an hour in ambush and then return.

Galtsev orders for Ivan exactly the same Finnish woman as the one he liked. After some time, having met with Gryaznov, Galtsev, already confirmed as battalion commander, asks to hand over the knife to the boy. But it turns out that when Ivan window-

Finally decided to send him to school, he left without permission. Gryaznov reluctantly tells the little boy: the fewer people know about the “out-of-towners,” the longer they live.

But Galtsev cannot forget about the little scout. After being seriously wounded, he ends up in Berlin to seize German archives. In the documents found by the secret field police, Galtsev suddenly discovers a photo with a familiar high-cheeked face and wide-set eyes. The report says that in December 1943, after fierce resistance, “Ivan” was detained, observing the movement of German trains in the restricted area. After interrogations, during which the boy “behaved defiantly,” he was shot.

Sections

Ivan Bogomolov read the summary. Brief plot based on the story by Ivan Bogomolov and the main characters

Vladimir Bogomolov IVAN

1

1926–2003

This unforgotten distant war...

Ivan

1

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Vladimir Bogomolov
IVAN