Tendryakov bread for a dog read a summary. Tendryakov "Bread for a Dog" - composition "Tendryakov

The childhood of Vladimir Tendryakov passed in the bleak era of post-revolutionary Russia and Stalinist
repression. The horror of childhood memories formed the basis of the story "Bread for a Dog". Perhaps it is the effect
childhood impressions helped the author so clearly and impartially describe the events that took place in a small
the station settlement, in which the first years of his life passed.
And what happened there was the same as in many other similar villages: dispossessed "wealthy" peasants,

Exiled to Siberia and did not reach the place of exile, they were left to die of starvation in a small
birch forest in front of the inhabitants of the village. The adults tried to avoid this awful place. And the children ... "No
the horrors could not drown out our animal curiosity, ”the author writes. "Petrified with fear, disgust,
exhausted from hidden panic pity, we watched ... ”. Children watched the death of "kurkuli" (so there
called "living" in the birch forest).
To enhance the impression produced by the painting, the author resorts to the method of antithesis. Vladimir Tendryakov
describes in detail the horrific death scene of a "curkul" who "stood up to his full height, clasped
with radiant hands, a smooth strong birch trunk, pressed against it with an angular cheek, opened his mouth, spacious
black, dazzlingly toothed, was probably going to shout (...) a curse, but a wheeze flew out, foam bubbled.
Peeling the skin on the bony cheek, the "rebel" crawled down the trunk and (...) fell silent for good. " In this passage we see
opposing brittle, radiant arms to the smooth, strong trunk of a birch. This technique leads to an increase
perception of both individual fragments and the whole picture.
This description is followed by the philosophical question of the station chief, on duty
watch out for the “curkuli”: “What will grow out of such children? They admire death. What kind of world will live after us? what
for peace?..". A similar question sounds as if from the author himself, who, many years later, is amazed at how he,
impressionable boy, did not go mad at the sight of such a scene. But then he recalls that he had already been
witness how hunger forced "neat" people to go to public humiliation. This somewhat "callous" him
soul.
It got sore, but not enough to remain indifferent to these starving people, being full. Yes he knew
that being full is a shame, and he tried not to show it, but still secretly he took out the remnants of his food
"Kurkulam". This went on for some time, but then the number of beggars began to grow, and to feed more than two
the man the boy could no longer. And then there was a breakdown - "cure", as the author himself called it. One day by his fence
many hungry gathered at home. They stood in the way of the boy returning home and began to beg for food. AND
suddenly…
“It darkened in my eyes. A wild voice escaped from me in a sobbing gallop:
- Go away! Go away! Bastards! You bastards! Bloodsuckers! Go away!
(...) The others, having gone out at once, lowered their hands, began to turn their backs to me, crawling without haste,
sluggishly.
And I could not stop and screamed sobbing. "
How emotionally described this episode! What simple, common words in everyday life, all
in a few phrases Tendryakov conveys the child's emotional distress, his fear and protest, adjacent to
the humility and hopelessness of doomed people. It is thanks to the simplicity and surprisingly accurate choice of words in
the reader's imagination with extraordinary vividness looms the pictures about which Vladimir Tendryakov tells.
So this ten year old boy is healed, but is he completely? Yes, he could no longer bear a piece of bread standing
under his window "kurkulu" dying of hunger. But was his conscience at ease? He did not sleep at night, he
I thought: "I am a bad boy, I can’t help myself - I feel sorry for my enemies!"
And then the dog appears. Here it is - the hungriest creature in the village! Volodya grabs her as if
the only way not to go crazy with the knowledge that he "eats" the lives of several people every day. Boy
feeds this unfortunate dog, which does not exist for anyone, but understands that “he fed the dog who was not shabby from hunger
I am pieces of bread, but my conscience. "
It would be possible to end the story on this comparatively joyful note. But no, the author has included another
an episode that reinforces the heavy impression. “That month the head of the station shot himself, who, on duty,
I had to walk in a red hat along the station square. He did not think to find an unfortunate one for himself
a dog to feed every day, tearing bread away from him. "
So the story ends. But even after this, the reader is not left with feelings of horror and moral
devastation caused by all the suffering that involuntarily, thanks to the author's skill, he experienced with
a hero. As I have already noted, in this story, the author's ability to convey not only events, but also
feelings.
"Burn the hearts of people with a verb." Such an instruction to a true poet sounds in the poem of A.S. Pushkin
"Prophet". And Vladimir Tendryakov succeeded. He was able not only to colorfully express his childhood memories, but
and awaken compassion and empathy in the hearts of readers.

Vladimir Tendryakov's childhood passed in the bleak era of post-revolutionary Russia and Stalin's repressions, all the horror of which remained in his memory as a dark trace of childhood memories that formed the basis of the story "Bread for a Dog". Perhaps it was the effect of childhood impressions that helped the author to describe so clearly and unbiasedly the events that took place in the small station village in which the first years of his life passed.
And what happened there was the same as in many other similar villages: dispossessed "prosperous" peasants, exiled to Siberia and not reaching the place of exile, were left to die of starvation in a small birch forest in front of the inhabitants of the village. The adults tried to avoid this awful place. And the children ... "No horrors could drown out our animal curiosity," the author writes. "Petrified with fear, disgust, exhausted from hidden panic pity, we watched ...". Children watched the death of "kurkuli" (as they called "those living" in the birch forest).
To enhance the impression produced by the painting, the author resorts to the method of antithesis. Vladimir Tendryakov describes in detail the horrific scene of the death of a “curkul” who “stood up to his full height, clasped a smooth strong birch trunk with brittle, radiant arms, pressed his angular cheek against it, opened his mouth, spacious black, dazzlingly toothy, was probably going to shout (...) curse, but a wheeze flew out, foam bubbled. Peeling the skin on the bony cheek, the "rebel" crawled down the trunk and (...) died down for good. " In this passage, we see the opposition of fragile, radiant arms to the smooth, strong trunk of a birch. Such a technique leads to an increase in the perception of both individual fragments and the whole picture.
This description is followed by a philosophical question from the head of the station, who is compelled to keep an eye on the “kurkuli” due to duty: “What will grow out of such children? They admire death. What kind of world will live after us? What kind of world? ... ". A similar question sounds as if from the author himself, who, many years later, is amazed at how he, an impressionable boy, did not go mad at the sight of such a scene. But then he recalls that he had previously witnessed how hunger forced "neat" people to go to public humiliation. This somewhat "nagged" his soul.
It got sore, but not enough to remain indifferent to these starving people, being full. Yes, he knew that being full is a shame, and tried not to show it, but still secretly he took out the remnants of his food "kurkul". This went on for some time, but then the number of beggars began to grow, and the boy could no longer feed more than two people. And then there was a breakdown “cure”, as the author himself called it. One day, many hungry people gathered at the fence of his house. They stood in the way of the boy returning home and began to beg for food. And suddenly ... “It darkened in my eyes. An alien wild voice burst out of me with a sobbing gallop: -Go away! Go away! Bastards! You bastards! Bloodsuckers! Go away! (…) The others, having extinguished at once, lowered their hands, began to turn their backs to me, crawling without haste, listlessly. And I could not stop and screamed sobbing: “How emotionally described this episode! With what simple words, common in everyday life, in just a few phrases Tendryakov conveys the child's emotional anguish, his fear and protest, side by side with the humility and hopelessness of doomed people. It is thanks to the simplicity and surprisingly accurate choice of words that the pictures about which Vladimir Tendryakov are narrating appear in the reader's imagination with extraordinary brightness. So this ten year old boy is healed, but is he completely? Yes, he would no longer bear a piece of bread to the "kurkulu" dying of hunger under his window. But was his conscience at ease? He did not sleep at night, he thought: "I am a bad boy, I can not help myself, I feel sorry for my enemies!" And then the dog appears. Here it is the hungrier creature in the village! Volodya grabs her as the only way not to go insane from the horror of the consciousness that he "eats" the lives of several people every day. The boy feeds this unfortunate dog, which does not exist for anyone, but understands that "I did not feed a dog peeling from hunger with pieces of bread, but my conscience." It would be possible to end the story on this comparatively joyful note. But no, the author has included another episode that reinforces the heavy impression. “That month, the station chief was shot dead, who, on duty, had to walk in a red hat along the station square. He did not think to find an unfortunate dog for himself to feed every day, tearing bread from himself. ”This is how the story ends. But, even after that, the reader will not leave the feeling of horror and moral devastation for a long time, caused by all the suffering that involuntarily, thanks to the author's skill, he experienced with the hero. As I have already noted, in this story, the author's ability to convey not only events, but also feelings is striking. "Burn the hearts of people with a verb." Such an instruction to a true poet sounds in the poem by Alexander Pushkin "The Prophet". And Vladimir Tendryakov succeeded. He managed not only to colorfully express his childhood memories, but also to awaken compassion and empathy in the hearts of readers.

Dog bread

Vladimir Tendryakov's childhood passed in the bleak era of post-revolutionary Russia and Stalin's repressions, all the horror of which remained in his memory as a dark trace of childhood memories that formed the basis of the story "Bread for a Dog". Perhaps it was the effect of childhood impressions that helped the author to describe so clearly and unbiasedly the events that took place in the small station village, in which the first years of his life passed.

And what happened there was the same as in many other similar villages: dispossessed "prosperous" peasants, exiled to Siberia and not reaching the place of exile, were left to die of starvation in a small birch forest in front of the inhabitants of the village. The adults tried to avoid this awful place. What about children...

"No horrors could drown our animal curiosity," the author writes. "Petrified with fear, disgust, exhausted from hidden panic pity, we watched ...". Children watched the death of "kurkuli" (as they called "those living" in a birch forest).

To enhance the impression produced by the painting, the author resorts to the method of antithesis. Vladimir Tendryakov describes in detail the horrifying scene of the death of a "curkul" who "stood up to his full height, clasped a smooth strong birch trunk with brittle, radiant arms, pressed his angular cheek against it, opened his mouth, spaciously black, dazzlingly toothy, was probably going to shout (.. .) curse, but a wheeze came out, foam bubbled. Peeling the skin on the bony cheek, the "rebel" slid down the trunk and (...) died down for good. " In this passage we see the opposition of brittle, radiant hands to smooth, ...

Ïðèÿòíîãî ÷òåíèÿ!

Vladimir Tendryakov

Dog bread

Tendryakov Vladimir

Dog bread

Vladimir Fedorovich TENDRYAKOV

DOG BREAD

Summer 1933.

Near the station building, smoked and painted with state ocher, behind a weathered fence, there is a through birch park. In it, right on the trampled paths, on the roots, on the surviving dusty grass, lay those who were no longer considered human.

True, everyone in the depths of dirty, lousy rags should keep, if not lost, a dirty document certifying that the bearer of this bears such and such a surname, name, patronymic, was born there, on the basis of such and such a decision, exiled with deprivation of civil rights and confiscation of property. But no one bothered that he, a namearek, a bereft, an admiral exiled, did not get to the place, no one was interested that he, a namerek, bereft, did not live anywhere, did not work, did not eat anything. He dropped out of the people.

For the most part these are dispossessed men from near Tula, Voronezh, Kursk, Orel, from all over Ukraine. Together with them, the southern word "kurkul" arrived in our northern places.

Kurkuli did not even look like people outwardly.

Some of them are skeletons covered with dark, wrinkled, seemingly rustling skin, skeletons with huge, meekly glowing eyes.

Others, on the contrary, are tightly swollen - the skin, blue from the tension, is about to burst, the bodies sway, the legs are like pillows, the stitched dirty fingers hide behind the influx of white pulp.

And now they also behaved not like people.

Someone thoughtfully gnawed the bark on a birch trunk and looked into space with smoldering, inhuman wide eyes.

Someone, lying in the dust, exuding a sour stench from his half-rotted rags, disgustedly wiped his fingers with such energy and stubbornness that it seemed that he was ready to peel off their skin.

Someone spread like a jelly on the ground, did not move, but only screeched and gurgled inwardly, like a boiling titanium.

And someone sadly stuffed the station trash from the ground into their mouths ...

Most of all, those who had already died were like people. These lay quietly - asleep.

But before death, one of the meek, who quietly gnawed the bark, ate garbage, suddenly rebelled - stood up to his full height, clasped the smooth, strong trunk of a birch with splinters, brittle hands, pressed his angular cheek to it, opened his mouth, spacious black, dazzlingly toothy , was going to, probably, shout an incinerating curse, but a wheeze flew out, foam bubbled. Peeling the skin on the bony cheek, the "rebel" slid down the trunk and ... fell silent for good.

Such people did not resemble people even after death - they squeezed trees like monkeys.

The adults walked around the park. Only on the platform along the low fence was the stationmaster wandering on duty in a brand new uniform cap with a flashy red top. He had a swollen, leaden face, he looked at his feet and was silent.

From time to time, a policeman Vanya Dushnoy appeared, a sedate guy with a frozen face - "Look at me!"

Nobody crawled out? - he asked the station master.

And he did not answer, passed by, did not raise his head.

Vanya Dushnoy made sure that the kurkuli did not creep out of the park - neither on the platform, nor on the way.

We, boys, did not enter the park itself either, but watched from behind the fence. No horrors could stifle our animal curiosity. Petrified with fear, disgust, exhausted from hidden panic pity, we watched the bark beetles, outbreaks of "rebels" ending in wheezing, foam, sliding down the trunk.

The head of the station - "Little Red Riding Hood" - once turned in our direction with an inflamed-dark face, looked for a long time, finally uttered either to us, or to himself, or to the generally indifferent sky:

What will grow out of such children? They admire death. What kind of world will live after us? What kind of world? ..

We could not stand the square for a long time, we broke away from it, breathing deeply, as if airing all the nooks and crannies of our poisoned soul, and fled to the village.

There, where normal life went, where you could often hear the song:

Don't sleep, get up, curly hair!

In the workshops ringing

the country rises with glory

to meet the day ...

As an adult, I wondered for a long time and wondered why I, in general, an impressionable, vulnerable boy, didn’t get sick, didn’t go crazy right after I first saw a curkul, dying with foam and wheezing before my eyes.

Probably because the horrors of the square did not appear right away and I had the opportunity to somehow get used to it, to be callous.

The first shock, much stronger than that of the Kurkul death, I experienced from a quiet street incident.

A woman in a neat and shabby coat with a velvet collar and an equally neat and shabby face slipped in front of my eyes and broke a glass jar with milk, which she bought from the platform at the station. The milk poured into the icy, unclean footprint of the horse's hoof. The woman sank down in front of him, as if in front of her daughter's grave, sobbed stiflingly, and suddenly took out of her pocket a simple nibbled wooden spoon. She cried and scooped milk from the hoof hole on the road with a spoon, cried and ate, cried and ate, carefully, without greed, in a well-mannered manner.

A. I stood aside and - no, I didn't roar with her - I was afraid that passers-by would laugh at me.

My mother gave me breakfast for school: two slices of black bread, thickly spread with cranberry jam. And then the day came when, at a noisy break, I took out my bread and with all my skin felt the silence around me. I was at a loss, did not dare to propose to the guys then. However, the next day I took not two slices, but four ...

At a big break, I took them out and, fearing the unpleasant silence, which is so difficult to break, I shouted too hastily and awkwardly:

Who wants?!

I have a little shit, - said Pashka Bykov, a guy from our street.

And me! .. And me! .. Me too! ..

Hands stretched out on all sides, eyes glittered.

Not enough for everyone! - Pashka tried to push those who were pushing, but no one backed down.

To me! To me! Crust! ..

I broke off a piece for everyone.

Probably, out of impatience, without malicious intent, someone pushed my hand, the bread fell, the back ones, wanting to see what happened to the bread, threw themselves on the front ones, and several legs went over the pieces, crushed them.

Plow-handed! - Pashka scolded me.

And walked away. After him all crawled in different directions.

Torn bread lay on the jam-stained floor. It felt like we all in the heat had accidentally killed some animal.

The teacher Olga Stanislavna entered the classroom. By the way she averted her eyes, as she did not ask right away, but with a barely perceptible hesitation, I understood that she was hungry too.

Who is this well-fed?

And all those whom I wanted to treat with bread, willingly, solemnly, perhaps with gloating joy, announced:

Volodka Tenkov is well fed! He is it! ..

I lived in a proletarian country and knew very well how shameful it is to be well fed with us. But, unfortunately, I was really full, my father, a responsible employee, received a responsible ration. Mother even baked white pies with cabbage and chopped egg!

Olga Stanislavna began the lesson.

Last time we passed the spelling ... - And she fell silent. - Last time we ... - She tried not to look at the crushed bread. - Volodya Tenkov, get up, pick up after you!

I obediently got up, without arguing, picked up the bread, wiped a piece of cranberry jam from the floor with a sheet torn from a notebook. The whole class was silent, the whole class was breathing over my head.

After that, I flatly refused to take breakfast to school.

Soon I saw emaciated people with huge, meekly sad eyes of oriental beauties ...

And patients with dropsy with bloated, smooth, faceless faces, with blue elephant legs ...

Emaciated - skin and bones - we began to call shkiletski, sick with dropsy - elephants.

And here is the birch square near the station ...

I managed to get used to something, did not go crazy.

I also didn’t go mad because I knew that those who died in our birch forest near the station in broad daylight were enemies. This is about them recently the great writer Gorky said: "If the enemy does not surrender, he is destroyed." They didn't give up. Well ... we got into a birch forest.

Together with other guys, I witnessed Dybakov's accidental conversation with one shkiletskaya.

Dybakov is the first party secretary in our region, tall, in a paramilitary tunic with straight shoulders, and pince-nez on a slender humped nose. He walked with his hands behind his back, arched, exposing his chest, decorated with patch pockets.

There was some kind of regional conference in the railway club. The entire leadership of the district, headed by Dybakov, headed to the club along a path strewn with crushed bricks. We children, for lack of other spectacles, also accompanied Dybakov.

Suddenly he stopped. Across the path, under his chrome boots, lay a tattered man, a skeleton in worn, too loose leather. He lay on the crushed brick, putting his brown skull on the dirty knuckles of his hands, looking upward, as everyone dying of hunger looks - with gentle sorrow in their unnaturally huge eyes.

Dybakov stepped from heel to heel, crunched a loose path, was about to go around random relics, when suddenly these relics parted leathery lips, flashed with large teeth, hoarsely and clearly pronounced:

Let's talk, chief.

Silence collapsed, it became audible how far beyond the wasteland near the barracks someone from idle tenorite to a balalaika:

It's good for that one,

Who has one leg

Not a lot of boots

And there is only one port.

Al are you afraid of me, chief?

From behind Dybakov, the district committee worker Comrade Gubanov emerged, as always with an unfastened briefcase under his arm:

Little chut! Little chut! ..

The one who was lying meekly looked up at him and bared his teeth terribly. Dybakov waved his hand towards Comrade Gubanov.

Let's talk. Ask, and I will answer.

Before you die, tell me ... why ... why me? .. Is it really serious for having two horses? - a rustling voice.

For this, - Dybakov answered calmly and coldly.

And you confess! Well, wow ...

Little chut! - Comrade Gubanov jumped up again.

And again Dybakov casually brushed him aside.

Would you give a worker bread for pig iron?

What is your cast iron to me, with porridge?

That's just it, but the collective farm needs it, the collective farm is ready to feed the workers for cast iron. Did you want to go to the collective farm? Honestly!

Did not want.

Everyone stands for their freedom.

Yes, not a free cause, but a horse. You feel sorry for your horses. He fed, nursed - and suddenly give it back. Sorry for your property! Is not it?

The gnarled paused, blinked mournfully and, it seemed, was even ready to agree.

Shoot your horses, chief, and stop. Why also deprive the stomach? - he said.

Will you forgive us if we take it away? You won't sharpen a knife at us behind your back? Fair!

Who knows.

So we don't know. What would you do with us if you felt that we were preparing a sharp knife for you? .. Are you silent? .. There is nothing to say? .. Then goodbye.

Dybakov stepped over the legs of the interlocutor, skinny as sticks, moved on, clasping his hands behind his back, exposing his chest with patch pockets. Behind him, disdainfully rounding the goner, the others followed.

He lay in front of us boys - a flat skeleton and rags, a skull on brick chips, a skull that retains a human expression of submission, weariness and, perhaps, thoughtfulness. He was lying, and we looked at him condemningly. He had two horses, bloodsucker! For the sake of these horses, he would sharpen a knife at us. "If the enemy does not surrender ..." Dybakov did a great job at him.

And yet it was a pity for the evil enemy. Probably not just me. None of the children danced over him, did not tease:

The enemy is the enemy

Kurkul-kulachina

Eats bark.

Voshsy beats

He walks with kurkulikha

Shakes with the wind.

I sat at the table at home, stretched out my hand for the bread, and my memory unfolded pictures: directed into the distance, quietly stunned eyes, white teeth gnawing at the bark, a jelly-like carcass bubbling inside, an open black mouth, wheezing, foam ... And nausea rolled under my throat.

Earlier my mother used to say about me: "I won't complain about that, whatever I put it on, it crumbles, it bursts behind my ears." Now she was raising a cry:

Stuck! Be mad about fat! ..

“I was furious with fat,” I am the only one, but if my mother started to swear, she always scolded two people at once - me and my brother. My brother was three years younger, at the age of seven he knew how to worry only about himself, and therefore ate - "it bursts behind his ears."

Get mad! We don’t want soup, we don’t want potatoes! All around the people are glad to the stale rusk. Give you at least a hazel grouse.

About hazel grouse, I only read rhymes: "Eat pineapples, chew hazel grouses, your last day is coming, bourgeois!" I could not go on a hunger strike or refuse to eat at all. First, the mother would not have allowed. Secondly, nausea, nausea, pictures by pictures, but there is something I still wanted, and not at all bourgeois hazel grouses. They forced me to swallow the first spoon, and then it went on by itself, I straightened out the rim, got up from the table, heavy.

This is where it all began ...

It seems to me that conscience tends to wake up more often in the body of well-fed people than hungry people. The hungry man is forced to think more about himself, about getting his daily bread for himself, the very burden of hunger compels him to selfishness. The well-fed has more opportunity to look around, think about others. Most of the well-fed were ideological fighters against caste satiety - the Gracchi of all times.

I got up from the table. Is it because in the station square people gnaw on the bark, because I have eaten too much now?

But it's the chicken that gnaws at the bark! Are you sorry? .. "If the enemy does not surrender, they destroy him!" And this is "destroyed" like this, probably, and should look like a skull with eyes, elephant legs, foam from a black mouth. You're just afraid to face the truth.

My father once said that in other places there are villages where every inhabitant died of hunger - adults, old people, children. Even babies ... You can't really say about them: "If the enemy does not surrender ..."

I am well fed, very well fed - to the bone. I have eaten so much now that, probably, five would be enough to escape starvation. Didn't save five, ate their lives. Only whose - enemies or not enemies? ..

And who is the enemy? .. Is the enemy who gnaws the bark? He was - yes! - but now he has no time for enmity, there is no meat on his bones, there is no strength even in his voice ...

I ate my entire lunch myself and shared with no one.

I have to eat three times a day.

One morning I suddenly woke up. I didn't dream of anything, I just took it and opened my eyes, saw a room in the mysteriously ashy gloom, a gray, cozy dawn outside the window.

Far away on the railroad tracks, a shunting "sheep" shouted arrogantly. The early tits squeaked on the old linden tree. The father starling cleared his throat, tried to sing like a nightingale - mediocrity! A cuckoo barked tenderly and convincingly from the swamps on the backs. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How long should I live?" And she drops and drops her "cuckoo" like silver testicles.

And all this happens in a surprisingly calm gray twilight, in a cramped, dimmed, cozy world. In a minute accidentally snatched from sleep, I suddenly quietly rejoice at the most obvious fact - there is a certain Volodka Tenkov in this world, a man of ten years old. There is - how wonderful it is! "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How old am I? .." "Ku-ku! Ku-ku! Ku-ku! .." Generous tirelessly.

At this time, far away, somewhere at the very end of our street, there was a thunder. Ripping apart the sleepy village, a loosened cart approached, crushing the silver voice of the cuckoo, the squeak of tits, the attempts of an incompetent starling. Who is this and where is he rushing so angrily so early? ..

And suddenly I was burnt: who? Ok, I see! The whole village speaks about these early trips. Komkhoz groom Abram goes to "collect carrion". Every morning he drives his cart directly into the birch forest near the station, begins to stir the lying ones - is he alive or not? He does not touch the living, he puts the dead in a cart, like wood blocks.

A slack wagon thunders, wakes up a sleeping village. Smashes and subsides.

After her, no birds are heard. For a minute, nobody and nothing is heard. Nothing ... But strange - there is no silence either. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! .." Oh, don't! Does it matter how many years I live in the world? Do I really want to live long? ..

But like a downpour from under the roof, the awakened sparrows fell. Buckets rattled, women's voices rang out, the well gate creaked.

To fix the roofs! Saw firewood! Clean the trash heaps! Any work! - Strong, challenging baritone.

To fix the roofs! Saw firewood! Clean the trash heaps! repeated the boyish viola.

These are also the exiled kurkuli - father and son. The father is tall, bony-shouldered, bearded, sternly important; the son is sinewy, thin, freckled, very serious, two or three years older than me.

Our every day begins with the fact that they loudly, in two voices, almost arrogantly offer the village to clean the garbage cans.

I shouldn't eat my meals alone.

I am obliged to share with someone.

Probably with the most, the most hungry, even if he is the enemy.

Who is the most? .. How to find out?

Not difficult. You should go to the birch park and reach out with a piece of bread to the first one that comes along. It is impossible to make a mistake, everything is there - the most, the most, there are none.

To lend a hand to one, but not to notice the others? And it will be truly fatal. Those to whom the hand does not reach out will be taken out by the groom Abram.

Can the bypassed agree with you? .. Isn't it dangerous to openly extend a helping hand? ..

Of course, I thought differently then, not in the words I write now, thirty-six years later. Most likely, then I did not think at all, but felt acutely, like an animal, intuitively guessing future complications. Then I realized not by reason, but by instinct: a noble intention - to break your daily bread in half, share it with your neighbor - can only be done secretly from others, only thieves!

I stealthily, thieves, did not finish what my mother had put on the table in front of me. I thievingly loaded into my pockets the honestly saved three slices of bread, a fist-sized lump of millet porridge wrapped in a newspaper, and a clean, crystal-perfect lump of refined sugar. In broad daylight, I went out on a thief's business - on a secret hunt for the most hungry.

I met Pashka Bykov, with whom I studied in the same class, lived on the same street, did not make friends, and was wary of hostility. I knew that Pashka was always hungry - day and night, before lunch and after dinner. The Bykov family - seven people, all seven live on the work cards of their father, who works as a coupler on the railway. But I did not share bread with Pashka - not the most ...

I met a gnarled grandmother Obnoskova, who lived by collecting grass and roots on the sides of the roads, in the fields, on the edges of the forest, drying, boiling, steaming them ... Other such lonely old women all died. I haven’t shared it with my grandmother - not yet the best one.

Boris Isaakovich Zilberbruner trotted past me in galoshes tied with strings to his dirty ankles. If I had met this Zilberbrunsr before, then, who knows, perhaps I decided - the same one. Recently, he was one of the shkilets who were sticking out near the canteen, but got used to making fishhooks from wire, they even paid for them with chicken eggs.

Finally, I ran into one of the elephants staggering around the village. Wide, that wardrobe, in a spacious peasant malakhai color arable land, in a Zaporozhye, Cossack hat - a rook's nest, with lush, bluish-pale legs, which with every step shook like oatmeal jelly, and could only fit in a bath tub.

Maybe he was not the same one yet ... Had I continued my hunt, I probably would have run into a more unfortunate one, but the remnants of dinner burned me through my pockets, demanded: go immediately!

Uncle ...

He stopped, breathing hard, aimed at me from his tower height with his eyes-slits.

The pale, swollen face at close range struck with an unnatural gigantism - some floating, like flabby buttocks, cheeks, a chin falling down on the chest, eyelids, completely drowned eyes, a wide bridge of the nose stretched to the blue of the troupe. On such a face, nothing can be read, no fear, no hope, no emotion, no suspicion - a pillow.

Gnawing at my pocket, I awkwardly began to free the first piece of bread.

The smoothed physiognomy trembled, tightly inflated, with short, dirty, unbending fingers, the brush stretched out, took a piece tenderly, persistently, impatiently. So a calf with a warm nose and soft lips takes bread from its hand.

Thank you, lad, said the elephant in a fistula.

I laid out everything I had to him.

Tomorrow ... On a vacant lot ... Near the piles ... Anything else ... - I promised and rushed away with lightened pockets and a relieved conscience.

I was happy all day. Inside, in the hypochondrium, where the soul lives, it was cool and quiet.

In a vacant lot, near the piles ... Yes, this time I was carrying eight slices of bread, two slices of bacon, an old tin can filled with stewed potatoes. I had to eat all this myself and did not eat it, I saved it when my mother turned away.

I jumped to the vacant lot, holding the shirt protruding on my stomach with both hands. A shadow fell at my feet.

Young man! Young man! I pray! Take a moment! ..

Am I being treated so respectfully? ..

Across the road stood a woman in a dusty hat, known to everyone as the Burp. She was not an elephant or a shkilenitsa, just an invalid, disfigured by some strange disease. Her entire dry body is unnaturally crumpled, twisted, twisted - her shoulders are twisted, her back is thrown back, a small bird's head in a greasy cloth hat with a dull feather somewhere far behind the whole body. From time to time this head makes a desperate shaking, as if the hostess is about to exclaim dashingly: "Eh! And I will dance to you!" But Burp did not dance, but usually began to wink strongly, strongly with her whole cheek.

Now she winked at me and spoke in a passionate, tearful voice:

Young man, look at me! Do not hesitate, do not hesitate, carefully! .. Have you ever seen a creature offended by God? .. - She winked and stepped on me, I backed away. - I am sick, I am helpless, but I have a son at home ... I am a mother, I love him with all my heart, I am ready for anything to feed him ... We both forgot the taste of bread, young man! A small piece, please! ..

An eerily cheerful wink from the whole cheek, a black hand with a dirty cloth to get my eyes wet ... How did she know that I had bread under my shirt? The elephant who was waiting for me in the wasteland did not tell her. It is beneficial for the elephant to be silent.

Ready to kneel in front of you. You have such a kind ... you have an angelic face! ..

How did she know about bread? Smell? Witchcraft? .. I did not understand then that I was not the only one who tried to feed the exiled kurkuli, that all the simple-minded saviors had an eloquently thieves' guilty expression on their faces.

I could not resist the passion of Belching, before its cheerful wink, before the crumpled dirty rag. I gave all the bread and lard slices, leaving only one piece with the can of stewed potatoes.

I promised it ...

But Burp devoured a tin can with her magpie eyes, shook her dusty hat with a feather, moaned:

We are dying! We are dying! Me and my son - we are dying! ..

I gave her the potatoes too. She tucked the jar under her blouse, eagerly glared at the last slice of bread left in my hand, jerked her head, oh, I’ll dance! - winked her cheek again, walked away, tilted to one side, like a sinking boat.

I stood and looked at the bread in my hand. The piece was small, rolled up in my pocket, dented, but I called myself - come to the wasteland, I made the hungry wait a whole day, now I will bring him such a piece. No, it's better not to be dishonored! ..

And out of annoyance - and out of hunger too - I ate bread without leaving my place. It was unexpectedly delicious and ... poisonous. The whole day after it I felt myself poisoned: how could I - tore it out of the mouth of the hungry! How could I!..

And in the morning, looking out the window, I went cold. A familiar elephant stuck out under the window at our gate. He stood, dressed in his immense caftan, the color of a freshly plowed field, folding his soft toad hands on his fat belly, the breeze stirring the dirty fur on his Cossack cap - motionless and tower-like.

I immediately felt like an ugly fox, driven into a hole by a dog. He can stand until evening, can stand like this tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, he has nowhere to rush, and standing promises bread.

I waited until my mother left home, climbed into the kitchen, rolled a weighty crust off the loaf, took out a dozen large raw potatoes from the bag and jumped out ...

The arable caftan had bottomless pockets in which, perhaps, all our family supplies of bread could disappear.

Son, ne vir vile woman. Nei has no one. No son of Nam, no daughter.

I even guessed about it without him - Belching was deceiving, but try to refuse her when she stands in front of you broken, winks her cheek and holds a dirty rag in her hand to get my eyes wet.

Oh, son, son, heck. Smirt and that grabue ... Oh, fucking, fucking. - Sighing hoarsely, he slowly set off, dragging his luxuriant legs with an effort on the splintered boards of the village sidewalk, vast as a haystack, majestic, like a dilapidated windmill. - Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!

I turned to the house and shuddered: my father was standing in front of me, a sun bunny was playing on a clean-shaven head, obese and dense, in a canvas tunic, intercepted by a thin Caucasian strap with plaques, his face was not gloomy and his eyes were not hung with eyebrows - a calm, tired face.

He stepped on me, put a heavy hand on my shoulder and looked somewhere to the side for a long time, finally asked:

Did you give him bread?

And he peered into the distance again.

I love my father and am proud of him.

About the great revolution, oh civil war now they sing songs and make up fairy tales. They sing about my father, they make fairy tales about him!

He is one of those soldiers who were the first to refuse to fight for the tsar and arrested their officers.

He heard Lenin at the Finnish railway station. He saw him standing on an armored car, alive - not on a monument.

He was the civilian commissar of the four hundred and sixteenth jealous woman.

He has a scar on his neck from a Kolchak fragment.

He received a personalized silver watch as an award. They were then stolen, but I myself held them in my hands, I saw the inscription on the cover: "For the displayed courage in the battles against the counter-revolution" ...

I love my father and am proud of him. And I am always afraid of his silence. Now he will shut up and say: "I have been at war with enemies all my life, and you feed them. Are you not a traitor, Volodka?"

But he quietly asked:

Why this? Why not another?

This one turned up ...

Another will turn up - will you?

I don't know. Probably I will.

Do we have enough bread to feed everyone?

I was silent and looked at the ground.

The country does not have enough for everyone. You can't scoop up the sea with a teaspoon, son. My father nudged me lightly on the shoulder. - Go play.

A familiar elephant began to conduct a silent duel with me. He came under our window and stood, stood, stood, frozen, sloppy, devoid of a face. I tried not to look at him, endured, and ... the bishop won. I would jump out to him with a piece of bread or a cold potato pancake. He received tribute and slowly retired.

Once, having jumped out to him with bread and a cod tail caught from yesterday's stew, I suddenly discovered that under our fence on the dusty grass lay another elephant, covered by a once-worn black railway overcoat. He only raised his unkempt head, covered in mats and sores, to meet me, croaked:

Ma-a-lchik! In paradise! ..

And I saw that it was true, and gave him a piece of boiled cod.

The next morning, under our fence, there were three more shirts. I already fell into a complete siege, now I could no longer endure anything in order to pay off. You can't feed five of them from your lunches and breakfasts, and the mother's supplies are not enough for all.

My brother ran to look at the guests, returned excited and joyful:

Another shkilent crawled to Volodka!

Mother cursed:

As always, she scolded two at once, although her brother was not guilty of sleep or spirit. The mother cursed, but did not dare to go out and drive off the hungry curkuli. Silently my father walked past the hungry rookery. He did not say a single word of reproach to me.

Mother ordered:

Here is a jug - run to the cafeteria for kvass. And quickly to me!

There is nothing to do, I took a glass jug from her hands.

I slipped through the gate to freedom without hindrance, not lethargic elephants and not barely crawling shkiletikam to intercept me.

I hustled for a long time in the tea-room, bought kvass. Kvass was real, bread - not a vitamin fruit drink - therefore it was sold not to everyone who wanted it, but only according to the lists. But don't stick around, but you have to come back.

They were waiting for me. All the recumbent were now solemnly on their feet. Cascades of patches, copper skin through the holes, sinister grins of ingratiating smiles, sultry eyes, eyeless faces, arms reaching out to me, skinny as bird paws, round as balls, and cracked, rough voices:

Bread, bread ...

Little by little ...

I'm dying, ma-a-alchik. Bite before dying ...

Would you like to eat my hand? Do you want? Would you like? ..

I stood in front of them and clutched a cold jug of muddy kvass to my chest.

Bread-fuck ...

Crust ...

Would you like your hand? ..

And suddenly from the side, vigorously shaking the feather on the cap, Burp came:

Young man! I pray! On my knees I pray!

She really fell on her knees in front of me, wringing not only her hands, but also her back and head, winking somewhere up into the blue sky, God.

And that was already too much. It darkened in my eyes. A wild, strange voice burst out of me in a sobbing gallop:

Ear-di-te! Go away ts !! Bastards! You bastards! Bloodsuckers !! Go away!

The belch rose busily, brushed the debris off her skirt. The rest, having gone out at once, lowered their hands, began to turn their backs to me, crawl without haste, listlessly.

And I could not stop, shouted sobbing:

Go away !!

Hard workers came up with an instrument on their shoulders - a bearded, sedate father with a freckled, very serious son, who was only two years older than me. The son casually moved his chin in the direction of the scattered kurguli:

My father nodded gravely in agreement, and both of them looked at me with frank contempt, disheveled, tear-stained, tenderly clutching a jug of kvass to my chest. For them, I was not a victim to be sympathized with, but one of the participants in the jackal game.

They passed. My father carried a saw on his straight shoulder, and it bent under the sun in a wide cloth, splashing out soundless lightning, a step - and a flash, a step and a flash.

Probably, my hysteria was perceived by goners as a complete cure for boyish pity. Nobody stood by our gate anymore.

Am I cured? .. Perhaps. Now I would not have endured a piece of bread for an elephant if he stood in front of my window even until the very winter.

Mother gasped and groaned - I didn't eat anything, I was losing weight, there were bruises under my eyes ... She tortured me three times a day:

Staring at the plate again? Didn't you please again? Eat! Eat! Cooked in milk, put butter, dare just look away!

She used the flour stored for the holidays to bake me pies with cabbage and chopped egg. I really loved these pies. I ate them. I ate and suffered.

Now I always woke up before dawn, never missed the knock of the cart, which Abram, the groom, drove to the station square.

The morning cart thundered ...

Don't sleep, get up, curly hair!

In workshops ringing ...

The cart was thundering - a sign of the times! A cart hurrying to collect the corpses of the enemies of the revolutionary fatherland.

I listened to her and realized: I am a bad, incorrigible boy, I can not help myself - I feel sorry for my enemies!

One evening my father and I were sitting at home on the porch.

Recently, my father had a kind of dark face, red eyelids, in some way he reminded me of the station chief who walked along the station square in a red hat.

Suddenly below, under the porch, as if a dog had sprung up from the ground. She had a desert-dull, some kind of unwashed yellow eyes and abnormally disheveled on the sides, on the back, with gray tufts of wool. For a minute or two she gazed at us with her vacant gaze and disappeared as instantly as she appeared.

Why did the wool grow so much? I asked.

The father was silent, reluctantly explained:

Drops out ... from hunger. The owner himself is probably bald with hunger.

And it was like being doused with bath steam. I seem to have found the most unfortunate creature in the village. There are no elephants and shkilets, but someone will regret it, even if secretly, ashamed, inwardly, no, no, and there will be a fool like me who will give them a loaf of bread. And the dog ... Even the father now felt sorry not for the dog, but for its unknown owner - "he is balding with hunger." The dog dies, and there is not even Abram to clean it up.

The next day, in the morning, I was sitting on the porch with my pockets full of pieces of bread. He sat and waited patiently - if that one would appear ...

She appeared, as yesterday, suddenly, silently, staring at me with empty, unwashed eyes. I moved to take out the bread, and she shied away ... But out of the corner of her eye she managed to see the bread taken out, froze, stared from afar at my hands - empty, without expression.

Go ... Come on. But be afraid.

She looked and did not move, ready to disappear at any second. She did not believe either the gentle voice, or ingratiating smiles, or bread in hand. No matter how much I begged, I didn’t come up, but it didn’t disappear either.

After a half-hour struggle, I finally gave up the bread. Without taking off my empty, not letting eyes, she sideways, sideways approached the piece. Jump - and ... not a piece, not a dog.

The next morning - a new meeting, with the same deserted people, with the same unbending distrust of the caress in his voice, of the benevolently extended bread. The piece was captured only when it was thrown to the ground. I could no longer give her the second piece.

The same thing on the third morning, and on the fourth ... We did not miss a single day so as not to meet, but did not become closer to each other. I have never been able to teach her to take bread from my hands. I have never seen any expression in her yellow, empty, shallow eyes - even a dog's fear, not to mention a dog's affection and friendly disposition.

It seems that I also ran into a victim of time. I knew that some of the exiles ate dogs, lured, killed, butchered. Probably my friend also fell into their hands. They could not kill her, but they killed her credulity towards man forever. She didn't seem to trust me much. Raised by a hungry street, could she imagine such a fool who is ready to give food just like that, demanding nothing in return ... even gratitude.

Yes, even thanks. This is a kind of payment, but it was enough for me that I was feeding someone, supporting someone's life, which means that I myself have the right to eat and live.

I didn’t feed the dog shabby from hunger with pieces of bread, but my conscience.

I will not say that my conscience really liked this suspicious food. My conscience continued to inflame, but not so much, not life-threatening.

That month, the station chief was shot dead, who, on duty, had to walk in a red hat along the station square. He did not think to find an unfortunate dog for himself to feed every day, tearing bread from himself.

D o c u m e n t and l n and y re pl and k a.

In the midst of a terrible famine in February 1933, the First All-Union Congress of Collective Farmers-Shock Workers convened in Moscow. And on it, Stalin utters words that have become winged for many years: "We will make the collective farms Bolshevik," "We will make the collective farmers prosperous."

The most extreme Western experts believe that six million people died of starvation in Ukraine alone. Cautious Roy Medvedev uses more objective data: "... probably from 3 to 4 million ..." across the country.

But he, Medvedev, took from the 1935 yearbook "Agriculture of the USSR" (M. 1936, p. 222) striking statistics. I quote: "If from the harvest of 1928 less than 1 million centners of grain were exported abroad, then in 1929 13 were exported, in 1930 - 48.3, in 1931 - 51.8, in 1932 - 18.1 million centners. Even in the hungry year, 1933, about 10 million centners of grain were exported to Western Europe! "

"Let's make all collective farmers prosperous!"

Thank you for downloading the book at

In post-revolutionary Russia and Stalin's repressions, Vladimir Tendryakov's childhood took place, all the horror of those times was preserved in his memory. It is these memories that form the basis of the story "Bread for a Dog".
The dispossessed prosperous peasants, who were exiled to Siberia and who did not reach the place of exile, were dying of hunger in front of the inhabitants of the village, in a small birch forest. Adults avoided this terrible place, and the children could not overcome their curiosity and watched the death of their fists, or they were also called kurkuli.

The author describes in great detail the terrible scene of the death of a fist, who, standing up to his full height, grabbed the trunk of a birch with brittle hands, and pressed his cheek against it and wanted to shout something, but could not and again slid down the trunk and died.
The stationmaster, who monitors the kurkuli, says that it is not clear what will grow out of children watching death. This question is asked by the author himself, who is amazed that in childhood he did not go crazy seeing such a scene. But then he remembers that earlier he witnessed how hunger made decent people go to humiliation. This hardened his soul somewhat.

This, of course, hardened his soul, but not to such an extent that he could be indifferent to these starving people when he himself was full. He sneaked out the remnants of his food for kurkuli. He did this for some time, but then there were more beggars, and the boy could no longer feed more than two people. And one day it happened that many hungry people gathered at the fence of his house. They stood in the way of the boy when he returned home and began to ask him for food. And suddenly the boy began to shout at them and talk about them leaving. The beggars began to leave, but he still didn’t stop and kept screaming sobbing.

After that, the boy could no longer tolerate bread for kurkul, but his conscience was not calm, so he did not sleep at night and kept thinking that he was a bad boy and that he was helping his enemies.
And then the dog comes. And the boy clutches at her so as not to go insane because he ruins the lives of several people every day. The boy begins to feed this dog, but he realizes that he did not feed a piece of bread hungry dog, but your conscience.

The story ends with a description of the death of the station chief, who was watching the curkuli, who shot himself and did not think for himself to find a poor dog to feed it every day.

Please note that this is only summary of the literary work "Bread for a Dog". Many important points and quotes are missing in this summary.