Coffee is not just a drink for a long time, but an integral part of our life. Without...
The story was written in 1967, after V.T. Shalamov left the camp. In conclusion, the author spent a total of eighteen years, and all his work is devoted to the theme of camp life.
A distinctive feature of his heroes is that they no longer hope for anything and do not believe in anything. They have lost all human feelings, except for hunger and cold. It is in ChH's story that such a characteristic of the camper is manifested most clearly. The comrade entrusted the main character with a bag of bread.
It was extremely difficult for him to restrain himself and not touch the rations: +I didn’t sleep+ because I had bread in my head+ You can imagine how hard it was for a camper then.
But the main thing that helped to survive self-respect. You cannot compromise your pride, conscience and honor under any circumstances. AND main character showed not only all these qualities, but also strength of character, will, endurance. He did not eat the bread of his comrade, and thus, no matter how he betrayed him, remained faithful to him. I believe that this act is important primarily for the hero himself. He remained faithful not so much to his comrade as to himself: And I fell asleep, proud that I had not stolen my comrade's bread.
This story made a big impression on me. It fully reflects those terrible, unbearable conditions in which the life of a camp inmate passed. And yet the author shows that the Russian man, in spite of everything, does not deviate from his convictions and principles. And it helps to some extent to survive.
The fusion of romanticism and realism, with which M. Gorky began his career, was a new progressive step in the development of Russian literature. The first striking work with which Gorky entered literature was Makar Chudra.
About the cruel events of the Soviet era in Russia, described in the works of Solzhenitsyn, Shalamov, Dombrovsky and Vladimov.
The reform only exacerbated the already difficult situation of the peasants of Russia. My favorite writer I. A. Bunin could not remain indifferent to such a situation of workers who feed the fatherland with bread.
In Sholokhov's story "The Fate of a Man" through the fate of a simple hard worker, the fate of the whole people was shown, because. during the war years, such a life could be repeated many times. Main new trick- a story within a story.
The path that fell to Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov was incredibly difficult, sometimes tragic. He spent seventeen years in prisons and camps: from 1929 to 1932 in the camps of the North Urals, from 1937 to 1951 in the Kolyma camps.
In the fiction of the post-war decades, the themes of what was experienced during the war and the rethinking of the events of those years come to the fore. It is to this period that the work of V. Bykov.
“Kolyma stories”- a collection of stories included in the Kolyma epic of Varlam Shalamov. The author himself went through this “most icy” hell of the Stalinist camps, so each of his stories is absolutely reliable.
In recent years, we have had the opportunity to get acquainted with many works from which, by the strong-willed decision of communist ideologists, they were forcibly excommunicated.
Of great interest is the work of the famous Belarusian writer Vasil Bykov. A large number of stories, stories were dedicated to the Great Patriotic War heroism and courage of our people.
This time was very difficult for the peasants and left a big mark in the history of our country. If we consider collectivization on the surface, then one gets the impression that it was a difficult but useful time.
I would like to introduce you to the work of Andrei Platonovich. Platonov is a Russian Soviet writer, in his works he creates a special world that amazes us and makes us think.
Subtle lyricist and psychologist - Ivan Alekseevich Bunin in the story "The Gentleman from San Francisco" seems to deviate from the laws of realism, approaches the symbolist romantics.
The main theme of A.I. Solzhenitsyn is the exposure of the totalitarian system, the proof of the impossibility of the existence of a person in it.
The "camp" theme rises sharply again in the 20th century. Many writers, such as Shalamov, Solzhenitsyn, Sinyavsky, Aleshkovsky, Ginzbur, Dombrovsky, Vladimov testified about the horrors of the camps, prisons, isolation wards.
The article was posted on a hard-to-reach Internet resource in the pdf extension, I duplicate it here.
Documentary artistry of the stories "The Parcel" by V.T. Shalamov and "Sanochki" G.S. Zhzhenova
The article is related to the topic of the Kolyma hard labor camps and is devoted to the analysis of the documentary and artistic world of the stories “The Parcel” by V.T. Shalamov and "Sanochki" G.S. Zhzhenova.
The exposition of Shalamov's story "The Parcel" directly introduces the main event of the story - the receipt by one of the prisoners of the parcel: "The parcels were given out on duty. Brigadiers certify the identity of the recipient. Plywood broke and cracked in its own way, like plywood. The local trees did not break like that, they did not shout with such a voice. It is no coincidence that the sound of parcel plywood is compared with the sound of breaking Kolyma trees, as if symbolizing two different polar modes of human life - life in the wild and life in prison. “Diversity of polarities” is clearly felt in another equally important circumstance: a convict who comes to receive a parcel notices behind the barrier people “with clean hands in overly neat military uniforms” . The contrast from the very beginning puts an insurmountable barrier between the disenfranchised prisoners and those who stand above them - the arbiters of their destinies. The attitude of the "masters" to the "slaves" is also noted in the outset of the plot, and bullying of the prisoner will vary until the end of the story, forming a kind of event constant, emphasizing the absolute lack of rights of the ordinary inhabitant of the Stalinist forced labor camp.
The article deals with the GULAG theme. The author made an attempt to analyze the documentary and fi ction worlds of the two stories.
LITERATURE
1. Zhzhenov G.S. Sanochki // From "Capercaillie" to "Firebird": a story and stories. - M.: Sovremennik, 1989.
2. Cress Vernon. Zecameron of the 20th century: a novel. - M.: Artist. lit., 1992.
3. Shalamov V.T. Collected works. In 4 vols. T. 1 // comp., prepared. text and notes. I. Sirotinskaya. - M.: Artist. lit., 1998.
4. Shalamov V.T. Collected works. In 4 vols. T. 2 // comp., prepared. text and notes. I. Sirotinskaya. - M.: Artist. lit., 1998.
5. Schiller F.P. Letters from the dead house / comp., trans. with him., note., afterword. V.F. Diesendorf. - M.: Society. acad. Sciences grew up. Germans, 2002.
NOTES
1. Note that dreams about food, about bread, do not give the hungry prisoner in the camp peace: “I slept and still saw my constant Kolyma dream - loaves of bread floating through the air, filling all the houses, all the streets, the whole earth.”
2. Philologist F.P. Schiller wrote to his family in 1940 from a camp in Nakhodka Bay: “If you haven’t sent boots and a top shirt yet, then don’t send it, otherwise I’m afraid that you will send something completely inappropriate.”
3. Shalamov recalls this incident both in “Essays on the Underworld” and in the story “Tombstone”: “Burki cost seven hundred, but it was bargain sale. <…>And I bought a whole kilo of butter in the store.<…>I also bought some bread…”
4. Due to the constant hunger of prisoners and exhausting hard work, the diagnosis of "alimentary dystrophy" in the camps was a common occurrence. This became fertile ground for making adventures on an unprecedented scale: “all products that were past their shelf life were written off to the camp.”
5. Something similar to this feeling is experienced by the hero-narrator of the story “Conspiracy of Lawyers”: “I have not yet been pushed out in this brigade. There were people here even weaker than me, and this brought some kind of reassurance, some kind of unexpected joy. Kolyma resident Vernon Kress writes about human psychology in such conditions: “We were pushed by our comrades, because the sight of a person who has come down always acts irritatingly on a healthier person, he guesses his own future in him and, moreover, is drawn to find an even more defenseless one, to recoup on him.<...>» .
6. Not only the blatari loved theatricality, other representatives of the camp population also had an interest in it.
Cheslav Gorbachevsky, South Ural State University
The huge double door opened and a distributor entered the transit hut. He stood in the broad band of morning light reflected by the blue snow. Two thousand eyes looked at him from everywhere: from below - from under the bunks, directly, from the side and from above - from the height of the four-story bunks, where those who still retained their strength climbed along the ladder. Today was herring day, and behind the dispenser they carried a huge plywood tray, bent under a mountain of herrings, cut in half. Behind the tray was the guard on duty in a white, tanned sheepskin coat that sparkled like the sun. Herring was given out in the morning - half a day every other day. What calculations of proteins and calories were made here, no one knew, and no one was interested in such scholasticism. The whispers of hundreds of people repeated the same word: ponytails. Some wise chief, reckoning with the prisoner's psychology, ordered to issue either herring heads or tails at the same time. The advantages of both have been discussed many times: the ponytails seemed to have more fish meat, but the head gave more pleasure. The process of absorption of food lasted until the gills were sucked, the head was eaten away. The herring was given out unpeeled, and everyone approved of this: after all, they ate it with all the bones and skin. But regret about the fish heads flickered and disappeared: the tails were a given, a fact. In addition, the tray was approaching, and the most exciting moment came: what size of the scrap would get, it was impossible to change, protest too, everything was in the hands of luck - a card in this game with hunger. A person who inattentively cuts herring into portions does not always understand (or simply forgot) that ten grams more or less - ten grams, seeming ten grams to the eye - can lead to drama, to bloody drama, maybe. There are no tears to speak of. Tears are frequent, they are understandable to everyone, and they do not laugh at those who cry.
As the distributor approaches, everyone has already calculated exactly which piece will be extended to him by this indifferent hand. Everyone has already managed to be upset, rejoice, prepare for a miracle, reach the edge of despair if he made a mistake in his hasty calculations. Some closed their eyes, unable to control their excitement, to open them only when the dispenser pushed him and held out a herring ration. Grabbing the herring with dirty fingers, stroking it, shaking it quickly and gently to determine whether the portion was dry or fatty (however, Okhotsk herrings are not fatty, and this movement of the fingers is also an expectation of a miracle), he cannot help but glance around the hands of those who surround him and who also stroke and crush the pieces of herring, afraid to rush to swallow this tiny tail. He doesn't eat herring. He licks her, licks her, and little by little the ponytail disappears from her fingers. The bones remain, and he chews the bones carefully, chews carefully, and the bones melt and disappear. Then he takes to bread - five hundred grams is given out for a day in the morning - pinches off a tiny piece and puts it in his mouth. Everyone eats bread at once - so no one will steal and no one will take it away, and there is no strength to save it. Just do not rush, do not drink it with water, do not chew. Gotta suck it like sugar, like a lollipop. Then you can take a mug of tea - tepid water, blackened with a burnt crust.
Herring is eaten, bread is eaten, tea is drunk. It immediately becomes hot and you don’t want to go anywhere, you want to lie down, but you already have to get dressed - pull on the torn padded jacket that was your blanket, tie the soles with ropes to the torn quilted wool cloaks, the cloaks that were your pillow, and you need to hurry, because the doors are open again and guards and dogs are standing behind the barbed wire fence of the yard...
We are in quarantine, in typhoid quarantine, but we are not allowed to sit back. They drive us to work - not according to the lists, but simply counting the fives at the gate. There is a way, quite reliable, to get a relatively profitable job every day. All you need is patience and perseverance. A profitable job is always the job where few people are hired: two, three, four. Work where they take twenty, thirty, one hundred is hard work, earthwork for the most part. And although the place of work is never announced to the prisoner in advance, he finds out about it already on the way, luck in this terrible lottery goes to people with patience. It is necessary to huddle behind, into other people's ranks, step aside and rush forward when they are building a small group. For large parties, the most profitable thing is sorting vegetables in a warehouse, a bakery, in a word, all those places where work is connected with food, future or present - there are always leftovers, fragments, scraps of what you can eat.
We were lined up and led along the muddy April road. The guards' boots slapped cheerfully through the puddles. We weren't allowed to break the formation in the city limits - no one went around the puddles. The legs were damp, but they did not pay attention to it - they were not afraid of colds. We've already had a thousand colds, and the worst thing that could happen - pneumonia, say - would lead to the desired hospital. Along the rows they whispered abruptly:
- To the bakery, listen, you, to the bakery!
There are people who always know everything and guess everything. There are those who want to see the best in everything, and their sanguine temperament in the most difficult situation always looks for some formula of agreement with life. For others, on the contrary, events are developing for the worse, and they perceive any improvement incredulously, as some kind of oversight of fate. And this difference in judgments depends little on personal experience: it seems to be given in childhood - for life ...
The most daring hopes came true - we stood in front of the gates of the bakery. Twenty people, with their hands in their sleeves, stomped around, exposing their backs to the piercing wind. The guards stepped aside and lit a cigarette. From a small door cut through the gate came a man without a hat, in a blue dressing gown. He spoke to the guards and approached us. Slowly, he looked around at everyone. Kolyma makes everyone a psychologist, but he had to figure out a lot in one minute. Among the twenty ragamuffins, it was necessary to choose two to work inside the bakery, in the shops. It is necessary that these people be stronger than the others, so that they can carry a stretcher with broken bricks left after the furnace was rebuilt. So that they are not thieves, thieves, because then the working day will be spent on all sorts of meetings, the transfer of "ksiv" - notes, and not on work. It is necessary that they do not yet reach the border, beyond which anyone can become a thief from hunger, because no one will guard them in the shops. It is necessary that they are not prone to escape. Necessary...
And all this had to be read on twenty prisoner faces in one minute, immediately selected and decided.
“Come out,” the man without a hat said to me. “And you,” he jabbed at my freckled, omniscient neighbor. "I'll take these," he said to the escort.
"All right," he said indifferently. Envious looks followed us.
In humans, all five human senses never operate simultaneously with full tension. I can't hear the radio when I read carefully. Lines jump before my eyes when I listen to a radio broadcast, although the automaticity of reading remains, I move my eyes along the lines, and suddenly it turns out that I don’t remember anything from what I just read. The same thing happens when, in the midst of reading, you think about something else - these are some kind of internal switches. The popular saying - when I eat, I am deaf and dumb - is known to everyone. One might add: "and blind," for the function of vision in such eating with appetite is focused on helping taste perception. When I grope with my hand deep in the closet and the perception is localized at the tips of my fingers, I see and hear nothing, everything is repressed by the tension of tactile sensation. So now, having crossed the threshold of the bakery, I stood without seeing the sympathetic and benevolent faces of the workers (both former and current prisoners worked here), and did not hear the words of the master, a familiar man without a hat, explaining that we should pull the broken brick out into the street that we should not go to other shops, should not steal, that he will give bread and so - I did not hear anything. I did not even feel that warmth of the hotly heated workshop, the warmth that my body longed for so much during the long winter.
I inhaled the smell of bread, the thick aroma of loaves, where the smell of burning butter mingled with the smell of toasted flour. I eagerly caught the smallest part of this overpowering aroma in the morning, pressing my nose to the crust of the still uneaten ration. But here it was in all its density and power and seemed to tear my poor nostrils.
The master interrupted the charm.
“I looked,” he said. - Let's go to the boiler room. We went down to the basement. In the cleanly swept boiler room, my partner was already sitting at the fireman's table. The stoker, in the same blue dressing gown as the master, was smoking by the stove, and through the holes in the cast-iron door of the firebox, it was visible how the flame rushed and sparkled inside - now red, now yellow, and the walls of the boiler trembled and hummed from convulsions of fire.
The master put a kettle on the table, a mug of jam, put a loaf of white bread.
“Get them drunk,” he said to the stoker. - I'll be back in twenty minutes. Just do not pull, eat faster. In the evening we will give you more bread, break it into pieces, otherwise they will take it away from you in the camp.
The master is gone.
“Look, bitch,” said the stoker, fiddling with the loaf in his hands. - Sorry thirty, you bastard. Well, wait.
And he went out after the master and returned a minute later, tossing a new loaf of bread in his hands.
"Warm," he said, tossing the loaf to the freckled boy. - Out of thirty. And then you see, I wanted to get off half-white! Give it here. - And, taking in his hands the loaf that the master left us, the stoker opened the door of the boiler and threw the loaf into the humming and howling fire. And he laughed as he closed the door. "That's it," he said cheerfully, turning to us.
- Why is this, - I said, - it would be better if we took it with us.
"We'll give you more to take with you," said the stoker. Neither I nor the freckled guy could break the loaves.
- Do you have a knife? I asked the stoker.
- Not. Why a knife?
The stoker took the loaf in two hands and easily broke it. Hot fragrant steam came from the broken carpet. The stoker pointed at the crumb.
“Fedka bakes well, well done,” he praised. But we didn't have time to find out who Fedka was. We began to eat, burning ourselves with bread and boiling water, in which we kneaded jam. Hot sweat poured from us in a stream. We were in a hurry - the master came back for us.
He had already brought a stretcher, dragged it to a pile of broken bricks, brought shovels and filled the first box himself. We got to work. And suddenly it became clear that the stretcher was unbearably heavy for both of us, that they were pulling the veins, and the arm suddenly weakened, losing strength. We were dizzy, we were shaken. I loaded the next stretcher and put half the size of the first load.
“Enough, enough,” said the freckled boy. He was even paler than I was, or the freckles accentuated his pallor.
- Rest, guys, - a baker passing by said cheerfully and by no means mockingly, and we obediently sat down to rest. The master passed by, but did not say anything to us.
Having rested, we again set to work, but after every two stretchers we sat down again - the heap of garbage did not decrease.
"Smoke, boys," said the same baker, reappearing.
- No tobacco.
- Well, I'll give you a cigarette. Just need to get out. You can't smoke here.
We shared a shag, and each lit his own cigarette - a luxury long forgotten. I took a few slow puffs, carefully extinguished the cigarette with my finger, wrapped it in paper and hid it in my bosom.
"That's right," said the freckled boy. - I didn't think so.
By the lunch break, we got used to it so much that we looked into the neighboring rooms with the same baking ovens. Everywhere, iron molds and sheets crawled out of the ovens with a squeal, and bread, bread lay everywhere on the shelves. From time to time a trolley on wheels came, the baked bread was loaded and taken away somewhere, but not where we needed to return in the evening - it was white bread.
Through the wide window without bars, it was clear that the sun had moved towards sunset. A chill came from the door. The master has arrived.
- Well, stop. Leave the stretcher in the trash. Didn't do enough. You won't be able to carry this heap in a week, workers.
We were given a loaf of bread, we broke it into pieces, stuffed our pockets... But how much could go into our pockets?
“Hide it right in your trousers,” the freckled guy commanded.
We went out into the cold evening courtyard - the party was already under construction - we were led back. At the camp watch, they did not search us - no one carried bread in their hands. I returned to my place, shared the brought bread with my neighbors, lay down and fell asleep as soon as my wet, stiff feet warmed up.
All night long loaves of bread and the mischievous face of the stoker throwing bread into the fiery mouth of the furnace flickered in front of me.
Shalamov V. T.
Composition based on a work on the topic: A brief review of the story of V. Shalamov Alien bread.
Brief review of the story by V. Shalamov Alien bread. The story of ChH was written in 1967, after V. T. Shalamov left the camp. In conclusion, the author spent a total of eighteen years, and all his work is devoted to the theme of camp life. A distinctive feature of his heroes is that they no longer hope for anything and do not believe in anything. They have lost all human feelings, except for hunger and cold. It is in ChH's story that such a characteristic of the camper is manifested most clearly. The comrade entrusted the main character with a bag of bread. It was extremely difficult for him to restrain himself and not touch the rations: I did not sleep because I had bread in my head. You can imagine how hard it was for the camper then. But the main thing that helped to survive self-respect. You cannot compromise your pride, conscience and honor under any circumstances. And the main character showed not only all these qualities, but also strength of character, will, endurance. He did not eat the bread of his comrade, and thus, no matter how he betrayed him, remained faithful to him. I believe that this act is important primarily for the hero himself. He remained faithful not so much to his comrade as to himself: And I fell asleep, proud that I had not stolen my comrade's bread. This story made a big impression on me. It fully reflects those terrible, unbearable conditions in which the life of a camp inmate passed. And yet the author shows that the Russian man, in spite of everything, does not deviate from his convictions and principles. And it helps to some extent to survive.
http://vsekratko.ru/shalamov/raznoe
Composition
Brief review of V. Shalamov's story Someone else's bread.
The story of ChH was written in 1967, after V.T. Shalamov left the camp. In conclusion, the author
spent a total of eighteen years, and all his work is devoted to the theme of camp life.
A distinctive feature of his heroes is that they no longer hope for anything and
believe. They have lost all human feelings, except for hunger and cold. It is in the story of ChH that
The characteristic of the camp is especially pronounced. The comrade entrusted the main character with a little bag with
bread It was extremely difficult for him to restrain himself and not touch the soldering: +I didn’t sleep+ because in
I had bread in my head.+ You can imagine how hard it was for the camper then. But the main thing is that
helped to maintain self-respect. You cannot compromise your pride, conscience and honor in any way.
circumstances. And the main character showed not only all these qualities, but also the strength of character,
will, patience. He did not eat the bread of his comrade, and thus, no matter how he betrayed him, remained to him
correct. I believe that this act is important primarily for the hero himself. He remained faithful
as much to his comrade as to himself: And I fell asleep, proud that I had not stolen my comrade's bread.
This story made a big impression on me. It fully reflects those terrible,
unbearable conditions in which the life of the camp passed. And yet the author shows that the Russian
man, no matter what, does not deviate from his convictions and principles. And it helps in some way.
degree to him to survive.
