Vasily Bykov: One night. One Night Bulls One Night main characters
The Junkers swooped in suddenly.
Their thin-tailed, swift shadows emerged from behind the peaked, mine-shattered roofs and unleashed a furious thunderous roar on the city. Stunned by it, Voloka's submachine gunner slowed down, crouched, pulled his head into his shoulders and cowered for a few seconds under the ever-increasing screech of bombs. Soon, however, realizing where the salvation was, the fighter darted onto the sidewalk strewn with garbage and found himself under a cast-iron grate that stretched along the street. For several long painful seconds, clinging to the hot asphalt, I waited ...
Bombs exploded behind the fence.
The earth trembled heavily with a sigh, a tight hot wave hit Volok in the back, something chimed briefly and loudly nearby, and immediately the street, houses and elms in the square were shrouded in clouds of gray dust.
Half a ton, no less, thought Voloka, spitting sand. Fragments of stones rattled around along the sidewalk, in the square and on the pavement, asphalt ingots splashed, flying high into the air, a cloud of earth slowly sifted, and in it, slowly settling, acacia leaves densely flickered. Somewhere above, a machine gun rattled, immediately plaster splashed from a gray building scratched by fragments, and a large, bean-shaped, yellow bullet, clicking on the stones, spun furiously on the sidewalk. At the next approach, the dive-bombers roared again.
In the square, among the dust that had not yet settled, the half-bent sweaty backs of the fighters were already flashing, someone jumped over the fence grating and rushed to the opposite side of the street. By the dark patch on his shoulder, Voloka recognized the sergeant, the squad leader from their platoon. Delighted that there was a man ahead, the fighter jumped up and, crouching down, set off after him.
The sergeant ran across the street in a few jumps and, to the new roar of the dive-bombers, dived into the gateway. Voloka lagged behind a little. An explosion rang out behind him, and when, out of breath, he flew under the saving arches of the entrance, he almost screamed out of surprise: two Germans jumped out of the yard right at him. Voloka stumbled, shied away, but the Germans here, apparently, were not waiting for him. The one in front muttered something to the one in the back, for a moment his wide eyes flashed fear and surprise. At the same moment, Voloka, without aiming, pulled the trigger - the machine gun shuddered from the chaotic burst - the German let go of the carbine and fell face down on the pavement. His brand new helmet, marked with the Alpine emblem, rolled crookedly along the pavement with a loud jingle.
Where the rear disappeared, he did not see Voloka.
Explosions rumbled around, somewhere a building collapsed with a groan, clouds of red brick dust poured into the gateway. Voloka bent down, jumped over the German's outstretched hand, on which his bony, ringed fingers were still twitching, and stuck his head in the wide open door. Steps ran down and inward, and in his haste, Voloka missed his foot and tumbled straight into the darkness. Ahead of him, his machine gun rattled in the twilight.
So the fighter found himself in the basement.
It was quiet and dark here. The coolness of the concrete floor immediately cooled the heated body.
Rubbing his bruised knees, Voloka listened, slowly got up, stepped once, twice, bent down, looking for a dropped weapon on the floor, and shuddered in surprise: his fingers stumbled upon something dusty, warm and, undoubtedly, alive. Voloka somehow did not immediately realize that these were boots, which immediately rushed out from under his hands, and then something blunt and heavy hit the fighter in the back. Voloka gasped in pain, but did not fall, but waving both arms, he grabbed someone's legs in the darkness. Consciousness pierced conjecture: German!
The German could not resist, fell to the ground, but managed to wrap his arms around Voloka's head. Ivan tensed, trying to escape, but in vain. The enemy kept lowering his head and, shuffling on the floor with his shod boots, tried to overcome him. But Ivan, having already recovered from fright, clung to the German's clothes and, feeling for support with his soles, pushed the enemy with his whole body.
They both fell heavily to the floor. Ivan, choking from the pain in his twisted neck, felt something crunch under him. He was now at the top and, moving his legs in the darkness, he was looking for a reliable support. A minute later, or maybe less, he hardly freed his head and, making a strong jerk, flattened the German on the floor. Still not quite confident, Ivan felt that he was stronger than the enemy, only, apparently, he was more agile or, perhaps, younger, for the fighter had no time to catch his tenacious hands in the darkness, when they again grabbed Voloka by the throat.
Ivan only grunted in pain, yellow fire flashed in his eyes. For a moment he went limp, wheezed desperately, and the German, dodging, threw his legs to the side and found himself on top.
– Ah-ah-ah! Bastard! Whoops! .. - Ivan croaked.
He instinctively clung to the hands squeezing his neck, trying at all costs to open them, to prevent tenacious fingers from squeezing his throat. After long convulsive efforts, he managed to tear off one hand, but the second immediately slid down and grabbed the collar of his buttoned tunic.
The fighter was suffocating, His chest was bursting with suffocation; it seemed that his throat cartilages were about to crack, his consciousness became dim, and Voloka was seized with fright because he was so absurdly letting himself be killed. In inhuman despair, he braced himself on the floor with his knees, tensed up, and with both hands sharply twisted to the side one, more disturbing hand of the German. The collar of the tunic crackled, something thumped dully on the floor, the German sniffed; his shod boots shuffled furiously across the concrete.
Voloka felt better. He freed his neck and, it seems, began to overcome the German. Instead of despair, anger burst into consciousness, the intention to kill flashed - this gave strength. Floating and snoring, he found the wall with his feet, rested against it and pressed the German with his whole body. He was again below - Voloka, mumbling with gloating and rage, finally got to his sinewy neck.
- I-i-i-e-e! the German lowed, and Voloka felt that he was winning.
His opponent noticeably slowed down and only defended himself, clutching Ivan's hardened hands. The drag, however, was very disturbed by a bag with disks, which fell under the German and with a belt, as if on a leash, held the fighter. Voloka again lost his footing, the wall disappeared somewhere, his feet scraped along the slippery floor. But he held on with all his might to the top and did not let go of the German, who suddenly wheezed, pulled Ivanov's hands, once and twice, tensed up, hit his head on the concrete and thrashed furiously with his whole body. However, Ivan leaned his shoulder, holding his throat with his hand, and squeezed.
At that moment, something happened upstairs.
A deafening explosion hit hard in the ears, a black dungeon collapsed into the abyss, hundreds of thunders and roars fell on people. A suffocating stench filled his chest, pain pierced his head, back, legs, something fell on him and choked him ... Voloka instinctively recoiled from the German, threw up his arms above his head, cowered helplessly, exposing his sweaty, bruised back to the collapse, and clenched his teeth from pain.
The roar, however, soon subsided, but Voloka’s body was so heavy that it was impossible to move, and only a short surprised thought beat in his mind: “Alive!” But there was no air, and he was suffocating from the sulphurous stench of TNT, sand and dust. Feeling that he was suffocating, Ivan rushed out of the grave prepared for him, with an incredible effort, he moved something off himself, took a breath of air and opened his sandy eyes.
2
It's amazing how he survived.
There was no longer the former darkness around, the coolness disappeared with it, it was stuffy, and brick and concrete piles were piled up everywhere. At first, it seemed to Voloka that the explosion had thrown him somewhere away from the place where he fought with the German, but, peering into the twilight, the fighter recognized the steps covered with gravel, from which he had recently rolled down here. There were only six of them from below, higher, resting with an edge against the stairs, a concrete block that had fallen from the ceiling was stuck, tightly blocking the exit. On the other side, slanting its end into the floor littered with bricks, lay a rusty I-beam bizarrely bent by the explosion. If she had fallen only half a meter closer, Voloka would hardly have been able to see her now.
Turning around, Ivan freed his hands from the rubble, got up, but his legs were still firmly pressed by something. He rolled onto his side and tried to stand up. The legs, it seems, were intact, the hands too, only one was in severe pain in the elbow. Shaking off sand and debris, he pulled one leg out of the rubble, then the other, and sat down. And then a choking, uncontrollable cough broke out of his chest. Ivan was choking in his attack, his chest was bursting, dust and sand clogged, apparently, all his lungs. Trembling all over, he coughed and spit for several minutes, and only when he felt a little better did he look around again.
Yes, he got hit hard here. And the stairs, and the corner, only a corner behind the steps and some two meters of the wall near the exit survived. The other side of the basement, opposite the door, was all littered with scrap bricks, concrete blocks, the ceiling was askew, cracked; in places, rebar protruded from its black crevices.
From one such crack into the semi-darkness of the basement, probably from the street, a thin ray of sunlight filtered. Dust particles swarm thickly in it, and the ray barely made its way to the floor, throwing a dim spot of light on the brick rubbish.
Shaking his head, Voloka shook the sand out of his ears and heard the sounds of war come here from under the ground with muffled sighs: explosions, the distant rumble of dive bombers and muffled machine-gun bursts. Ivan was alarmed and worried, he thought: we need to get out faster, the company, probably, has already left this place. The fighter rose and, stumbling in the rubble, wandered to the steps. There he looked around, found and pulled out his machine gun from under the rubble, dusted it with his sleeve. The fact that a weapon had been found calmed him somewhat; Ivan caught his breath and only now felt how badly his shoulder hurt. For the first time he remembered the German. “Of course, he’s already a skiff, he was crushed somewhere in the corner, thank God, he didn’t have to strangle the reptile,” thought Voloka. Ivan no longer had any anger towards the dead.
Upstairs, queues were again muffled, firing from the "tar" - Ivan would have recognized him anywhere. This cheered up the fighter, he stood up, bent his head, felt the block hanging over the steps, pulled himself up, pushed, but she didn’t even move - apparently, she was firmly attached to something from above. But how do you get out of here? Wincing from the pain in his arm, Ivan stepped down the steps and peered into the darkness of the crumpled ceiling. Nowhere is there a gap, not a gap, so that you can climb through. Bringing down the rubble, the fighter climbed onto a pile of debris and began to feel the rickety ceiling. One piece of concrete seemed to be shaking there, but, apparently fastened with reinforcement, it held firmly. The fighter looked into the crack, but there, except for the thick edges well lit at the break, nothing was visible.
Gradually, Ivan began to develop anxiety - how to get out of here? Maybe shout, call for help? What if the Germans are there? Who knows if ours managed to keep the square? Such a bombing probably helped the Germans a lot. He climbed down from the rubble, looked into the dark corner of the stairs - a dusty heap of broken bricks and concrete rose everywhere. How much do you have to dig it to get to some kind of breach?
Standing, Ivan was anxiously thinking about this, when suddenly a piece of brick moved and rolled down in a pile of rubble. Immediately a few more pieces rolled off the heap. Ivan became alert and bent down, peering. "Here you go!" - already without fear, seized only by surprise, he said to himself. Below, sprinkled with gravel, gray was the shoulder of the uniform, the edge of the black epaulette bordered with galloon, and the face of the German, powdered with dust, still not seen in the twilight. His bright eyes with a moist sheen looked intensely, fearfully at Ivan.
Voloka shrunk inwardly (“Oh, damn you, you survived!”) and grabbed the machine gun by the barrel with his left hand. But the former fear was gone, now Ivan was not very afraid of this unfinished enemy. The German looked motionless at the fighter for some time, and then turned in the rubble. His face twisted in pain at the same time; Suppressing a groan, he closed his eyes.
"Kill!" – flashed a thought, and Ivan habitually made a weapon. It was so easy now and so simple. But it must have been this lightness that restrained Ivan's determination. The German stirred again, trying to free himself from the rubble. "Come on, try it! Come on! - Ivan said to himself, vigilantly watching his every movement. “Get out, then you’re done!”
It was the fourth German who came under his arm. He shot the first one in the forty-third near Prokhorovka from a trench during the attack. He fell on the grass, turned around, looked at Ivan in some surprise, and calmed down. The second one took a bit of fiddling. Ivan caught up with him in the trench, the German fired from parabellum, wounded his friend Makivchuk. It was an officer with a cockade, and Ivan, driving him into a dead end, pinned him with a bayonet. The third one was shot today at the entrance. Now this one.
But it was still embarrassing to shoot at a lying and helpless one, and Ivan waited for what would follow next.
Only it was not easy for the German to get out. He pulled his hand out from under the rubble, grimacing in pain. Then he groaned, fixed a long imploring glance on Voloka, and again froze in impotence.
“Yeah, it’s annoying, dog!” Ivan muttered. The German tried to free his legs, which were stuck to the concrete block, and Ivan, standing opposite, watched his futile efforts. The German groaned, lowered his head, biting his lips. His so clearly felt pain was almost physically transmitted to Ivan. “Probably broken legs,” Voloka thought. Seeing that the German could not get out without outside help, Ivan instinctively stepped closer and, resting on his heel, rolled aside a huge flat piece of the wall.
Then he was surprised at this act of his, as the German began to move more freely, leaned on the floor with his hands and gradually pulled his legs out from under the rubble. Aha! Intact ... He was already free, but was in no hurry to take advantage of it (it can be seen that he was badly knocked down during the collapse), and Ivan, hiding in his soul a contradictory gloating mixed with sympathy, restrainedly watched the enemy.
Leaning his hands on the cluttered floor, the German sat for some time, apparently unable to cope with weakness and pain. Gathering his dusty eyebrows over his nose, Ivan waited with his machine gun at the ready. The German, meanwhile, felt his leg at the knee, moved his boot. Then, surprised by something, he looked at Voloka and listened. There was a muffled sound of gunfire from the street, several explosions rumbled, sand spilled through cracks in the ceiling. Looking up and as if remembering something, the German hastily got up and, limping, went to the stairs.
Ivan did not see any weapons on him, he knew that he could not escape from here anywhere, and therefore he calmly sat down on a fragment of the wall, looking at the enemy with superiority. He held the gun between his knees. “Yeah, try it,” the soldier thought caustically, watching the German push the slab over the steps. He tried, apparently, with all his might, but could not move the slab. Then the German turned around, a question reflected on his surprised face, but the impassively calm look of Voloka probably made him understand that there was no way out of here.
The German sluggishly stepped down the steps and sat down, clasping his legs with his arms. Ivan, with hidden curiosity, examined his crumpled figure, covered with dust, with a corporal chevron on a sleeve torn to the elbow. Then he first saw a holster on his side. This interested and alerted Ivan, a new concern arose: what to do when the enemy came to life, and on top of that, with weapons?
In the meantime, the German took off his left boot with his right foot, turned up the trouser leg and began to bandage his knee with a handkerchief. The knee was broken, blood oozed from a small but heavily bleeding wound, and soon the handkerchief became completely wet. At the sight of the wound and blood, Ivan remembered his shabby dressing bag, which he had been carrying in his pocket for a month just in case. It was possible not to give, he was not so sorry for this unfinished Nazi, but some kind of human generosity pushed him to help the soldier.
The German did not expect help and visibly flinched when a small package plopped into the garbage near his boots. At first he was confused, but then, apparently, he understood, and his eyes immediately cleared up. Muttering "dunk" and smiling, he lifted the package. His face was no longer young, his sunburned forehead was thickly cut with wrinkles, and bald patches shone above his temples. Light stubble bristled on weathered, unshaven cheeks.
Ivan stared at the enemy intently, not knowing what to do next, and only instinctively feeling that he had to be on the alert. The German rolled up his trouser leg and began to carefully bandage his knee. At the same time, he swayed measuredly, now and then exposing his cheek with a wide oblique scar near the ear - a long-standing trace of a fragment under the beam of light. Ivan, seeing this trace, smiled to himself: he wore the same scar on his left side - a memory of the battles near Kursk. The German, in turn, looked at Ivan somewhat puzzled with noticeable anxiety.
But they did not have to consider each other for a long time. Explosions shook the earth again: apparently, a Katyusha or a six-barreled German mortar fired. Ivan tossed his head and listened intently. The German froze with a bandage pulled over his leg and also waited, staring at the ceiling. But the explosions gradually subsided, the last trickles of sand poured out of the cracks, and again it became calm and deaf. Only one ray of oblique smoky ribbon sparingly sifted into the dungeon.
These sounds, however, disturbed Ivan. I had to do something, get out of here somehow. And brought this German here! But the German was defenseless, depressed and, it seems, was badly injured during the collapse. Ivan held a machine gun in his hands, felt confident and relied on his strength. In addition, he saw next to him not some self-confident Nazi of the first days of the war, but an elderly, tired and, obviously, a lot of suffering man. Although he was silent, it was not difficult to guess what he felt now, and only his soldier's uniform did not allow Voloka to forget that he was facing an enemy. Glancing from under his brows, the fighter threw his machine gun over his shoulder and climbed along the rubble to the dilapidated, cracked ceiling.
We had to find a way out.
3
The gaps in some places were quite wide, you could somehow stick your fingers through them, but there was nothing to grab onto. Throwing his head back, Ivan stared at the ceiling for a long time, then pressed hard from below a piece of debris, near which a ray of light filtered. Sand and gravel immediately fell out of the cracks. Wincing, Ivan turned his face away and tensed even more in order to somehow loosen the slab.
Not for a moment forgetting about the German and looking askance down, he followed his every movement. The German at first looked at Ivan with curiosity, then stood up somewhat hesitantly. Ivan immediately left the stove and took up the machine gun. But he smiled good-naturedly and clapped his holster. “Nein, nein,” he said soothingly, waving his hand. It looks like his holster was really empty. Ivan, however, in disbelief, slowly lowered his machine gun and swore to himself - his uncontrollable alertness to this enemy man began to stir again. Meanwhile, the German, waving his arms and limping heavily, climbed onto the gravel, lifted his head, examined the cracks and in one place stuck his fingers through the break.
Two pairs of hands rested on one piece of concrete.
All this was very strange.
If someone had told Ivan this, he would not have believed it, but now everything turned out somehow by itself, and he, perhaps, could not reproach himself for anything. Just a few minutes ago, without seeing and never knowing each other, they fought to the death in this basement, full of anger and hatred, and now, as if nothing had happened between them, they were unanimously loosening a piece of concrete in order to get out of the common misfortune.
The slab barely moved - a little up, a little down, debris from the cracks continued to pour, and it seemed to Ivan that he could loosen and turn it out. From time to time, he furtively glanced at the German, who, stretching out his arms, tried to measure his movements with Ivan's efforts. The tanned bristly face of a German with a highly developed lower jaw grimaced from tension and weakness: droplets of sweat poured thickly on the bridge of the nose. Occasionally he wiped his face with his sleeve. His hair, sweat-stained collar, and torn shoulder epaulettes were thickly strewn with dust. Ivan felt the German's uneven breathing, the crunch of rubble under his boots, and either from this closeness, or from the coherence of common efforts, that hostility that had always lived in him in relation to this man began to gradually weaken. Unclearly feeling this change in himself, Voloka was at a loss, still not understanding something.
They pulled the stove for about ten minutes, but she did not give in to them. The German was breathing tiredly, and Ivan was exhausted and finally dropped his hands. A thin, dust-covered ray rested resiliently on the German's boot covered with dust.
- Infection! – said Ivan, anxiously looking at the ceiling. - Not enough strength.
“I, I,” the German replied quietly. He also looked at the ceiling with regret and, unexpectedly for Ivan, said: - Less strength.
Ivan moved his dusty eyebrows, looked at the German in surprise - he understands, damn it!
- What, forshtey in Russian?
- Male, male, - said the German and smiled. - Russian frau ... citizen male-male teacher.
– Look you! That's the focus!
Ivan descended from the brick heap, wearily sat down on the end of the bent beam and reached into his pocket - he wanted to smoke, "clear up his brain." He still held the gun between his knees. The German, as if expecting this respite, also readily sat down where he stood, under the very beam above. He carefully extended his injured leg in front of him.
- Focus, focus ... Don't know what there is, - he said, grimacing in pain.
- Ege! Voloka smiled for the first time. - This, brother, you will not immediately understand ...
Current page: 1 (total book has 2 pages) [available reading excerpt: 1 pages]
Vasil Bykov
One night
1
The Junkers swooped in suddenly.
Their thin-tailed, swift shadows emerged from behind the peaked, mine-shattered roofs and unleashed a furious thunderous roar on the city. Stunned by it, Voloka's submachine gunner slowed down, crouched, pulled his head into his shoulders and cowered for a few seconds under the ever-increasing screech of bombs. Soon, however, realizing where the salvation was, the fighter darted onto the sidewalk strewn with garbage and found himself under a cast-iron grate that stretched along the street. For several long painful seconds, clinging to the hot asphalt, I waited ...
Bombs exploded behind the fence.
The earth trembled heavily with a sigh, a tight hot wave hit Volok in the back, something chimed briefly and loudly nearby, and immediately the street, houses and elms in the square were shrouded in clouds of gray dust.
Half a ton, no less, thought Voloka, spitting sand. Fragments of stones rattled around along the sidewalk, in the square and on the pavement, asphalt ingots splashed, flying high into the air, a cloud of earth slowly sifted, and in it, slowly settling, acacia leaves densely flickered. Somewhere above, a machine gun rattled, immediately plaster splashed from a gray building scratched by fragments, and a large, bean-shaped, yellow bullet, clicking on the stones, spun furiously on the sidewalk. At the next approach, the dive-bombers roared again.
In the square, among the dust that had not yet settled, the half-bent sweaty backs of the fighters were already flashing, someone jumped over the fence grating and rushed to the opposite side of the street. By the dark patch on his shoulder, Voloka recognized the sergeant, the squad leader from their platoon. Delighted that there was a man ahead, the fighter jumped up and, crouching down, set off after him.
The sergeant ran across the street in a few jumps and, to the new roar of the dive-bombers, dived into the gateway. Voloka lagged behind a little. An explosion rang out behind him, and when, out of breath, he flew under the saving vaults of the entrance, he almost screamed out of surprise: two Germans jumped out of the courtyard right at him. Voloka stumbled, shied away, but the Germans here, apparently, were not waiting for him. The one in front muttered something to the one in the back, for a moment his wide eyes flashed fear and surprise. At the same instant, Voloka, without aiming, pulled the trigger - the machine gun shuddered from the chaotic burst,
- The German let go of the carbine and fell face down on the pavement. His brand new helmet, marked with the Alpine emblem, rolled crookedly along the pavement with a loud jingle.
Where the rear disappeared, he did not see Voloka.
Explosions rumbled around, somewhere a building collapsed with a groan, clouds of red brick dust poured into the gateway. Voloka bent down, jumped over the German's outstretched hand, on which his bony, ringed fingers were still twitching, and stuck his head in the wide open door. Steps ran down and inward, and in his haste, Voloka missed his foot and tumbled straight into the darkness. Ahead of him, his machine gun rattled in the twilight.
So the fighter found himself in the basement.
It was quiet and dark here. The coolness of the concrete floor immediately cooled the heated body. Rubbing his bruised knees, Voloka listened, slowly got up, stepped once, twice, bent down, looking for a dropped weapon on the floor, and shuddered in surprise: his fingers stumbled upon something dusty, warm and, undoubtedly, alive. Voloka somehow did not immediately realize that these were boots, which immediately rushed out from under his hands, and then something blunt and heavy hit the fighter in the back. Voloka gasped in pain, but did not fall, but waving both arms, he grabbed someone's legs in the darkness. Consciousness pierced conjecture: German!
The German could not resist, fell to the ground, but managed to wrap his arms around Voloka's head. Ivan tensed, trying to escape, but in vain. The enemy kept lowering his head and, shuffling on the floor with his shod boots, tried to overcome him. But Ivan, having already recovered from fright, clung to the German's clothes and, feeling for support with his soles, pushed the enemy with his whole body.
They both fell heavily to the floor. Ivan, choking from the pain in his twisted neck, felt something crunch under him. He was now at the top and, moving his legs in the darkness, he was looking for a reliable support. A minute later, or maybe less, he hardly freed his head and, making a strong jerk, flattened the German on the floor. Still not quite confident, Ivan felt that he was stronger than the enemy, only, apparently, he was more agile or, perhaps, younger, for the fighter had no time to catch his tenacious hands in the darkness, when they again grabbed Voloka by the throat.
Ivan only grunted in pain, yellow fire flashed in his eyes. For a moment he went limp, wheezed desperately, and the German, dodging, threw his legs to the side and found himself on top.
– Ah-ah-ah! Bastard! Whoops! .. - Ivan croaked.
He instinctively clung to the hands squeezing his neck, trying at all costs to open them, to prevent tenacious fingers from squeezing his throat. After long convulsive efforts, he managed to tear off one hand, but the second immediately slid down and grabbed the collar of his buttoned tunic.
The fighter was suffocating, His chest was bursting with suffocation; it seemed that his throat cartilages were about to crack, his consciousness was dimmed, and Volok about
end of introduction
Probably, whenever you hear the word "war", it immediately comes to mind a large number of grief and misfortune, because a huge number of young boys and girls, as well as adults, died in this war and did not return home. After that, life completely changes and it is difficult to call it the same as before.
Few writers write and describe those events in their works. But Bykov writes about everything and describes them live. He does not hide anything and carefully describes all the suffering and pain of soldiers who have never experienced this feeling before. When death looks straight in the eyes and the soldiers try to do everything to avoid death, but she will not let go so easily. And in the work of Bykov "One Night".
The hero has always dreamed of defending his homeland, and for this he goes to war. But he never expected that it would be so difficult here. He wants to repay his debt to the state, but on the other hand, he wants to learn compassion, as well as help those who find themselves in a difficult or hopeless situation.
The main character is a guy named Ivan. In the war, he has to save himself in the basement, which collapsed, and it was covered with fragments of the walls. But as it turned out later, he is not alone here. Together with him, a German soldier is hiding from the war, who cannot get out and urgently needs help. Now the guy is faced with a difficult choice that he will have to make. First, Ivan helps the German and bandages the wound on his leg. In addition, at night they try to get out together and escape. As a result, the German not only did not say thank you. And as soon as he saw other Germans, he immediately rushes to them. Meanwhile, Ivan grabs a weapon and kills the German. If earlier he had compassion in his soul, now he didn’t care, and besides, the German also did not show compassion and therefore betrayed him almost immediately.
First, Ivan gets to know this guy. And it turns out that he has not only a wife, but also three children who are waiting for him at home and are very worried about him.
Previously, Ivan had already killed the Germans, and although he felt sorry for them, somewhere deep in his soul. But he persuaded himself only that they were his enemies and they did everything in order to capture the whole world and rule it and establish their own rules and regulations.
It turns out that war reveals completely different qualities in a person, if earlier he could not only help, but also show compassion, then gradually he does not care and he gets used to the fact that a huge number of people are dying nearby and he does not feel sorry for them.
Previously, a person lived by completely different rules, but in war there are completely different rules and laws that must be observed. When he is here, a person develops fear and hatred for other people. They first get inside, and then slowly begin to open up and capture the person completely.
The war has only one rule, more than anything she wants to kill people and this is her main goal.
Analysis 2
When a person hears the word war, he immediately imagines grief and suffering. We all remember the events from the forty-first to the forty-fifth years. At this time, the Great Patriotic War. This is the most terrible and tragic war in the history of mankind. It claimed the lives of twenty-seven million people.
Vasily Bykov is a Russian writer. He wrote about the war for many years and once gave the theme of the war. His readers noted Bykov's ability to convey everything exactly as it really was. His works were filled with blood and suffering. One of these works is One Night. In this work, Bykov came up with a very complex plot. Main character cannot choose between civic duty and human compassion.
The main character Ivan Voloko, saving his life from the Nemtsov, goes into the basement of a collapsed building. But he is not alone there. A German soldier also landed with him. He's all hurt. He needs help, and he himself will not be able to get out from under the rubble. Ivan immediately imagined himself in the place of a German soldier, and immediately began to help the soldier. He pulled him out from under the rubble and bandaged his wounds.
Later that night, they were able to get out of the rubble. And now they are both free. The German soldier thought he would be taken prisoner. And at the sight of his Germans tried to escape. The beast woke up in Ivan and he killed the German.
All Bykov's works about the war are filled with violence and cruelty. Now you can’t say for sure what Ivan was thinking when shooting at the German. Wrong he felt hatred and betrayal. As Bykov himself said, war has its own laws.
Bykov accurately and clearly expressed the events of those fateful years. And with all this, he put everything together into an interesting storyline. During his years, he developed the ideal skills of a front-line poet. In this part of the work, one can already say how Bykov imagines military operations. Bykov does not try to prove something to anyone with his works. He takes a neutral point of view. In more than one work, he did not stand on one of the sides of his heroes. He also does not express his thoughts and opinions. He's just trying to reproduce military operations and embellish them a bit. He does this for his readers. To make the works full and easy to read.
The long-awaited winter has come. All the children jumped out into the street. They were so happy. When I looked out the window, snowflakes were spinning on the street and I decided to take a walk. Going outside, the first thing that happened was a snowflake fell right on my palm.
Fadey is a complete antipode main character. Fadey is an unscrupulous man who only cares about himself and no one else.
Vasil Bykov
One night
The Junkers swooped in suddenly.
Their thin-tailed, swift shadows emerged from behind the peaked, mine-shattered roofs and unleashed a furious thunderous roar on the city. Stunned by it, Voloka's submachine gunner slowed down, crouched, pulled his head into his shoulders and cowered for a few seconds under the ever-increasing screech of bombs. Soon, however, realizing where the salvation was, the fighter darted onto the sidewalk strewn with garbage and found himself under a cast-iron grate that stretched along the street. For several long painful seconds, clinging to the hot asphalt, I waited ...
Bombs exploded behind the fence.
The earth trembled heavily with a sigh, a tight hot wave hit Volok in the back, something chimed briefly and loudly nearby, and immediately the street, houses and elms in the square were shrouded in clouds of gray dust.
Half a ton, no less, thought Voloka, spitting sand. Fragments of stones rattled around along the sidewalk, in the square and on the pavement, asphalt ingots splashed, flying high into the air, a cloud of earth slowly sifted, and in it, slowly settling, acacia leaves densely flickered. Somewhere above, a machine gun rattled, immediately plaster splashed from a gray building scratched by fragments, and a large, bean-shaped, yellow bullet, clicking on the stones, spun furiously on the sidewalk. At the next approach, the dive-bombers roared again.
In the square, among the dust that had not yet settled, the half-bent sweaty backs of the fighters were already flashing, someone jumped over the fence grating and rushed to the opposite side of the street. By the dark patch on his shoulder, Voloka recognized the sergeant, the squad leader from their platoon. Delighted that there was a man ahead, the fighter jumped up and, crouching down, set off after him.
The sergeant ran across the street in a few jumps and, to the new roar of the dive-bombers, dived into the gateway. Voloka lagged behind a little. An explosion rang out behind him, and when, out of breath, he flew under the saving arches of the entrance, he almost screamed out of surprise: two Germans jumped out of the yard right at him. Voloka stumbled, shied away, but the Germans here, apparently, were not waiting for him. The one in front muttered something to the one in the back, for a moment his wide eyes flashed fear and surprise. At the same moment, Voloka, without aiming, pulled the trigger - the machine gun shuddered from the chaotic burst - the German let go of the carbine and fell face down on the pavement. His brand new helmet, marked with the Alpine emblem, rolled crookedly along the pavement with a loud jingle.
Where the rear disappeared, he did not see Voloka.
Explosions rumbled around, somewhere a building collapsed with a groan, clouds of red brick dust poured into the gateway. Voloka bent down, jumped over the German's outstretched hand, on which his bony, ringed fingers were still twitching, and stuck his head in the wide open door. Steps ran down and inward, and in his haste, Voloka missed his foot and tumbled straight into the darkness. Ahead of him, his machine gun rattled in the twilight.
So the fighter found himself in the basement.
It was quiet and dark here. The coolness of the concrete floor immediately cooled the heated body. Rubbing his bruised knees, Voloka listened, slowly got up, stepped once, twice, bent down, looking for a dropped weapon on the floor, and shuddered in surprise: his fingers stumbled upon something dusty, warm and, undoubtedly, alive. Voloka somehow did not immediately realize that these were boots, which immediately rushed out from under his hands, and then something blunt and heavy hit the fighter in the back. Voloka gasped in pain, but did not fall, but waving both arms, he grabbed someone's legs in the darkness. Consciousness pierced conjecture: German!
The German could not resist, fell to the ground, but managed to wrap his arms around Voloka's head. Ivan tensed, trying to escape, but in vain. The enemy kept lowering his head and, shuffling on the floor with his shod boots, tried to overcome him. But Ivan, having already recovered from fright, clung to the German's clothes and, feeling for support with his soles, pushed the enemy with his whole body.
They both fell heavily to the floor. Ivan, choking from the pain in his twisted neck, felt something crunch under him. He was now at the top and, moving his legs in the darkness, he was looking for a reliable support. A minute later, or maybe less, he hardly freed his head and, making a strong jerk, flattened the German on the floor. Still not quite confident, Ivan felt that he was stronger than the enemy, only, apparently, he was more agile or, perhaps, younger, for the fighter had no time to catch his tenacious hands in the darkness, when they again grabbed Voloka by the throat.
Ivan only grunted in pain, yellow fire flashed in his eyes. For a moment he went limp, wheezed desperately, and the German, dodging, threw his legs to the side and found himself on top.
The Junkers swooped in suddenly.
Their thin-tailed, swift shadows emerged from behind the peaked, mine-shattered roofs and unleashed a furious thunderous roar on the city. Stunned by it, Voloka's submachine gunner slowed down, crouched, pulled his head into his shoulders and cowered for a few seconds under the ever-increasing screech of bombs. Soon, however, realizing where the salvation was, the fighter darted onto the sidewalk strewn with garbage and found himself under a cast-iron grate that stretched along the street. For several long painful seconds, clinging to the hot asphalt, I waited ...
Bombs exploded behind the fence.
The earth trembled heavily with a sigh, a tight hot wave hit Volok in the back, something chimed briefly and loudly nearby, and immediately the street, houses and elms in the square were shrouded in clouds of gray dust.
Half a ton, no less, thought Voloka, spitting sand. Fragments of stones rattled around along the sidewalk, in the square and on the pavement, asphalt ingots splashed, flying high into the air, a cloud of earth slowly sifted, and in it, slowly settling, acacia leaves densely flickered. Somewhere above, a machine gun rattled, immediately plaster splashed from a gray building scratched by fragments, and a large, bean-shaped, yellow bullet, clicking on the stones, spun furiously on the sidewalk. At the next approach, the dive-bombers roared again.
In the square, among the dust that had not yet settled, the half-bent sweaty backs of the fighters were already flashing, someone jumped over the fence grating and rushed to the opposite side of the street. By the dark patch on his shoulder, Voloka recognized the sergeant, the squad leader from their platoon. Delighted that there was a man ahead, the fighter jumped up and, crouching down, set off after him.
The sergeant ran across the street in a few jumps and, to the new roar of the dive-bombers, dived into the gateway. Voloka lagged behind a little. An explosion rang out behind him, and when, out of breath, he flew under the saving arches of the entrance, he almost screamed out of surprise: two Germans jumped out of the yard right at him. Voloka stumbled, shied away, but the Germans here, apparently, were not waiting for him. The one in front muttered something to the one in the back, for a moment his wide eyes flashed fear and surprise. At the same moment, Voloka, without aiming, pulled the trigger - the machine gun shuddered from the chaotic burst - the German let go of the carbine and fell face down on the pavement. His brand new helmet, marked with the Alpine emblem, rolled crookedly along the pavement with a loud jingle.
Where the rear disappeared, he did not see Voloka.
Explosions rumbled around, somewhere a building collapsed with a groan, clouds of red brick dust poured into the gateway. Voloka bent down, jumped over the German's outstretched hand, on which his bony, ringed fingers were still twitching, and stuck his head in the wide open door. Steps ran down and inward, and in his haste, Voloka missed his foot and tumbled straight into the darkness. Ahead of him, his machine gun rattled in the twilight.
So the fighter found himself in the basement.
It was quiet and dark here. The coolness of the concrete floor immediately cooled the heated body. Rubbing his bruised knees, Voloka listened, slowly got up, stepped once, twice, bent down, looking for a dropped weapon on the floor, and shuddered in surprise: his fingers stumbled upon something dusty, warm and, undoubtedly, alive. Voloka somehow did not immediately realize that these were boots, which immediately rushed out from under his hands, and then something blunt and heavy hit the fighter in the back. Voloka gasped in pain, but did not fall, but waving both arms, he grabbed someone's legs in the darkness. Consciousness pierced conjecture: German!
The German could not resist, fell to the ground, but managed to wrap his arms around Voloka's head. Ivan tensed, trying to escape, but in vain. The enemy kept lowering his head and, shuffling on the floor with his shod boots, tried to overcome him. But Ivan, having already recovered from fright, clung to the German's clothes and, feeling for support with his soles, pushed the enemy with his whole body.
They both fell heavily to the floor. Ivan, choking from the pain in his twisted neck, felt something crunch under him. He was now at the top and, moving his legs in the darkness, he was looking for a reliable support. A minute later, or maybe less, he hardly freed his head and, making a strong jerk, flattened the German on the floor. Still not quite confident, Ivan felt that he was stronger than the enemy, only, apparently, he was more agile or, perhaps, younger, for the fighter had no time to catch his tenacious hands in the darkness, when they again grabbed Voloka by the throat.
Ivan only grunted in pain, yellow fire flashed in his eyes. For a moment he went limp, wheezed desperately, and the German, dodging, threw his legs to the side and found himself on top.
– Ah-ah-ah! Bastard! Whoops! .. - Ivan croaked.
He instinctively clung to the hands squeezing his neck, trying at all costs to open them, to prevent tenacious fingers from squeezing his throat. After long convulsive efforts, he managed to tear off one hand, but the second immediately slid down and grabbed the collar of his buttoned tunic.
The fighter was suffocating, His chest was bursting with suffocation; it seemed that his throat cartilages were about to crack, his consciousness became dim, and Voloka was seized with fright because he was so absurdly letting himself be killed. In inhuman despair, he braced himself on the floor with his knees, tensed up, and with both hands sharply twisted to the side one, more disturbing hand of the German. The collar of the tunic crackled, something thumped dully on the floor, the German sniffed; his shod boots shuffled furiously across the concrete.
Voloka felt better. He freed his neck and, it seems, began to overcome the German. Instead of despair, anger burst into consciousness, the intention to kill flashed - this gave strength. Floating and snoring, he found the wall with his feet, rested against it and pressed the German with his whole body. He was again below - Voloka, mumbling with gloating and rage, finally got to his sinewy neck.
- I-i-i-e-e! the German lowed, and Voloka felt that he was winning.
His opponent noticeably slowed down and only defended himself, clutching Ivan's hardened hands. The drag, however, was very disturbed by a bag with disks, which fell under the German and with a belt, as if on a leash, held the fighter. Voloka again lost his footing, the wall disappeared somewhere, his feet scraped along the slippery floor. But he held on with all his might to the top and did not let go of the German, who suddenly wheezed, pulled Ivanov's hands, once and twice, tensed up, hit his head on the concrete and thrashed furiously with his whole body. However, Ivan leaned his shoulder, holding his throat with his hand, and squeezed.
At that moment, something happened upstairs.
A deafening explosion hit hard in the ears, a black dungeon collapsed into the abyss, hundreds of thunders and roars fell on people. A suffocating stench filled his chest, pain pierced his head, back, legs, something fell on him and choked him ... Voloka instinctively recoiled from the German, threw up his arms above his head, cowered helplessly, exposing his sweaty, bruised back to the collapse, and clenched his teeth from pain.
The roar, however, soon subsided, but Voloka’s body was so heavy that it was impossible to move, and only a short surprised thought beat in his mind: “Alive!” But there was no air, and he was suffocating from the sulphurous stench of TNT, sand and dust. Feeling that he was suffocating, Ivan rushed out of the grave prepared for him, with an incredible effort, he moved something off himself, took a breath of air and opened his sandy eyes.
It's amazing how he survived.
There was no longer the former darkness around, the coolness disappeared with it, it was stuffy, and brick and concrete piles were piled up everywhere. At first, it seemed to Voloka that the explosion had thrown him somewhere away from the place where he fought with the German, but, peering into the twilight, the fighter recognized the steps covered with gravel, from which he had recently rolled down here. There were only six of them from below, higher, resting with an edge against the stairs, a concrete block that had fallen from the ceiling was stuck, tightly blocking the exit. On the other side, slanting its end into the floor littered with bricks, lay a rusty I-beam bizarrely bent by the explosion. If she had fallen only half a meter closer, Voloka would hardly have been able to see her now.