The educational significance of Plato’s work, the recovery of the dead. Recovery of the dead

23.06.2020

UMChB NET

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pRHVM.: rMBFPOPCH b. rPCHEUFY Y TBUULBSHCH. n.: iKhD.MYF., 1983.

oBVPT FELUFB: pMShZB uFBTYGSHCHOB

"Recovery of the Dead"

The mother returned to her house. She was a refugee from the Germans, but she could not live anywhere other than her native place, and returned home.

She passed through intermediate fields past German fortifications twice, because the front here was uneven, and she walked along a straight, nearby road. She had no fear and was not afraid of anyone, and her enemies did not harm her. She walked through the fields, sad, bare-haired, with a vague, as if blind, face. And she didn’t care what was in the world now and what was happening in it, and nothing in the world could disturb her or make her happy, because her grief was eternal and her sadness was insatiable - her mother lost all her children dead. She was now so weak and indifferent to the whole world that she walked along the road like a withered blade of grass carried by the wind, and everything she met also remained indifferent to her. And it became even more difficult for her, because she felt that she did not need anyone, and that no one needed her anyway.

This is enough to kill a person, but she did not die; she needed to see her home, where she lived her life, and the place where her children died in battle and execution.

On her way she met Germans, but they did not touch this old woman; It was strange for them to see such a sad old woman, they were horrified by the sight of humanity on her face, and they left her unattended to die on her own. In life there is this vague, alienated light on people’s faces, frightening the beast and the hostile person, and no one can destroy such people, and it is impossible to approach them. Beast and man are more willing to fight with their own kind, but he leaves those unlike him aside, fearing to be frightened by them and to be defeated by an unknown force.

Having gone through the war, the old mother returned home. But her homeland was now empty. A small, poor one-family house, plastered with clay, painted yellow, with a brick chimney that looked like a man’s head in thought, had long since burned out from the German fire and left behind embers already overgrown with the grass of the grave. And all the neighboring residential areas, this entire old city also died, and it became light and sad all around, and you could see far away across the silent land. A little time will pass, and the place where people live will be overgrown with free grass, the winds will blow it out, the rain streams will level it, and then there will be no trace of man left, and all the torment of his existence on earth will be no one to understand and inherit as good and teaching for the future, because no one will survive. And the mother sighed from this last thought and from the pain in her heart for her unmemorable dying life. But her heart was kind, and out of love for the dead, she wanted to live for all the dead in order to fulfill their will, which they took with them to the grave.

She sat down in the middle of the cooled fire and began to sort through the ashes of her home with her hands. She knew her fate, that it was time for her to die, but her soul did not resign herself to this fate, because if she dies, then where will the memory of her children be preserved and who will save them in their love when her heart also stops breathing?

The mother did not know this, and she thought alone. A neighbor, Evdokia Petrovna, approached her, a young woman, pretty and plump before, but now weakened, quiet and indifferent; Her two young children were killed by a bomb when she left the city with them, and her husband went missing at earthworks, and she returned back to bury the children and live out her time in the dead place.

“Hello, Maria Vasilievna,” said Evdokia Petrovna.

It’s you, Dunya,” Maria Vasilievna told her. - Come with me, let’s talk to you. Search my head, I haven't washed for a long time.

Dunya humbly sat down next to her: Maria Vasilyevna put her head on her lap, and the neighbor began to search in her head. It was now easier for both of them to do this activity; one worked diligently, and the other clung to her and dozed off in peace from the proximity of a familiar person.

Are all yours dead? - asked Maria Vasilievna.

That's it, why not! - Dunya answered. - And all of yours?

That's it, no one is there. - said Maria Vasilievna.

You and I have no one equally,” said Dunya, satisfied that her grief is not the greatest in the world: other people have the same.

I will have more grief than yours: I have lived as a widow before, -

Maria Vasilievna spoke. - And two of my sons lay down here near the settlement.

They entered the work battalion when the Germans left Petropavlovka on the Mitrofanevsky tract. And my daughter took me from here wherever my eyes looked, she loved me, she was my daughter, then she left me, she fell in love with others, she fell in love with everyone, she took pity on one - she was a kind girl, she is my daughter, - she leaned towards him, he was sick, he was wounded, he became as if lifeless, and she was also killed then, killed from above from an airplane. And I came back, what do I care! What do I care now! I don't care!

I'm like dead now

What should you do: live like you’re dead, I live like that too, said Dunya. - Mine are lying, and yours are lying. I know where yours are lying - they are where they dragged everyone and buried them, I was here, I saw it with my own eyes. First they counted all the dead dead, drew up a paper, put their own separately, and dragged ours away further away. Then they stripped us all naked and wrote down all the profits from our things on paper. They took such care for a long time, and then they began to bury them.

Who dug the grave? - Maria Vasilievna was worried. -Did you dig deep? After all, they buried the naked, chilly ones; a deep grave would have been warmer!

No, how deep it is! - Dunya said. - A shell hole, that’s your grave. They piled more in there, but there wasn’t enough room for others. Then they drove a tank through the grave over the dead, the dead calmed down, the place became empty, and they also put whoever was left there. They have no desire to dig, they save their strength. And they threw a little earth on top, the dead are lying there, getting cold now;

Only the dead can endure such torment - lying naked in the cold for centuries

And were mine also mutilated by the tank, or were they placed on top whole? -

asked Maria Vasilievna.

Yours? - Dunya responded. - Yes, I didn’t notice that. There, behind the suburb, right next to the road, they’re all lying, if you go, you’ll see. I tied a cross for them from two branches and put it up, but it was of no use: the cross would fall over, even if you made it iron, and people would forget the dead. Maria Vasilievna got up from Dunya’s knees, put her head to herself and began to look in her hair. . And the work made her feel better;

manual work heals a sick, yearning soul.

Then, when it was already getting light, Maria Vasilyevna got up; she was an old woman, she was tired now; She said goodbye to Dunya and went into the darkness, where her children lay - two sons in the near land and a daughter in the distance.

Maria Vasilievna went out to the suburb, which was adjacent to the city. Gardeners and market gardeners used to live in wooden houses in the suburb; they fed from the lands adjacent to their homes, and thus existed here from time immemorial. Nowadays there is nothing left here, and the earth above is baked from the fire, and the inhabitants either die, or go into wandering, or they are captured and taken away to work and death.

From the settlement the Mitrofanevsky tract went into the plain. In former times, willows grew along the side of the road, but now the war had gnawed them down to the very stumps, and now the deserted road was boring, as if the end of the world was already close and few people came here.

Maria Vasilievna came to the grave site, where there was a cross made of two mournful, trembling branches tied across. The mother sat down at this cross;

beneath him lay her naked children, killed, abused and thrown into the dust by the hands of others.

Evening came and turned into night. The autumn stars lit up in the sky, as if having cried, surprised and kind eyes opened there, motionlessly peering into the dark earth, so sorrowful and alluring that out of pity and painful attachment no one can take their eyes off it.

If only you were alive, - the mother whispered into the ground to her dead sons, -

If only you were alive, how much work you have done, how much fate you have experienced! And now, well, now you’re dead, where is your life that you didn’t live, who will live it for you?.. How old was Matvey? He was twenty-third, and Vasily was twenty-eighth. And my daughter was eighteen, now she would have turned nineteen, yesterday she was the birthday girl. I spent so much of my heart on you, how much of my blood wasted, but that means it was not enough, my heart and my blood alone was not enough, since you died, since I I didn’t keep my children alive and didn’t save them from death. Well, they are my children, they didn’t ask to live in the world.

And I gave birth to them - I didn’t think; I gave birth to them, let them live on their own. But it’s obvious that it’s impossible to live on earth yet, nothing is ready for the children here: they only cooked, but they couldn’t manage it!.. They can’t live here, and they had nowhere else, so what can we, mothers, do? gave birth to children. How else could it be? Living alone is probably not worth it. She touched the grave soil and lay down with her face on it. It was quiet in the ground, nothing could be heard.

“Yat,” the mother whispered, “no one will move,” it was difficult to die, and they were exhausted. Let them sleep, I'll wait - I can't live without children, I don't want to live without the dead. Maria Vasilievna took her face off the ground; she thought that her daughter Natasha called her; she called her without saying a word, as if she had said something with one weak breath. The mother looked around, wanting to see where her daughter was calling to her, where her meek voice sounded from - from a quiet field, from the depths of the earth or from the heights of the sky, from that clear star. Where is she now, her dead daughter? Or is she nowhere else and the mother only imagines Natasha’s voice, which sounds like a memory in her own heart?

Maria Vasilievna listened again, and again from the silence of the world her daughter’s calling voice sounded to her, so distant that it was like silence, and yet pure and clear in meaning, speaking of hope and joy, that everything that had not come true would come true , and the dead will return to live on earth and the separated will embrace each other and will never part again.

“How, daughter, can I help you? I’m barely alive myself,” said Maria Vasilievna; she spoke calmly and intelligibly, as if she were in her home, at peace, and was having a conversation with the children, as happened in her recent happy life. - I alone will not raise you, daughter; if all the people loved you and corrected all the untruths on earth, then he would raise you and all those who died righteously to life: after all, death is the first untruth!.. And I How can I help you alone? I’ll just die of grief and then I’ll be with you!”

The mother spoke words of reasonable consolation to her daughter for a long time, as if Natasha and the two sons in the land were listening to her attentively. Then she dozed off and fell asleep on the grave.

The midnight dawn of war rose in the distance, and the roar of cannons came from there; there the battle began. Maria Vasilievna woke up and looked towards the fire in the sky, and listened to the rapid breathing of the guns. “It’s our people coming,”

she believed. - Let them come soon, let there be Soviet power again, it loves the people, it loves work, it teaches people everything, it is restless;

maybe a century will pass, and the people will learn to make the dead become alive, and then they will sigh, then the orphaned heart of the mother will rejoice.”

Maria Vasilievna believed and understood that everything would come true as she wished and as she needed to console her soul. She saw flying airplanes, but they were also difficult to invent and make, and all the dead could be returned from the earth to life in the sunlight if people’s minds turned to the need of a mother who gives birth and buries her children and dies from separation from them.

She again fell to the soft earth of the grave to be closer to her silent sons. And their silence was a condemnation to the whole world-villain who killed them, and grief for the mother, who remembers the smell of their childish body and the color of their living eyes. By noon, Russian tanks reached the Mitrofanevskaya road and stopped near the village for inspection and refueling; Now they did not shoot in front of themselves, because the German garrison of the lost town was protected from the battle and retreated to their troops ahead of time.

One Red Army soldier from the tank moved away from the car and began to walk along the ground, over which the peaceful sun was now shining. The Red Army soldier was no longer so young, he was old, and he loved to see how the grass lived and check -

whether the butterflies and insects to which he is accustomed still exist.

Near a cross connected from two branches, the Red Army soldier saw an old woman with her face pressed to the ground. He leaned towards her and listened to her breathing, and then turned the woman’s body on its back and, for good measure, pressed his ear to her chest. “Her heart is gone,” the Red Army soldier realized and covered his calm face with the deceased clean canvas, which he had with him as a spare footcloth.

She really had nothing to live with: look how her body was consumed by hunger and grief - the bone glows outward through the skin.”

And bye,” the Red Army soldier said aloud at parting. - No matter whose mother you are, I, too, remained an orphan without you.

He stood a little longer, in the languor of his separation from someone else's mother.

It’s dark for you now, and you’ve gone far from us. What can we do? Now we have no time to grieve for you, we must first put down the enemy. And then the whole world must come to understanding, otherwise it will be impossible, otherwise everything will be of no use!..

The Red Army soldier went back. And he became bored with living without the dead. However, he felt that it was now all the more necessary for him to live. It is necessary not only to completely destroy the enemy of human life, we must also be able to live after the victory with that higher life that the dead silently bequeathed to us; and then, for the sake of their eternal memory, it is necessary to fulfill all their hopes on earth, so that their will comes true and their heart, having stopped breathing, is not deceived. The dead have no one to trust except the living - and we need to live this way now, so that the death of our people is justified by the happy and free fate of our people, and thus their death is exacted.

Platonov Andrey - Recovery of the dead, read the text