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  • WARS OF ONE BATTLE

    The earth runs away from under my feet, I'm with the swings somewhere under the clouds, my heart freezes with fear, and I cry: "Grandfather, I'm afraid, take me down! Oh, grandfather! "But the swing takes off ever higher, and grandfather says:" And - time, and - two!. . Do not be afraid, granddaughter, shy does not like life. "

    I calm down. My grandfather is with me, and I'm not scared anymore. Swing he did. Yes, except them! Toys - please, felt boots for us, grandsons, please, please. His grandsons are many, we wear boots often, we always have enough work to repair our shoes. And for grandfather's cousins ​​- the chief specialist in bicycles and mopeds.

    I love my grandfather, I call him kindly: grandfather. For all the holidays I make him gifts: a model of the tank, like a former tankman, a sailing boat, badges.

    Grandpa is now 74 years old. But he does not like to talk about age and does not want to age. Life lived interesting. Although the war has undermined his health, his grandfather is cheerful and often repeats: "We, the Ivanovs, are holding Mother Russia."Grandfather fought in the Ural Volunteer Corps, his stories, about the war in the memory of all members of our family.

    Everything that happened that summer, I remember for some reason very brightly. Then I first saw the sea. I, grown up in the Urals, are more familiar with forests and lakes. And here. .. I remember the feeling of daily joy from the meeting with the sea, I remember the waves that were sprayed from head to foot. Even the feet remember the coastal pebbles. And it happened that summer, an event that can not be forgotten.

    Our family is located on the beach. Grandfather also took off his shirt, decided to sunbathe. Before, I had never seen him naked and therefore gasped: the whole back - in scars.

    - Grandfather, what is it? "I remember saying words with difficulty, something in my throat prevented me.

    - What are you talking about, granddaughter? "He turned to me." Ah, it's. .. Traces of one battle, granddaughter.

    I'm silent, my grandfather is silent, then I began to talk softly. It was necessary to knock out the enemy from Lvov. It is almost impossible to approach the city: the artillery is beating, airplanes are bombed from the air.

    I remember how stupid I asked: "How in the movie, granddad?" He smiled sadly: "As in a movie. .. Never see such a movie. And be afraid? There was no time to be afraid. .. »

    In one of the streets of Lviv - a strong blow to the tower of the tank. The hole. I do not remember how long I was unconscious. How to get out of the tank - does not remember. Our soldiers dragged him into the basement. Two days the locals courted him, they helped than they could. On the back, the doctors then counted - thirty-three shrapnel wounds. That's why the scars. ..

    I remember, gently touched my grandfather's back, stroked. I wanted to cry. We sat together and were silent.

    Elena Trevogina, 6th grade of the school № 6 named after PP Bazhov, Sysert, Sverdlovsk region

    ASK FOR

    . My grandfather, Andronik Harutyunovich Babayan, served in the ranks of the Soviet Army for more than a quarter of a century. He retired as a lieutenant colonel, but worked until the last days.

    Grandfather distinguished the present military bearing. My brother liked it. We saw and felt that he wears a uniform in a special way, not like ordinary clothes, but with respect, with love. Maybe that's why it seemed to us that there is nothing better than to become, like a grandfather, a military man. I think I chose the military school by his example. We loved our grandfather very much, much that was associated with him, crashed into memory firmly.

    In the summer, when the holidays came, my older brother took a job. In the last school summer, his grandfather identified him for the Garabagh silk factory. Working

    was difficult, my brother came home tired, irritated. It seemed that he would not survive, he would not go to the combine any more.

    In the evenings, my grandfather quietly listened to my brother. Not angry, did not read notations. I spoke quietly to him, even gently. And the next day my brother again went to the shop.

    I do not think that we felt a special need for the money our brother earned. But the grandfather led his own line, and, as I understand now, he led it correctly. Not for nothing that I remember that summer and his conversations with my brother in the evenings.

    I also remember that we always wanted to share our joys and failures with our grandfather. He was a sociable person, attractive to people, necessary to all. I now wonder how he had enough for everything, because he worked very hard. When we went to visit our grandfather, we were somehow pulled up, we felt, perhaps, an atmosphere of exacting discipline.

    And that's what I clearly remember. My grandfather and I were talking seriously with our brother, still quite boys, about how responsible it is to the people and to ourselves to be a communist.

    The older I get, the more often I remember my grandfather and the day when soldiers, escorting him to the last path, saluted in the sky. I still do not have enough of it. But how good it was that my grandfather was. With the memory of him, he lives somehow more confidently.

    Karen Gasparyan, Stepanakert, Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Region

    FROM THEM AS ARE

    I like to come here to the ancient northern village of Vavchuga. In a warm cozy house, I'm always welcome. Hence - my father. Here is my grandmother. The house has simple furniture, a wide Russian oven, photos are hung on the wall. From early childhood I remember this: a beautiful soldier with clear eyes, in Budyonovka. Pyotr Ivanovich Kukin. My grandfather. All his short life he lived in the village. Then I met Helen the Beautiful - so my grandfather called his wife, my grandmother Elena Osipovna, here he raised four children. From here went to his last fight. Grandfather was a carpenter. He loved his work. Worked beautifully. A true Russian craftsman. And now in the house, as a living memory of him, there are a table and chairs made by his hands. And at the local school, the children are still sitting at his desks.

    On the collective farm they respected Peter Ivanovich for trouble-free work. He knew how to light a heart and a beautiful song.

    Cheerful, generous with kindness was the grandfather. LAD reigned in his family.

    And then - the black news, once crossed out the old life. The war. .. The countdown began from that terrible day. I also sent my grandfather to the front. The categorical prohibition of doctors: a sick heart. But at forty-two he still went to fight the Nazis. He sent soldiers' triangles home, in which he asked grandmother to protect himself, children. And in the last letter he said: "Here there are heavy fights. The fascists are retreating. I deeply believe in our victory. Please keep my tools. Wait for me and do not worry. I'm going into battle. .. "

    The bitter share of the soldier was borne on my shoulders by my grandmother. The whole weight of the war, of male labor."As soon as we have sustained!" - she is surprised now. But the main order of her husband fulfilled, despite all the hardships: she saved all the children, raised them.

    For a long time the children of my grandmother left their native nest. And everyone carries a hot memory of his father, knows by heart the lines of his front-line letters. As a permanent watchmaker, the grandmother is standing in her post, uniting the generations with a bridge of unprecedented strength - with her hard, calloused hands, not dead in sorrow, who have preserved the love of the mother's heart.

    Irina Kukina, Arkhangelsk

    NOT FOR GLORDS

    Our city is young, and there are not many witnesses of a terrible event that announced itself almost fifty years ago, so I know about the war only from books and films. But literally for the month of my trip to the labor camp in Krasnodar region, I understood the war

    quite differently. It was too much for my mind, it just did not fit in my head. I personally saw traces of the war. I touched them.

    I often remember the terrible moments when I really felt that there was a real difference between death and life, between war and peace.

    On the grape row, where I worked, passed a tractor, deep loosening the ground. How nice it was to tread on plowed black earth, seemingly cold and at the same time very warm, crumple in the hands of fat black lumps. But one furrow stripped a large piece of iron. Rusty piece, which carries a destructive force. I stood shocked. .. My companions gathered around me. Everyone looked at the projectile with curious eyes that were not without fear. I thought: one carelessness, one moment - and maybe. .. And imagined: the whole world - the sky, grass, sun, friends, habitual sounds - disappeared. .. It's scary!

    And then there was a hike through the mountains to the sea. I was lucky enough to pass on the real partisan path.

    . .. The road goes up, it's more and more difficult to walk, it's hard to breathe. By shame to admit it, you have no right to stop, because along this path there was once a partisan detachment "For the Motherland!" And every partisan was not as light as my backpack now, there were weapons and wounded comrades in their arms, and also exorbitant fatigue from constant transitions and wars.

    The first halt at the obelisk erected in honor of the Victory ten years ago on the site of the battles of the 81st separate Red Banner Marine Brigade and the parking of the partisan detachment "For the Motherland!"High grass, birds sing. Who would have thought that there was a war here, the sky was covered with black clouds of explosions! Or maybe, who knows, some fighter like that, like me, lay in moments of calm at this height, in fragrant grass. I saw not black at all, but the same clear sky. And I did not think at all about the war, as if it were not there, but, like me, that life is beautiful and how good it is to live on our land. He, like me, really wanted to live. ..

    At such moments the war is felt not only as a past. As if you are directly in touch with her and ask yourself the main question: "Could you, like those

    boys and girls of the forties, sacrifice the most expensive - life - for the sake of the lives of others?" You can not answer this question publicly: "Could!"Because it can sound too presumptuous, even if you are completely sure of yourself. The answer can only be given to yourself and only in those last seconds when it really is needed. And then there was such time: everyone answered this question definitively and irrevocably. Millions did not spare life, despised death, considered the fulfillment of the sacred duty to the Motherland above all else. We went to death "not for glory, for life on earth."

    One can not help remembering the lines from the poem by Sergei Smirnov:

    We live on the planet beautifully, Our new one is proud of it. It does not need global explosions, But a symphony of life is needed.

    Margarita Smolyakova, 10th grade of school № 174 in Leninsk, Kzyl-Orda region

    MEMORY STUDIES IN MY HEART

    They, those who gave their lives for our happiness, live in the eternal memory of the people. They live in their own affairs, which, perhaps, never finished. They live in the memory of those who waited for them and did not wait. ..

    Memory. .. A strict and beautiful word. For me, this word is associated with memories of the grandfather. A thick bundle of soldiers' triangles, tightly tied with a mourning ribbon, drenched with tiny tears of my mother - his daughter. Few surviving photographs of his grandfather - sly, good-natured and at the same time a stern face. ..

    I love evenings when we read aloud his letters to the whole family. I remember by heart his last letter, where he talks about the weather, about funny stories that happened to him and his comrades in the front life. ..

    And then there was a funeral. ..

    The memory of my grandfather is not only in these yellowed documents, inmy mother's stories - she is in thousands of unnamed soldiers' graves, she is in the Eternal Flame at the monument to the Unknown Soldier. ..

    This memory knocks on my heart! I will tell my grandfather about the future children and children of children. They, like us, should remember who owe their life, happiness. We must live and fight so that we are worthy of their eternal sacred memory.

    A.Dmitriev, Tula

    RESTORING TO THE SERIES OF DEFENDERS

    Many years have passed since Victory, for which my family paid dearly. Five brothers of Sonya's wife died, two of her daughters died, Tanya's first husband and two of her brothers were killed, Uncle Petya was injured three times, survived the hell of the concentration camp of his grandfather Volodya, they worked for the front, sparing no effort, both grandmothers. I do not want all this to happen again. I do not want people to die again.

    The grandchildren of those who have gone through the trials of war have grown up. Three of my cousins ​​have already served in the ranks of the Soviet Army: Tolik served in Mongolia, Sasha fulfilled his international duty in Afghanistan, Mikhail served in Moscow.

    It will be a little time, and I will stand in the ranks of the defenders of the Motherland. I, too, will one day have a family. And I do not want my children to die in the flames of a fire, or from a bullet, or from a bomb explosion. I, together with the whole people, with my whole family, say: "We will protect the world!"

    Vladimir Ivannikov, 9th grade of Abramovskaya secondary school of Talovsky district, Voronezh region