Bondarenko hot snow. Yuri Bondarev - hot snow

Chapter first

Kuznetsov could not sleep. The knocking and rattling on the roof of the carriage grew louder and louder, the overlapping winds struck like a blizzard, and the barely visible window above the bunks became more and more densely covered with snow. The locomotive, with a wild, blizzard-piercing roar, drove the train through the night fields, in the white haze rushing from all sides, and in the thunderous darkness of the carriage, through the frozen squeal of the wheels, through the anxious sobs, the muttering of the soldiers in their sleep, this roar was heard continuously warning someone locomotive, and it seemed to Kuznetsov that there, ahead, behind the snowstorm, the glow of a burning city was already dimly visible. After stopping in Saratov, it became clear to everyone that the division was urgently being transferred to Stalingrad, and not to Western Front, as originally intended; and now Kuznetsov knew that the journey remained for several hours. And, pulling the hard, unpleasantly damp collar of his overcoat over his cheek, he could not warm himself up, gain warmth in order to sleep: there was a piercing blow through the invisible cracks of the swept window, icy drafts walked through the bunks. “That means I won’t see my mother for a long time,” thought Kuznetsov, shrinking from the cold, “we were driven past...”. What was past life, - the summer months at the school in hot, dusty Aktyubinsk, with hot winds from the steppe, with the cries of donkeys on the outskirts suffocating in the sunset silence, so precise in time every night that platoon commanders during tactical training, languishing with thirst, not without relief checked the watches, marches in the stupefying heat, tunics sweaty and scorched white in the sun, the creaking of sand on the teeth; Sunday patrol of the city, in the city garden, where in the evenings a military brass band played peacefully on the dance floor; then graduation from college, loading on alert autumn night into the carriages, a gloomy forest covered in wild snow, snowdrifts, dugouts of the formation camp near Tambov, then again, in alarm at the frosty pink December dawn, hasty loading onto the train and, finally, departure - all this unsteady, temporary, someone-controlled life has now dimmed , remained far behind, in the past. And there was no hope of seeing his mother, and just recently he had almost no doubt that they would be taken west through Moscow. “I’ll write to her,” Kuznetsov thought with a suddenly aggravated feeling of loneliness, “and I’ll explain everything. After all, we haven’t seen each other for nine months...” And the whole carriage was sleeping under the grinding, squealing, under the cast-iron roar of the runaway wheels, the walls swayed tightly, the upper bunks shook at the frantic speed of the train, and Kuznetsov, shuddering, having finally vegetated in the drafts near the window, turned back his collar and looked with envy at the commander of the second platoon sleeping next to him. Lieutenant Davlatyan - his face was not visible in the darkness of the bunk. “No, here, near the window, I won’t sleep, I’ll freeze until I reach the front line,” Kuznetsov thought with annoyance at himself and moved, stirred, hearing the frost crunching on the boards of the carriage. He freed himself from the cold, prickly tightness of his place, jumped off the bunk, feeling that he needed to warm up by the stove: his back was completely numb. In the iron stove on the side of the closed door, flickering with thick frost, the fire had long gone out, only the ash-blower was red with a motionless pupil. But it seemed a little warmer down here. In the gloom of the carriage, this crimson glow of coal faintly illuminated the various new felt boots, bowlers, and duffel bags under their heads sticking out in the aisle. The orderly Chibisov slept uncomfortably on the lower bunks, right on the soldiers’ feet; his head was tucked into his collar up to the top of his hat, his hands were tucked into the sleeves. - Chibisov! - Kuznetsov called and opened the door of the stove, which wafted out a barely perceptible warmth from inside. - Everything went out, Chibisov! There was no answer. - Orderly, do you hear? Chibisov jumped up in fear, sleepy, rumpled, his hat with earflaps pulled low and tied with ribbons under his chin. Not yet waking up from sleep, he tried to push the earflaps off his forehead, untie the ribbons, incomprehensibly and timidly crying out: “What am I?” No way, fell asleep? It literally stunned me into unconsciousness. I apologize, Comrade Lieutenant! Wow, I was chilled to the bones in my drowsiness!.. “They fell asleep and chilled the whole carriage,” Kuznetsov said reproachfully. “I didn’t mean to, Comrade Lieutenant, by accident, without intent,” Chibisov muttered. - It knocked me down... Then, without waiting for Kuznetsov’s orders, he fussed around with excessive cheerfulness, grabbed a board from the floor, broke it on his knee and began to push the fragments into the stove. At the same time, stupidly, as if his sides were itching, he moved his elbows and shoulders, often bending down, busily looked into the ash pit, where the fire was creeping in lazy reflections; Chibisov's revived, soot-stained face expressed conspiratorial servility. - Now, Comrade Lieutenant, I’ll get you warm! Let's heat it up, it will be smooth in the bathhouse. I myself am frozen because of the war! Oh, how cold I am, every bone aches - there are no words!.. Kuznetsov sat down opposite the open stove door. The orderly's exaggeratedly deliberate fussiness, this obvious hint of his past, was unpleasant to him. Chibisov was from his platoon. And the fact that he, with his immoderate efforts, always reliable, lived for several months in German captivity, and from the first day of his appearance in the platoon was constantly ready to serve everyone, aroused wary pity for him. Chibisov gently, womanishly, sank onto his bunk, his sleepless eyes blinking. - So we’re going to Stalingrad, Comrade Lieutenant? According to the reports, what a meat grinder there is! Aren't you afraid, Comrade Lieutenant? Nothing? “We’ll come and see what kind of meat grinder it is,” Kuznetsov responded sluggishly, peering into the fire. - What, are you afraid? Why did you ask? “Yes, one might say, I don’t have the same fear that I had before,” Chibisov answered falsely cheerfully and, sighing, put his small hands on his knees, spoke in a confidential tone, as if wanting to convince Kuznetsov: “After our people came out of captivity, I They released me, they believed me, Comrade Lieutenant. And I spent three whole months, like a puppy in shit, with the Germans. They believed... The war is so huge, different people is fighting. How can you immediately believe? - Chibisov glanced cautiously at Kuznetsov; he was silent, pretending to be busy with the stove, warming himself with its living warmth: he concentratedly clenched and unclenched his fingers over the open door. - Do you know how I was captured, Comrade Lieutenant?.. I didn’t tell you, but I want to tell you. The Germans drove us into a ravine. Near Vyazma. And when their tanks came close, surrounded, and we no longer had any shells, the regimental commissar jumped onto the top of his “emka” with a pistol, shouting: “Better death than being captured by the fascist bastards!” - and shot himself in the temple. It even splashed from my head. And the Germans are running towards us from all sides. Their tanks are strangling people alive. Here and... the colonel and someone else... - And then what? - asked Kuznetsov. “I couldn’t shoot myself.” .They crowded us into a heap, shouting “Hyunda hoh”. And they led... “I see,” said Kuznetsov with that serious intonation that clearly said that in Chibisov’s place he would have acted completely differently. - So, Chibisov, they shouted “Hende hoch” - and you handed over your weapons? Did you have any weapons? Chibisov answered, timidly defending himself with a tense half-smile: “You are very young, Comrade Lieutenant, you don’t have children, you don’t have a family, one might say.” Parents, I suppose... - What do children have to do with it? - Kuznetsov said with embarrassment, noticing the quiet, guilty expression on Chibisov’s face, and added: “It doesn’t matter at all.” - How can he not, Comrade Lieutenant? - Well, maybe I didn’t put it that way... Of course, I don’t have children. Chibisov was twenty years older than him - “father”, “daddy”, the oldest in the platoon. He was completely subordinate to Kuznetsov on duty, but Kuznetsov, now constantly remembering the two lieutenant’s cubes in his buttonholes, which immediately burdened him with new responsibility after college, still felt insecure every time talking with Chibisov, who had lived his life. - Are you awake, lieutenant, or are you imagining things? Is the stove burning? came a sleepy voice overhead. A commotion was heard on the upper bunks, then senior sergeant Ukhanov, the commander of the first gun from Kuznetsov’s platoon, jumped heavily, like a bear, to the stove. - Frozen as hell! Are you warming yourself, Slavs? - Ukhanov asked, yawning protractedly. - Or do you tell fairy tales? Shaking his heavy shoulders, throwing back the hem of his greatcoat, he walked towards the door along the swaying floor. He pushed the cumbersome door, which rattled, with one hand, and leaned against the crack, looking into the snowstorm. The snow swirled like a blizzard in the carriage, cold air blew, and the steam rushed down our legs; Along with the roar and frosty squealing of the wheels, the wild, threatening roar of the locomotive burst in. - Oh, and the wolf's night - no fire, no Stalingrad! - Ukhanov said, twitching his shoulders, and with a crash he pushed the door, which was lined with iron at the corners, closed. Then, tapping his felt boots, grunting loudly and in surprise, he walked up to the already heated stove; mocking, light eyes he was still filled with drowsiness, snowflakes were white on his eyebrows. He sat down next to Kuznetsov, rubbed his hands, took out a pouch and, remembering something, laughed, flashing his front steel tooth. - I dreamed about grub again. Either he was sleeping, or he wasn’t sleeping: it was as if some city was empty, and I was alone... I entered some bombed-out store - bread, canned food, wine, sausage on the shelves... Now, I think, I’m about to chop it up! But he froze like a tramp under a net and woke up. It's a shame... The store is full! Imagine, Chibisov! He turned not to Kuznetsov, but to Chibisov, clearly hinting that the lieutenant was no match for the others. “I don’t argue with your dream, Comrade Senior Sergeant,” Chibisov answered and inhaled warm air through his nostrils, as if the fragrant smell of bread was coming from the stove, looking meekly at Ukhanov’s tobacco pouch. - And if you don’t smoke at all at night, the savings come back. Ten twists. - Oh, you’re a huge diplomat, dad! - said Ukhanov, thrusting the pouch into his hands. - Roll it up at least as thick as a fist. Why the hell save? Meaning? He lit a cigarette and, exhaling the smoke, poked the board in the fire. “And I’m sure, brothers, that food on the front line will be better.” And there will be trophies! Where there are Krauts, there are trophies, and then, Chibisov, the whole collective farm won’t have to sweep up the lieutenant’s extra rations. - He blew on his cigarette, narrowed his eyes: - How, Kuznetsov, are the duties of a father-commander not difficult, huh? It’s easier for soldiers - answer for yourself. Don't you regret that there are too many gavriks on your neck? - I don’t understand, Ukhanov, why you weren’t awarded the title? - said Kuznetsov, somewhat offended by his mocking tone. - Maybe you can explain? He and senior sergeant Ukhanov graduated from the military artillery school together, but for unknown reasons, Ukhanov was not allowed to take the exams, and he arrived in the regiment with the rank of senior sergeant and was assigned to the first platoon as a gun commander, which embarrassed Kuznetsov extremely. “I’ve been dreaming about it all my life,” Ukhanov grinned good-naturedly. - You misunderstood me, Lieutenant... Okay, maybe I should take a nap for about six hundred minutes. Maybe I’ll dream about the store again? A? Well, brothers, if anything, consider him not returning from the attack... Ukhanov threw the cigarette butt into the stove, stretched, stood up, walked clumsily to the bunk, jumped heavily onto the rustling straw; pushing the sleeping ones aside, he said: “Come on, brothers, free up your living space.” And soon it became quiet upstairs. “You should lie down too, Comrade Lieutenant,” Chibisov advised, sighing. - The night will be short, apparently. Don't worry, for God's sake. Kuznetsov, with his face glowing in the heat of the stove, also stood up, straightened the holster of his pistol with a practiced drill gesture, and said to Chibisov in an ordering tone: “You should do it.” better responsibilities orderly! But, having said this, Kuznetsov noticed Chibisov’s timid, now bewildered look, felt the unjustification of the boss’s harshness - he had been accustomed to a commanding tone for six months at school - and suddenly corrected himself in an undertone: - Just so that the stove, please, does not go out. Do you hear? - I see, Comrade Lieutenant. Don't hesitate, one might say. Have a good night's sleep... Kuznetsov climbed onto his bunks, into the darkness, unheated, icy, creaking, trembling from the frantic running of the train, and here he felt that he would freeze again in the draft. And from different ends of the carriage came the snoring and sniffling of soldiers. Slightly pushing aside Lieutenant Davlatyan, who was sleeping next to him, who was sobbing sleepily and smacking his lips like a child, Kuznetsov, breathing into his raised collar, pressing his cheek against the damp, stinging pile, chillily contracting, touched with his knees the large frost on the wall, like salt - and this made it even worse. colder. The compacted straw slid beneath him with a wet rustle. The frozen walls smelled iron-like, and everything wafted into my face like a thin and sharp stream of cold from the gray window clogged with blizzard snow overhead. And the locomotive, tearing apart the night with an insistent and menacing roar, rushed the train without stopping in impenetrable fields - closer and closer to the front.

During the Great Patriotic War, the writer, as an artilleryman, went a long way from Stalingrad to Czechoslovakia. Among Yuri Bondarev's books about the war, “Hot Snow” ranks special place, opening new approaches to solving moral and psychological problems posed in his first stories “Battalions Ask for Fire” and “The Last Salvos”. These three books about the war are a holistic and developing world, which in “Hot Snow” reached its greatest completeness and imaginative power.
The events of the novel “Hot Snow” unfold near Stalingrad, south of the blockaded Soviet troops The 6th Army of General Paulus, in the cold December 1942, when one of our armies held back in the Volga steppe the attack of the tank divisions of Field Marshal Manstein, who sought to break through a corridor to Paulus’s army and lead it out of encirclement. The outcome of the Battle of the Volga and, perhaps, the timing of the end of the war itself largely depended on the success or failure of this operation. The duration of the novel is limited to just a few days, during which Yuri Bondarev’s heroes selflessly defend a tiny patch of land from German tanks.
In “Hot Snow,” time is compressed even more tightly than in the story “Battalions Ask for Fire.” “Hot Snow” is a short march of General Bessonov’s army disembarking from the echelons and a battle that decided so much in the fate of the country; these are cold frosty dawns, two days and two endless December nights. Without lyrical digressions As if the author had lost his breath from constant tension, the novel “Hot Snow” is distinguished by its directness, direct connection of the plot with the true events of the Great Patriotic War, with one of its decisive moments. The life and death of the novel's heroes, their very destinies are illuminated with an alarming light true history, as a result of which everything acquires weight and significance.
In the novel, Drozdovsky's battery absorbs almost all the reader's attention; the action is concentrated primarily around a small number of characters. Kuznetsov, Ukhanov, Rubin and their comrades - a particle great army, they are a people, a people to the extent that the typified personality of the hero expresses the spiritual, moral traits of the people.
In “Hot Snow,” the image of the people who have risen to war appears before us in a completeness of expression previously unknown in Yuri Bondarev, in the richness and diversity of characters, and at the same time in integrity. This image is not limited to the figures of young lieutenants - artillery and platoon commanders; nor the colorful figures of those who are traditionally considered to be people from the people - the seemingly slightly cowardly Chibisov, the calm and experienced gunner Evstigneev, the straightforward and rough rider Rubin; nor by senior officers such as the division commander, Colonel Deev, or the army commander, General Bessonov. Only together, with all the difference in ranks and titles, they form the image of a fighting people. The strength and novelty of the novel lies in the fact that this unity is achieved as if by itself, captured without special effort the author - living, moving life.
The death of heroes on the eve of victory, the criminal inevitability of death contain a high level of tragedy and provoke a protest against the cruelty of the war and the forces that unleashed it. The heroes of “Hot Snow” die - battery medical instructor Zoya Elagina, shy rider Sergunenkov, member of the Military Council Vesnin, Kasymov and many others die... And the war is to blame for all these deaths. Let the callousness of Lieutenant Drozdovsky be to blame for the death of Sergunenkov, and let the blame for Zoya’s death fall partly on him, but, no matter how great Drozdovsky’s guilt, they are, first of all, victims of war.
The novel expresses the understanding of death as a violation of the highest justice and harmony. Let us remember how Kuznetsov looks at the murdered Kasymov: “Now a shell box lay under Kasymov’s head, and his youthful, mustacheless face, recently alive, dark, had become deathly white, thinned by the eerie beauty of death, looked in surprise with damp cherry half-open eyes at his chest , at the torn into shreds, dissected padded jacket, even after death he did not understand how it killed him and why he was never able to stand at the gunpoint.”
Kuznetsov feels even more acutely the irreversibility of the loss of his driver Sergunenkov. After all, the very mechanism of his death is revealed here.
Kuznetsov turned out to be a powerless witness to how Drozdovsky sent Sergunenkov to certain death, and he, Kuznetsov, already knows that he will forever curse himself for what he saw, was present, but was unable to change anything.
Probably the most mysterious of the world human relations in the novel it is the love that arises between Kuznetsov and Zoya. The war, its cruelty and blood, its timing, overturning the usual ideas about time - it was precisely this that contributed to such rapid development this love. After all, this feeling developed in those short hours of march and battle, when there is no time to think and analyze one’s feelings. And it all begins with Kuznetsov’s quiet, incomprehensible jealousy of the relationship between Zoya and Drozdovsky. And soon - so little time passes - Kuznetsov is already bitterly mourning the deceased Zoya, and it is from these lines that the title of the novel is taken: when Kuznetsov wiped his face wet from tears, “the snow on the sleeve of his quilted jacket was hot from his tears.”
One of the most important conflicts in the novel is the conflict between Kuznetsov and Drozdovsky. A lot of space is given to this conflict; it is exposed very sharply and can be easily traced from beginning to end. At first there is tension between the characters, going back to the background of the novel; inconsistency of characters, manners, temperaments, even style of speech: the soft, thoughtful Kuznetsov seems to find it difficult to endure Drozdovsky’s abrupt, commanding speech. Long hours of battle, the senseless death of Sergunenkov, the mortal wound of Zoya, for which Drozdovsky was partly to blame - all this forms a gap between the two young officers, the moral incompatibility of their existences.
Greatest height The ethical, philosophical thought of the novel, as well as its emotional intensity, reaches in the finale, when Bessonov warmly rewards the soldiers in a fatherly way, all his warm feelings are with them, with these war workers. There is a rapprochement between Bessonov and Kuznetsov. This closeness turns out to be more sublime: it is the closeness of thought, spirit, and outlook on life. Separated by the disproportion of responsibilities, Lieutenant Kuznetsov and the army commander, General Bessonov, are moving towards one goal - not only military, but also spiritual. Suspecting nothing about each other’s thoughts, they think about the same thing and seek the truth in the same direction. Both of them demandly ask themselves about the purpose of life and whether their actions and aspirations correspond to it. They are separated by age and related, like father and son, or even like brother and brother, love for the Motherland and belonging to the people and humanity in the highest sense of these words.

Yuri Bondarev

HOT SNOW

Chapter first

The locomotive, with a wild, blizzard-piercing roar, drove the train through the night fields, in the white haze rushing from all sides, and in the thunderous darkness of the carriage, through the frozen squeal of the wheels, through the anxious sobs, the muttering of the soldiers in their sleep, this roar was heard continuously warning someone locomotive, and it seemed to Kuznetsov that there, ahead, behind the snowstorm, the glow of a burning city was already dimly visible.

After the stop in Saratov, it became clear to everyone that the division was urgently being transferred to Stalingrad, and not to the Western Front, as was initially assumed; and now Kuznetsov knew that the journey remained for several hours. And, pulling the hard, unpleasantly damp collar of his overcoat over his cheek, he could not warm himself up, gain warmth in order to sleep: there was a piercing blow through the invisible cracks of the swept window, icy drafts walked through the bunks.

“That means I won’t see my mother for a long time,” thought Kuznetsov, shrinking from the cold, “they drove us past...”.

What was a past life - the summer months at the school in hot, dusty Aktyubinsk, with hot winds from the steppe, with the cries of donkeys on the outskirts suffocating in the sunset silence, so precise in time every night that platoon commanders in tactical exercises, languishing with thirst , not without relief, they checked their watches, marches in the stupefying heat, tunics sweaty and scorched white in the sun, the creaking of sand on their teeth; Sunday patrol of the city, in the city garden, where in the evenings a military brass band played peacefully on the dance floor; then graduation from school, loading into the carriages on an alarming autumn night, a gloomy forest covered in wild snow, snowdrifts, dugouts of a formation camp near Tambov, then again, alarmingly at a frosty pink December dawn, hasty loading onto the train and, finally, departure - all this unsteady , temporary, someone-controlled life has faded now, remained far behind, in the past. And there was no hope of seeing his mother, and just recently he had almost no doubt that they would be taken west through Moscow.

“I’ll write to her,” Kuznetsov thought with a suddenly aggravated feeling of loneliness, “and I’ll explain everything. After all, we haven’t seen each other for nine months...”

And the whole carriage was sleeping under the grinding, squealing, under the cast-iron roar of the runaway wheels, the walls swayed tightly, the upper bunks shook at the frantic speed of the train, and Kuznetsov, shuddering, having finally vegetated in the drafts near the window, turned back his collar and looked with envy at the commander of the second platoon sleeping next to him. Lieutenant Davlatyan - his face was not visible in the darkness of the bunk.

“No, here, near the window, I won’t sleep, I’ll freeze until I reach the front line,” Kuznetsov thought with annoyance at himself and moved, stirred, hearing the frost crunching on the boards of the carriage.

He freed himself from the cold, prickly tightness of his place, jumped off the bunk, feeling that he needed to warm up by the stove: his back was completely numb.

In the iron stove on the side of the closed door, flickering with thick frost, the fire had long gone out, only the ash-blower was red with a motionless pupil. But it seemed a little warmer down here. In the gloom of the carriage, this crimson glow of coal faintly illuminated the various new felt boots, bowlers, and duffel bags under their heads sticking out in the aisle. The orderly Chibisov slept uncomfortably on the lower bunks, right on the soldiers’ feet; his head was tucked into his collar up to the top of his hat, his hands were tucked into the sleeves.

Chibisov! - Kuznetsov called and opened the door of the stove, which wafted out a barely perceptible warmth from inside. - Everything went out, Chibisov!

There was no answer.

Orderly, do you hear?

Chibisov jumped up in fear, sleepy, rumpled, his hat with earflaps pulled low and tied with ribbons under his chin. Not yet waking up from sleep, he tried to push the earflaps off his forehead, untie the ribbons, crying out incomprehensibly and timidly:

What am I? No way, fell asleep? It literally stunned me into unconsciousness. I apologize, Comrade Lieutenant! Wow, I was chilled to the bones in my drowsiness!..

“We fell asleep and let the whole car get cold,” Kuznetsov said reproachfully.

“I didn’t mean to, Comrade Lieutenant, by accident, without intent,” Chibisov muttered. - It knocked me down...

Then, without waiting for Kuznetsov’s orders, he fussed around with excessive cheerfulness, grabbed a board from the floor, broke it over his knee and began to push the fragments into the stove. At the same time, stupidly, as if his sides were itching, he moved his elbows and shoulders, often bending down, busily looking into the ash pit, where the fire was creeping in with lazy reflections; Chibisov's revived, soot-stained face expressed conspiratorial servility.

Now, Comrade Lieutenant, I’ll get you warm! Let's heat it up, it will be smooth in the bathhouse. I myself am frozen because of the war! Oh, how cold I am, every bone aches - there are no words!..

Kuznetsov sat down opposite the open stove door. The orderly's exaggeratedly deliberate fussiness, this obvious hint of his past, was unpleasant to him. Chibisov was from his platoon. And the fact that he, with his immoderate diligence, always reliable, lived for several months in German captivity, and from the first day of his appearance in the platoon was constantly ready to serve everyone, aroused wary pity for him.

Chibisov gently, womanishly, sank onto his bunk, his sleepless eyes blinking.

So we're going to Stalingrad, Comrade Lieutenant? According to the reports, what a meat grinder there is! Aren't you afraid, Comrade Lieutenant? Nothing?

“We’ll come and see what kind of meat grinder it is,” Kuznetsov responded sluggishly, peering into the fire. - What, are you afraid? Why did you ask?

Yes, one might say, I don’t have the fear that I had before,” Chibisov answered falsely cheerfully and, sighing, put his small hands on his knees, spoke in a confidential tone, as if wanting to convince Kuznetsov: “After our people freed me from captivity.” , believed me, Comrade Lieutenant. And I spent three whole months, like a puppy in shit, with the Germans. They believed... It’s such a huge war, different people are fighting. How can you immediately believe? - Chibisov glanced cautiously at Kuznetsov; he was silent, pretending to be busy with the stove, warming himself with its living warmth: he concentratedly clenched and unclenched his fingers over the open door. - Do you know how I was captured, Comrade Lieutenant?.. I didn’t tell you, but I want to tell you. The Germans drove us into a ravine. Near Vyazma. And when their tanks came close, surrounded, and we no longer had any shells, the regimental commissar jumped onto the top of his “emka” with a pistol, shouting: “Better death than being captured by the fascist bastards!” - and shot himself in the temple. It even splashed from my head. And the Germans are running towards us from all sides. Their tanks are strangling people alive. Here is... the colonel and someone else...

Yuri Bondarev

HOT SNOW

Chapter first

“That means I won’t see my mother for a long time,” thought Kuznetsov, shrinking from the cold, “they drove us past...”.

“I’ll write to her,” Kuznetsov thought with a suddenly aggravated feeling of loneliness, “and I’ll explain everything. After all, we haven’t seen each other for nine months...”

He freed himself from the cold, prickly tightness of his place, jumped off the bunk, feeling that he needed to warm up by the stove: his back was completely numb.

Chibisov! - Kuznetsov called and opened the door of the stove, which wafted out a barely perceptible warmth from inside. - Everything went out, Chibisov!

There was no answer.

Orderly, do you hear?

What am I? No way, fell asleep? It literally stunned me into unconsciousness. I apologize, Comrade Lieutenant! Wow, I was chilled to the bones in my drowsiness!..

“We fell asleep and let the whole car get cold,” Kuznetsov said reproachfully.

“I didn’t mean to, Comrade Lieutenant, by accident, without intent,” Chibisov muttered. - It knocked me down...

Now, Comrade Lieutenant, I’ll get you warm! Let's heat it up, it will be smooth in the bathhouse. I myself am frozen because of the war! Oh, how cold I am, every bone aches - there are no words!..

Chibisov gently, womanishly, sank onto his bunk, his sleepless eyes blinking.

So we're going to Stalingrad, Comrade Lieutenant? According to the reports, what a meat grinder there is! Aren't you afraid, Comrade Lieutenant? Nothing?

“We’ll come and see what kind of meat grinder it is,” Kuznetsov responded sluggishly, peering into the fire. - What, are you afraid? Why did you ask?

And what's next? - asked Kuznetsov.

I couldn't shoot myself. They crowded us into a heap, shouting “Hyunda hoh.” And they took...

“I see,” said Kuznetsov with that serious intonation that clearly said that in Chibisov’s place he would have acted completely differently. - So, Chibisov, they shouted “Hende hoch” - and you handed over your weapons? Did you have any weapons?

Chibisov answered, timidly defending himself with a tense half-smile:

You are very young, Comrade Lieutenant, you have no children, no family, one might say. Parents I guess...

What do children have to do with it? - Kuznetsov said with embarrassment, noticing the quiet, guilty expression on Chibisov’s face, and added: “It doesn’t matter at all.”

How can he not, Comrade Lieutenant?

Well, maybe I didn’t put it that way... Of course, I don’t have children.

Chibisov was twenty years older than him - “father”, “daddy”, the oldest in the platoon. He was completely subordinate to Kuznetsov on duty, but Kuznetsov, now constantly remembering the two lieutenant’s cubes in his buttonholes, which immediately burdened him with new responsibility after college, still felt insecure every time talking with Chibisov, who had lived his life.

Are you awake, lieutenant, or are you imagining things? Is the stove burning? - a sleepy voice sounded overhead.

A commotion was heard on the upper bunks, then senior sergeant Ukhanov, the commander of the first gun from Kuznetsov’s platoon, jumped heavily, like a bear, to the stove.

Of all the works about the Great Patriotic War Bondarev’s novel “Hot Snow” stands out for its scale. It is dedicated Battle of Stalingrad- one of the most important battles that turned the tide of the war. It is known that the work is based on real events.

The focus is on military units. They were commanded by fellow students - officers who studied at the same military school. Lieutenant Drozdovsky commanded the battery, and the two platoons included in it were headed by lieutenants Davlayatyan and Kuznetsov. Drozdovsky, already during his studies, stood out for his imperious character and love for strict discipline.

Now, it seems, the time has come for Drozdovsky to test his education in action. His rifle battery received a responsible task: to gain a foothold on the river and resist attacks by German divisions. It was necessary to contain them because they were trying to save General Paulus, a serious fighting unit of the Nazis, from the army.

Kuznetsov’s unit included a certain Chibisov, who had previously been captured by the Germans. Such people were treated unkindly, so Chibisov tried to curry favor in order to prove his devotion to the fatherland. Kuznetsov also disliked Chibisov, believing that he should have shot himself, but he was over 40, and he also had children who needed to be provided for.

Another member of the platoon is Sergeant Ukhanov, who peaceful life served as a policeman. He was supposed to receive an officer rank, but as a result of the scandal he lost this opportunity. Returning from AWOL, he decided to climb into the building through the window in the toilet, and when he saw the commander sitting on the toilet there, he involuntarily laughed. Because of this, Drozdovsky did not like the sergeant, but he and Kuznetsov were friends.

The next participant is a certain Nechaev, in Peaceful time worked as a sailor. He was distinguished by a passionate love for female: He did not abandon this habit even during the fighting, at every opportunity he tried to care for the nurse Zoya. However, it soon became clear that Zoya herself preferred to communicate not with him, but with Drozdovsky.

Colonel Deev's division, where the said battery was located, traveled in train, making regular stops. At the last of them, the division unloaded and met with the colonel himself. Near Deev there was a very old general with a sad look. As it turns out, he has his own sad story. His son, who was eighteen years old, went missing at the front, and now the general remembers his son every time he sees some young fighter.

The division continued its further journey on horseback. At night we decided to take a break. Kuznetsov, it seemed to him, was ready for combat, but did not imagine that he would soon face a huge enemy armored division.

At this time, Drozdovsky suddenly became too domineering. It seemed to Kuznetsov that the commander simply enjoyed his power and used it to humiliate his colleagues. Internal resistance grew in his soul. The commander himself strictly responded to Kuznetsov’s remarks and complaints that now he must obey him unquestioningly, since the time when they studied and were equal was over.

The soldiers at that moment had to starve, because the field kitchen was too behind. This is what displeased Kuznetsov. But the division stubbornly moved on - towards the enemy.

This large unit was part of the impressive army formed by Stalin and sent towards the fascist tank group "Goth". This army was commanded by the same old general named Bessonov. It turned out that he was a rather gloomy and withdrawn person, but he was sincere in his intentions. He didn’t want to seem kind and pleasant to everyone, he was just himself.

Meanwhile, Deev's division approached the Myshkova River and entrenched itself on it; a command post was located in the nearest village. During preparations for hostilities, many disagreements arose between the soldiers, officers and sent commissars.

General Bessonov did not trust the commissars, who, as it seemed to him, were assigned to watch him: Bessonov had some acquaintance with General Vlasov, a traitor who went over to the side of the enemy; Bessonov’s missing son also served with him. Drozdovsky and Kuznetsov looked at each other unkindly because of the nurse Zoya: the battery commander wanted her to belong only to him, but Zoya herself decided who she should be friends with.

A long battle began, during which everyone characters tested for strength. Drozdovsky again turns out to be a tough, domineering and not entirely fair commander; So, he sent a young and inexperienced soldier to blow up a German self-propelled gun, but he was unable to carry out the order and died.