They were already far from the blockade being taken out. Poems about the Great Patriotic War. Hundreds of Leningrad children died in a fire at the Tikhvin station

In the days of the war

The eyes of a seven year old girl
Like two faded lights.
More noticeable on a child's face
Great, heavy sadness.
She is silent, no matter what you ask,
You joke with her– is silent in response.
Like she's not seven, not eight
And many, many bitter years.
(A. Barto)

Man

Father was called to the front.
And for this reason
I must live from now on
As a man should.

Mother is always at work.
The apartment is empty.
But in a house for a man
There will always be a job.

Buckets full of water.
Swept apartment.
Easy to wash dishes
There is not a drop of fat on it.

From three cards coupons
They cut my hair at the grocery store.
Breadwinner and earner.
Man. Senior in the house.

I'm sincerely sure
What became the father's replacement.
But in that distant life
Blessed, pre-war,
Father didn't work
Similar deeds.
Mother replaced father.
I help my mother.

(V. Berestov)

boys

The boys left - overcoats on their shoulders,
The boys left - bravely sang songs,
The boys retreated on the dusty steppes,
The boys were dying, where - they themselves did not know ...
The boys ended up in terrible barracks,
Fierce dogs chased the boys.
Boys were killed for escaping on the spot,
The boys did not sell conscience and honor ...
The boys did not want to succumb to fear,
The boys rose on the whistle to attack.
In the black smoke of battles, on the sloping armor
The boys were leaving, clutching their guns.
The boys have seen - brave soldiers -
Volga - in the forty-first,
Spree - in the forty-fifth,
The boys showed for four years,
Who are the boys of our people.

(I. Karpov)

children's boot

Listed in the graph
With purely German accuracy,
He was in the warehouse
Among shoes for adults and children.
His book number:
"Three thousand two hundred and nine."
"Children's shoes. Worn.
Right shoe. With pay..."
Who did it? Where?
In Melitopol? In Krakow? In Vienna?
Who wore it? Vladek?
Or Russian girl Zhenya?..
How did he get here, in this warehouse,
To this damned list,
Under serial number
"Three thousand two hundred and nine"?
Wasn't there another
In the whole world of roads,
Except for the one by which
Came those baby feet
To this terrible place
Where they hung, burned and tortured,
And then coolly
Did you count the clothes of the dead?
Here in all languages
They tried to pray for salvation:
Czechs, Greeks, Jews,
French, Austrians, Belgians.
Here the earth absorbed
The smell of decay and spilled blood
Hundreds of thousands of people
Different nations and different classes...
Payback time has come!
Executioners and murderers - on your knees!
The judgment of the nations is coming
On the bloody trail of crimes.
Among the hundreds of clues
This children's shoe has a patch.
Removed by Hitler from the victim
Three thousand two hundred and nine.
(S. Mikhalkov)

ten year old man

Criss-cross blue stripes
On the windows of cowering huts.
Native thin birches
Watching the sunset anxiously.
And the dog on the warm ashes,
Soiled to the eyes in ashes,
He's been looking for someone all day
And does not find in the village ...
Throwing on an old zipunishko,
Through gardens, without roads,
Hurry, hurry boy
By the sun– straight east.
No one on a long journey
He was not dressed warmer,
No one hugged at the threshold
And he did not look after him.
In an unheated, broken bath
Passing the night like an animal
How long does he breathe
I couldn't warm my cold hands!
But not once on his cheek
A tear did not pave the way.
Must be too much at once
They saw his eyes.
Seeing everything, ready for anything,
Chest-deep in snow
I ran to my fair-haired
Ten year old man.
He knew that somewhere nearby,
Howl maybe, over that mountain,
Him as a friend on a dark evening
The Russian sentry will call.
And he, clinging to his greatcoat,
Native hearing voices
Will tell you everything you see
His childish eyes.

(S. Mikhalkov)

scary tale

Everything will change around.
The capital will be rebuilt.
Fright awakened children
Never forgive.

Can't forget the fear
Disfiguring faces.
The enemy will have to be a hundredfold
Pay for it.

His shooting will be remembered.
Time will count in full
When he did what he wanted
Like Herod in Bethlehem.

A new, better age will come.
Eyewitnesses will disappear.
Torment of little cripples
They won't be able to forget.

(B. Pasternak, 1941)

"Not" and "Nei"

Smolensky told me
Boy:
- In our village school
There was a lesson.

We passed particles
"Not" and "neither".
And in the village there were Fritz
During these days.

Selected our schools
And at home.
Our school has become naked
Like a prison.

From the gate of the neighbor's hut
Angular
A German was looking out the window at us
Hourly.

And the teacher said: "The phrase
Let me,
To meet in it immediately
"Neither" and "not."

We looked at the soldier
At the gate
And they said: "From retribution
Not a single damned fascist
WILL NOT leave!"
(S. Marshak)

War

It's very cold in the classroom
I breathe on a pen
I lower my head
And I write, I write.

First declension -
Feminine "a"
Immediately, no doubt
I bring out - "war".

What is most significant
Today for the country?
In the genitive case:
No - what? - "War".

And behind the howling word -
Mom died...
And a distant fight still
For me to live.

I send curses to the "war",
I only remember the war...
Maybe for my example
Choose Silence?

But we measure by "war"
Now life and death
I will get "excellent" -
This is also revenge...

About the "war" that mournful,
Proud that lesson
And remembered him
I am for eternity.

(Lyudmila Milanich)

History lesson

Still the war is buzzing not far away,

At night, the whole city is darkened,

We find a machine in the attic,

At breaks, we set fire to gunpowder.

Family getters, messengers,

In the queues, frozen to their heart's content,

Bare people sat at the desks

And dream listeners are satisfied.

On the walls, the glare trembles cheerfully:

Candle and twilight joy.

And, thank God, the dictation has been cancelled.

No electricity - well, no need!

Today the world is a bit confused

Its mysterious shadows grow...

You kept high words

For these semi-fabulous moments:

- Tekla Nepryadva to the Don, and a thousand years

No one knew there was such a river...

Peresvet dies on the field,

And Mamai's cavalry retreats.

(E. Portnyagin)

The major brought the boy on a gun carriage...

The major brought the boy on a carriage.
Mother died. The son did not say goodbye to her.
For ten years in this and that world
These ten days will be credited to him.

He was taken from the fortress, from Brest.
The carriage was scratched by bullets.
It seemed to the father that the place was safer
From now on, there is no child in the world.

The father was wounded and the cannon was broken.
Tied to a shield so as not to fall,
Clutching a sleeping toy to your chest,
The gray-haired boy was sleeping on the gun carriage.

We went to meet him from Russia.
Waking up, he waved his hand to the troops ...
You say there are others
That I was there and it's time for me to go home ...

You know this grief by hearsay
And it broke our hearts.
Who has seen this boy?
He won't be able to come home.

I must see with the same eyes
With which I cried there, in the dust,
How will that boy come back with us
And kiss a handful of his land.

For everything that we cherished with you,
Called us to fight the military law.
Now my home is not where it used to be
And where he is taken from the boy.
(K. Simonov)

Barefoot boy in cap

Barefoot boy in cap
With a thin shoulder knot
I made a halt on the road,
To eat dry rations.

A crust of bread, two potatoes -
All severe weight and account.
And, like a big one, from the palm of a crumb
With great care - in the mouth.

Passing trucks
They carry dusty sides.
Look, the man thought.
- Son, must be an orphan?

And on the face, in the eyes, it seems -
Annoyance is an old shadow.
Anyone and everyone is all about the same
And how they are not too lazy to ask.

Looking seriously into your face
He hesitates to open his mouth.
Well, an orphan. - And immediately: - Uncle,
You'd better let it finish.

(A. Tvardovsky)

I can't forget

I came from afar
I came from the war...
Now I'm studying to be a turner,
We need turners.
Now I stand
Behind the machine
And I remember my mother
She called me
Sonny
And warm
checkered handkerchief
Loved to hide.

I can't forget
How the mother was led
I heard her scream
Away...
Brother was
Still alive
He fought
Called the father
bayonet
Fascist sentry
Pushed him
From the porch.

I can't forget
How the mother was led
Her handkerchief flashed
Away...
(A. Barto)

Returned...

We didn't see dad.
A long time ago,
Since then
Like on the streets
It became dark...

Mom work
evening shift,
Mom left
Lena entrusted me.
Lenka and I are alone
We stay in the apartment.
Suddenly a soldier enters
In a green uniform.
— To whom did you come? —
I asked the major.—
mom from work
Will not return soon.
Suddenly - I look -
He rushes to Lenka,
Picked her up
He sat on his knees.
He's bugging me too
Endless:
- What are you, son?
Don't you recognize your father?

I hug the major
I don't understand anything:
"You don't look like your dad!"
Look, he's younger! —
I took the portrait out of the closet -
Look, here's my dad!
He laughs at me:
- Oh, Petka, my dear!

Then he started
Throw Lenka -
I was afraid:
Hit the wall.
(A. Barto)

A boy from the village of Popovka

Among snowdrifts and funnels
In a ruined village
It is worth, screwing up the eyes of a child -
The last citizen of the village.
Frightened white kitten
Fragment of the stove and pipe -
And that's all that survived
From the former life and hut.
There is a white-headed Petya
And cries like an old man without tears,
He lived for three years,
And what did I learn and endure?
With him, his hut was burned down,
They stole my mother from the yard,
And in a hastily dug grave
The dead sister lies.
Do not let go, fighter, rifles,
Until you take revenge on the enemy
For the blood shed in Popovka,
And for the child in the snow.

(S. Marshak)

In the blockade days, we never found out ...

In blockade days
We never found out:
Between youth and childhood
Where is the line?
We are in forty-three
Issued medals,
And only in the forty-fifth -
Passports.
And there is no problem in this...
But for adults,
Already lived for many years
Suddenly it's scary
that we won't
Neither older nor older
What then...

(Yu. Voronov)

Blockade boy

From hunger I could not cry loudly,
You don't remember anything
Half alive found you in the wreckage
Girls from the air defense squad.
And someone shouted: “Girls, take it!”
And someone picked it up carefully from the ground.
They put a stale slice of bread in their hand,
Wrapped up and brought to the company.
Grumbling a little at such an invention,
Their commander, although he was very strict,
I entered you as a soldier in the drill,
As they say, on the boiler ration.
And the girls, coming straight from the shift,
Sit around your bed
And you are the newly acquired word "mother"
I didn't know which one to name yet.

(I. Rink)

Dreams of a blockade boy

On windows - boring crosses...
And the cannonade does not stop for a day,
And bright boyish dreams
They take me through the grandfather's garden.

I so want to touch
To apple transparent-ripe skin,
To see smiles and peace again
On the faces of hurrying passers-by!

So I want my mommy
As before, contagiously laughed,
Earth blasted
I bathed in flower dews again!

Paper light kite with a breeze
Rush up into the open sky.
And eat- excitedly!
To crumbs!
Whole!
A loaf of delicious-smelling bread!

(Dream Svetlana )

Children in Auschwitz

The men tortured the children.
Clever. Intentionally. Skillfully.
They did everyday work
They worked hard and tortured children.
And this every day again:
Cursing, swearing for no reason...
And the children did not understand
What do men want from them?
For what - offensive words,
Beatings, hunger, growling dogs?
And the children thought at first
What kind of disobedience is this.
They couldn't imagine
What was open to everyone:
According to the ancient logic of the earth,
Children need protection from adults.
And the days went by, how terrible death is,
And the children became exemplary.
But they were all beaten.
Also.
Again.
And they weren't relieved of their guilt.
They grabbed people.
They prayed. And they loved.
But the men had "ideas"
The men tortured the children.

I'm alive. I breathe. Love people.
But life is disgusting to me,
As soon as I remember: it was!
Men tortured children!
( Naum Korzhavin)

They drove the mothers with the children ...

They drove the mothers with the children
And they forced to dig a hole, and they themselves
They stood, a bunch of savages,
And they laughed in hoarse voices.
Lined up at the edge of the abyss
Powerless women, skinny guys...
No, I won't forget this day
I will never forget, forever!
I saw rivers crying like children,
And in rage wept mother earth ...
I heard: a powerful oak fell suddenly,
He fell, letting out a heavy sigh.
The children were suddenly frightened,
They clung to their mothers, clinging to the skirts.
And there was a sharp sound of a shot ...
- I, mother, want to live. Don't, Mom...
(Musa Jalil)

Doll

Much is now lost in memory,
but a trifle lives, a trifle:
girl lost doll
on iron crossed tracks.

Above the platform steam from locomotives
swam low, leaving for the plain...
Warm rain whispered in the birches,
but no one noticed the rain.

The trains then went to the east,
silently walked, without light and water,
full of sudden and cruel,
bitter human misfortune.

The girl screamed and begged
and torn from mother's hands -
she looked so beautiful
and coveted this doll all of a sudden.

But no one gave her toys,
and the crowd, hurrying to land,
trampled the doll at the heating station
into liquid flowing mud.

Little death will not believe
and she will not understand separation ...
So at least this tiny loss
the war reached out to her.

There is nowhere to go from a strange thought:
this is not a toy, not a trifle,—
maybe it's a piece of childhood
on iron crossed tracks.
(V. Tushnova, 1943)

They were already far from the blockade -
Leningrad children taken to the rear.
Somewhere there, behind the shelling rumbles,
The howl of sirens, the sound of anti-aircraft guns in the spotlight,

Basements, tired of bomb shelters,
Darkened houses inanimate bulks,
The whisper of mothers on the alarm platform of the station:
"Everything will be fine, and there is no need to be afraid!..."

And then the path along Ladoga, embraced by a storm,
The waves, like a battering ram, hit the barges with acceleration.
Finally, a solid coast - already behind the blockade!
And again transplantation, and again in the cars.

They were already far from the blockade,
Everything was calmer breathing for the rescued children,
And the wheels rattled: "There is no need to be afraid!
No need to be afraid! We go! We go!"

The train stopped, panting, at the Tikhvin station.
The locomotive unhooked, went to drink water.
Everything around, as in a dream, was peaceful and quiet...
Only suddenly a lingering cry outside the windows: "Air!"

"What's happened?" - "Raid. Get out faster! .." -
"How's the raid? But we're far from the front..." -
"Get the children out of the cars as soon as possible!.."
And the fascist has already dumped the load from a turn.

And again the whistling and howling of the children's souls tore,
As if at home, in a nightmarish whirlwind of anxiety.
But now the children were not in a solid basement,
And completely defenseless, open to death.

The explosions stood as a wall to the side, behind the houses.
Joy timidly broke through fear: "By! By!"
And the soul again clung to hope, as to mother -
After all, she is somewhere nearby, inaudibly, invisibly ...

And over the station again whistles, howls, presses,
Bombs are getting closer to the children, not knowing mercy.
They are already torn right in the children's composition.
"Mom! .. You said: there is no need to be afraid! .."

There is at the Tikhvin cemetery, old, green,
Place of memory of the fallen heroes of the battles.
Here in the days military glory banners are bowing
Tears a moment of silence weapon salute.

And on the other side in a modest mass grave
The Leningrad children who died here are sleeping.
And the flowers say they haven't been forgotten
That we weep for them even in the new century.

Let's be silent near them, gritting our teeth stubbornly,
Let's read again and again the mournful text of the obelisk,
And suddenly voices will appear: “Mom! Mom!
Come get us out of here! We're close!"
(A. Molchanov)

Ballad of a Doll

The barge accepted the precious cargo -
The children of the blockade sat in it.
Faces unchildish color of starch,
Grief in your heart.
The girl held the doll to her chest.

The old tug has moved away from the pier,
Pulled a barge to far Kobona.
Ladoga gently rocked the kids,
Hiding a big wave for a while.
The girl, hugging the doll, dozed off.

A black shadow ran across the water,
Two Messerschmits fell into a dive.
Bombs, baring fuses sting,
Angrily howled in a mortal throw.
The girl pressed the doll harder ...

The explosion tore the barge apart and crushed it.
Ladoga suddenly opened up to the bottom
And swallowed up both old and small.
Only one doll came up,
The one that the girl pressed to her chest ...

The wind of the past shakes the memory,
In strange visions disturbs in a dream.
I often shoot big eyes
Those who remained on the Ladoga bottom.
Dreaming, as in a dark, damp depth
The girl is looking for a floating doll.
(A. Molchanov)

In memory of Leningrad children who died at Lychkovo station

There are places on earth whose names are like chains,
They keep in memory what remains in the sad distance.
Lychkovo has become such a place of sorrow and brotherhood for us -
A small village on the edge of Novgorod land.

Here on a cloudless day in July forty-one
The enemy, descending from heaven, bombed the passenger train -
A whole train of Leningrad children, twelve carriages,
Those that the city wanted to keep in these quiet places.

Who could imagine in Leningrad in an alarming June,
That the fascists will so quickly find themselves in that direction
That children are sent not to the rear, but towards the war,
And cars with crosses will hang over their trains? ..

They could see in the sight that there were no soldiers, no guns,
only children run away from the cars - dozens of children! ..
But the pilots calmly and accurately bombed the cars,
Smirking with his malevolent Aryan grin.

And boys and girls rushed around the station in fear,
And ominously blackened over them on the wings of crosses,
And flickered among the flames of dresses and shirts,
And the earth and bushes were bloody with childish flesh.

Shouts and weeping in the roar, roar, "Junkers" buzzing,
Someone, dying himself, tried to save another ...
We will never forget this tragedy.
And we will never forgive fascist killer pilots.

Is it possible to forget how the children were collected in parts,
To be buried in a mass grave like fallen soldiers?
as over them, not ashamed, and the men sobbed
And they swore revenge... Is it possible to forgive all this!

In Rus' there is no stranger's grief, extraneous misfortune,
And the Lychkovites considered the misfortune of the Leningraders their own.
But who will not be touched by the murder of defenseless children?
There is no pain worse than seeing children suffer.

Sleep forever in Lychkovo at the cemetery
in a humble grave
Leningrad children are far from home and mothers.
But Lychkov's women replaced their mothers.
Giving care to the warmth of their cooled bodies,

Cleaning the grave of innocent sufferers with flowers,
Weeping bitterly over them in the days of sorrow and glory of the country
And keeping the whole village dear and bitter memory
About completely unfamiliar, unknown, but still relatives.

And they erected in Lychkov on the square, near the station,
A mournful monument to the children who died in the damned war:
In front of a torn block - a girl,
like in the midst of explosions, on fire,
In mortal horror, she pressed a trembling hand to her heart ...
(They say that at low tide, her drop of bronze ran like a tear
And remained on the left cheek - until the end of days.)

Trains run along the rails. Stop - Lychkovo.
passengers rush to look at the monument, ask questions,
Embed in the heart of your terrible story every word,
So that Lychkov's pain is not forgotten by the whole country, not forgive
(A. Molchanov)

Flower of Life

Along the Road of Life - smoothed, straightened,
Filled with asphalt - the flow of cars rushes.
On the left, on the mound, looking towards the sun
They are met by a white stone Flower.

Incorruptible memory of blockade children
On sacred ground, he is forever raised,
And to the hot hearts of all the children in the world
He is a call to Friendship, to the World is addressed.

Brake, driver! Hang on people!
Come closer, bow your head.
Remember those who will not be adults,
Those who, with a childish heart, overshadowed the city.

By the Road of Life birches whisper,
Gray hair is shaggy by a daring breeze.
Don't be ashamed people and don't hide your tears
The Stone Flower is crying with you.

How many of them died - young Leningraders?
How many will not hear the thunder of peaceful thunderstorms?
We grit our teeth to keep from bursting into tears.
We don't have enough tears to mourn everyone.

They were buried in mass graves.
There was a blockade rite, like a war, cruel.
And then we did not bring them flowers.
Let the Flower bloom here in their memory now.

He sprouted through stones that are stronger than centuries,
Raised a white petal above the forest.
All the Russian land, the entire earthly planet
This white stone Flower is visible.
(A. Molchanov)

In memory of 13 million children who died in World War II

Thirteen million children's lives
Burnt in the hellfire of war.
Their laughter will not splash fountains of joy
For the peaceful flowering of spring.

Their dreams will not take off in a magical flock
Over adult serious people,
And in some way humanity will lag behind,
And the whole world will be impoverished in some way.

Those who burn clay pots,
Bread is grown and cities are built,
Who settle down the earth in a businesslike way
For life, happiness, peace and work.

Without them, Europe immediately aged,
For many generations unkind
And sadness with hope, like in a burning forest:
When will the new undergrowth grow?

A mournful monument was erected to them in Poland,
And in Leningrad - a stone Flower,
To stay in people's memory longer
The past wars have a tragic outcome.

Thirteen million children's lives -
Blood trail of brown plague.
Their dead little eyes reproachfully
They look into our souls from the darkness of the grave,

From the ashes of Buchenwald and Khatyn,
From the glare of Piskarevsky fire:
"Is the burning memory going to cool?
Can't people save the world?"

Their lips were parched in the last cry,
In the dying call of their dear mothers ...
Oh, mothers of countries small and great!
Hear them and remember them!
(A. Molchanov)

Poems about the postman

She is not fifteen. Girl.
She is short and very thin.
letter carrier, postman,
Nicknamed Nyurka-trouble.

In the heat and slush, in a blizzard with a cold
With a leather bag at the ready
You need to deliver mail to Nyurka
Five villages around.

Two younger brothers at home
Mother has been sick for almost a year.
Thank God, my father writes from the front -
They wait and believe that he will come.

He will come and everything will be as before
Like yesterday, far, far away.
Do not deprive only, God, of hope ...
And it's time to go back to work.

Children - potatoes in the oven,
She is in the morning - with a bag at the ready.
And what is starving ... It's easier to run
Five villages around.

In the villages - old people and children,
Women are in the field, they sow, they reap.
The postman will be seen in the distance
And they wait with heartfelt anxiety.

The triangle is alive! Luck!
If a gray official envelope -
Shut up, scream, cry...
And the white light will fade in the eyes ...

Pinch the girl's heart
From human grief and troubles ...
This bag is too heavy
If there is out of trouble hello.

Lead black - funerals,
Burning bitter succession.
Letter carrier, postman
Without guilt they gave the name - Trouble.

Still young, girl -
Only the braids are full of gray hair.
letter carrier, postman,
Carrying news from the war.
(T. Chernovskaya)

Vasily Vasilyevich

In the great Russian smithy behind the stone mountain
It stands, buzzes, the license plate factory works.
There Vasil Vasilievich comes at dawn
And cheerfully commands: "For business, turner!

In all the Urals, there is perhaps no better turner.

With light blue eyes, curly head
The rear guard is working, trying.
Newspaper photographers run to shoot him.
Nobody can overtake Vasil Vasilich.

In a minute, a finished part is obtained,
A medal of distinction is hung on his chest.
The girls admire him, fit and are silent,
And he does not look back, does not look at the girls.

Over the mountains for the Urals rumor about him goes,
And he works for himself and does not lead an eyebrow.
Vasily Vasilyich is only thirteen years old.
Hello, Vasil Vasilyevich, please accept our greetings!

(B. Laskin, 1944)

Soldier washerwomen

you shared with us
not easy
weekday hike,
Soldier washerwomen
Spring forty-five.
Yesterday's schoolgirls
mother's daughters,
How long ago
You rinsed
Handkerchiefs for dolls?
And here, at the troughs,
In the hospital yard
With my little hands
In washing soap
Before the abrasions of the sick
On corroded skin
wash away
With a tough soldier
Clothes
bloody sweat
Clay
big trip,
Soldier washerwomen
Spring forty-five.
Here you are in front of me
You stand wearily.
uplifting
smoky foam
In the trough...
And the first
Mirnoe
Blue sky -
You can hardly forget this
Are not your hands
Has he been washed?
(N. Dorizo)

My sister

Was ordinary
She is yesterday.
Now a military sister
Military sister.

Sister in the warehouse issued
Big boots.
In one boot - we saw -
Two legs go in.

The leg is small - embarrassed
They say in the warehouse.
And they gave out a cloth
Overcoat to the heels.

She measured all the overcoats,
But less is not.
And there they did not believe the sister,
That she is seventeen years old.

She has a white hair
Was there yesterday.
My sister is brave
Even though it's so small.

When I flew over the rooftops
Above our house the enemy -
She is always with the boys
I climbed into the attic.

The fire roared over the city,
The huge house shook.
She stood proud
With fire hose.

Into the smoking ruins
Flew like an arrow
Digging up the wounded
Carried to the shelter.

Now sister scientist
military sister,
She is wearing an overcoat with shoulder straps,
It's time for my sister to go to the front.

She is a gift for a dress
She gave hers to me.
Mom is in tears.
- You're too small!

And the heart, as a rule,
It hurts little. —
Sister straightened the belts
And quietly says:

- What did you hang your head on?
I, mother, am on duty -
And adds cheerfully: —
I'll grow up at the front!
(Z. Aleksandrova)
(From "Murzilka" of the war years.)

I will sing to you, dear

Blue-eyed girl
Nine incomplete years...
The song flows gently, loudly
Hospital white.

And under the sounds of overflow
Someone's brothers and fathers
Remember the happy home
Ask to sing more fighters.

"I'll sing, - the answer is a girl—
Bowing your head low— Here comes our funeral...
But I believe: dad is alive!

Maybe one of you by chance
Have you met your dad anywhere?
Somewhere out there, on the far side,
Did you fight with your dad?

And as if to blame
That are still alive
Suddenly all the soldiers withdraw
From the girl a small look. Military life
There was an oath...
The wind carried.
Trench smell - they smelled the whole world ...
And the first accumulated strength
In boyish trusting lips.

It was not a bitter kiss that burned them.
Not a sweet kiss in the hour of the moon.
And with a Morshan flame from shag,
Received from the palm of a foreman.

... When he fell, meeting an evil bullet,
Face to the ground, lips moving,–
More tender and more disinterested than a kiss,
Perhaps the Earth did not know.
(V. Turkin)

pre-war waltz

I am you at the school party
Accidentally called to the dance
And my heart trembled involuntarily,
Only your glance caught a glimpse.

Then the night was not enough for us -
You were able to captivate me so much
What I saw only clear eyes,
Yes, I heard only a nice speech.

It seemed that happiness is forever
Here our hearts are related,
And it was so carefree together
Not knowing fate until the end.

Suddenly the rumble of aircraft and explosions
They broke the silence for a moment.
At the first front call
He left to go to war.

And the peaceful summer is over
Everything was in ruins around.
The war has cut us off blindly
From home, family and friends.

The shells flew exploding,
Waiting for death at every turn.
But remembering our school waltz,
More and more furiously hit the enemy.
Everyone sniffed her
Pressing to the face.
And quietly whispered:
- Come back soon!
This is how he helped himself and his father.
He didn't let anyone wear it.
And so it hung throughout the war.
And her son sniffed,
Like praying;
- I'll wait for my dad!
Yes, I'll get my dad back!
And then she came - that Victory,
In which everyone believed to the end.
And the boy waited!
And dad is back!
And he hugged his dad
Met my father!
And all because it was
The padded jacket, which
It gave me so much warmth.
Do you want to believe
Believe it or not -
But daddy come back
She helped!!!

(T. Shapiro)

concert script,

dedicated to the 70th anniversary Great Victory

Music teacher MBOU NOSH №11 Gurova I.Yu.

Novorossiysk 2015

The song "Holy War" sounds.

1 student :

Warm, carefree summer promised 1941 to children, you can swim, relax. The guys passed the exams, graduated from school, were going to enter the institutes. But none of this was destined to come true, the war began

At dawn on June 22, 1941, on one of the most long days in a year, Germany started a war against the Soviet Union.

Song "Four days before the war" (ensemble of girls)

2 Student:

People shed blood in battles:How many thousands will die in a day!Smelling the smell of prey, close,The wolves prowl all night long.

The song "I flew as an angel and saw the smoke of battles"

1 student :

Men went to the front to fight, women continued to work,
day and night in factories and factories: they sewed overcoats, knitted warm
mittens, socks, baked bread ... And they also wrote letters to soldiers, in
who were told about their home, about how they are waiting for victory and
returning home their sons, brothers, husbands...

2. Student: .

And our soldiers, in between battles, recalled their home,
someone wrote a letter. In many families, soldiers'
letter triangles. Like these ones.

3. Student:

Hello, dear Maxim!
Hello my beloved son!
I write from the front
Tomorrow morning - back to battle!
We will drive the fascists,
Take care, son, mother,
Forget sadness and sadness.
I'll be back victorious!
I will hug you at last.
Goodbye. Your father.

3. Song "The cinema is on, the platoon is fighting."

1.Student:

Any war is huge mental wound in human hearts, and especially in children's. They endure various battles hundreds of times harder. During the war years, it is very difficult, but especially for children. After all, childhood is a time of carefree fun, blue sky over your head. And what is it like for the guys when at any moment they can die. It's very scary.

The poem "Tikhvin, October 14, 1941", author Molchanov A.V.

They were already far from the blockade -

Leningrad children taken to the rear.

Somewhere there, behind the shelling rumbles,

The howl of sirens, the sound of anti-aircraft guns in the spotlight,

Basements, tired of bomb shelters,

Darkened houses inanimate bulks,

The whisper of mothers on the alarm platform of the station:

"Everything will be fine, and there is no need to be afraid!..."

And then the path along Ladoga, embraced by a storm,

The waves, like a battering ram, hit the barges with acceleration.

Finally, a solid coast - already behind the blockade!

And again transplantation, and again in the cars.

They were already far from the blockade,

Everything was calmer breathing for the rescued children,

And the wheels rattled: "There is no need to be afraid!

No need to be afraid! We go! We go!"

The train stopped, panting, at the Tikhvin station.

The locomotive unhooked, went to drink water.

Everything around, as in a dream, was peaceful and quiet...

Only suddenly a lingering cry outside the windows: "Air!"

"What's happened?" - "Raid. Get out faster! .." -

"How's the raid? But we're far from the front..." -

"Get the children out of the cars as soon as possible!.."

And the fascist has already dumped the load from a turn.

And again the whistling and howling of the children's souls tore,

As if at home, in a nightmarish whirlwind of anxiety.

But now the children were not in a solid basement,

And completely defenseless, open to death.

The explosions stood as a wall to the side, behind the houses.

Joy timidly broke through fear: "By! By!"

And the soul again clung to hope, like a mother -

After all, she is somewhere nearby, inaudibly, invisibly ...

And over the station again whistles, howls, presses,

Bombs are getting closer to the children, not knowing mercy.

They are already torn right in the children's composition.

"Mom! .. You said: there is no need to be afraid! .."

There is at the Tikhvin cemetery, old, green,

Place of memory of the fallen heroes of the battles.

Here, in the days of military glory, the banners bow,

Tears a moment of silence weapon salute.

And on the other side in a modest mass grave

The Leningrad children who died here are sleeping.

And the flowers say they haven't been forgotten

That we weep for them even in the new century.

Let's be silent near them, gritting our teeth stubbornly,

Let's read again and again the mournful text of the obelisk,

Come get us out of here! We're close!"

2.Student:

War veterans are our conscience and honor,

Our pride and glory that is!

And I believe the country will never die

As long as at least one patriot is alive on earth!

At the granite slab, the grandson puts carnations,

He will not understand my quiet sorrow yet!

How I want him to never know war,

I only remembered that my great-grandfather defended the country!

The song "Tell me, father, how the sky is crying for those who died in that war."

3.Student:

Children and war - two incompatible concepts. No one can tell what a seven-year-old girl felt when her sister and brother were torn apart by a bomb. What was a hungry ten-year-old boy thinking in besieged Leningrad, boiling a leather shoe in water, looking at his dead relatives.

A poem by a girl besieged Leningrad N.V. Spiridonova

Night. Air alert.
How terrible the Messerschmites howl.
Our anti-aircraft guns are hitting, but there are a lot of planes -
We can't sleep. There is an unequal battle.
We move to one bed
And mom sits at our feet,
"They will kill them, so together," he says, "let's wait"
But here's the alarm on the radio.
Suddenly the brother says: "I want to eat,
Mom, give me at least a crumb of tomorrow's share"
"That bread for tomorrow, I can't touch"
And he asks all the time, without ceasing:
"And if a German kills us with a bomb,
And the bread will remain in the sideboard?
And mom: "Well, if he doesn't kill,
Where can I get you bread for tomorrow, children?
That bread for tomorrow. I can not. I'm not giving it".
She hugged her brother tightly to her chest,
And tears rolled down her cheeks.
As if we are to blame.

1.Student:

And you know, father

How you are honored here!

And you know, father

How the fireworks rejoice!

Do you hear, father?

How they sing glory to you

How victorious sounds "Victory Day" in the ranks!

Song May, spring and happy faces.

1. Student:

The sun shines on Victory Day
And we will always shine.
In fierce battles, our grandfathers
The enemy was defeated.

We will be brave, like grandfathers,
We will protect our native land
And the bright sun of Victory
We won't give it to anyone.

2Student:

To protect the Motherland,
You have to be strong and dexterous
And always be the first
I want to become a soldier!

Song "My Army"

3Student:

Difficult in learning - easy in battle.
We will fight any enemy.
We will show you our courage
And we are not afraid of difficulties.

Dance "Apple"

A poem about Novorossiysk “Nord-Ost whirled the breakers, North-Ost swept the sands” by Yu. Drunina.

Dance "Novorossiysk"

1. Presenter:

How beautiful is Russia
On this bright May morning!
Birds are pouring outside the window
Sheds the leaves with mother-of-pearl.
We give carnations to veterans,
Remembering the brave fighters.
We will not forget the great feat,
The feat of grandfathers and our fathers.

The song "Victory spring of the forty-fifth"

My daughter reads poetry best of all in the class. She performs at all lines and holidays. And now the teacher asked me to pick up some verse about children for editing on Victory Day. I'm picking. I'm practically crying. Here is one of many:

Tikhvin, October 14, 1941

They were already far from the blockade -
Leningrad children taken to the rear.
Somewhere there, behind the shelling rumbles,
The howl of sirens, the sound of anti-aircraft guns in the spotlight,

Basements, tired of bomb shelters,
Darkened houses inanimate bulks,
The whisper of mothers on the alarm platform of the station:
"Everything will be fine, and there is no need to be afraid!..."

They were already far from the blockade,
Everything was calmer breathing for the rescued children,
And the wheels rattled: "There is no need to be afraid!
No need to be afraid! We go! We go!"

There is at the Tikhvin cemetery, old, green,
Place of memory of the fallen heroes of the battles.
Here, in the days of military glory, the banners bow,
Tears a moment of silence weapon salute.

And on the other side in a modest mass grave
The Leningrad children who died here are sleeping.
And the flowers say they haven't been forgotten
That we weep for them even in the new century.

In memory of Leningrad children who died at Lychkovo station
A. Molchanov

There are places on earth whose names are like chains,
They keep in memory what remains in the sad distance.
Lychkovo has become such a place of sorrow and brotherhood for us -
A small village on the edge of Novgorod land.

Shouts and weeping were muffled in the roar, roar, "Junkers" buzzing,
Someone, dying himself, tried to save another ...
We will never forget this tragedy.
And we will never forgive fascist killer pilots.

Is it possible to forget how the children were collected in parts,
To be buried in a mass grave like fallen soldiers?
as over them, not ashamed, and the men sobbed
And they swore to take revenge ... Is it possible to forgive all this!

And they erected in Lychkov on the square, near the station,
A mournful monument to the children who died in the damned war:
In front of a torn block - a girl,
like in the midst of explosions, on fire,
In mortal horror, she pressed a trembling hand to her heart ...
They say that at low tide her drop of bronze ran like a tear
And remained on the left cheek - until the end of days.

Flower of Life
A. Molchanov

Along the Road of Life - smoothed, straightened,
Filled with asphalt - the flow of cars rushes.
On the left, on the mound, looking towards the sun
They are met by a white stone Flower.

Incorruptible memory of blockade children
On sacred ground, he is forever raised,
And to the hot hearts of all the children in the world
He is a call to Friendship, to the World is addressed.

Brake, driver! Hang on people!
Come closer, bow your head.
Remember those who will not be adults,
Those who, with a childish heart, overshadowed the city.

By the Road of Life birches whisper,
Gray hair is shaggy by a daring breeze.
Don't be ashamed people and don't hide your tears
The Stone Flower is crying with you.

They were buried in mass graves.
There was a blockade rite, like a war, cruel.
And then we did not bring them flowers.
Let the Flower bloom here in their memory now.

He sprouted through stones that are stronger than centuries,
Raised a white petal above the forest.
All the Russian land, the entire earthly planet
This white stone Flower is visible.

In memory of 13 million children who died in World War II
A. Molchanov

Thirteen million children's lives
Burnt in the hellfire of war.
Their laughter will not splash fountains of joy
For the peaceful flowering of spring.

Their dreams will not take off in a magical flock
Over adult serious people,
And in some way humanity will lag behind,
And the whole world will be impoverished in some way.

Those who burn clay pots,
Bread is grown and cities are built,
Who settle down the earth in a businesslike way
For life, happiness, peace and work.

Without them, Europe immediately aged,
For many generations unkind
And sadness with hope, like in a burning forest:
When will the new undergrowth grow?

A mournful monument was erected to them in Poland,
And in Leningrad - a stone Flower,
To stay in people's memory longer
The past wars have a tragic outcome.

Thirteen million children's lives
Blood trail of brown plague.
Their dead little eyes reproachfully
They look into our souls from the darkness of the grave,

From the ashes of Buchenwald and Khatyn,
From the glare of Piskarevsky fire:
“Is the burning memory going to cool?
Really people will not save the world?

Their lips were parched in the last cry,
In the dying call of their dear mothers ...
Oh, mothers of countries small and great!
Hear them and remember them!

Poems about the postman
T. Chernovskaya