Zakrutkin is the mother of human summary. Human mother. Zakrutkin VitalyMother Human
Much has been written about the Great Patriotic War. The story "The Human Mother" by V. Zakrutkin deserves special attention. Her heroine is a simple Russian woman who has experienced inhuman torment. But for the sake of saving a new life beating inside her, she was able to withstand, becoming a symbol of "imperishable faith ... hope, eternal ... love ...".
Instead of introducing
Memories of the heroic deed of 29-year-old Mary were evoked in the soul of the narrator by a stone statue. During a trip to the Carpathian city, he liked to relax in the park. Next to the bench was a stone niche, and in it was a sculpture of the Virgin Mary with a baby in her arms. Her appearance made one think about hundreds and thousands of mothers who experienced more terrible torments in their lives than she did. Among them was a young woman from a small farm, lost in the steppe. After the arrival of the Germans, she lost her family and home. Left alone in the neighborhood, Maria continued to fight and save everyone who needed help.
"Mother of man": a summary
It is necessary to read the full work. This is the only way to understand what the heroine went through. However, there are situations when there is no time for this, or there is no book at hand. In such cases, retelling key scenes of the story will help.
All alone…
Acquaintance with the heroine begins with a description of the great tragedy. Squeezing into the ground on the outskirts, a young woman prayed to God for death. Explosions were heard all around, and the glow of a fire was visible. There, to people - this thought made Mary come to her senses. But when she reached the hill where the field ended, she witnessed a terrible picture. The summary (“Human Mother” is a story that is not easy to read) does not allow describing everything the way Zakrutkin did it. The farm was on fire, and the inhabitants - there were about a hundred of them - were driven by the Nazis on a current, and then driven along the road that passed close to the field. Maria made out the faces of all the villagers. And when the column passed, suddenly a ringing girlish voice rang out. It was 15-year-old Sasha who dared to challenge the Nazis. Next is the automatic turn. When it became quiet, Maria, overcoming fatigue and pain, crawled to the girl. She was still alive. But the wound was fatal, and at dawn she died. The woman, tearing her hands apart, dug the grave all day, after which she buried Sasha: you cannot leave the body for abuse. For several days Maria hides in the field. During this time, her past life passes in front of her - such retrospectives are observed throughout the entire work "Mother of Man".
The heroine's father was killed by the White Guards, she lost her mother at the age of 16. She married a neighbor. They took over the house, lived in harmony and love, raised their son. Ivan was called up in the early days of the war, but a few weeks before the Germans arrived, he returned with an amputated arm. The Nazis were stationed nearby for several weeks. On the day when their car was pelted with grenades, they broke into the farm and hanged Maria's husband and son (10-year-old Vasyutka grabbed his father and did not want to let go). She, distraught with grief, was sent to a cornfield by the inhabitants. And then the farm was burned down. And the heroine of the story "Mother of Man" was left completely alone. The summary - it is easier to read emotionally - does not make it possible to convey her monologue, caused by the reminder of an unborn child about herself and expressing her feelings and hatred of the enemy. The kid saved a desperate mother who called for death. To live for him and the murdered Ivan and Vasyutka - only this thought made Maria fight.
Not alone
The woman was relieved when she saw a dog and four cows from the farm - living creatures appeared nearby. A little calmed down and strengthened thanks to milk, Maria decided to return to the farm. Only there the “mother of man” could survive the cold winter. The summary (you still need to read the story itself) of the episode with the return to the ashes is as follows: hot earth, ash and a stifling smell of burning, houses and trees burned to the ground, an unusable well, the missing bodies of beloved husband and son, emptiness in the place of the home ... Salvation came unexpectedly. Maria remembered about the good-quality cellar, which she built with her husband. He really survived.
Uninvited guest
Descending into the cellar, Maria felt that there was someone there. Then she made out a young, frightened face and an enemy form. The first desire is to destroy (there were a pitchfork in his hands) and avenge the death of Ivan and Vasyutka. But suddenly I heard: "Mom." So the wounded German youth remained in her care. They communicated with signs, but Maria realized that this soldier was the same victim as she. She even had a hope that maybe he would survive. However, Werner Bracht died, and the woman was left alone again. For a long time now.
The economy grows
Slowly, the woman was improving her life. She went to the trenches and collected the things left after the Germans and her belongings: a stove, an overcoat, a thermos, boxes, etc. She butchered the carcass of the dead horse, as the weather allowed, collected the potatoes, carrots, beets, corn, sunflowers remaining in the fields - it was necessary to feed myself and the animals, to which were added a dozen sheep, chickens, three horses and even pigeons. She placed them in the surviving part of the barn. Every day was scheduled - this is how Mother of Man tried to save life in the third brigade of the Lenin collective farm. The summary - you need to read the entire text - cannot convey everything that fell to the lot of the little woman, whom her husband affectionately called "the little one." But she held out. True, there was a case when horsemen, as it later turned out, of their own, passed by the farm, but Maria was afraid to find herself. Keeping the baby safe was her main goal in those months.
Adopted children
Once in winter, Maria came across seven orphans from the Leningrad orphanage. Their train came under bombardment, educators and more than a hundred children were killed, and the survivors hid in stacks, interrupting what they found. The most memorable moment was when a two-year-old baby first called her mother. The woman had the feeling that she really herself gave birth not only to Vasyutka, but to these orphans, and Werner Bracht, and the Red Army soldier Slava, who was buried by her (she found him in the trench), and all the other people who needed her help. Together with the children, she found the remains of her husband and son, and they finally found peace. And in the spring, a baby was born, which became a continuation of Ivan and the murdered Vasyutka. Such - with an infant in her arms and children surrounded by children - and the narrator saw her. And the regimental commander, approaching the woman, bowed his knees and pressed his cheek to a small, stiff hand ...
Instead of an afterword
"There are a great many people like Maria on earth, and the time will come - people will pay tribute to them ..." - with these words of V. Zakrutkin I want to complete summary... "Mother of Man" is a great monument to all women workers, continuers of the human race.
Zakrutkin wrote the novel "Mother of Man" in 1969. On our website you can read a summary of “Human Mother with quotes from the work. The narrative is the clearest example of prose about the heroism of women during the Great Patriotic War in Russian literature.
The main characters of the novel
Main characters:
- Maria, a Komsomol member, a former milkmaid, was left alone in the burnt-out farm.
- Sanya Zimenkova - 15 years old, Komsomol member.
- Werner Bracht is a 17-year-old German soldier.
- The narrator, a former military man, recalls the story of Maria.
"Mother of Man" very short summary
At the beginning of the war, when Ukraine and Belarus were already occupied, German troops went further to Moscow. The Germans occupied a small farm in which lived an ordinary family Maria, husband Vanya and son Vasyatka. After burning down and destroying the farm, the Germans killed Maria's husband and son, and the rest of the farmers were driven to Germany. Maria and her unborn child managed to escape.
She survived as best she could, harvesting in the field. Maintaining their debt to their farmers and the collective farm, hoping that they will return.
Throughout the war, Maria sheltered several Leningrad children, in whom she found the meaning of life, becoming for them the Mother of all mankind.
A short retelling of Zakrutkin's "Human Mother"
"Mother of Man" Zakrutkin summary:
In September 1941, Hitler's troops advanced deep into Soviet territory. Many regions of Ukraine and Belarus were occupied. Remained in the territory occupied by the Germans and lost in the steppes of a small farm, where the young woman Maria, her husband Ivan and their son Vasyatka lived happily.
Having seized the previously peaceful and abundant land, the Nazis ruined everything, burned down the farm, drove people to Germany, and Ivan and Vasyatka were hanged. Maria alone managed to escape. Lonely, she had to fight for her life and for the life of her unborn child.
Further events of the story reveal the greatness of the soul of Mary, who became truly the Mother of man. Hungry, exhausted, she does not think about herself at all, saving the girl Sanya, mortally wounded by the Nazis.
Sanya replaced the deceased Vasyatka, became a part of Maria's life, which was trampled by the fascist invaders. When the girl dies, Maria almost goes crazy, not seeing the meaning of her further existence. And yet she finds the strength to live.
Experiencing a burning hatred of the Nazis, Maria, having met a wounded young German, frenziedly rushes at him with a pitchfork, wanting to avenge her son and husband. But the German, a defenseless boy, shouted: “Mom! Mama!" And the heart of the Russian woman trembled. The great humanism of the simple Russian soul is shown in this scene very simply and clearly by the author.
Maria felt her duty to the people deported to Germany, so she began to harvest from the collective farm fields not only for herself, but also for those who, perhaps, will still return home. A sense of accomplishment sustained her through difficult and lonely days.
Soon she had a large farm, because all living things flocked to the plundered and burnt courtyard of Mary. Maria became, as it were, the mother of all the surrounding land, the mother who buried her husband, Vasyatka, Sanya, Werner Bracht and a completely unfamiliar to her, killed at the forefront political instructor Slava. Maria was able to take seven Leningrad orphans under her roof, by the will of fate, brought to her farm.
So this courageous woman greeted the Soviet troops with children. And when the first Soviet soldiers entered the burnt farm, it seemed to Maria that she had given birth not only to her son, but also to all the children of the world destitute by the war ...
This is interesting: Rasputin first published the story "Farewell to Matera" in 1976. The work takes place in the 1960s. On our website you can read the chapters in preparation for the literature lesson, verification work.
The plot of the novel "Mother of Man" with quotes
Zakrutkin "Mother of Man" summary:
Walking through the ancient Carpathian city, the narrator in a stone niche saw a statue of "Madonna with a baby in her arms." He remembered the woman with whom they accidentally crossed paths during the war.
September night, shelling. Hiding in the corn, pregnant Maria lay huddled to the ground. Her farm was burned by the Germans, and the surviving farmers were gathered in a column and driven away. On the way, Sanya Zimenkova began to be indignant, and the German fired an automatic round at her. When everything calmed down, Maria crawled to the wounded woman. The girl was alive. The woman carried it to the corn, but at dawn Sanya died. Picking out the grave with her hands, Maria buried the girl.
The Germans hanged the woman's husband Ivan and little son Vasya. Together with her husband, Maria worked in the third brigade of the Lenin collective farm. On the very first day of the war, Ivan was summoned to the military registration and enlistment office and sent to the front. A few months later, he returned with an amputated arm.
Exhausted from hunger, Maria crawled to the vegetable gardens, where half-milk farm cows and a dog wandered around. The woman milked the cows, after which the animals began to follow her. The next morning, Maria went to the farm: everything was burned, destroyed. Approaching her house, the woman remembered about the cellar, where you can hide from the cold, bullets and even live.
Opening the cellar, Maria saw a very young German soldier sitting there, looking at her with horror. "Hatred and ardent, blind anger overwhelmed Mary," she wanted to avenge the deaths of her relatives. But when the woman had already raised the pitchfork, the soldier shouted softly: "Mom!" Maria released her pitchfork and fainted. The soldier's name was Werner Bracht, and he was wounded - a shrapnel stuck in his chest. Maria immediately realized that he would not survive, but looked after him. When Werner Bracht died, the woman was again "left alone, surrounded by the dead."
Soon another dog came to Mary, and the pigeons of one of the dead farmers flocked down. The woman arranged the cellar so that you could spend the winter here peacefully. So that the unharvested crop would not be lost, the woman decided to harvest it herself, hoping that people from the collective farm would come to the farm. Soon the chickens returned to the farm, sheep and three red horses arrived.
Maria had been living without people for four months. One frosty December day, she went to a remote brigade site. Hearing voices and children's crying, the woman found seven children hiding in the shock. They were from an orphanage from Leningrad - when they were transported by train, they were attacked by the Germans. The teachers and other children were killed, but they managed to escape. Maria took the children to her place, bathed, fed. Soon, the children began to call her mother, help in the field.
April came. One day at dawn, labor began. Having asked the children to leave, Maria gave birth to a son and named him Vasya. It seemed to her that “she gave birth not only to a son and those seven boys and girls,<…> but, shuddering with excruciating pain and happiness, she gave birth to all the children of the torn earth, demanding from her, mother, protection and affection. "
At the end of April, scouts of the Guards Cavalry Regiment arrived at the farm. The narrator served in the same regiment. When they were heading through the farm with the whole regiment, their commander went up to Maria, knelt in front of her and pressed his cheek to her hand.
Looking at the statue of the Madonna, the narrator thought that the time will come when “wars will disappear on the earth, there will be no murders, robberies, lies, deceit, slander” and grateful people will erect a monument to the “woman-worker of the earth” - the Human Mother.
Conclusion
In the novel "Mother of Man" Vitaly Zakrutkin depicts the fate of an ordinary Russian woman who could not be broken by the loss of loved ones and home. Even in the ashes, Mary manages to revive life, despite the fact that there is a war around. The author compares the main character with Madonna, raising the image of a simple woman to the heights of the Mother of God.
Human Mother
I could not, I had no right to forget this woman.
Her hard life, pure soul, character, deep and kind, and finally, how, in complete solitude, she survived those terrible months that became a great test for her - all this was known to me, and I did not forget her. But then marked by bloody battles last years wars, difficult campaigns in foreign lands, injury, a hospital, a return to a native village devastated by enemies, the loss of loved ones, dear to my heart, erased and blurred the image of this woman, and her features were forgotten, as if melted in a whitish veil of morning fog over a chilled autumn river ...
Years passed ... And then one day in the ancient Carpathian city, where I arrived at the request of an old front-line friend, I suddenly remembered everything that I knew about a woman whom I did not dare to forget.
It turned out like this. Every morning, before sunrise, I went for a walk: I wandered along the deserted alleys of the age-old park, slowly climbed the steep slope of a high hill, which the locals called the Prince's Mountain. There, at the top of the hill, sitting on an iron bench, I admired the old town. Illuminated with yellow-pink sunbeams, twined with a light, ghostly haze, the city was a living picture human life for seven centuries; ruins of ancient castles, dilapidated walls of monasteries, gilded Jesuit, Bernardine and Dominican churches, dilapidated wooden churches and gloomy cathedrals, peaked houses covered with red tiles and the remains of gunpowder towers touched by mossy green, narrow, crooked alleys and wide statues on granite pedestals, rainbow fountains, parks and cemeteries - monuments of their lives captured by many human generations - evoked silent meditation, thoughts about the eternal, inevitable flow of time ...
Not far from the bench where I used to sit, there was a spreading maple tree, and by the maple a spongy stone niche, worn out by rain, gleamed white. In a niche stood a statue of a Madonna with a baby in her arms. Both the Madonna and her plump-cheeked baby were brightly and roughly painted with oil paint. On the dark-haired head of the Madonna there was a wax wreath, gray with dust, and at her feet, on a stone cornice, fresh fresh flowers sprinkled with water were constantly lying: white and scarlet gladioli, light blue phlox, several green branches of fern.
Flowers were brought by two decrepit old men - a man and a woman. At the top of the Knyazha Mountain, they appeared before me, laid flowers at the foot of the Madonna and, huddled together, stood silently for a long time. More often than not, I saw only their bent backs and low-hanging gray heads. What grief bent these poorly dressed people, what did they ask the stone Madonna for who knows? Maybe they lost their beloved son or, mowed down by an incurable disease, their only daughter was dying? Or maybe someone brutally offended the defenseless old people, or were they left, no one needed, without a roof and without a piece of bread? Human grief is wide and deep, like the sea, and most often it remains mute ...
After completing their silent prayer, the old people walked past my bench every day and never looked at me. And after they left, I looked at the painted Madonna for a long time, and strange thoughts overcame me.
"People called you, a woman named Mary, the mother of God, - I thought. - People believed that you, innocent, gave birth to them a savior-god, who sacrificed himself and was crucified for human sins. And people put chants in your honor. prayers and began to call you the mistress and mistress, without the temptation of a man, conceived, ever-blessed, an un-bride bride. The Mother of God, the queen of heaven, ever-virgin, most pure, the source of the belly, born of God, chosen by God, the representative, the grace-filled intercessor, the divine mother - that's what people call you. magnificent temples, and the greatest artists in the world have adorned these temples with your image. Your head and the head of your baby son were surrounded by a shining halo of holiness. Skilled goldsmiths and diamond craftsmen have clothed you and your son with precious vestments of icons. banners, on the barmas - the royal mantle, in the sacred books and engravings, and the knights-crusaders and generals-warriors, going to battle, bowed and knees in front of you. In your name, the fathers-inquisitors judged men and women, calling the unfortunate heretics-apostates and burning them alive at the stake ... "
In the dense branches of the maple a titmouse was shading, and motley thrushes scampered among the firs and pines. The ancient city below shimmered with golden reflections of the sun. Rare white clouds floated in the blue sky.
With motionless, doll-like eyes, the Madonna looked at me, at the trees, at the city. At her feet lay the flowers left by the old men, and from them flowed a barely perceptible, sad, slight smell of wilting.
“Why, woman, do people worship you?” I asked mentally, peering into the pale yellow face of the Madonna, into her doll eyes. “After all, you have never lived in the world. You are invented by people. And even if you were, Maria, then what have you accomplished in life and how did you deserve worship? If you believe the evangelists, you married a carpenter, who gave birth to a son and lost him crucified on the cross. The death of a son is a heavy, inescapable grief for a mother. But are there no mothers on earth people who have experienced more terrible blows of fate than those that were sent down to you? Who will measure their grief? Who will count all their losses? Who will reward them for their tireless work, for love for people and mercy, for mother's patience, for the shed tears, for everything that they have experienced and accomplished in the name of life on their beloved difficult land? "
So I thought, peering into the painted face of the stone Virgin Mary, and at that moment I suddenly remembered a woman whom I did not dare, I had no right to forget. Once, during the war years, our paths accidentally crossed with her, and now, many years later, I cannot but tell people about her ...
On this September night, the sky shook, beat in frequent shivers, glowed crimson, reflecting the fires blazing below, and there was no moon or stars visible on it. Near and distant cannon salvos thundered over the dully humming ground. Everything around was flooded with an unfaithful, dim copper-red light, an ominous rumbling was heard from everywhere, and inaudible, frightening noises crept from all directions ...
Cuddling to the ground, Mary lay in a deep furrow. Above her, barely discernible in the dim twilight, a thick thicket of corn rustled and swayed with dried panicles. Biting her lips with fear, covering her ears with her hands, Maria stretched out in the hollow of the furrow. She wanted to squeeze into the hardened plowing overgrown with grass, to hide herself in the earth, so as not to see and hear what was happening now on the farm.
She lay on her stomach, buried her face in the dry grass. But it was painful and uncomfortable to lie there for a long time - the pregnancy was making itself felt. Inhaling the bitter smell of grass, she turned on her side, lay down for a while, then lay down on her back. Above, leaving a trail of fire, buzzing and whistling, rockets rushed, tracer bullets pierced the sky with green and red arrows. Below, from the farm, a sickening, suffocating smell of smoke and burning lingered.
Lord, - sobbing, Maria whispered, - send me death, Lord ... I have no more strength ... I can not ... send me death, please, God ...
She got up, knelt, listened. Come what may, she thought in despair, it is better to die there, with everyone. After waiting a little, looking around like a hunted she-wolf, and seeing nothing in the crimson, stirring darkness, Maria crawled to the edge of the cornfield. From here, from the top of a sloping, almost inconspicuous hill, the farm was clearly visible. It was about a kilometer and a half away, no more, and what Maria saw pierced her with mortal cold.
All thirty houses of the farm were on fire. The slanting tongues of flame, swaying in the wind, broke through the black clouds of smoke, and raised a thick scattering of fiery sparks to the disturbed sky. On the only street in the farm, lit by the glow of the fire, German soldiers walked unhurriedly with long flaming torches in their hands. They held out torches to the thatched and reed roofs of houses, sheds, chicken coops, not missing anything on their way, not even the most overwhelming coil or dog kennel, and after them new masses of fire flared up, and reddish sparks flew and flew towards the sky.
Annotation
There are books that, having read once, it is impossible to forget all your life. They become the yardstick of human values. You return to them every time it is very difficult, and they give hope and strength to live, overcome adversity and look forward. "Mother of Man" is just such a book. The story was first published in 1969. She was awarded the Gorky State Prize of the RSFSR. The war determined the fate of the writer. The roads of the war correspondent turned out to be very long - from the Don to the storming of Berlin. Too many pictures from the panorama of life and death are frozen in his memory. People imprinted with consciousness will then find life in Zakrutkin's books. The story "Mother of Man" is based on the story of the fate of a real Russian woman. For many years she worried about the writer. “I could not, I had no right to forget this woman…” And he decides to create an epic canvas, which has been knocking in the hearts of each of us for several decades.
Vitaly Zakrutkin
Vitaly Zakrutkin
Human Mother
I could not, I had no right to forget this woman.
Her hard life, pure soul, character, deep and kind, and finally, how, in complete solitude, she survived those terrible months that became a great test for her - all this was known to me, and I did not forget her. But then the last years of the war, marked by bloody battles, difficult campaigns in foreign lands, injury, a hospital, a return to a native village devastated by enemies, the loss of loved ones, dear to my heart, erased the image of this woman in my memory, and her features were forgotten, as if melted into a whitish veil of morning fog over a chilled autumn river ...
Years passed ... And then one day in the ancient Carpathian city, where I arrived at the request of an old front-line friend, I suddenly remembered everything I knew about a woman whom I did not dare to forget.
It turned out like this. Every morning, before sunrise, I went for a walk: I wandered along the deserted alleys of the age-old park, slowly climbed the steep slope of a high hill, which the locals called the Prince's Mountain. There, at the top of the hill, sitting on an iron bench, I admired the old city. Illuminated with yellow-pink sunbeams, covered with a light, ghostly haze, the city was a living picture of human life for seven centuries; ruins of ancient castles, dilapidated walls of monasteries, gilded Jesuit, Bernardine and Dominican churches, dilapidated wooden churches and gloomy cathedrals, peaked houses covered with red tiles and the remains of gunpowder towers touched by mossy green, narrow, crooked lanes and wide statues on granite pedestals, rainbow fountains, parks and cemeteries - monuments of their lives captured by many human generations - evoked silent meditation, thoughts about the eternal, inevitable flow of time ...
Not far from the bench where I used to sit, there was a spreading maple tree, and by the maple a spongy stone niche, worn out by rain, gleamed white. In a niche stood a statue of a Madonna with a baby in her arms. Both the Madonna and her plump-cheeked baby were brightly and roughly painted with oil paint. On the dark-haired head of the Madonna there was a wax wreath, gray with dust, and at her feet, on a stone cornice, fresh fresh flowers sprinkled with water were constantly lying: white and scarlet gladioli, light blue phlox, several green branches of fern.
Flowers were brought by two decrepit old men - a man and a woman. At the top of Knyazha Mountain, they appeared before me, laid flowers at the foot of the Madonna and, huddled together, stood in silence for a long time. More often than not, I saw only their bent backs and low, gray heads. What grief bent these poorly dressed people, what did they ask the stone madonna for who knows? Maybe they lost their beloved son or, mowed down by an incurable disease, their only daughter was dying? Or maybe someone brutally offended the defenseless old people, or were they left, no one needed, without a roof and without a piece of bread? Human grief is wide and deep, like the sea, and most often it remains dumb ...
After completing their silent prayer, the old people walked past my bench every day and never looked at me. And after they left, I looked at the painted Madonna for a long time, and strange thoughts overcame me.
“You, a woman named Mary, were called the mother of God,” I thought. - People believed that you, innocent, bore them a savior-god, who sacrificed himself and was crucified for human sins. And people have folded chants-prayers in your honor and began to call you the mistress and mistress, who conceived without the temptation of a man, ever-blessed, unmarried bride. The Mother of God, the queen of heaven, the ever-virgin, most pure, the source of the belly, the native, the chosen of God, the representative, the grace-filled intercessor, the godless mother - that's what people call you. They have built magnificent temples for you, and the greatest artists in the world have decorated these temples with your image. They have surrounded your head and the head of your baby son with a shining halo of holiness. Skilled goldsmiths and diamond craftsmen have clothed you and your son with precious vestments of icons. Your face, Virgin Mary, was imprinted on the temple banners, on the barmas - the royal mantle, in the sacred books and engravings, and the knights-crusaders and generals-warriors, setting off to battle, knelt before you. In your name, the fathers-inquisitors judged men and women, calling the unfortunate heretics-apostates and burning them alive at the stake ... "
In the dense branches of the maple a titmouse was shading, and motley thrushes scampered among the firs and pines. The ancient city below shimmered with golden reflections of the sun. Rare white clouds floated in the blue sky.
With motionless, doll-like eyes, the Madonna looked at me, at the trees, at the city. At her feet lay the flowers left by the old men, and from them flowed a barely perceptible, sad, slight smell of wilting.
“Why, woman, do people worship you? I asked mentally, peering into the pale yellow face of the Madonna, into her doll eyes. - After all, you have never lived in the world. You are invented by people. And even if you were, Mary, then what have you accomplished in life and how did you deserve worship? According to the evangelists, you married a carpenter, no one knows from whom you bore a son and lost him crucified on the cross. The death of a son is a grave, inescapable grief for a mother. But are there not human mothers on earth who have experienced more terrible blows of fate than those that were sent down to you? Who will measure their grief? Who can count all their losses? Who will reward them for their tireless work, for love for people and mercy, for maternal patience, for the tears they shed, for everything that they have experienced and accomplished in the name of life on their beloved difficult land? "
So I thought, peering into the painted face of the stone Virgin Mary, and at that moment I suddenly remembered a woman whom I did not dare, I had no right to forget. Once, during the war years, our paths accidentally crossed with her, and now, many years later, I cannot but tell people about her ...
On this September night, the sky shook, beat in frequent shivers, glowed crimson, reflecting the fires blazing below, and there was no moon or stars visible on it. Near and far cannon salvos rang out over the dull humming ground. Everything around was flooded with an unfaithful, dim copper-red light, an ominous rumbling was heard from everywhere, and indistinct, frightening noises crept from all directions ...
Cuddling to the ground, Mary lay in a deep furrow. Above her, barely discernible in the dim twilight, a thick thicket of corn rustled and swayed with dried panicles. Biting her lips with fear, covering her ears with her hands, Maria stretched out in the hollow of the furrow. She wanted to squeeze into the hardened plowing overgrown with grass, to hide herself in the earth, so as not to see and hear what was happening now on the farm.
She lay on her stomach, buried her face in the dry grass. But it was painful and uncomfortable to lie there for a long time - the pregnancy was making itself felt. Inhaling the bitter smell of grass, she turned on her side, lay down for a while, then lay down on her back. Above, leaving a trail of fire, buzzing and whistling, rockets rushed, tracer bullets pierced the sky with green and red arrows. Below, from the farm, a sickening, suffocating smell of smoke and burning lingered.
Lord, - sobbing, Mary whispered, - send me death, Lord ... I have no more strength ... I can not ... send me death, please, God ...
She got up, knelt, listened. Come what may, she thought in despair, it is better to die there, with everyone. After waiting a little, looking around like a hunted she-wolf, and seeing nothing in the crimson, stirring darkness, Maria crawled to the edge of the cornfield. From here, from the top of a sloping, almost inconspicuous hill, the farm was clearly visible. It was about a kilometer and a half away, no more, and what Maria saw pierced her with mortal cold.
All thirty houses of the farm were on fire. The slanting tongues of flame, swaying in the wind, broke through the black clouds of smoke, and raised a thick scattering of fiery sparks to the disturbed sky. On the only street in the farm, lit by the glow of the fire, German soldiers walked unhurriedly with long flaming torches in their hands. They held out torches to the thatched and reed roofs of houses, sheds, chicken coops, not missing anything on their way, not even the most overwhelming coil or dog kennel, and after them new masses of fire flared up, and reddish sparks flew and flew towards the sky.
Two powerful explosions rocked the air. They followed one after another on the western side of the farm, and Maria realized that the Germans had blown up a new brick barn built by the collective farm just before the war.
All the surviving farmers - there were about a hundred of them, along with women and children - the Germans drove out of their homes and gathered in an open place, behind the farm, where there was a collective farm current in the summer. A kerosene lantern was swinging on the current, suspended on a high pole. Its faint, blinking light seemed to be a faint point. Maria knew this place well. A year ago, shortly after the outbreak of the war, she, together with women from her brigade, was stirring up grain on the current. Many cried, remembering their husbands, brothers and children who had gone to the front. But the war seemed distant to them, and they did not know then that its bloody rampart would come to their inconspicuous, small farm, lost in the hilly steppe. And on this terrible September night, their home farm was burning down before their eyes, and they themselves, surrounded by submachine gunners, stood on the current, like a flock of dumb sheep on the back, and did not know what awaited them ...
Mary's heart was pounding, her hands were trembling. She jumped up, wanted to rush ...
Vitaly Alexandkovich Zakrutkin
"Mother of man"
In September 1941, Nazi troops advanced deep into Soviet territory. Many regions of Ukraine and Belarus were occupied. Remained on the territory occupied by the Germans and lost in the steppes of the farm, where the young woman Maria, her husband Ivan and their son Vasyatka lived happily. Having seized the previously peaceful and abundant land, the Nazis ruined everything, burned down the farm, drove people to Germany, and Ivan and Vasyatka were hanged. Maria alone managed to escape. Lonely, she had to fight for her life and for the life of her unborn child.
Further events of the story reveal the greatness of the soul of Mary, who became truly the Mother of man. Hungry, exhausted, she does not think about herself at all, saving the girl Sanya, mortally wounded by the Nazis. Sanya replaced the deceased Vasyatka, became a part of Maria's life, which was trampled by the fascist invaders. When the girl dies, Maria almost goes crazy, not seeing the meaning of her further existence. And yet she finds the strength to live.
Experiencing a burning hatred of the Nazis, Maria, having met a wounded young German, frenziedly rushes at him with a pitchfork, wanting to avenge her son and husband. But the German, a defenseless boy, shouted: “Mom! Mama!" And the heart of the Russian woman trembled. The great humanism of the simple Russian soul is shown in this scene very simply and clearly by the author.
Maria felt her duty to the people deported to Germany, so she began to harvest from the collective farm fields not only for herself, but also for those who, perhaps, will still return home. A sense of accomplishment sustained her through difficult and lonely days. Soon she had a large farm, because all living things flocked to the plundered and burnt courtyard of Mary. Maria became, as it were, the mother of all the surrounding land, the mother who buried her husband, Vasyatka, Sanya, Werner Bracht and a completely unfamiliar to her, murdered at the forefront of political instructor Slava. Maria was able to take under her roof seven Leningrad orphans, who were brought to her farm by the will of fate.
So this courageous woman greeted the Soviet troops with children. And when the first Soviet soldiers entered the burnt farm, it seemed to Maria that she had given birth not only to her son, but also to all the children of the world destitute by the war ...
In September 1941, German troops advanced inland Soviet Union... Most of Ukraine and Belarus were under occupation. A small farm, in which a young woman Maria happily lived, with her husband Ivan and son Vasya, also ended up on the territory occupied by the Germans. On the occupied lands, the German invaders ravaged everything, burned the farm, and drove the people to Germany. Ivan and his son were among the hanged, and Maria managed to escape. She alone had to fight to save her life and the life of her unborn child. During this period, the greatness of her soul was revealed. Mary became truly the Mother of man.
She is hungry and tormented, but does not think about herself at all, saving her daughter Sanya, who was mortally wounded by the Nazis. The girl dies, and Maria practically goes mad, having lost the meaning of her further existence. She feels a great hatred for the Nazis, and, meeting a young wounded German, throws herself at him with a pitchfork, wanting to avenge the death of her son and her husband. At that moment, a young German defenselessly shouted: “Mom! Mama!". Mary's heart trembled.
Maria felt her duty to the people who were taken to Germany. She began to harvest from the collective farm fields for herself and for those who may still return home. In these difficult days, she was supported only by a sense of a fulfilled duty to them. Soon she had a large farm, because all the animals ran to her farmstead. Maria felt like the mother of everyone around on earth, the mother who buried her husband, son, daughter, Werner Bracht and a completely unknown political instructor who was killed on the front line. Maria adopted seven Leningrad orphans under her roof, who, by the will of fate, ended up on her farm.
This courageous woman met the Soviet troops with her children. When the first Soviet soldiers entered the hamlet burned down by the Germans, Maria felt that she had given birth not only to her child, but also to all the children of the world, destitute of the war.
