home › Miscellaneous › Read aitmatov's mother's field. Aitmatov Chingiz Torekulovich

Read aitmatov's mother's field. Aitmatov Chingiz Torekulovich

In a freshly washed white dress, in a dark quilted beshmet, tied with a white scarf, she slowly walks along the path among the stubble. There is no one around. Summer has faded. No voices of people are heard in the field, no cars are gathering dust on the country roads, no harvesters are visible in the distance, the herds have not yet come to the stubble.

Behind the gray highway far, invisibly stretches the autumn steppe. Smoky ridges of clouds roam silently above it. The wind silently spreads across the field, sorting through the feather grass and dry blades of grass, it silently leaves for the river. It smells of weedy grass in the morning frosts. The earth rests after the harvest. Soon bad weather will begin, it will rain, the ground will be covered with the first snow and snowstorms will burst. Until then, there is peace and quiet.

You don't have to disturb her. Here she stops and looks around for a long time with dull, old eyes.

“Hello field,” she says softly.

- Hello, Tolgonai. You've come? And even older. Completely gray. With a staff.

Yes, I'm getting old. Another year has passed, and you, the field, have another harvest. Today is the day of remembrance.

- I know. I'm waiting for you, Tolgonai. But you came alone this time too?

As you can see, you're alone again.

“So you haven’t told him anything yet, Tolgonai?”

- No, I didn't dare.

Do you think no one will ever tell him about it? Do you think anyone will not say something inadvertently?

- No, why not? Sooner or later he will know everything. After all, he has already grown up, now he can learn from others. But to me he is still a child. And I'm afraid, afraid to start a conversation.

“However, one must know the truth. Tolgonai.

- Understand. But how do you tell him? After all, what I know, what you know, my dear field, what everyone knows, only he does not know. And when he finds out, what will he think, how will he look at the past, will he reach the truth with his mind and heart? The boy is still. So I think what to do, how to make sure that he does not turn his back on life, but always looks directly into her eyes. Oh, if you could just take it in a nutshell and tell it like a fairy tale. IN Lately I only think about this, because the hour is not even - I will die suddenly. In the winter, she fell ill somehow, took to her bed, thought it was the end. And I was not so much afraid of death - if it would come, I would not resist - but I was afraid that I would not have time to open his eyes to myself, I was afraid to take his truth with me. And he didn’t even know why I toiled so much ... He regretted, of course, he didn’t even go to school, he kept spinning around the bed - all in his mother. "Grandma, grandma! Maybe some water or medicine for you? Or cover up warmer? But I did not dare, my tongue did not turn. He is very gullible, unsophisticated. Time is running, and I can’t find where to start the conversation from. I figured it out in every way, and this way and that. And no matter how much I think, I come to one thought. In order for him to correctly judge what happened, so that he correctly understands life, I must tell him not only about himself, not only about his fate, but also about many other people and destinies, and about myself, and about my time, and about you, my field, about our whole life and even about the bike he rides, goes to school and does not suspect anything. Maybe that's the only way it'll be right. After all, you can’t throw out anything here, you can’t add anything: life has kneaded all of us into one dough, tied it into one knot. And the story is such that not every adult, even an adult, will understand it. You need to survive it, understand it with your soul ... So I’m thinking ... I know that this is my duty, if I could fulfill it, then it wouldn’t be scary to die ...

“Sit down, Tolgonai. Don't stand still, your legs hurt. Sit on a rock, let's think together. Do you remember, Tolgonai, when you first came here?

It's hard to remember, so much water has flown under the bridge since then.

- And you try to remember. Remember, Tolgonai, everything from the very beginning.

I vaguely remember: when I was little, in the days of the harvest, they brought me here by the hand and planted me in the shade under the mop. They left me a piece of bread so that I would not cry. And then, when I grew up, I ran here to guard the crops. In the spring, cattle were driven into the mountains. Then I was a quick-footed shaggy girl. An eccentric, carefree time - childhood! I remember pastoralists coming from the lower reaches of the Yellow Plain. Herds after herds hurried to the new grasses, to the cool mountains. I was stupid then, I think. The herds rushed with an avalanche from the steppe, if you turned up, they would trample them in an instant, the dust remained hanging in the air for a mile, and I hid in the wheat and jumped out suddenly, like an animal, frightening them. The horses shied away, and the herdsmen chased me.

- Hey, shaggy, here we are!

But I dodged, ran away along the ditches.

Red flocks of sheep passed here day after day, fat tails swayed in the dust like hail, hooves pounded. Black hoarse shepherds drove the sheep. Then came the nomad camps of rich villages with camel caravans, with skins of koumiss strapped to the saddles. Girls and young women, dressed up in silks, swayed on frisky pacers, sang songs about green meadows, about clean rivers. I wondered and, forgetting everything in the world, ran after them for a long time. “I wish I had such a beautiful dress and a scarf with tassels!” I dreamed, looking at them until they were out of sight. Who was I then? Barefoot daughter of a laborer - Jataka. My grandfather was left as a plowman for debts, and so it went in our family. But although I never wore a silk dress, I grew up to be a conspicuous girl. And she loved to look at her shadow. You go and look, as you admire in the mirror ... I was wonderful, by golly. I was seventeen years old when I met Suvankul at the harvest. That year he came to work as laborers from Upper Talas. And even now I will close my eyes - and I can see him exactly as he was then. He was still quite young, about nineteen years old ... He was not wearing a shirt, he walked around with an old beshmet thrown over his bare shoulders. Black from sunburn, as smoked; cheekbones shone like dark copper; in appearance he seemed thin, thin, but his chest was strong and his hands were like iron. And he was a worker - you will not find such a person soon. The wheat was harvested easily, cleanly, you only hear nearby how the sickle rings and the cropped ears fall. There are such people - it's nice to see how they work. So Suvankul was like that. To which I was considered a fast reaper, but always lagged behind him. Suvankul went far ahead, then, it happened, he would look back and return to help me catch up. And it hurt me, I got angry and drove him away:

- Well, who asked you? Think! Leave it, I'll take care of myself!

But he was not offended, he smiles and silently does his own thing. And why was I angry then, stupid?

We were always the first to arrive at work. Dawn was just rising, everyone was still sleeping, and we were already setting off for the harvest. Suvankul was always waiting for me beyond the village, on our path.

- You've come? he told me.

“And I thought that you left a long time ago,” I always answered, although I knew that without me he would not go anywhere.

And then we walked together.

And the dawn flared up, the highest snowy peaks of the mountains were the first to turn golden, and the wind from the steppe flowed towards the blue-blue river. Those summer dawns were the dawns of our love. When we walked with him together, the whole world became different, as in a fairy tale. And the field - gray, trampled and plowed - became the most beautiful field in the world. Together with us, the early lark met the rising dawn. He flew high, high, hung in the sky like a point, and beat there, fluttered like a human heart, and so much expanse of happiness rang in his songs ...

- Look, our lark sang! Suvankul said.

Miraculously, we even had our own lark.

A Moonlight night? Perhaps a night like this will never happen again. That evening Suvankul and I stayed to work by the moonlight. When the moon, huge and clear, rose over the crest of that dark mountain over there, the stars in the sky opened their eyes all at once. It seemed to me that they see Suvankul and me. We lay on the edge of the boundary, spreading Suvankul's beshmet under us. And a pillow under the head was a dump near the ditch. That was the most soft pillow. And that was our first night. Since that day, we have been together all our lives ... Suvankul quietly stroked my face, forehead, hair with a hard-working, heavy, like cast-iron hand, and even through his palm I heard how violently and joyfully his heart was beating. I then whispered to him:

“Suwan, do you think we’ll be happy, right?”

And he answered:

“If land and water are divided equally by everyone, if we also have our own field, if we also plow, sow, and thresh our own bread, this will be our happiness. And a person does not need greater happiness, Tolgon. The happiness of the grain grower lies in what he sows and reaps.

For some reason, I really liked his words, it became so good from these words. I hugged Suvankul tightly and kissed his weathered, hot face for a long time. And then we bathed in the canal, splashed, laughed. The water was fresh, sparkling, and smelled of mountain wind. And then we lay, holding hands, and silently, just like that, looked at the stars in the sky. There were a lot of them that night.

And the earth on that blue bright night was happy with us. The earth also enjoyed coolness and silence. Over the whole steppe there was a sensitive calm. Water murmured in the ditch. His head was spinning with the honey smell of sweet clover. He was in full bloom. Sometimes the hot wormwood spirit of a dry wind would come running from somewhere, and then the ears of corn on the boundary would sway and rustle softly. Maybe there was only one night like this. At midnight, in the fullest time of the night, I looked up at the sky and saw the Strawman's Road - the Milky Way stretched across the entire sky in a wide silvery band among the stars. I remembered Suvankul's words and thought that perhaps some mighty, kind grain grower with a huge armful of straw had actually passed across the sky that night, leaving behind a trail of crumbled chaff and grains. And I suddenly imagined that someday, if our dreams come true, my Suvankul will carry the straw of the first threshing from the threshing floor in the same way. This will be the first armful of straw of his bread. And when he walks with this odorous straw on his hands, then the same path of shaken straw will remain behind him. This is how I dreamed with myself, and the stars dreamed with me, and I suddenly wanted so much that all this would come true, and then for the first time I turned to mother earth with a human speech. I said: “Earth, you hold us all on your chest; if you do not give us happiness, then why should you be the earth, and why should we be born into the world? We are your children, earth, give us happiness, make us happy!” These are the words I said that night.

And in the morning I woke up and looked - there is no Suvankul next to me. I don't know when he got up, perhaps very early. New sheaves of wheat lay side by side on the stubble all around. I felt offended - how I would have worked next to him at an early hour ...

“Suvankul, why didn’t you wake me up?” I shouted.

He looked back at my voice; I remember what he looked like that morning - naked to the waist, his black, strong shoulders glistened with sweat. He stood and looked somehow joyfully, in surprise, as if he did not recognize me, and then, wiping his face with his palm, he said smiling:

“I wanted you to sleep.

- And you? I ask.

“I work for two now,” he replied.

And then I seemed to be offended, I almost burst into tears, although my heart felt very good.

“Where are your yesterday’s words?” I scolded him. - You said that we would be equal in everything, as one person.

Suvankul threw down the sickle, ran up, grabbed me, lifted me up in his arms and, kissing me, said:

– From now on, together in everything – as one person. You are my lark, dear, dear! ..

He carried me in his arms, said something else, called me a lark and other funny names, and I, clasping his neck, laughed, dangled my legs, laughed - after all, only small children are called a lark, and yet it was good to hear such words!

And the sun was just rising, rising out of the corner of my eye from behind the mountain. Suvankul released me, hugged me by the shoulders and suddenly shouted to the sun:

- Hey, sun, look, here is my wife! Look what I have! Pay me for the bride with rays, pay with light!

I don't know if he was serious or joking, but I suddenly burst into tears. So simple, I could not resist the gushing joy, it overflowed in my chest ...

And now I remember and cry for some reason, stupid. After all, those were different tears, they are given to a person only once in a lifetime. And didn't our lives turn out the way we dreamed? Success. Suvankul and I made this life with our own hands, we worked, we never let go of ketmen either in summer or in winter. Shed a lot of sweat. A lot of work has gone. It was already in modern times - they put up a house, got some cattle. In a word, they began to live like people. And the greatest - sons were born to us, three, one after another, as if by selection. Now sometimes such annoyance burns the soul and such absurd thoughts come to mind: why did I give birth to them like a sheep every year and a half, if not, like others, in three or four years - maybe then this would not have happened . Or maybe it would have been better if they had not been born at all. My children, I say this from grief, from pain. I am mother, mother...

I remember how they all first appeared here. It was the day Suvankul brought the first tractor here. All autumn and winter, Suvankul went to the Zarechye, to the other side, studied there at the courses of tractor drivers. We did not really know then what a tractor was. And when Suvankul lingered until night—it was a long way to go—I felt both sorry and offended for him.

“Well, why did you get involved with this case?” It’s bad for you, or something, it was a foreman ... - I reproached him.

And he, as always, calmly smiled.

“Well, don't make noise, Tolgon. Wait, spring will come - and then you will be convinced. Have a little…

I didn’t say this out of malice - it was not easy for me to do chores alone with the children in the house, again, work on the collective farm. But I moved away quickly: I look at him, and he froze from the road, not having eaten, and I still make him make excuses - and I myself became embarrassed.

“All right, sit down by the fire, the food has caught a cold for a long time,” I grumbled, as if forgiving.

In my heart, I understood that Suvankul was not playing with toys. At that time, there was no literate person in the village to study at the courses, so Suvankul volunteered himself. “I,” he says, “I will go and learn to read and write, free me from brigadier affairs.”

He volunteered to volunteer, but he took a sip of work up to his throat. As I remember now, it was an interesting time, the children of their fathers taught. Kasym and Maselbek were already going to school, they were the teachers. Sometimes, in the evenings, there was a real school in the house. There were no tables then. Suvankul, lying on the floor, wrote letters in notebooks, and all three of his sons climbed from three sides and each taught. You, they say, father, hold the pencil straight, but look - the line has gone awry, but watch your hand - it trembles with you, write like this, and hold the notebook like this. And then they suddenly argue among themselves and each proves that he knows better. In another case, the father would have clicked on them, but here he listened with respect, like real teachers. Until he writes one word, he is completely tormented: sweat pours from Suvankul's face in a hail, as if he did not write letters, but stood on the threshing machine at the drum as a feeder. They conjure the whole bunch over a notebook or a primer, I look at them, and laughter sorts me out.

“Children, leave your father alone. What are you going to make of him, mullah, or what? And you, Suvankul, do not chase two hares, choose one - either you be a mullah, or a tractor driver.

Suvankul was angry. He does not look, shakes his head and sighs heavily:

- Oh, you, here is such a thing, and you with jokes.

In a word - both laughter and grief. But be that as it may, but still Suvankul achieved his goal.

In early spring, when the snow had just melted and the weather had settled down, one day something rumbled and buzzed behind the village. A frightened herd rushed headlong down the street. I ran out of the yard. There was a tractor behind the gardens. Black, cast iron, in smoke. He quickly approached the street, and around the tractor people fled from all over the village. Who is on horseback, who is on foot, making noise, pushing, as in a bazaar. I also rushed along with my neighbors. And the first thing I saw was my sons. All three of them stood on the tractor next to their father, tightly clinging to each other. The boys whistled at them, threw their hats, and they were so proud, where they were, like heroes, and their faces shone. That's because some sort of tomboys, still early in the morning ran away to the river; It turns out that they met my father’s tractor, but they didn’t tell me anything, they were afraid that I wouldn’t let go. And it is true, I was afraid for the children - what if something happens - and shouted to them:

- Kasym, Maselbek, Jainak, here I am! Get down now! - but in the roar of the engine she herself did not hear her voice.

And Suvankul understood me, smiled and nodded his head - they say, do not be afraid, nothing will happen. He sat behind the wheel proud, happy and very rejuvenated. Yes, he really was then still a young black-moustached horseman. And then, as if for the first time, I saw how similar the sons were to their father. All four of them could be mistaken for brothers. Especially the older ones - Kasym and Maselbek - are exactly indistinguishable from Suvankul, just as lean, with strong brown cheekbones, like dark copper. And my youngest, Jainak, he looked more like me, lighter in appearance, his eyes were black, affectionate.

The tractor, without stopping, went out of the village, and we all flocked after it. We were curious how the tractor would plow? And when three huge plowshares easily crashed into the virgin soil and began to roll off layers as heavy as the manes of stallions, everyone rejoiced, roared and the crowd, overtaking each other, whipping the horses squatting on their backs, snoring, moved along the furrow. I don’t understand why I then separated from others, why I then lagged behind people, but suddenly I found myself alone, and so I remained standing, I can’t walk. The tractor went farther and farther, and I stood exhausted and looked after. But at that hour there was no happier person in the world than me! And I didn’t know what to rejoice more: whether that Suvankul brought the first tractor to the village, or that on that day I saw how our children had grown up and how great they looked like their father. I looked after them, cried and whispered: “You should always be so close to your father, my sons! If you grew up to be the same people as him, then I don’t need anything else! .. "

It was the best time of my motherhood. And the work argued in my hands, I always loved to work. If a person is healthy, if the arms and legs are intact - what could be better than work?

Time passed, the sons somehow imperceptibly, amicably rose, like poplars of the same age. Everyone began to determine their own path. Kasym followed his father's path: he became a tractor driver, and then learned to be a combine driver. One summer I went to the steering wheel on the other side of the river - on the Kaindy collective farm under the mountains. And a year later he returned as a combine operator to his village.

For a mother, all children are equal, you carry everyone equally under your heart, and yet I seemed to love Maselbek more, I was proud of him. Maybe because she yearned for him in separation. After all, he, like an early-fledged chick, was the first to fly out of the nest, he left home early. At school, he studied well from childhood, read everything with books - do not feed bread, just give a book. And when I finished school, I immediately went to the city to study, I decided to become a teacher.

And the youngest - Dzhainak - handsome, good-looking, came out like himself. One problem: he almost did not live at home. They elected him on the collective farm as a secretary of the Komsomol, he always has meetings, then circles, then a wall newspaper, or something else. I'll see how the boy disappears day and night - he takes evil.

“Listen, you fool, you should have taken your accordion, your pillow, and settled in the collective farm office,” I told him more than once. - You don't care where you live. You don't need a home, a father, or a mother.

And Suvankul stood up for his son. He will wait until I make some noise, and then he will say, as if in passing:

“Don't be upset, mother. Let him learn to live with people. If he had dangled to no avail, I would have lathered his neck myself.

By that time, Suvankul had returned to his former brigadier work. Young people sat on tractors.

And the most important thing is this: Kasym got married soon, the first daughter-in-law stepped over the threshold into the house. I didn’t ask how it was with them, but when Kasym spent the summer as a helmsman in the District, there, you see, they liked each other. He brought her from Kaindy. Aliman was a young girl, a swarthy mountain girl. At first I was glad that my daughter-in-law was handsome, beautiful and agile. And then somehow quickly fell in love with her, she really liked me. Maybe because secretly I always dreamed of a daughter, I wanted to have a daughter of my own. But not only because of this - she was simply intelligent, hardworking, clear, like a piece of glass. I loved her like my own. Many, it happens, do not get along with each other, but I was lucky; such a daughter-in-law in the house is a great happiness. By the way, real, genuine happiness, as I understand it, is not an accident, it does not suddenly fall on the head, like a downpour on a summer day, but comes to a person gradually, depending on how he relates to life, to people around him; bit by bit, bit by bit it is collected, one complements the other, what we call happiness is obtained.

In the year that Aliman came, a memorable summer dawned. The bread ripened early. The flood on the river also started early. A few days before the harvest, there were heavy showers in the mountains. Even from a distance it was noticeable how there, above, the snow was melting like sugar. And rattling water boiled in the floodplain, rushed in yellow foam, in soap flakes, brought huge spruces with a butt from the mountains, beat them into chips on the drops. In particular, on the first night, the river groaned and groaned terribly until dawn under the steep. And in the morning they looked - as if there were no old islands, they were completely washed away during the night.

But the weather was hot. The wheat approached evenly, greenish at the bottom, and poured yellow on top. In that summer, there was no end to the ripening fields, bread swayed in the steppe to the very sky. Harvesting had not yet begun, but ahead of time we squeezed out by hand along the edges of the corrals a passage for the combine. Aliman and I kept close at work, so some of the women seemed to shame me:

“You’d be better off sitting at home than competing with your daughter-in-law.” Have respect for yourself.

But I thought otherwise. What respect for myself - to sit at home ... Yes, and I would not sit at home, I love the harvest.

So we worked together with Aliman. And then I noticed something that I will never forget. On the edge of the field, among the ears, wild mallow blossomed at that time. She stood up to the very top of her head in large white and pink flowers and fell under the sickles along with the wheat. I see that our Aliman picked up a bouquet of mallow and, as if secretly from me, carried it somewhere. I glance imperceptibly, I think: what will she do with the flowers? She ran to the harvester, put the flowers on the steps and silently ran back. The harvester stood at the ready by the road, from day to day they were waiting for the start of harvesting. There was no one on it, Kasym went away somewhere.

I pretended not to notice anything, did not embarrass - she was still shy, but in my heart I was very happy: it means she loves. That's good, thank you, daughter-in-law, I thanked Aliman to myself. And I still see what she was like at that hour. In a red scarf, in a white dress, with a large bouquet of mallow, and she herself blushed, and her eyes sparkle - with joy, with mischief. What does youth mean? Oh, Aliman, my unforgettable daughter-in-law! The hunter was up to the flowers, like a girl. In spring, the snow still lies in snowdrifts, and she brought the first snowdrops from the steppe ... Oh, Aliman! ..

Harvest began the next day. The first day of suffering is always a holiday, I have never seen a gloomy person on this day. No one announces this holiday, but it lives in the people themselves, in their gait, in their voice, in their eyes ... Even in the rattling of britzkas and in the frisky run of well-fed horses, this holiday lives on. In truth, on the first day of the harvest, no one really works. Every now and then jokes, games light up. That morning, too, as always, it was noisy and crowded. Perky voices echoed from one side to the other. But we had the most fun of all, at the manual harvest, because there was a whole camp of young women and girls here. Poor people. Kasym, as a sin, passed that hour on his bicycle, received as a bonus from MTS. The mischievous intercepted him on the way.

“Come on, combine operator, get off your bike.” Why don't you greet the reapers, are you arrogant? Well, bow to us, bow to your wife!

They populated from all sides, forced Kasym to bow at the feet of Aliman, to ask for forgiveness. He is like this:

“Sorry, dear reapers, it was a mistake. From now on, I will bow to you a mile away.

But Kasym did not get off with this.

“Now,” they say, “let’s give us a ride on a bicycle, like city ladies, so that with a breeze!”

And they vying with each other went to put each other on a bicycle, and they themselves ran after them, rolling with laughter. They would have sat quietly, but no - they are spinning, squealing.

Kasym can hardly stand on his feet from laughter.

- Well, that's enough, that's enough, let go, damn it! he pleads.

And they don’t, only one ride - the other clings.

Finally, Kasym got angry in earnest:

- Yes, you are mad, or what? The dew has dried up, I have to take out the harvester, and you! .. Have you come to work or play jokes? Leave me alone!

Oh, and there was laughter that day. And what a sky it was that day - blue-blue, and the sun shone brightly!

We set to work, sickles flashed, the sun burned hotter, and cicadas chirped all over the steppe. It’s always hard to get used to it until you get used to it, but the morning mood didn’t leave me all day. Wide, light was on the soul. Everything that my eyes saw, everything that I heard and felt - everything seemed to me created for me, for my happiness, and everything seemed to me full of extraordinary beauty and joy. It was gratifying to see how someone galloped somewhere, diving into the high waves of wheat - maybe it was Suvankul? It was gratifying to hear the sound of sickles, the rustle of falling wheat, the words and laughter of people. It was gratifying when Kasym's harvester passed nearby, drowning out everything else. Kasym stood at the helm, now and then putting handfuls under the brown stream of threshing falling into the bunker, and each time, raising the grain to his face, he inhaled its smell. It seemed to me that I myself was breathing this warm, still milky smell of ripe grain, from which my head was spinning. And when the harvester stopped in front of us, Kasym shouted, as if from the top of a mountain:

- Hey, rider, hurry up! Don't delay!

And Aliman grabbed a jug of ayran.

“I’ll run,” he says, “I’ll take him a drink!”

And she started to run to the harvester. She ran along the new combine stubble, slender, young, in a red scarf and a white dress, and it seemed that she was carrying in her hands not a jug, but a song loving wife. Everything about her spoke of love. And I somehow involuntarily thought: “If only Suvankul could drink ayran,” and looked around. But where is it! With the beginning of the suffering you will not find the foreman, he is in the saddle all day long, galloping from end to end, he has trouble up to his throat.

By evening, bread from the wheat of the new crop was already ready for us at the field camp. This flour was prepared in advance by threshing sheaves from the mowing we started a week ago. Many times in my life I have been led to eat the first bread of a new crop, and every time I put the first piece to my mouth, it seems to me that I am performing a holy rite. Although this bread is dark in color and a little sticky, as if baked from liquid kneaded dough, its sweetish taste and unusual spirit cannot be compared with anything in the world: it smells of the sun, young straw and smoke.

When the hungry reapers came to the field camp and settled down on the grass near the canal, the sun was already setting. It burned in the wheat on the far side. The evening promised to be bright and long. We gathered near the yurt on the grass. True, Suvankul was not there yet, he was to arrive soon, and Jainak, as always, disappeared. He rode away on his brother's bicycle to a red corner to hang some kind of leaflet.

Aliman spread a handkerchief on the grass, poured out early-ripening apples, brought hot cakes, poured kvass into a cup. Kasim washed his hands in the ditch and, sitting by the tablecloth, slowly broke the cakes into pieces.

- Still hot, - he said, - take it, mother, you will be the first to taste the new bread.

I blessed the bread and, when I bit off a slice, I felt some unfamiliar taste and smell in my mouth. It was the smell of combine operators' hands - fresh grain, heated iron and kerosene. I took new slices, and they all smelled of kerosene, but I had never eaten such delicious bread. Because it was filial bread, my son held it in his harvester hands. It was the people's bread - those who grew it, those who were sitting at that hour next to my son in the field camp. Holy bread! My heart overflowed with pride for my son, but no one knew about it. And I thought at that moment that maternal happiness comes from the happiness of the people, like a stalk from the roots. There is no maternal destiny without the people's destiny. Even now I will not renounce this faith of mine, no matter what I experience, no matter how hard life treats me. The people are alive, that's why I'm alive ...

That evening Suvankul did not appear for a long time, he had no time. It got dark. Young people burned fires on a cliff near the river, sang songs. And among the many voices I recognized the voice of my Jainak... He was their accordion player, the ringleader. I listened to the familiar voice of my son and told him to myself: “Sing, son, sing while you are young. The song purifies a person, brings people together. And then someday you will hear this song and you will remember those who sang it with you on this summer evening. And again I began to think about my children - such is, probably, mother's nature. I thought that Kasym, thank God, had already become an independent person. In the spring, he and Aliman will separate, the house has already begun to be built, they will acquire their own household. And there will be grandchildren. I didn’t worry about Kasym: he became a worker as a father, he didn’t know peace. It was already dark at that hour, but he was still circling on the harvester - it only took a little while to finish the corral. The tractor and the harvester were moving with their headlights on. And Aliman is there with him. In a difficult time, being together for a minute is expensive.

I remembered Maselbek and felt homesick. He sent a letter last week. He wrote that this summer he would not be able to come home for the holidays. They sent him with his children somewhere to Lake Issyk-Kul, to a pioneer camp for practice. Well, there's nothing to be done, since he chose such a job for himself, it means he likes it. Wherever you are, the main thing is to be healthy, I reasoned.

Suvankul returned late. He hastily ate, and we went home with him. In the morning, I had to do housework. In the evening, I asked our neighbor Aisha to look after the cattle. She, poor thing, was often ill. A day will work on the collective farm, and two at home. She had a female illness, her lower back ached, and therefore she was left with one little son - Bektash.

By the time we drove home, it was already night. The breeze blew. Moonlight rode on spikes. The stirrups touched the panicles of the ripe kurai, and tart warm pollen silently rose into the air. By the smell it was audible - blooming sweet clover. There was something very familiar about that night. It hurt at heart. I sat on a horse behind Suvankul, on a saddle cushion. He always suggested that I sit in front, but I liked to ride like that, grabbing his belt. And the fact that he rode in the saddle tired, taciturn - after all, he got winded up in a day, and the fact that he nods at times, and then shuddered and hit his horse with his heels - all this was dear to me. I looked at his stooped back and, leaning my head, thought, regretted: “We are getting old little by little, Suwan. Well, time is running out. But not without reason, it seems, we live life. It is most important. But, it seems, quite recently we were young. How quickly the years go by! And yet life is still interesting. No, it's too early for us to give up. There's still a lot to do. I want to live with you for a long time ... "

Chingiz Aitmatov

mother field

Father, I don't know where you are buried.

I dedicate to you, Torekul Aitmatov.

Mom, you raised all four of us.

I dedicate to you, Nagima Aitmatova.

You don't have to disturb her. Here she stops and looks around for a long time with dull, old eyes.

Hello field, she says softly.

Hello Tolgonai. You've come? And even older. Completely gray. With a staff.

Yes, I'm getting old. Another year has passed, and you, the field, have another harvest. Today is the day of remembrance.

I know. I'm waiting for you, Tolgonai. But you came alone this time too?

As you can see, you are alone again.

So you haven't told him anything yet, Tolgonai?

No, I didn't dare.

Do you think no one will ever tell him about it? Do you think anyone will not say something inadvertently?

No, why not? Sooner or later he will know everything. After all, he has already grown up, now he can learn from others. But to me he is still a child. And I'm afraid, afraid to start a conversation.

However, one must know the truth. Tolgonai.

Understand. But how do you tell him? After all, what I know, what you know, my dear field, what everyone knows, only he does not know. And when he finds out, what will he think, how will he look at the past, will he reach the truth with his mind and heart? The boy is still. So I think what to do, how to make sure that he does not turn his back on life, but always looks directly into her eyes. Oh, if you could just take it in a nutshell and tell it like a fairy tale. Lately, I’ve been thinking about this only, because it’s not even an hour - I’ll suddenly die. In the winter, she fell ill somehow, took to her bed, thought it was the end. And I was not so much afraid of death - if it would come, I would not resist - but I was afraid that I would not have time to open his eyes to myself, I was afraid to take his truth with me. And he didn’t even know why I toiled so much ... He regretted, of course, he didn’t even go to school, he kept spinning around the bed - all in his mother. "Grandma, grandma! Maybe some water or medicine for you? Or cover up warmer? But I did not dare, my tongue did not turn. He is very gullible, unsophisticated. Time passes, and I can’t find where to start the conversation from. I figured it out in every way, and this way and that. And no matter how much I think, I come to one thought. In order for him to correctly judge what happened, so that he correctly understands life, I must tell him not only about himself, not only about his fate, but also about many other people and destinies, and about myself, and about my time, and about you, my field, about our whole life and even about the bike he rides, goes to school and does not suspect anything. Maybe that's the only way it'll be right. After all, you can’t throw out anything here, you can’t add anything: life has kneaded all of us into one dough, tied it into one knot. And the story is such that not every adult, even an adult, will understand it. You need to survive it, understand it with your soul ... So I’m thinking ... I know that this is my duty, if I could fulfill it, then it wouldn’t be scary to die ...

Sit down, Tolgonai. Don't stand still, your legs hurt. Sit on a rock, let's think together. Do you remember, Tolgonai, when you first came here?

It's hard to remember how much water has flown under the bridge since then.

And you try to remember. Remember, Tolgonai, everything from the very beginning.

Hey, shaggy, here we are!

But I dodged, ran away along the ditches.

Red flocks of sheep passed here day after day, fat tails swayed in the dust like hail, hooves pounded. Black hoarse shepherds drove the sheep. Then came the nomad camps of rich villages with camel caravans, with skins of koumiss strapped to the saddles. Girls and young women, dressed up in silks, swayed on frisky pacers, sang songs about green meadows, about clean rivers. I wondered and, forgetting everything in the world, ran after them for a long time. “I wish I had such a beautiful dress and a scarf with tassels!” I dreamed, looking at them until they were out of sight. Who was I then? The barefoot daughter of a laborer - Jataka. My grandfather was left as a plowman for debts, and so it went in our family. But although I never wore a silk dress, I grew up to be a conspicuous girl. And she loved to look at her shadow. You go and look, as you admire in the mirror ... I was wonderful, by golly. I was seventeen years old when I met Suvankul at the harvest. That year he came to work as laborers from Upper Talas. And even now I will close my eyes - and I can see him exactly as he was then. He was still quite young, about nineteen years old ... He was not wearing a shirt, he walked around with an old beshmet thrown over his bare shoulders. Black from sunburn, as smoked; cheekbones shone like dark copper; in appearance he seemed thin, thin, but his chest was strong and his hands were like iron. And he was a worker - you will not find such a person soon. The wheat was harvested easily, cleanly, you only hear nearby how the sickle rings and the cropped ears fall. There are such people - it's nice to see how they work. So Suvankul was like that. To which I was considered a fast reaper, but always lagged behind him. Suvankul went far ahead, then, it happened, he would look back and return to help me catch up. And it hurt me, I got angry and drove him away:

Well, who asked you? Think! Leave it, I'll take care of myself!

But he was not offended, he smiles and silently does his own thing. And why was I angry then, stupid?

You've come? he told me.

And I thought that you left a long time ago, - I always answered, although I knew that without me he would not go anywhere.

And then we walked together.

Look, our lark sang! Suvankul said.

Miraculously, we even had our own lark.

You don't have to disturb her. Here she stops and looks around for a long time with dull, old eyes.

Hello field, she says softly.

Hello Tolgonai. You've come? And even older. Completely gray. With a staff.

Yes, I'm getting old. Another year has passed, and you, the field, have another harvest. Today is the day of remembrance.

I know. I'm waiting for you, Tolgonai. But you came alone this time too?

As you can see, you are alone again.

So you haven't told him anything yet, Tolgonai?

No, I didn't dare.

Do you think no one will ever tell him about it? Do you think anyone will not say something inadvertently?

No, why not? Sooner or later he will know everything. After all, he has already grown up, now he can learn from others. But to me he is still a child. And I'm afraid, afraid to start a conversation.

However, one must know the truth. Tolgonai.

Sit down, Tolgonai. Don't stand still, your legs hurt. Sit on a rock, let's think together. Do you remember, Tolgonai, when you first came here?

It's hard to remember how much water has flown under the bridge since then.

And you try to remember. Remember, Tolgonai, everything from the very beginning.

Hey, shaggy, here we are!

But I dodged, ran away along the ditches.

Red flocks of sheep passed here day after day, fat tails swayed in the dust like hail, hooves pounded. Black hoarse shepherds drove the sheep. Then came the nomad camps of rich villages with camel caravans, with skins of koumiss strapped to the saddles. Girls and young women, dressed up in silks, swayed on frisky pacers, sang songs about green meadows, about clean rivers. I wondered and, forgetting everything in the world, ran after them for a long time. “I wish I had such a beautiful dress and a scarf with tassels!” I dreamed, looking at them until they were out of sight. Who was I then? The barefoot daughter of a laborer - Jataka. My grandfather was left as a plowman for debts, and so it went in our family. But although I never wore a silk dress, I grew up to be a conspicuous girl. And she loved to look at her shadow. You go and look, as you admire in the mirror ... I was wonderful, by golly. I was seventeen years old when I met Suvankul at the harvest. That year he came to work as laborers from Upper Talas. And even now I will close my eyes - and I can see him exactly as he was then. He was still quite young, about nineteen years old ... He was not wearing a shirt, he walked around with an old beshmet thrown over his bare shoulders. Black from sunburn, as smoked; cheekbones shone like dark copper; in appearance he seemed thin, thin, but his chest was strong and his hands were like iron. And he was a worker - you will not find such a person soon. The wheat was harvested easily, cleanly, you only hear nearby how the sickle rings and the cropped ears fall. There are such people - it's nice to see how they work. So Suvankul was like that. To which I was considered a fast reaper, but always lagged behind him. Suvankul went far ahead, then, it happened, he would look back and return to help me catch up. And it hurt me, I got angry and drove him away:

Well, who asked you? Think! Leave it, I'll take care of myself!

But he was not offended, he smiles and silently does his own thing. And why was I angry then, stupid?

You've come? he told me.

And I thought that you left a long time ago, - I always answered, although I knew that without me he would not go anywhere.

And then we walked together.

Look, our lark sang! Suvankul said.

Miraculously, we even had our own lark.

Memorial Day (end of summer, beginning of autumn). The aged Tolgonai comes to the field to pour out her soul. This strong woman no one to complain about your life.

As a child, during the harvest, Tolgonai was brought to the field by the hand and planted in the shade under the mop. The girl was left a piece of bread so that she would not cry. Later, when Tolgonai grew up, she ran to protect the crops from cattle, which in the spring were driven past the fields into the mountains. At that time, she was a swift, shaggy girl. It was a wild and carefree time.

Tolgonai never wore silk dresses, but she still grew up to be a conspicuous girl. At the age of seventeen, she met young Suvankul at the harvest, and love broke out between them. Together they built their lives. Suvankul trained as a tractor driver, then became a collective farm foreman. Everyone respected their family.

Tolgonai regrets that she gave birth to three sons in a row. The eldest, Kasym, followed in his father's footsteps and became a tractor driver. Later he trained as a combine operator, the only one on the collective farm. He was a prominent young man and once brought his bride, the beautiful mountain girl Aliman, into the house. Tolgonai fell in love with her daughter-in-law, the young began building a new house. The middle son, Tolgonai's favorite, Maselbek, went to the city to study as a teacher. The youngest son, Jainak, was a Komsomol secretary, rode a bicycle on business and rarely appeared at home.

Everything was fine until the news about the war came to the collective farm. Men began to be drafted into the army. So Suvankul and Kasim left. When Suvankul died in the offensive near Moscow, Tolgonai, together with his daughter-in-law Aliman, became widows at the same time. She could not complain and curse fate, she needed to support her heartbroken daughter-in-law. Both of them worked in the field. Until the end of the war, Tolgonai was a brigadier. Aliman lived with her and took care of her mother-in-law.

Maselbek left the city for the army, and Tolgonai saw him only once, when the train with the military passed by. He also died. Jaynak was a volunteer. He went missing.

Things were going badly on the collective farm, there was not enough food. Tolgonai tried her best. She obtained permission to sow the wasteland. From all the houses they scraped up the remnants of grain for seeds, but it was stolen by Dzhenshenkul, who hid from the army and was engaged in robbery. Tolgonai went in pursuit of her son, but could not return the grain - he shot and killed her horse. When Dzhenshenkul was caught, Tolgonai was a witness. The wife of the criminal son wanted to disgrace Tolgonai, to take revenge, and in front of everyone she told about Aliman's pregnancy.

Tolgonai was sad because of her daughter-in-law. She was young and resigned to her fate. The mother-in-law became attached to her, as to her daughter, and thought that after the war she would definitely find a husband for her. At this time, a handsome, young shepherd appeared in their area. Once Aliman came home drunk. She cried and asked for forgiveness from Tolgonai, whom she called mother. Later it turned out that Aliman was pregnant. The neighbors secretly went to the village of this guy, hoping that he would marry and the Tolgonai family would avoid disgrace, but he turned out to be a family man, and his wife drove them away.

Aliman died in childbirth, leaving a son. They named him Zhanbolot. The daughter-in-law of old Jorobek nursed the baby. Neighbors helped. Bektash, the son of a neighbor Aisha, taught the boy and later took him to work as a strawman on a combine.

Tolgonai promises the field that while she is alive, she will never forget her family, and when Zhanbolot grows up, she will tell him everything. Tolgonai hopes he understands.

The story "The Mother's Field" was written by Chingiz Aimatov in 1963, three years before his masterpiece "The White Steamboat", which made the Kyrgyz writer a classic of 20th century literature.

In the 60-70s, this story was literally the banner of social realism and multinationality. Literary officials found the topic convenient and familiar.

The fate of a Kyrgyz peasant woman who lost her husband and sons in the war, took over the management of the collective farm, survived all the troubles and raised a grandson who was not her own by blood.

Meanwhile, the discoveries of the writer's later works are already showing through here - high symbolism, imagery, unusual, unusual angles. What he will come to in the Scaffold.

In essence, there are two heroes in the story: Mother and Field. They are in constant dialogue, and by the end of the story they seem to merge into a single personality. Mother - bright and generous, like a field. Field - giving life and protecting this life, like a Mother!

The field is the inner essence of the Kirghiz Tolgonai. On the field her whole life.

The field at the beginning of the story married her to her beloved husband. And whole happy life beloved wife and mother of three beloved sons. And above the night field Milky Way, which among the Kyrgyz is called the Strawman's Road. Field under your feet and field above your head.

Suddenly silence. People gather on the field screaming, running, riding horses. Tolgonai from a distance does not see what is happening there.

And this brought the news of the beginning of the war. And now we have before us the image of war as a terrible mechanism, with knives that shred fates, with a drum into which all life is drawn.

Husband goes to war. The sons leave one by one. Tolgonai stays at home with his daughter-in-law Aliman.

A letter arrives from Masalbek's son. He will pass the station on his way to the front. You can see him. Tolgonai and his daughter-in-law spent the whole day getting to the station, waiting the whole night for the train. And the train skipped by without stopping, only she heard the voice of her son, they called out to each other. In desperation, Tolgonai runs after the echelon and finds himself between two paths. Between oncoming trains on a narrow track. And Aliman's daughter-in-law presses her mother against the lamppost, so that she doesn't spin like a whirlwind and be thrown under the wheels. This is how the Mother finds herself between two terrible oncoming streams of death, and only Aliman will pull her, bind her to life.

And then the Mother will save Aliman from Aliman herself, deceived, dishonored, betraying her husband.

And here it is the moment when two essences merge: Mother and Earth.

A powerful technique syntactic parallelism turns this monologue into a poem and illuminates all the past and future events of the story from a new angle.

Further, troubles fall on Tolgonai one after another: the loss of loved ones, labor intended for men's shoulders, the battle with robbers. But we already know that Tolgonai is immortal, like the earth, and will stand, no matter what happens.

And the story ends again with a dialogue with the Field, but in fact with oneself, with one's own spiritual self. And this dialogue turns into a prayer. And this is again the discovery of a new theme for Aitmatov, Man and God. The topic is completely unthinkable for Soviet literature 60s and suddenly literally stirred up the whole Soviet culture with the story "White Ship"

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