Olga bergholtz Leningrad poem. Leningrad poem

1
I will remember the evening as a milestone:
December, fireless haze,
I carried bread in my hand home,
and suddenly a neighbor met me.
“Change for a dress,” he says, “
If you don't want to change, give it as a friend.
The tenth day, as the daughter lies.
I don't bury. She needs a coffin.
He will be knocked together for bread for us.
Give it back. After all, you yourself gave birth ... "
And I said, "I won't give it back."
And the poor chunk squeezed tighter.
“Give it back,” she asked, “you
buried the child herself.
I brought flowers then
so that you decorate the grave.
...as if on edge of the earth,
alone, in the dark, in a fierce battle,
two women, we walked side by side,
two mothers, two Leningraders.
And, obsessed, she
prayed long, bitterly, timidly.
And I had the strength
do not give my bread to the coffin.
And the strength was enough - to bring
her to himself, whispering sullenly:
“Here, eat a piece, eat ... sorry!
I am not sorry for the living - do not think.
... Having lived through December, January, February,
I repeat with a tremor of happiness:
I do not feel sorry for anything alive -
no tears, no joy, no passion.
Before your face, War,
I take this oath
How eternal life baton,
given to me by friends.
Many of them are my friends,
friends of native Leningrad.
Oh we'd suffocate without them
in the painful ring of the blockade.

. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

Oh yes - and n a c e could not
neither those fighters, nor those drivers,
when the trucks were driving
across the lake to the hungry city.
The cold steady light of the moon
the snows are shining brightly
and from the glass height
clearly visible to the enemy
columns below.
And the sky howls, howls,
and the air whistles, and gnashes,
breaking under bombs, ice,
and the lake splashes into funnels.
But enemy bombing is worse
even more painful and angrier -
forty degree cold,
dominating the earth.
It seemed that the sun would not rise.
Forever night in frozen stars
forever moon snow, and ice
and blue whistling air.
It seemed like the end of the earth...
But through the cooled planet
cars went to Leningrad:
he is still alive. He's around somewhere.
To Leningrad, to Leningrad!
There's bread left for two days,
there mothers under the dark sky
crowd at the bakery stand,
and tremble, and are silent, and wait,
listen anxiously:
“By dawn, they said they would bring ...”
"Citizens, you can hold on..."
And it was like this: all the way
rear car settled.
The driver jumped up, the driver on the ice.
“Well, it is - the motor is stuck.
Repair for five minutes, a trifle.
This breakdown is not a threat,
yes, do not unbend your hands in any way:
they were frozen on the steering wheel.
Slightly disperse - again reduce.
Stand? What about bread? Wait for others?
And bread - two tons? He will save
sixteen thousand Leningraders.
And now - in the gasoline of his hand
moistened, set fire to them from the motor,
and the repair went fast.
in the burning hands of the driver.
Forward! How the blisters ache
frozen to the mittens of the palm.
But he will deliver the bread, bring
to the bakery until dawn.
sixteen thousand mothers
rations will be received at dawn -
one hundred twenty five blockade grams
with fire and blood in half.

Oh, we knew in December -
not for nothing called the "sacred gift"
ordinary bread, and grave sin -
at least throw a crumb to the ground:
with such human suffering,
such big love fraternal
from now on sanctified for us,
our daily bread, Leningrad.

Dear life, bread came to us,
dear friendship of many to many.
Not yet known on earth
scarier and happier road.
And I'm proud of you forever
my sister, Muscovite Masha,
for your February journey here,
blockade to us, our dear.
Golden-eyed and strict
like a twig, thin camp,
in huge Russian boots,
in someone else's sheepskin coat, with a revolver, -
and you rushed through death and ice,
like everyone else, obsessed with anxiety, -
my homeland, my people,
generous and beloved.
And you drove the car to us
gifts full to the brim.
You knew I'm alone now
my husband is dead, I'm starving.
But the same, the same as with me,
made a blockade with everyone.
And merged into one for you
and I, and the grief of Leningrad.
And crying for me at night
you took at dawn
in the liberated villages
parcels, letters and greetings.
Wrote: "Do not forget:
Khokhrino village. Petrovs.
Go to the Moika, one hundred and one,
to relatives. Say that everyone is healthy
that Mitya was tormented by Fritz for a long time,
but the boy is alive, albeit very weak ... "
About the terrible captivity until dawn
women told you
and onions were harvested in the yards,
in cold, ruined huts:
“Here, you’ll bring the St. Petersburg people, sister.
Ask for forgiveness - how rich ... "
And you rushed - forward, forward,
like a beam, with irresistible force.
My homeland, my people
my own blood, thank you!

. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

Like this, full of love
because of the ring, from the darkness of separation
friends told us: "Live!",
friends held out their hands.
Frozen, on fire
in blood, pierced by light,
they handed you and me
single life baton.
My happiness is immeasurable.
I calmly answer them:
“Friends, we accepted it,
we are holding your baton.
She and I went through the days of winter.
In the oppressive haze of her suffering
with all the strength of our hearts we lived,
with all the light of creative daring.

Yes, we will not hide: these days
we ate glue, then belts;
but, having eaten the stew from the belts,
a stubborn master got up to the machine,
to sharpen gun parts,
necessary for the war.

But he sharpened until the hand
could make movements.
And if you fell - at the machine,
how a soldier falls in battle.

But people listened to poetry
like never before, with deep faith,
in apartments black as caves,
at loudspeakers of the deaf.

And with a freezing hand
in front of the oil lamp, in the cold of hell,
engraved engraver gray-haired
special order - Leningrad.
Barbed wire he,
like a crown of thorns,
around - around the edge - circled,
blockade symbol severe.
In the ring, shoulder to shoulder, the three of us -
child, woman, man,
under the bombs, like in the rain,
stand with their eyes raised to the zenith.
And the inscription dear to the heart, -
she's not talking about a reward,
she is calm and strict:
"I lived in the winter in Leningrad."
The engraver did not receive the order.
He just believed it was necessary.
for those who fight, for us,
who must withstand the blockade.

So we fought abroad
yours, beloved Life!
And I, like you, - stubborn, evil, -
fought for them as best she could.
The soul, fortifying itself, overcame
treacherous weakness of the body.

And I suffered a loss.
I will not even touch her with a word -
such pain... And I could,
like you, rise to life again.
Then to fight again and again
for a life.

The bearer of death, the enemy -
again over every Leningrader
raises a forged fist.
But without worry, without fear
I look into the eyes of the coming fights:
because you are with me, my country,
and I'm not without reason - Leningrad.
So, with the baton of eternal life,
handed by you, fatherland,
I walk the same path with you
in the name of your peace,
in the name of the future son
and a bright song for him.

For a distant happy midnight
her, my cherished
I folded impatiently
now, in the blockade and in battle.

Isn't there a war for her?
Is it not for her Leningraders
still fight, and take courage,
and revenge without measure?
Here she is:

"Hello godson
red commanders,
dear messenger,
peace messenger.

You will have calm dreams -
the battles died down on the earth at night.
People
sky
no longer afraid
sky illuminated by the moon.

In the blue-blue depth of the ether
young clouds float.
Above the grave of the red commanders
wise thorns bloom.

You wake up
on the land of blossoms,
who got up not for battle - for work.
You will hear
swallows singing:
the swallows returned to the cities.

They make nests - and they are not afraid!
Vyut in the broken wall, under the window:
the nest will hold on tighter,
people more
do not leave the house.

So pure is now human joy,
just touched the world again.
Hello, my son,
my life,
reward,
hello conquering love!

Here is the song. She is simple
she is a hope and a dream.
but even the dream of enemies
want to take away and dishonor.
So let the anthem rumble today
one unquenchable revenge!
Let only hate now
like thirst burns the lips of the people,
to return the desired hour
love, peace and freedom!
June - July 1942, Leningrad

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The image of the besieged city

<…>

Gratefully commenting on the poem in one of his letters to Bergholz (dated June 26, 1942), Vsevolod Vishnevsky saw the unusualness of the author's voice in the new degree of his confession: “That without which our literature so dried up, circumspect, schematic (to a large extent ... ). Literature - only when everything is true, everything screams, everything is frank (in the highest form revelation ) ... Without this - calligraphy, commentary ... "

From the name, which includes a genre characteristic - poem, follows, by definition, that it is story in verse, or a lyrical narrative about Leningrad and Leningraders.

The poem is a picture of a besieged city (“December, fireless haze ...”, “As if at the end of the earth. Alone, in the darkness, in a fierce battle ...”, “in the painful ring of blockade, etc.) and includes six parts , in the aggregate of which the image of Leningrad is born. In each part of the poem there is a hero or heroes with their own destinies, with their own suffering and courage. First of all, this Leningraders:

"Leningrad kids"

"gray-haired engraver", etc. -

Who were united not only by love for hometown(“They are many - my friends, friends of my native Leningrad”), but also common destiny- they all blockade. And these two names characterize and unite them all.

D. Khrenkov wrote that "the word" Leningrader"Bergholz deciphered as" a person who believes in victory. Each was an inseparable part of the whole - "republicans, citizens, soldiers of the Red Guard bearing of the past." Everyone can say about himself: "I lived in the winter in Leningrad."

So, in the episode of the meeting with neighbor we see two Leningrad mothers, one of whom is lucky to bury her child. Her name is not named, and yet the image is concretized, since we have before us what she saw through her eyes. neighbors personal tragedy. IN this case the author's I also appears in its concreteness (as someone's neighbor):

I will remember the evening as a milestone:

December, fireless haze,

I carried bread in my hand home,

The connecting link between those who are inside and outside the ring is the author's Self, which has different functions. In one case, as we have shown, I am a woman, a participant in those events, a Leningrader, a mother. But its difference lies in the scale of the image, in conscious, comprehensive memory (“as a boundary I will remember”), in the ability of oneself, along with concrete neighbor take it in general terms:

as if on the edge of the earth,

two women, we walked side by side,

two mothers, two Leningraders.

Note temporal And spatial the meaning of the two generalizations, expressed essentially the same way: "as frontier remember evening' and 'as if edge of the earth' (both carry meaning limit)

"his letter is a letter to his wife"

"Commander Semyon Potapov"

"My sister, Muscovite Masha" and etc.

Consider, for example, a letter that is reading personal narrator: "Here I have a letter from a fighter." They don’t know each other (“I didn’t shake hands with him faithfully”), he is not from Leningrad - we learn about this from the text of the letter (“I really wasn’t in Leningrad”), but the narrator calls the fighter his friend:

But I know - there is no more true friend,

His letter - a letter to his wife -

According to D. Khrenkov, “the circle of friends in the poem is unusually wide - the whole country. Without her help, "we would have suffocated in the painful ring of the blockade." Words friend, friends, friendship frequent, repeated ten times in the poem, semantically subdivided into two groups:

And I'm proud of you forever

my sister, Muscovite Masha,

And you drove the car to us

gifts full to the brim.

You knew I'm alone now

my husband died, I'm starving.

At the same time, the image of the “Muscovite Masha” in its development receives a generalized meaning in the poem: it is herself Moscow helps Leningrad. In addition, the name Masha, as one of the most common in Russia, gives a further expansion of the image:

like a beam, with irresistible force.

My homeland, my people

my own blood, thank you!

In this sense, the address “sister” also acquires additional meanings: this is how soldiers at the front usually called nurses and, in general, all young girls. "Moskvichka Masha" becomes sister and for all Leningraders, and for those who are behind the blockade ring:

On, you will bring to the St. Petersburg people, sister,

Ask for forgiveness - how rich ...

I'm sorry, my love, understand

that Leningrad burned my soul

with their poor children...

but there is no bread... And we are fathers.

You can't breathe, you can't, wife,

when a child cries for bread...

The narrator, who is also the first reader of this letter, brings the fighter closer to him, calling the stranger his friend. This friend possibly is the deceased defender cities.

As a result, all the characters make up a capacious, lively image of Leningrad. They still live the city, immersed in cold and darkness: “hungry city”, “the sky howls”, “air whistles”, “death and ice”, “death loop”, etc.

But enemy bombing is worse

even worse and worse

forty degree cold

dominating the earth.

The city seemed lifeless, empty (“It seemed that the end of the earth…”), but he continued to live. Here textual parallels with Anna Akhmatova's "Wind of War" are possible:

The birds of death are at their zenith,

Who is going to rescue Leningrad?

Do not make noise around - he breathes,

He still alive, he hears everything.

Compare with Olga Bergholz:

But through the cooled planet

cars went to Leningrad:

he is still alive...

The appearance of a living city is also created through the movement of cars carrying bread to the “hungry city” along the road. life. In the blockade bread becomes synonymous life, they are interchangeable:

Stand? What about bread? Wait for others?

And bread - two tons? He will save

sixteen thousand Leningraders...

one hundred twenty five blockade grams

with fire and blood in half.

From here - careful attitude to bread Then when "one hundred and twenty-five blockade grams" were the only source of life, and Then when the blockade ring is broken:

…Oh, we knew in December -

not for nothing called the "sacred gift"

ordinary bread, and grave sin -

at least throw a crumb to the ground:

with such human suffering,

so much brotherly love

sanctified for us from now on,

our daily bread, Leningrad.

No less than their daily bread, the people of Leningrad vitally needed spiritual food - a word of support and hope:

And people listened to poetry

like never before, with deep faith,

in apartments as black as caves,

at loudspeakers of the deaf.

There is another image in the poem that embodies the courage and fortitude of the people of Leningrad. This is an order that engraves the "gray-haired blockade":

And with a freezing hand

in front of the oil lamp, in the cold of hell,

engraved engraver gray-haired

a special order - Leningrad.

In the poem, this is a verbal image of the order for those who survived, and for the surviving city. The engraver's image of the "crown of thorns" - a symbol of martyrdom - speaks about the price of survival. This is an order for the feat of survival, and it is crowned with a strict inscription: "I lived in the winter in Leningrad." We found a description of this order as a real one in the memoirs of O. Bergholz: “... as we, in the Leningrad Radio Committee, in the same severe winter, it became known that one old master engraver, straining his last strength, created a model of the Leningrad Order in plaster and sent her to Moscow, but soon died. Many of our poets were simply shocked by this story. And many of us have written poems about it. I also described this order in my “Leningrad Poem”, according to stories, of course.<…>This dream came true before the end of the war. The medal "For the Defense of Leningrad" appeared.

In the final lines of the poem, the personal narrator appears as a direct participant in those events:

And I, like you - stubborn, evil

fought for them as best she could.

The soul, fortifying itself, overcame

treacherous weakness of the body.

Here I am not just a blockade, like everyone else, enduring hunger and cold, but also fighting with my word - the word of the poet. And here the author gradually switches more and more attention to himself. The personal narrator gives way to the lyrical heroine. Speaking about herself, about personal losses, she also appears as an autobiographical image - with her pre-war losses; and as one of the many blockade fighters who suffered and are suffering losses in the siege ring:

And I suffered a loss

I will not touch her even with a word -

such pain...

Her losses are the death of her beloved daughters (before the war), and the child killed in prison, who had not yet had time to be born, and the death of her husband in January 1942. And yet, at the end, there is hope for the future son:

…For the sake of your peace

In the name of the future son

And a bright song for him.

The poem ends with the very song that Olga Bergholz - alas! - it will not be destined to sing:

So pure is now human joy,

just touched the world again.

Hello my son

my life,

reward,

Hello conquering love.

Berggolts O.F. Collected works. In 3 vols. - L .: Khudozh. lit., 1972.

Abramov A.M. Lyrics and epic of the Great Patriotic War. – M.: Sov. writer, 1976.

Pavlovsky A.I. poetic epic of the blockade years // Literary Leningrad during the blockade. - L .: 1973.

Khrenkov D.T. From Heart to Heart: About the life and work of Fr. Bergholz. – L.: 1979.

Adamovich A., Granin D. Blockade book. - L .: Lenizdat, 1984. - 543 p.

Kron A. Olga Berggolts // Selected works. In 2 volumes. T.2. - M.: 1980. - P. 493-504.

Berggolts O.F. Meeting. Part 1: Daytime stars. Part 2: Chapters. Fragments, Letters, diaries, notes, plans. – M.: 2000.

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Short description document:

The image of the besieged city

in the “Leningrad Poem” by O.F. Bergholz.

Olga Berggolts overnight became a poet personifying the resilience of Leningrad. Every day her voice sounded from loudspeakers. What did radio mean to besieged Leningrad? Bergholz recalled: “On the streets of Leningrad, people were already falling from their feet from hunger ... One district after another plunged into darkness, like a polar night - energy dried up, light left the city, traffic died down.<…>And quite often it turned out that the weakened, half-dying Leningrader had only one form of connection with outside world, this is the “dish” of the radio. From here, from this black crag on the wall, human voices reached the person ... Even if the radio did not speak, but only the metronome was beating - it was even easier: it meant that the city was alive, that its heart was beating ... "

In it hard time one after another, her blockade poems appear: “February Diary”, “ Leningrad poem”,“ In memory of the defenders ”, etc. Much later will be written main book Olga Berggolts - Daytime Stars.

The Leningrad Poem is one of the significant works written in the besieged city. Olga Berggolts set to work on it, having returned from Moscow. From her memoirs: “It may seem strange, but I, who was afraid to write large things (in terms of volume, of course), suddenly felt some kind of special surge of strength. It seemed to me that the enormity of the epic, the witness and participant of which I happened to be, requires us to do all-encompassing things. But how was this task achieved? The case helped. Together with photojournalist Grigory Chertov, I was at the firing positions of one of the artillery regiments. Grisha had to remove the guns so that part of the factory floor was visible at the same time. And he took this picture. “How did you achieve your goal? I asked him. He replied: "Very simple - shot with a wide-angle." Then it dawned on me that my lens, aimed at one point, can simultaneously grab and capture different things with the same sharpness ... ". This is how the main compositional principle of her poem arose.

Olga Berggolts wrote “The Leningrad Poem in June-July 1942, a year after the start of the siege, after the coldest and most hungry months of the blockade. The poem was first published in the issues of Leningradskaya Pravda for July 24 and 25, 1942.

IN critical literature there are no works specifically dedicated to this poem. Literary critic A. Abramov noted only that the "Leningrad Poem" "is entirely dedicated to friendship, which holds Soviet people making them invincible."

A.I. Pavlovsky, analyzing the blockade poems by O. Bergholz (“February Diary”, “Leningrad Poem”, “Memory of the Defenders”) as a kind of unity, notes that they “are not only an exciting document of the blockade, which preserved the unique features of that time and faithfully conveyed the courageous spirit her fellow citizens, they survived that terrible time precisely because the artist did not close himself within the framework of everyday life, individual details, etc., but approached the blockade day from the point of view of large ones. Commonly Significant Historical Coordinates.

D. Khrenkov, comparing the "Leningrad Poem" with the "February Diary", drew attention to a different nature of the interaction of the author's Self with the characters about whom the story is being told: "If the "February Diary"

It was one passionate monologue that told about the thoughts and feelings of the Leningrader, but now Bergholz has set herself a higher task - to show the spiritual life of the lyrical heroine against the backdrop of individual large-scale episodes.

Gratefully commenting on the poem in one of his letters to Bergholz (dated June 26, 1942), Vsevolod Vishnevsky saw the unusualness of the author's voice in the new degree of his confession: “That without which our literature so dried up, circumspect, schematic (to a large extent ... ). Literature - only when everything is true, everything screams, everything is frank (in the highest form of revelation) ... Without this - calligraphy, commentary ... "

The mention of the poem can also be found in a number of works on blockade works, but for the most part in the form of general evaluative characteristics. We will try to consider in more detail the text of the "Leningrad Poem" at different levels of analysis.

From the name, which includes a genre characteristic - a poem, it follows, by definition, that this is a story in verse, or a lyrical narrative about Leningrad and Leningraders.

A. Adamovich and D. Granin in the Blockade Book noted: “... it strikes and touches endlessly - how many of them, the former blockade survivors, wrote and write ... poetry. Not just and not only diaries, memoirs, but also poems. Almost every tenth ... What is it - the influence of the city itself with its incomparable poetic culture? Or did the Leningrader’s consciousness, as it was, get too deep: hunger, blockade and poetry (about the same) - and everything is nearby?

The poem is a picture of a besieged city (“December, fireless haze ...”, “As if at the end of the earth. Alone, in the darkness, in a fierce battle ...”, “in the painful ring of blockade, etc.) and includes six parts , in the aggregate of which the image of Leningrad is born. In each part of the poem there is a hero or heroes with their own destinies, with their own suffering and courage. First of all, these are Leningraders:

"two mothers, two Leningraders"

"Sixteen thousand Leningraders"

"Leningrad kids"

"gray-haired engraver", etc. -

Who were united not only by love for their native city (“They are many - my friends, friends of my native Leningrad”), but also by a common fate - they are all blockade. And these two names characterize and unite them all.

D. Khrenkov wrote that “Berggolts deciphered the word “Leningrader” as “a person who believes in victory.” Each was an inseparable part of the whole - "republicans, citizens, soldiers of the Red Guard bearing of the past." Everyone can say about himself: "I lived in the winter in Leningrad."

At the same time, there are separate episodes in the poem with individual destinies. A. Kron, by the way, noted in his memoirs that “the women of Leningrad were not a faceless mass for O. Bergholz, but namely neighbors, whose worries and sorrows she knew as her own.”

So, in the episode of the meeting with a neighbor, we see two Leningrad mothers, one of whom is lucky to bury her child. Her name is not named, and yet the image is concretized, since we have before us a personal tragedy seen through the eyes of her neighbor. In this case, the author's I also appears in its concreteness (as someone's neighbor):

I will remember the evening as a milestone:

December, fireless haze,

I carried bread in my hand home,

and suddenly a neighbor meets me ...

But among the heroes of the poem there are those who are on the "other side" of the blockade, trying to break through the ring ("Oh, yes - neither those fighters nor those drivers could have done otherwise ..."). These images are also presented in a generalized way, as the “friends” of Leningrad, among all those who think about the city, sympathize and seek to help.

The connecting link between those who are inside and outside the ring is the author's Self, which has different functions. In one case, as we have shown, I am a woman, a participant in those events, a Leningrader, a mother. But its difference is on the scale of the image, in conscious, comprehensive memory (“as I remember the boundary”), in the ability to perceive oneself, along with a particular neighbor, in a generalized way:

as if on the edge of the earth,

alone, in the dark, in a fierce battle,

two women, we walked side by side,

two mothers, two Leningraders.

We note the temporal and spatial meaning of two generalizations, expressed, in fact, in the same way: “I will remember the evening as a boundary” and “as if at the end of the earth” (both carry the meaning of the limit)

In this case, the nameless images of the characters are conveyed through their personal, direct communication with I.

In other cases, this is a personal narrator, including more specific object heroes in various forms of speaking. We learn much more about them: “He is from Ladoga, and he is from Volga”, “My sister, a Muscovite Masha”, “commander Semyon Potapov”, etc. The forms of their presentation in the text are letters, eyewitness accounts, personal meetings. In such cases, unlike typed heroes, they have a first name, last name, family ties, place of birth:

"his letter is a letter to his wife"

"Commander Semyon Potapov"

“He is from Ladoga, and he is a Volzhan”

"My sister, Muscovite Masha" and etc.

Consider, for example, a letter read by a personal narrator: "Here is a letter from a fighter in front of me." They don’t know each other (“I didn’t shake hands with him faithfully”), he is not from Leningrad - we learn about this from the text of the letter (“I really wasn’t in Leningrad”), but the narrator calls the fighter his friend:

But I know - there is no more true friend,

more reliable, more devoted, more fearless.

His letter - a letter to his wife -

talks about our old friendship.

According to D. Khrenkov, “the circle of friends in the poem is unusually wide - the whole country. Without her help, "we would have suffocated in the painful ring of the blockade." The words friend, friends, friendship are frequent, repeated ten times in the poem, semantically subdivided into two groups:

Those who, being far outside the besieged city, are close in their souls; and those who fought to break through the blockade (“They are many - my friends, / Friends of my native Leningrad. / Oh, we would suffocate without them / In the painful ring of the blockade”);

A form of address to Leningraders, including on the radio (“Friends, we have accepted it, / / ​​We are holding our baton ...”)

We will show the merging of the concrete and the generalized in one example. In this regard, the image of the “Muscovite Masha” is interesting. In the projection on reality, he is comparable to O. Bergholz's sister Maria.

And I'm proud of you forever

my sister, Muscovite Masha,

for your February journey here,

blockade to us, our dear.

Everything is reliable here: indeed, in the early spring of 1942, Olga Bergholz's sister Maria crossed Ladoga in a truck allocated by the Writers' Union and loaded with medicines for Leningrad writers:

And you drove the car to us

gifts full to the brim.

You knew I'm alone now

my husband is dead, I'm starving.

At the same time, the image of the “Muscovite Masha” in its development receives a generalized meaning in the poem: it is Moscow itself that helps Leningrad. In addition, the name Masha, as one of the most common in Russia, gives a further expansion of the image:

And you rushed - forward, forward,

like a beam, with irresistible force.

My homeland, my people

my own blood, thank you!

In this sense, the address “sister” also acquires additional meanings: this is how soldiers at the front usually called nurses and, in general, all young girls. "Muscovite Masha" becomes a sister for all Leningraders, and for those who are behind the blockade ring:

On, you'll bring the St. Petersburg people, sister,

Ask for forgiveness - how rich ...

In spatio-temporal terms, all the heroes of the poem are either "here and now" or "there and now." But, separated by a ring of blockade, they represent a single spiritual whole, held together by the personality of the author.

A special theme of besieged Leningrad is children. “Leningrad children” ... “When these words sounded - in the Urals and beyond the Urals, in Tashkent and Kuibyshev, in Alma-Ata and in Frunze, a person’s heart sank. Everyone, especially children, was brought grief by the war. But so many fell upon these that everyone, with an involuntary feeling of guilt, was looking for something to take off their children's shoulders, souls, to shift onto themselves. It sounded like a password - "Leningrad children"! And everyone rushed to meet in any corner of our earth ... ". Compare with the lines from the Leningrad poem:

I'm sorry, my love, understand

that Leningrad burned my soul

with their poor children...

There children are crying, asking for bread,

but there is no bread... And we are fathers.

The poem begins with the image of the dead a child being carried by his mother on a sled. And further in the text, the desire to feed and take revenge is expressed in a cross-cutting plot: “Here, get another charge for the Leningrad children”, “there are mothers under the dark sky in a crowd at the bakery”, “there are children crying, asking for bread”. The motive of paternal responsibility for the life of all Leningrad children is manifested in a letter from a fighter to his wife:

You can't breathe, you can't, wife,

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To ask questions.

Before the start of World War II, the name of Olga Berggolts was little known to Soviet readers. A bit of poetry, a collection of children's poems - that, perhaps, was all that came out from the poetess's pen until 1941, with the exception of essays in Kazakh newspapers, where she worked as a journalist.

Of course, there were still unpublished diaries and prose that could not be shown to anyone: memories of the Stalinist dungeons, where Olga spent six months and lost a third, did not born child, about her first husband, the poet Boris Kornilov, who was shot in 1938. Even before the war, she buried her two daughters, but fate prepared for the writer no less terrible trials.

And where did this gentle and fragile, but cheerful young woman find the strength to endure all this? In January 1942, the second husband of Olga Fedorovna, Nikolai Molchanov, dies in a front-line hospital, in March the surgeon Bergholtz, Olga's father, is sent to the Krasnoyarsk Territory as a "dangerous element", and she works on the Leningrad radio and the entire blockade of Leningrad people hear her quiet, calm voice , which has become a ray of hope for many who are desperate.

Her poems, dedicated to the besieged city and its inhabitants, brought her fame and popular love, and the lines of her poems are engraved on the granite stele of Piskarevsky memorial cemetery, where they found the last shelter of 470,000 Leningraders who died during the blockade. Olga Berggolts and her poems are a symbol of the besieged Leningrad, dying, but not surrendering to the enemies.

I.

I'm talking to you under the whistle of shells,
illuminated by a gloomy glow.
I'm talking to you from Leningrad
my country, sad country...
Kronstadt evil, indomitable wind
thrown in my face beats.
Children fell asleep in bomb shelters
the night watch stood at the gate.
Over Leningrad - a mortal threat ...
Sleepless nights, every day is hard.
But we forgot what tears are
what was called fear and prayer.
I say: we, the citizens of Leningrad,
the roar of cannonades will not shake,
and if tomorrow there are barricades -
we will not leave our barricades.
And women with fighters will stand side by side,
and the children will bring us cartridges,
and all of us should bloom
old banners of Petrograd.
Hands squeezing a charred heart,
I make such a promise
I, a city dweller, the mother of a Red Army soldier,
who died near Strelna in battle:
We will fight with selfless strength
we will overcome the rabid beasts,
we will win, I swear to you, Russia,
on behalf of Russian mothers.

August 1941

From the notebook of the forty-first year

We see - the night is coming again,
and this doesn't help:
nothing can turn away the darkness,
cover the sky...

I'm not at home, not a city dweller,
not alive and not dead - no one:
I live between two floors
in a pile of stacked bricks...

Oh, this is reality - it doesn’t seem strange, it doesn’t dream:
sirens cry, and quietly - and then
one moment you can hear - birds, birds
they sing and whistle in the city gardens.
Yes, in the pre-battle silence, in sadness,
so the choirs of spring birds triumph,
as if glad that they shouted
a huge city falling on its face...

In the bomb shelter, in the basement,
naked lights are on...
Perhaps we will be overwhelmed now.
They talk about bombs around...

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I've never been so strong
as in this autumn, did not live.
I've never been so beautiful
never been so in love...

Yes, I'll lie, yes, I'll tell you
- I don't know what happened to me.
but so easily I walk the earth,
like I didn't go for a long time.
And the whole earthly firmament is so dear to me,
so my song is pure and high...
Is it not because death enters the city,
A new love close?..

They squat and doze
under the arches of other people's houses.
Explosions of bombs almost do not heed,
do not hear the earth tremble.
No thoughts, no complaints, no wishes...
One desire - to sleep,
to someone else's city stone
snuggle with a burning cheek...

September 1941

I will talk to you today
comrade and friend my Leningrader,
about the light that burns above us,
about our last consolation.
Comrade, bitter days fell on us,
unforeseen disasters threaten
but we are not forgotten with you, not alone, -
and this is already a victory.
Look - full of maternal longing,
behind the smoky ridge of the siege,
does not reduce the eyes of the inflamed country
from the defenders of Leningrad.
So once, sending a friend on a hike,
for a hard and glorious feat,
sobbing, staring for centuries
from the city walls of Yaroslavl.
I prayed that the wind at least rushed the voice
to a friend through the jungle and heights ...
And the letters are flying to Leningrad now,
as in the song, tens of thousands.
Through the flame and the wind they fly and fly,
their lines are blurred with tears.
In a hundred languages ​​they say about one thing:
"We are with you, comrades, with you!"
And how many parcels come in the morning
here, in the Leningrad parts!
How mittens and sweaters smell
forgotten peace and happiness...
And the country sent planes to us, -
Let's be even more relentless! -
their measured, booming song is heard,
and you can see their wings shining.
Comrade, listen, stand up, smile
and with a challenge to the world tell:
- We are not fighting for the city alone, -
and this is already a victory.
Thank you. Thank you home country
for help with love and strength.
Thanks for the letters, for the wings for us,
Thanks for the mittens too.
Thank you for your concern
she is dearer to us than reward.
She will not be forgotten in the siege, in battle
defenders of Leningrad.
We know that bitter days fell on us,
unforeseen disasters.
But the Motherland is with us, and we are not alone,
and our victory will be.

Poem
February diary

It was like a day.
A friend came to me
without crying, she said that yesterday
buried the only friend
and we were silent with her until the morning.

What words could I find
I, too, am a Leningrad widow.

We ate bread
that was postponed for a day,
wrapped in one scarf together,
and it became quiet and quiet in Leningrad.
One, knocking, worked the metronome...

And the feet got cold, and the candle languished.
Around her blind light
a moon ring formed
slightly rainbow-like.

When the sky brightened a little,
we went out together for water and bread
and heard a distant cannonade
sobbing, heavy, measured rumble:
then the Army tore the blockade ring,
fired at our enemy.

And the city was covered in dense frost.
County snowdrifts, silence ...
Do not find tram lines in the snow,
of some runners, a complaint is heard.

Skids creak, creak along the Nevsky.
On children's sleds, narrow, funny,
they carry blue water in saucepans,
firewood and belongings, the dead and the sick ...

So since December, the townspeople have been wandering
for many miles, in a thick foggy haze,
in the wilderness of blind, icy buildings
looking for a warmer corner.

Here is a woman leading her husband somewhere.
Gray half mask on the face,
in the hands of a can - this is soup for dinner.
Shells are whistling, the cold is raging...
"Comrades, we are in the ring of fire."

And a girl with a frosty face,
stubbornly clenching his blackened mouth,
body wrapped in a blanket
lucky to the Okhta cemetery.

Lucky, swaying - in the evening to get to ...
Eyes look impassively into the darkness.
Take off your hat, citizen!
They are transporting a Leningrader,
killed in action.

Skids creak in the city, creak ...
How many we already miss!
But we don't cry: they tell the truth
that the tears of the people of Leningrad were frozen.

No, we don't cry. Tears are not enough for the heart.
Hate does not let us cry.
For us, hatred has become a guarantee of life:
unites, warms and leads.

About not forgiving, not sparing,
to take revenge, take revenge, take revenge, as I can,
the mass grave calls to me
on the Okhtinsky, on the right bank.

How silent we were that night, how silent...
But I must, I must speak
with you, sister in anger and sorrow:
thoughts are transparent and the soul burns.

Already our suffering can not be found
no measure, no name, no comparison.
But we are at the end of a thorny path
and we know that the day of liberation is near.

It will probably be a terrible day
long-forgotten joy marked:
probably they will give fire everywhere,
in all the houses they will give, for the whole evening.

in the ring, in darkness, in hunger, in sorrow
we breathe tomorrow
free, generous day,
we have already conquered this day.

Enemies broke into our free city, -
the stones of the city gates crumbled ...
But I went out to International Avenue
armed working people.

He walked with the immortal
exclamation in the chest:
“We will die, but Red Peter
we won’t give up!”

The Red Guards, remembering the past,
formed new units
and collected bottles every house
and built his own barricade.

And for this long nights
the enemy tortured us with iron and fire...
"You will give up, you will be afraid - bombs to us
shouted -
you hit the ground, you fall face down.
Trembling, they will ask for captivity, as mercy,
not only people - the stones of Leningrad!

But we stood on high rooftops
with your head up to the sky,
did not leave our fragile towers,
shovel squeezing numb hand.

The day will come
and, rejoicing, hurrying,
still sad without removing the ruins,
we will decorate our city like this,
like people never decorated.

And then on the most slender building,
facing the sunrise itself,
put up a marble statue
a simple air defense worker.

Let it stand, always embraced by the dawn,
as he stood, holding an unequal battle:
with your head up to the sky,
with the only weapon - a shovel.

ABOUT ancient tool earthly,
shovel,
faithful sister of the earth!
What an unthinkable path we are with you
passed from the barricades to the cemetery!

I myself sometimes do not understand
everything that we endured with you ...
Passing through the tortures of fear and fire,
we have stood the test of battle.

And everyone who defended Leningrad,
putting his hand into fiery wounds,
not just a citizen, but a soldier,
like a veteran in courage.

But the one who did not live with us will not believe
which is hundreds of times more honorable and more difficult
in blockade, surrounded by executioners
do not turn into a werewolf, into a beast ...

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

I've never been a hero
didn't want fame or reward.
Breathing in one breath with Leningrad,
I didn't act like a hero, I lived.

And I do not boast that in the days of the blockade
did not change the joys of the earth,
that this joy shone like dew,
gloomily illuminated by war.

And if there's anything I can be proud of,
then, like all my friends around,
I am proud that I can still work,
without laying down weakened hands.
I am proud that these days, more than ever,
we knew the inspiration of labor.

In the dirt, in the darkness, in hunger, in sadness,
where death, like a shadow, dragged on the heels,
we were so happy
they breathed such stormy freedom,
that grandchildren would envy us.

Oh yes, we discovered a terrible happiness -
worthy not yet sung, -
when the last crust was shared,
the last pinch of tobacco;
when they had midnight conversations
by the poor and smoky fire,
how will we live
when victory comes
all our lives in a new way appreciating.

And you, my friend, you even in the years of peace,
like noon of life, you will remember
house on Red Commanders Avenue,
where the fire smoldered and the wind blew from the window.

You will straighten up again, as now, young.
Rejoicing, crying, the heart will call
and this darkness, and my voice, and cold,
and a barricade near the gate.

Long live, long live
simple human joy
basis of defense and labor,
immortality and strength of Leningrad!

Long live the stern and calm,
staring death in the face,
suffocating ring-bearer
As a person,
like a worker
like a Warrior!

My sister, comrade, friend and brother,
after all, it is we, baptized by the blockade!
We are called together - Leningrad,
and the globe is proud of Leningrad.

We are now living a double life:
in the ring and the cold, in hunger, in sorrow,
we breathe tomorrow
happy, generous day -
we have conquered this day.

And will it be night, morning or evening,
but on this day we'll get up and go
army warrior towards
in his liberated city.

We'll go out without flowers
in crumpled helmets,
in heavy padded jackets, in frozen
half masks
as equals, welcoming the troops.
And spreading sword-shaped wings,
bronze Glory will rise above us,
holding a wreath in charred hands.

January - February 1942

Leningradka

They will compose such songs for you,
Thus your appearance and deeds will sing,
What are you probably going to say: - Doesn't look like it.
I am simpler, I was gloomier.
I was often scared and sad,
I was tormented by the bloody path of war,
I didn't even dream of being happy
All I wanted was to rest...
Yes, take a break from everything in the world -
From the search for warmth, shelter, food.
Out of pity for their emaciated children,
From the eternal premonition of trouble,
From fear for someone who does not write to me
(Will I ever see him)
From the whistle of bombs over the defenseless roof,
Rest from courage and anger.
But I stayed in a sad city
Mistress and maid in order
To save the fire and its life.
And I lived, overcoming fatigue.
I even sang sometimes. Worked hard.
She shared salt and water with people.
I cried when I could. scolded
With my neighbor. Delirious food.
And day by day my face darkened,
Gray hair appeared on the temples.
But, accustomed to any business,
The hand became almost iron.
See how tenacious fingers and rude!
I dug ditches on the near approaches,
knocked together hard coffins
And I bandaged the wounds of small children ...
And these days are not wasted
Their lead sediment is indestructible:
Sorrow itself, war itself looks
Through the knowing eyes of Leningrad women.
Why did you picture me
So brave and so beautiful
Like a woman in her prime,
With a proud and clear smile?
But, not accepting severe reproaches,
The artist will say with pride, with joy:
- Because you are love and life itself,
Fearlessness and glory of Leningrad!

Leningrad poem

I will remember the evening as a milestone:
December, fireless haze,
I carried bread in my hand home,
and suddenly a neighbor met me.
“Change for a dress,” he says, “
if you don't want to change, give it as a friend.
The tenth day, as the daughter lies.
I don't bury. She needs a coffin.
He will be knocked together for bread for us.
Give it back. After all, you yourself gave birth ...
And I said: “I won’t give it back.”—
And the poor chunk squeezed tighter.
“Give it back,” she asked, “you
buried the child herself.
I brought flowers then
so that you decorate the grave.—
...As if on the edge of the earth,
alone, in the dark, in a fierce battle,
two women, we walked side by side,
two mothers, two Leningraders.
And, obsessed, she
prayed long, bitterly, timidly.
And I had the strength
do not give my bread to the coffin.
And I had enough strength to bring
her to himself, whispering sullenly:
- Here, eat a piece, eat ... sorry!
I'm not sorry for the living - do not think.—
... Having lived through December, January, February,
I repeat with a tremor of happiness:
I do not feel sorry for anything alive -
no tears, no joy, no passion.
Before your face, War,
I take this oath
like a baton for eternal life,
given to me by friends.
Many of them are my friends,
friends of native Leningrad.
Oh we'd suffocate without them
in the painful ring of the blockade.

. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

Oh yes - and n a c e could not
neither those fighters, nor those drivers,
when the trucks were driving
across the lake to the hungry city.
The cold steady light of the moon
the snows are shining brightly
and from the glass height
clearly visible to the enemy
columns below.
And the sky howls, howls,
and the air whistles, and gnashes,
breaking under bombs, ice,
and the lake splashes into funnels.
But enemy bombing is worse
even more painful and angrier -
forty degree cold,
dominating the earth.
It seemed that the sun would not rise.
Forever night in frozen stars
forever lunar snow and ice,
and blue whistling air.
It seemed like the end of the earth...
But through the cooled planet
cars went to Leningrad:
he is still alive. He's around somewhere.
To Leningrad, to Leningrad!
There's bread left for two days,
there mothers under dark skies
crowd at the bakery stand,
and tremble, and are silent, and wait,
listen anxiously:
- By dawn, they said they would bring ...
- Citizens, you can hold on ... -
And it was like this: all the way
rear car settled.
The driver jumped up, the driver on the ice.
- Well, it is - the engine is stuck.
Repair for five minutes, a trifle.
This breakdown is not a threat,
yes, do not unbend your hands in any way:
they were frozen on the steering wheel.
A little warm up - it will reduce again.
Stand? What about bread? Wait for others?
And bread - two tons? He will save
sixteen thousand Leningraders.—
And now - in the gasoline of his hand
moistened, set fire to them from the motor,
and the repair went fast.
in the burning hands of the driver.
Forward! How the blisters ache
frozen to the mittens of the palm.
But he will deliver the bread, bring
to the bakery until dawn.
sixteen thousand mothers
rations will receive at dawn -
one hundred twenty five blockade grams
with fire and blood in half.
... Oh, we knew in December -
not for nothing called the "sacred gift"
ordinary bread, and grave sin -
at least throw a crumb to the ground:
with such human suffering,
so much brotherly love
sanctified for us from now on,
our daily bread, Leningrad.

4.

Dear life, bread came to us,
dear friendship of many to many.
Not yet known on earth
scarier and happier road.
And I'm proud of you forever
my sister, Muscovite Masha,
for your February journey here,
blockade to us, our dear.
Golden-eyed and strict
like a twig, thin camp,
in huge Russian boots,
in someone else's sheepskin coat, with a revolver, -
and you rushed through death and ice,
like everyone else, obsessed with anxiety -
my homeland, my people,
generous and beloved.
And you drove the car to us
gifts full to the brim.
You knew I'm alone now
my husband is dead, I'm starving.
But the same, the same as with me,
made a blockade with everyone.
And merged into one for you
and I and the grief of Leningrad.
And crying for me at night
you took at dawn
in the liberated villages
parcels, letters and greetings.
Wrote: "Do not forget:
Khokhrino village. Petrovs.
Go to the Moika one hundred and one
to relatives. Say that everyone is healthy
that Mitya was tormented by the enemy for a long time,
but the boy is alive, though very
weak..."
About the terrible captivity until the morning
women told you
and onions were harvested in the yards,
in cold, ruined huts:
- Here, you will bring the St. Petersburg people, sister.
Ask for forgiveness - how rich ...—
And you rushed - forward, forward,
like a beam, with irresistible force.
My homeland, my people
my own blood, thank you!

. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

Like this, full of love
because of the ring, from the darkness of separation
friends told us: "Live!",
friends held out their hands.
Frozen, on fire
in blood, pierced by light,
they handed you and me
single life baton.
My happiness is immeasurable.
I calmly answer them:
- Friends, we accepted it,
we are holding your baton.
She and I went through the days of winter.
In the oppressive haze of her torment
with all the strength of our hearts we lived,
with all the light of creative daring.

Yes, we will not hide: these days
we ate earth, glue, belts;
but, having eaten the stew from the belts,
a stubborn master got up to the machine,
to sharpen gun parts,
necessary for the war.

But he sharpened until the hand
could make movements.
And if you fell - at the machine,
how a soldier falls in battle.

And people listened to poetry
like never before, with deep faith,
in apartments as black as caves,
at loudspeakers of the deaf.

And with a freezing hand
in front of the oil lamp, in the cold of hell,
engraved engraver gray-haired
a special order - Leningrad.
Barbed wire he,
like a crown of thorns,
around - around the edge - circled,
blockade symbol severe.
In the ring, shoulder to shoulder, the three of us -
child, woman, man,
under the bombs, like in the rain,
stand with their eyes raised to the zenith.
And the inscription is dear to the heart -
she's not talking about a reward,
she is calm and strict:
"I lived in the winter in Leningrad."
So we fought abroad
yours, beloved Life!
And I, like you, - stubborn, evil -
fought for them as best she could.
The soul, fortifying itself, overcame
treacherous weakness of the body.
And I suffered a loss.
I will not even touch her with a word -
such pain... And I could,
like you, rise to life again.
Then to fight again and again
for a life.

The bearer of death, the enemy -
again over every Leningrader
raises a forged fist.
But without worry, without fear
I look into the eyes of the coming fights:
because you are with me, my country,
and I'm not without reason - Leningrad.
So, with the baton of eternal life,
handed by you, fatherland,
I walk the same path with you
in the name of your peace,
in the name of the future son
and a bright song for him.

For a distant happy midnight
her, my treasured,
I folded impatiently
now, in the blockade and in battle.

Not for her there is a war?
Isn't it for her Leningraders
still fight, and take courage,
and revenge without measure? Here she is:

— Hello, godson.
red commanders,
dear messenger,
messenger of the world...

You will have peaceful dreams
the battles died down on the earth at night.
People
sky
no longer afraid
sky illuminated by the moon.

In the blue-blue depth of the ether
young clouds float.
Above the grave of the red commanders
wise thorns bloom.
You will wake up on a flowering land,
risen not for battle - for work.
You will hear the swallows singing:
swallows
returned to the cities.

They make nests - and they are not afraid!
Vyut in the broken wall, under the window:
the nest will hold on tighter,
people more
do not leave the house.

So pure is now human joy,
just touched the world again.
Hello my son
my life,
reward,
hello conquering love!

June - July 1942

Olga Berggolts wrote this poem at the request of a girl who came to her, Nina Nonina, in memory of her brother Vladimir, who fell near Leningrad in January 1944 in the battles to eliminate the blockade.

Poem
In memory of the defenders

Eternal glory to the heroes who fell in battle
for the freedom and independence of our Motherland!

In the days of the offensive of the armies of Leningrad,
in the fierce January frosts,
a strange girl came to me
and asked me to write poetry...

She came to me that same evening
when it was just two years old
from the day of your cruel death.

She didn't know that, of course.
Trying to be calm, strict, adult,
she asked me to write about my brother,
three days ago, killed in Duderhof.

He fell, attacking Raven Mountain,
that damned height from where
for two years the fascist led the correction
all artillery fire.

Trying to be as hard as the big ones
She took out a portrait from her purse:
"Here's our boy,
my younger brother Volodya ... "
And I silently gasped: from the portrait
your eyes looked at me.

Not those already charred by death,
not those full of madness and torment,
but those who looked into my heart
in the days of youth, thirteen years ago.

She didn't know that, of course.
She asked only: "Write
not to glorify him,
but so that strangers could cry over him
with me and my mother - just about the native ... "

She, a strange girl, did not know
what burden has she offered to the heart,
because so far even during this time
I am a requiem for you - for you! didn't write...

You knocked on my door
trusting and direct.
In the name of the people's sorrow
I accept your heavy order.

Let me be truthful and direct
with your unadorned word
tell today
about the
usual,
simple and hard...

When the soldiers pressed like shadows,
to the ground and could no longer break away, -
always been in that moment
one nameless, who managed to rise.

The coming proud story is true:
she will confirm, without embellishing in the least, -
one rose, but he was like a conscience.
And they lifted all of them from the ground.

Not all names will be remembered by the generation.
But on that frenzied, seething afternoon
beardless boy, guardsman and schoolboy,
rose - and raised the chains of the attackers.

He knew what Raven Mountain was.
He stood up and whispered, not shouted, "It's time!"

He crawled and ran, straightened and bent,
he called, and wheezed, and climbed up the mountain,
he was the first to take off at her, turned around
and gasped when he saw the opened city!

And maybe the happiest in the world
all my life at that moment celebrating victory, -
he did not notice his instant death,
I didn't feel any fear or pain.

He fell facing Leningrad.
He was falling
And the city was moving fast...
...for the first time in long years shells
they didn’t lie down on the streets with us that evening.

And the stars twinkled, as in childhood, gratifying
over the dark city, tired of disasters...
"How quiet it is today in Leningrad," -
said the sister and fell asleep, as in childhood.

“How quiet,” thought the mother, and sighed.
So freely for a long time no one sighed.
But the heart, accustomed to the roar of death,
Forgotten earthly silence frightened.

How lonely is a dead man
on the battlefield, hushed and frosty.
Whoever comes to him
whoever comes -
it will be too late for him now, too late.

Just a moment, maybe back
he was waiting for his relatives, believing in such a miracle ...
Now lies - universal son and brother,
as yet unidentified soldier,
so far only the loss of the motherland.

The relatives in the house do not cry yet,
still, listening to the order in the evening,
no one hears or understands
what about him,
already to him
addressed on behalf of the State
parting words of love and eternal glory.

Fate spares us before the blow,
wiser, probably, people could not ...
And he -
he is from d and n to the Motherland now,
she will be alone with him today.

Single mother, sister, widow,
the only declaring rights -
all night will stay at the son's feet
the earth is broken,
darkness of the night,
one for all grieving, crying, knowing
that the son
irreparably lonely.

Dead, dead...
He lies and hears
everything that is inaccessible to us alive:
hears - the wind sways the cloud,
high above him.

Hears everything that moves without noise,
that is silent and dormant on earth;
and deep frozen thought
on his flattened brow.

This thought can no longer be violated ...
Oh don't cry over him - don't worry
quietly triumphant soul,
heard earthly peace.

I know: consolation and joy
these lines are not destined to be.
Fallen with honor - do not need anything,
comforting those who have lost is a sin.

In my own, the same, sorrow - I know
that, indomitable, her
strong hearts will not exchange
into oblivion and oblivion.

May she, purest, holy,
keeps the soul of the unstained.
May, nourishing love and courage,
will forever be related to the people.

Unforgettable soldered by blood,
only it - national kinship -
promises in the future to anyone
renewal and celebration.

Girl, in January frosts
running to my house,
here - accept my sadness and tears,
my imperfect requiem.

All the bitterest in your loss,
everything that shone in the darkness of the soul,
I invested in weeping for our brother,
brother of all who live on earth...

Unmourned and unsung,
the most expensive of the expensive
I know you will forgive me for this
you who gave your soul for others.

April - May 1944

VIII.
Poem
Your path

If I forget you, Jerusalem, forget me,
my right hand, stick, my tongue, to the larynx
mine, if I don't remember you, if not
I will make Jerusalem the head of my gladness.

Psalm 136

Die and become!
Goethe

And everything remained there - behind the white-white,
for that ice-cold January day.
Oh, how I decided to live, how I dared!
After all, we agreed a long time ago: together.

. . . . . . . . . . .

And the one who remembered from August
through the mouthpiece ringing my voice, -
for some reason suddenly found me and picked me up,
picked up from the snow and brought home.

As in parables forgotten and sacred,
before the traveler who is exhausted,
you knelt before me
and removed the shoes from my swollen feet;
he laid a high headboard for me,
to make it easier for the heart at night,
and lay down at his feet, stiff himself,
and didn't call anything love...

I know, I know this building too well.
And every time I come here
everything seems to go out on a date
with itself, the same as then.

I'm not afraid of myself - yesterday.
I'll answer everything, if I've already come, -
this gray, merciless, terrible,
looking from the blockade corner.

I'm afraid of the one that one day
on Mamison
sparkling day
looked at the world with indomitable thirst
and believed in everything to him, in everything ...

But this is more than a memory.
I'm not talking about her.
I'm talking about a granite building.

Here, as if in delirium, everything was shifted:
here they died, cooked and ate,
and those who could
get out of bed
early in the morning
shading the window
seated in a circle,
creaked with feathers.

From here the transmissions went to the city -
poems and summaries
and news about bread.
Here lived announcers and reporters,
poet, artist...
Do not count everyone.

They have long since left their homes.
there, somewhere in the bowels of the city,
away;
they are among the first to the cemetery
the last relatives were taken
and, soldered stronger than the blood of the family,
kindred than the children of one father,
here in the winter of forty-two
agreed to resist to the end.

Here on the camp bed
at the heater, blockade god,
I felt a new soul
so far incomprehensible to me.

I wrote the bitterest poems here,
in a hurry to use daylight ...
Here on that day
when I fell into the snow
you brought the homeless - home.

On gloomy mornings
you went to the icy Nevsky for water,
where the northwest howled,
gray-haired, shaggy, sharp,
and the smell of burning crept through the yards.
Stood, blazing, the city.
Seven in the morning
darkened skeleton
Gostiny Dvor.

. . . . . . . . . . .

And there was one source at Liteiny.
Having broken the pipe, underground water
once burst out of the soil with a cry
and swam, freezing into blocks of ice.
The water swam, rattling and stiffening,
and people pressed against the walls in front of her,
but suddenly one, tired of waiting, -
went across
on a crust of ice
went hard,
but didn't break through
a, knocked down by a wave,
fell off on the run
and plunged into the stream
and so remained lying
Here,
on Liteiny,
visible to all,
in ice.

And people in the morning hollowed out the hole
not far away
and a long line
to his transparent ice grave
until March they came for water.
For those who ever had to
come here, don't say, "Forget it."
I know everything. I was there too
I took the same burning water
on the street, between dark houses,
where is the man, my fellow fate,
like a mammoth that fell a hundred centuries ago,
lay covered in city ice.

That's how it came
dressed in blood and ice
forty-second, irresistible year.
Oh, the year of bitterness and perseverance!
Only to death
we stood to death everywhere.
Year of Leningrad
its winter year,
year of Stalingrad
martial arts.

In those days he disappeared, would have receded.
And boldly
y t and yo would enter into their rights.
And I lived.
The body was exhausted
and then shone, then powerlessly smoldered
my mind is confused.
The life was shrinking in me...
It looks like
like ancient shagreen leather
shrinking with furious speed,
as soon as the owner - her poor slave -
any, unforbidden, simple
fulfilled his desire.
Life shrinks...
So this is what death means.
dare not wish.
With my about y - do not dare at all.

Well, let it be.
I'm still tired
I still didn't expect it
on those distant mountain passes,
under blue glass sky,
where the flower looked from behind a snowdrift,
where in the clouds, on the edge of steepness,
we were both so beautiful then,
so young, fearless and strong...

Everything suddenly turned into a memory:
entire life,
all the feelings
even myself,
while around in ferocious expectation
enemies are standing, winter is mad,
and everyone needs
through ice, and delirium, and nights,
do not extinguish it, do not move away -
Rublev's face and freezing eyes
who is not told:
"Sorry!"
The one who was with me on the pass,
on a lonely shining path,
and died here, of hunger, in the basement,
and I -
I couldn't save him...

I also wanted to see my sister.
I thought of her with such love
what became clear to me: one of these days - I will die.
That blood yearns for native blood.

But unfamiliar, someone's, not native,
you are the closest, you were next to me.
And you didn't comfort me.
Nights,
when, like everyone else, having lost the joy of tears,
writhing with grief, I almost mumbled,
He didn't stroke my hands or my hair.
You yourself, without asking,
as if on guard
my deaf alienation;
you did not touch him with jealousy
and did not break the tenderness even.

You are just a sip of hot water for me
gave in the morning
and bread
and notebook
and forced to write for transmission:
you just didn't let me die...

I don't know how, but I'm at the bottom of suffering,
delirious about dead happiness, about warmth,
suddenly discovered that you are my desire,
last wish on earth.

I so want.
I want it myself.
Let, angry, winter threatens me,
that joy can no longer contain
rest of life
vengeful skin,
I so want.
Let it fade away:
I am disgusted by self-will prohibition.

I even sang something that evening,
almost forgotten, by the fire,
covered her shoulders with a colored scarf
and dark mouth tinted lightly.

On that very day you said to me embarrassed:
"And everyone thinks you are my wife"
And people did not reproach us with happiness
in that city
where the war was.

We lived high - the seventh floor.
From here, the city was visible from a distance.
He was burnt, quiet and proud,
deserted was
and all, to the ashes, is ours.

And we went to the Summer for mushrooms,
where, as in a forest, the cuckoo cuckooed.
The dead were taken less often.
But coffins
did not appear: lacked strength
to this ancient woeful rite.
Besieged Leningrad forgot about him.
And the first coffin, upholstered with calico,
riding in a red hearse,
made people happy: it became clear to us
that we are returning to life
from the depths of the inhuman winter.

Oh no, I'm not blaspheming!
It was!
Everything about life fiercely told us,
and, like a solemn gift, for us
everything on earth
appeared
for the first time.
And we saw the sun for the first time
and from our rooftops
guard posts,
Big Earth shimmering distances
in ruddy dawns,
in a haze of blue.

To the groan
to the chill
to delight
we peered into this blue ...
Beautiful!
You can't be rejected.
You are life.
You are and I live.

I remember the hour when, pushing my hand
a window crossed blindly,
I'm in my wild winter corner
let in the midday breathing sky.
I didn't dare to leave the window!
Born blind
on the first day of enlightenment
would look like this
with the same amazement
to everything that I knew under the name "spring"!

And in the dark, almost touching the roof,
all night the mad shells went,
so seven meters above our sleepy blood,
and collapsed either near or far.
You slept next to me, as the whole city slept with a stone,
off duty.
We've been fighting since morning...
How scared I am.
Hearing the whistle, hands
I cover your head.
Involuntary gesture, vain - I know, I know ...
And the night is bright.
And over your face
bowing with millennial tenderness,
I'm in a hurry to fall in love with them.
I'm in a hurry, I know I'm counted
goodbye term.
Separation is coming.
But you don't know...
Sleep under my protection
tired soldier,
husband,
my child...

Three shots - three crashes in a row.
Nearby... Not yet in our square...
... And next to me, at the head of me,
a bunch of branches full of spring,
you brought from the front, from Rybatsky...
How the leaves smell, Lord, to tears!
So you came back, stood at the head,
oh youth ... I recognize your smell.
Gossip with my love today
all your purity and trembling,
give me back everything...
Whistle. Again a landmine!
Here comes... The enemy has found us
spotted,
found,
puts shells here,
invisible,
aimed at point-blank range
from somewhere in the Gatchina garden,
from Tsarskoye Selo dormant lakes, -
comes here...
In the night milk haze
I recognize, noseless invisible,
you.
You came to me in winter.
Are you whistling?
Whistle.
I accept the fight.

You wanted to drown me in edema.
You hugged my cheeks to the bone.
You pressed my eyes into my eye sockets,
you loosened my teeth in my mouth,
you drove me to the cellars,
into the darkness
under the roof of a psychiatric hospital ...
But between the ruins of sorrowful and smoky,
all in burns
in scars, in blood, in ashes,
I got up
like everyone else - indestructible,
with indestructible loyalty to the Earth,
and here, under this doomed roof,
found her lover.
He sleeps nearby.
He is alive.
He breathes peacefully.
There's no way I'm waking him up.

What can the enemy do? Destroy and kill.
And just something?
And I can love
and I do not count the souls of my wealth,
and then I want and will live,
so that all of it
as a tribute to human brotherhood,
put on the world altar.
Are you threatening?
Thunderstorm.
Whistle from all directions.
We won.
You are condemned.

The firing is silent.
The dawn is full of the city,
tired patrols are changing,
the streets are deserted and bright.
Wipers sweep glass into heaps,
and relentlessly echoed
nagging, thin, shuffling ringing,
and rainbows run down the sidewalks
in glass splashes.
Spring in the city
it smells of broken stone and fire,
a wave splashes into the granite shore,
how it splashed for hundreds of years. Silence.

O girl from the top of Mamison,
what do you know about happiness?
It
unkindly,
harsh and sleepless
and sometimes associated with death.
Before him, nothing is fun.
Joy is dust.
The enemy is powerless before him,
and ashes
and fear.
It carries swan wings
to such unfailing peaks,
to so lonely, tender and naked,
that the gods would envy them.

I'm happy.
And it's getting clearer to me
that I have always lived for these days,
for this cruel flourish.
And I won't hide my pride
that the private entered
into your destiny
my city,
as your poet.

Aren't you yourself in the biblically formidable winter
called me to the fraternal trenches
and, all ossified and tearless,
ordered to mourn his children.
And where you did not put monuments,
where I couldn't count
where no one praised
where the snow lay
pinkish from the glow,
where the excavator gnawed trenches
and dynamite to help us, without power,
came,
to raise the earth under the graves,
there I carried out your proud order ...
Carrying your difficult choice,
from the depths of the soul
I tore out my verse
without sparing her living tissue ...

And it is clear to me the fate of my command:
with his verse for many years to come
I'm nailed to your vision
I froze
into your unique ice.

And the one
over whom light and tirelessly
I grieve, mourn, regret,
whom I will glorify with nameless glory -
dumb glory, the highest on earth, -
you are one with everything more life was -
dream,
soul,
motherland,
existence -
and for me everywhere is your grave
and everywhere is your resurrection.

Says about it
the trumpet voice of Moscow,
When she,
shaking the vaults of the night,
as equals - glorifies the fallen and the living
and Death - the death sentence prophesies.

April 1945

IX. The poetess dedicated this poem to International Avenue, now Moscow, at the end of which the front line passed during the blockade. Where the memorial to the Defenders of Leningrad now stands, defensive structures have survived to this day - stone pillboxes hidden by green mounds, cannon and artillery.

international avenue

There is a Moscow outpost on earth.
Her from the boring Haymarket Square
avenue crosses, straight as glory,
and stony, like every earthly path.

It is so wide, it is full of such natural,
non-urban freedom of the way,
what is named in October - International:
whole nations can pass through here.

"And there is no doubt that with a single step,
with one heart, under one flag
along this hard light pavement
we will gather for the World Festival ... "

I believed so, I sang so, I called so
our era, the whole - the ninth wave,
that's how they named their streets
to the violent march of the "Internationale" ...
So God once called the world.

And for me you are youth and anxiety,
International, eternal dream.
Dear to my gravest maturity
and old age of the coming beauty.
Here arrays grew before my eyes
Big Leningrad.
He grew up
really big, really beautiful,
already lit the lights on the windows!
And we planted poplars in rows,
Komsomol people,
cheeky and hungry.
How beautiful was the wasteland!
How international straightened his shoulders!
He embodied all the visible of our faith...
And suddenly, on a grand scale, the forty-first year -
and every house is no longer a house, but a pillbox,
and - Front International in forty-first.

And here we are again...
Other
there was work: we dug ditches here
and trembled for the fate of Moscow,
forgetting about your own troubles.

But this whistle, moans of the night siren,
and the air caught in the burning mouth...

How fragile are the Leningrad columns!
We still didn't know about it.

That winter, I was carried along the fronts, -
through the streets where you can't see a single thing.
But "Elektrosila" gave me a lantern,
and on "Victory" they sewed boots.

(Lantern - perhaps loud, so, flashlight -
all fit in my palm.
Buzzed like a mosquito in a peaceful spring,
but the ray sent - all the darkness at the ready ...)

And in hospitals where I read poetry
I am with a handful of poets and readers,
we had a silent ovation
a small slice of bread from the fighters ...
Oh, yes there will be no such meetings again!
But let on our singing land
let there be bread - as Creativity and the Word
and our Word is like bread in a blockade.

I again and again your holy pride
I make a solemn bow to the earth,
unsurpassed in feat until now
and visible to the world from four sides.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Victory has come...
And her soldier
its right-flank - Leningrad,
he revives his International
general labor,
heavy
noble.
And on no man's land... yes, no one's!
Neither animals, nor birds, not mine,
and not wormwood, and not rye,
and yet mine, - one, dear;
where poplars were planted in youth,
earth - from wild rust earth, -
where we have not completed once,
where, dying, the soldiers writhed,
where the soil is marshy from the tears of widows,
where no step, then Glory to fall prostrate, -
here, where I had to experience all the darkness and light,
among the ruins, throwing trenches,
here we laid the Victory Park
in the name of her bitter labor.
Everything was all over again, and again in the wasteland,
and all at the same pink dawn,
on youthful,
chilly and trembling;
and houses rise again from the ashes,
and ups of inspiration and mind,
and new groves, infantile thickets...

Seventeen years have passed over the world
from the time of bookmarking, from the memorable year.
Our Park is noisy powerfully and lightly, -
Nature born of victory.
The elders come under its foliage -
those in the thirties were young.
and mothers with their babies
trustingly sit on the grass
and breastfeed them...
And poplar seed
flying fluff - it covers the chest ...
And the wind of the ripening fields blows,
and quietly, silently people triumph...

And I'm still not tired of believing
and I will believe - with a white head,
that this hard light pavement,
under the menacing march of the "Internationale"
We will meet for the World Festival.

We will remember everything: blockades, darkness and troubles,
hard fights for peace and joy, -
and in the evening above us Victory Park
will spread its mighty branches...

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Miliza

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Olga Bergholz. Leningrad poem - part 1

1. I will remember the evening as a milestone: 1
December, fireless haze,
I carried bread in my hand home,
and suddenly a neighbor met me.
- Change to a dress, - he says, -
If you don't want to change, give it as a friend.
The tenth day, as the daughter lies.
I don't bury. She needs a coffin.
He will be knocked together for bread for us.
Give it back. After all, you yourself gave birth ... -
And I said: - I won't give it back.
And the poor chunk squeezed tighter.
- Give, - she asked, - you
buried the child herself.
I brought flowers then
so that you decorate the grave.-
...As if on the edge of the earth,
alone, in the dark, in a fierce battle,
two women, we walked side by side,
two mothers, two Leningraders.
And, obsessed, she
prayed long, bitterly, timidly.
And I had the strength
do not give my bread to the coffin.
And the strength was enough - to bring
her to himself, whispering sullenly:
- Here, eat a piece, eat ... I'm sorry!
I'm not sorry for the living - do not think.-
... Having lived through December, January, February,
I repeat with a tremor of happiness:
I do not feel sorry for anything alive -
no tears, no joy, no passion.
Before your face, War,
I take this oath
like a baton for eternal life,
given to me by friends.
Many of them are my friends,
friends of native Leningrad.
Oh we'd suffocate without them
II Oh yes - otherwise they could not
neither those fighters, nor those drivers,
when the trucks were driving
across the lake to the hungry city.
The cold steady light of the moon
the snows are shining brightly
and from the glass height
clearly visible to the enemy
columns below.
And the sky howls, howls,
and the air whistles, and gnashes,
breaking under bombs, ice,
and the lake splashes into funnels.
But enemy bombing is worse
even more painful and angrier -
forty degree cold,
dominating the earth.
It seemed that the sun would not rise.
Forever night in frozen stars
forever lunar snow and ice,
and blue whistling air.
It seemed like the end of the earth...
But through the cooled planet
cars went to Leningrad:
he is still alive. He's around somewhere.
To Leningrad, to Leningrad!
There's bread left for two days,
there mothers under dark skies
crowd at the bakery stand,
and tremble, and are silent, and wait,
listen anxiously:
- By dawn, they said they would bring ...
- Citizens, you can hold on ... -
And it was like this: all the way
rear car settled.
The driver jumped up, the driver on the ice.
- Well, it is - the motor is stuck.
Repair for five minutes, a trifle.
This breakdown is not a threat,
yes, do not unbend your hands in any way:
they were frozen on the steering wheel.
Slightly razognesh - again reduce.
Stand? What about bread? Wait for others?
And bread - two tons? He will save
sixteen thousand Leningraders.-
And now - in the gasoline of his hand
moistened, set fire to them from the motor,
and the repair went fast.
in the burning hands of the driver.
Forward! How the blisters ache
frozen to the mittens of the palm.
But he will deliver the bread, bring
to the bakery until dawn.
sixteen thousand mothers
rations will be received at dawn -
one hundred twenty five blockade grams
with fire and blood in half.
... Oh, we knew in December -
not for nothing called the "sacred gift"
ordinary bread, and grave sin -
at least throw a crumb to the ground:
with such human suffering,
so much brotherly love
sanctified for us from now on,
our daily bread, Leningrad.

Olga Fedorovna Bergholz(1910-1975) ... During the years of the blockade 1941-1943 Olga Bergholz was in Leningrad besieged by the Nazis.

Olga Berggolts - poetry

Leningrad poem

I will remember the evening as a milestone:
December, fireless haze,
I carried bread in my hand home,
and suddenly a neighbor met me.
“Change for a dress,” he says, “
if you don't want to change, give it as a friend.
The tenth day, as the daughter lies.
I don't bury. She needs a coffin.
He will be knocked together for bread for us.
Give it back. After all, you yourself gave birth ...
And I said: “I won’t give it back.”—
And the poor chunk squeezed tighter.
“Give it back,” she asked, “you
buried the child herself.
I brought flowers then
so that you decorate the grave.—
...As if on the edge of the earth,
alone, in the dark, in a fierce battle,
two women, we walked side by side,
two mothers, two Leningraders.
And, obsessed, she
prayed long, bitterly, timidly.
And I had the strength
do not give my bread to the coffin.
And I had enough strength to bring
her to himself, whispering sullenly:
- Here, eat a piece, eat ... sorry!
I'm not sorry for the living - do not think.—
... Having lived through December, January, February,
I repeat with a tremor of happiness:
I do not feel sorry for anything alive -
no tears, no joy, no passion.
Before your face, War,
I take this oath
like a baton for eternal life,
given to me by friends.
Many of them are my friends,
friends of native Leningrad.
Oh we'd suffocate without them
in the painful ring of the blockade.

Oh yes - and n a c e could not
neither those fighters, nor those drivers,
when the trucks were driving
across the lake to the hungry city.
The cold steady light of the moon
the snows are shining brightly
and from the glass height
clearly visible to the enemy
columns below.
And the sky howls, howls,
and the air whistles, and gnashes,
breaking under bombs, ice,
and the lake splashes into funnels.
But enemy bombing is worse
even more painful and angrier -
forty degree cold,
dominating the earth.
It seemed that the sun would not rise.
Forever night in frozen stars
forever lunar snow and ice,
and blue whistling air.
It seemed like the end of the earth...
But through the cooled planet
cars went to Leningrad:
he is still alive. He's around somewhere.
To Leningrad, to Leningrad!
There's bread left for two days,
there mothers under dark skies
crowd at the bakery stand,
and tremble, and are silent, and wait,
listen anxiously:
- By dawn, they said they would bring ...
- Citizens, you can hold on ... -
And it was like this: all the way
rear car settled.
The driver jumped up, the driver on the ice.
- Well, it is - the engine is stuck.
Repair for five minutes, a trifle.
This breakdown is not a threat,
yes, do not unbend your hands in any way:
they were frozen on the steering wheel.
A little warm up - it will reduce again.
Stand? What about bread? Wait for others?
And bread - two tons? He will save
sixteen thousand Leningraders.—
And now - in the gasoline of his hand
moistened, set fire to them from the motor,
and the repair went fast.
in the burning hands of the driver.
Forward! How the blisters ache
frozen to the mittens of the palm.
But he will deliver the bread, bring
to the bakery until dawn.
sixteen thousand mothers
rations will receive at dawn -
one hundred twenty five blockade grams
with fire and blood in half.
... Oh, we knew in December -
not for nothing called the "sacred gift"
ordinary bread, and grave sin -
at least throw a crumb to the ground:
with such human suffering,
so much brotherly love
sanctified for us from now on,
our daily bread, Leningrad.

Dear life, bread came to us,
dear friendship of many to many.
Not yet known on earth
scarier and happier road.
And I'm proud of you forever
my sister, Muscovite Masha,
for your February journey here,
blockade to us, our dear.
Golden-eyed and strict
like a twig, thin camp,
in huge Russian boots,
in someone else's sheepskin coat, with a revolver, -
and you rushed through death and ice,
like everyone else, obsessed with anxiety -
my homeland, my people,
generous and beloved.
And you drove the car to us
gifts full to the brim.
You knew I'm alone now
my husband is dead, I'm starving.
But the same, the same as with me,
made a blockade with everyone.
And merged into one for you
and I and the grief of Leningrad.
And crying for me at night
you took at dawn
in the liberated villages
parcels, letters and greetings.
Wrote: "Do not forget:
Khokhrino village. Petrovs.
Go to the Moika one hundred and one
to relatives. Say that everyone is healthy
that Mitya was tormented by the enemy for a long time,
but the boy is alive, though very
weak..."
About the terrible captivity until the morning
women told you
and onions were harvested in the yards,
in cold, ruined huts:
- Here, you will bring the St. Petersburg people, sister.
Ask for forgiveness - how rich ...—
And you rushed - forward, forward,
like a beam, with irresistible force.
My homeland, my people
my own blood, thank you!

Like this, full of love
because of the ring, from the darkness of separation
friends told us: "Live!",
friends held out their hands.
Frozen, on fire
in blood, pierced by light,
they handed you and me
single life baton.
My happiness is immeasurable.
I calmly answer them:
- Friends, we accepted it,
we are holding your baton.
She and I went through the days of winter.
In the oppressive haze of her torment
with all the strength of our hearts we lived,
with all the light of creative daring.

Yes, we will not hide: these days
we ate earth, glue, belts;
but, having eaten the stew from the belts,
a stubborn master got up to the machine,
to sharpen gun parts,
necessary for the war.

But he sharpened until the hand
could make movements.
And if you fell - at the machine,
how a soldier falls in battle.

And people listened to poetry
like never before, with deep faith,
in apartments as black as caves,
at loudspeakers of the deaf.

And with a freezing hand
in front of the oil lamp, in the cold of hell,
engraved engraver gray-haired
a special order - Leningrad.
Barbed wire he,
like a crown of thorns,
around - around the edge - circled,
blockade symbol severe.
In the ring, shoulder to shoulder, the three of us -
child, woman, man,
under the bombs, like in the rain,
stand with their eyes raised to the zenith.
And the inscription is dear to the heart -
she's not talking about a reward,
she is calm and strict:
"I lived in the winter in Leningrad."
So we fought abroad
yours, beloved Life!
And I, like you, - stubborn, evil -
fought for them as best she could.
The soul, fortifying itself, overcame
treacherous weakness of the body.
And I suffered a loss.
I will not even touch her with a word -
such pain... And I could,
like you, rise to life again.
Then to fight again and again
for a life.

The bearer of death, the enemy -
again over every Leningrader
raises a forged fist.
But without worry, without fear
I look into the eyes of the coming fights:
because you are with me, my country,
and I'm not without reason - Leningrad.
So, with the baton of eternal life,
handed by you, fatherland,
I walk the same path with you
in the name of your peace,
in the name of the future son
and a bright song for him.

For a distant happy midnight
her, my treasured,
I folded impatiently
now, in the blockade and in battle.

Isn't there a war for her?
Isn't it for her Leningraders
still fight, and take courage,
and revenge without measure? Here she is:

— Hello, godson.
red commanders,
dear messenger,
messenger of the world...

You will have peaceful dreams
the battles died down on the earth at night.
People
sky
no longer afraid
sky illuminated by the moon.

In the blue-blue depth of the ether
young clouds float.
Above the grave of the red commanders
wise thorns bloom.
You will wake up on a flowering land,
risen not for battle - for work.
You will hear the swallows singing:
swallows
returned to the cities.

They make nests - and they are not afraid!
Vyut in the broken wall, under the window:
the nest will hold on tighter,
people more
do not leave the house.

So pure is now human joy,
just touched the world again.
Hello my son
my life,
reward,
hello conquering love!