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Dorr is all the light we can't see. Anthony Dorr "All the Light We Can't See"

Anthony Dorr

All the light we can't see

ALL THE LIGHT WE CANNOT SEE Copyright

AZBUKA® publishing house

* * *

Dedicated to Wendy Weil 1940-2012

In August 1944, the ancient fortress of Saint-Malo, the brightest jewel of the Emerald Coast of Brittany, was almost completely destroyed by fire ... Out of 865 buildings, only 182 remained, and even those were damaged to one degree or another.

Philip Beck

Leaflets

In the evening they fall from the sky like snow. They fly over the fortress walls, somersault over the roofs, circle in the narrow streets. The wind sweeps them along the pavement, white against the background of gray stones. “Urgent appeal to residents! they say. “Get out into the open immediately!”

The tide is coming. A flawed moon hangs in the sky, small and yellow. On the rooftops of seaside hotels to the east of the city, American gunners insert incendiary shells into mortar muzzles.

Bombers

They fly across the English Channel at midnight. There are twelve of them, and they are named after songs: "Stardust", "Rainy Weather", "In the Mood" and "Baby with a Gun". Below, the sea glitters, dotted with countless chevrons of lambs. Soon the navigators already see on the horizon the low outlines of the islands illuminated by the moon.

Whirring internal communication. Cautiously, almost lazily, the bombers drop their altitude. Strings of scarlet light stretch upward from air defense posts on the coast. The skeletons of the ships are visible below; one had his nose completely blown off by the explosion, the other is still burning down, flickering faintly in the dark. On the island farthest from the shore, frightened sheep rush between the stones.

In each plane, the bombardier looks through the sight hatch and counts to twenty. Four, five, six, seven. The fortress on the granite cape is getting closer. In the eyes of scorers, she looks like a bad tooth - black and dangerous. The last abscess to be opened.

In narrow and high house number four, rue Vauborel, on the last, sixth floor, sixteen-year-old blind Marie-Laure Leblanc is kneeling in front of a low table. The entire surface of the table is occupied by a model - a miniature likeness of the city in which she kneels, hundreds of houses, shops, hotels. Here is a cathedral with an openwork spire, here is the Château Saint-Malo, rows of seaside boarding houses studded with chimneys. Thin wooden spans of the pier stretch from the Plage du Mol, the fish market is covered with a lattice vault, tiny squares are lined with benches; the smallest of them are no larger than an apple seed.

Marie-Laure runs her fingertips along the centimeter-long parapet of the fortifications, outlining the irregular star of the fortress walls - the perimeter of the layout. Finds openings from which four ceremonial cannons look out to sea. “Dutch bulwark,” she whispers, her fingers descending the tiny stairs. - Rue de Cordière. Rue Jacques Cartier.

In the corner of the room are two galvanized buckets filled with water around the edges. Pour them whenever possible, her grandfather had taught her. And a bath on the third floor too. You never know how long they gave water.

She returns to the spire of the cathedral, from there to the south, to the Dinan Gate. All evening Marie-Laure walks her fingers over the layout. She is waiting for her great-uncle Etienne, the owner of the house. Étienne left last night while she was sleeping and did not return. And now it's night again, the hour hand has made another circle, the whole quarter is quiet, and Marie-Laure cannot sleep.

She can hear the bombers three miles away. A rising sound, like static in a radio. Or the rumble in a sea shell.

Marie-Laure opens her bedroom window and the roar of the engines grows louder. The rest of the night is eerily quiet: no cars, no voices, no footsteps on the pavement. No air raid warning. You can't even hear the seagulls. Only a block away, six stories below, the tide beats against the city wall.

And another sound, very close.

Some kind of rumble. Marie-Laure opens the left sash of the window wider and runs her hand over the right. A slip of paper stuck to the binding.

Marie-Laure brings it to her nose. It smells of fresh printing ink and maybe kerosene. The paper is hard - it did not stay long in the damp air.

The girl is standing at the window without shoes, in stockings. Behind her is a bedroom: shells are laid out on a chest of drawers, rounded sea pebbles along the plinth. Cane in the corner; a large braille book, open and turned upside down, is waiting on the bed. The roar of the planes is growing.

Five blocks to the north, Werner Pfennig, a blond, eighteen-year-old German soldier, wakes up to a quiet rumble. Even more buzzing - as if somewhere far away flies are beating against the glass.

Where is he? The cloying, slightly chemical smell of gun grease, the aroma of fresh shavings from brand new shell boxes, the mothball smell of an old bedspread - he is in a hotel. L'hotel des Abeilles- "Bee house".

Another night. Far from morning.

In the direction of the sea whistles and rumbles - anti-aircraft artillery is working.

The air defense corporal runs down the corridor to the stairs. "Into the basement!" he shouts. Werner turns on the flashlight, puts the blanket back in his duffel bag, and rushes out into the hallway.

Not so long ago, the Bee House was friendly and cozy: bright blue shutters on the facade, oysters on ice in the restaurant, behind the bar, Breton waiters in bow ties wipe glasses. Twenty-one rooms (all with sea views), in the lobby - a fireplace the size of a truck. Parisians who came for the weekend drank aperitifs here, and before them - rare emissaries of the republic, ministers, deputy ministers, abbots and admirals, and centuries earlier - weathered corsairs: murderers, robbers, sea robbers.

And even earlier, before an inn was opened here, five centuries ago, a rich privateer lived in the house, who abandoned sea robbery and took up the study of bees in the vicinity of Saint-Malo; he wrote down observations in a book and ate honey straight from the honeycomb. An oak bas-relief with bumblebees still survives above the front door; the mossy fountain in the yard is made in the shape of a beehive. Werner's favorite is the five faded frescoes on the ceiling of the largest room on the top floor. On a blue background, bees the size of a child spread their transparent wings - lazy drones and worker bees - and a three-meter queen with compound eyes and a golden fluff on her abdomen curled up above the hexagonal bath.

Over the past four weeks, the inn has been transformed into a fortress. A detachment of Austrian anti-aircraft gunners boarded up all the windows, overturned all the beds. The entrance was strengthened, the stairs were forced with shell boxes. On the fourth floor, where a winter garden with French balconies offers a view of the fortress wall, a decrepit anti-aircraft gun named "Eight-Eight" settled, firing nine-kilogram shells for fifteen kilometers.

War; the beauty of it is that it is actually about the world. It's all about the precisely chosen genre: it's an adventure novel and an ode to that Jules Verne science-fiction world of adventure that throughout the twentieth century was synonymous with a happy childhood throughout Europe.

The nature of any adventure novel implies, as a counterbalance to exploits and dangers, the existence of a stable and normal life: a fire, near which brave travelers in the epilogue recall their adventures; the safe walls of a nursery, covered with floral wallpaper, in which the young reader dreams of pirates and battles. This immutable law of the genre allows Dorr to humanize the war back, to do without shock therapy, which is fraught with any depiction of the Second World War (especially through the eyes of German soldier), while not falling into chocolate saliva as much as possible.

Events unfold in parallel in different places and in different years. blind french girl examines molluscs by touch National Museum science, where her father works, and reads Braille novels - Around the World in Eighty Days, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Her uncle, who in the First World War inhaled mustard gas and went crazy, every night plays on the radio from his attic a popular science program recorded back in Peaceful time. A German amateur radio orphan in a mining town catches this transmission, thanks to his inquisitive mind and acquired knowledge, he gets into a Nazi school for the elite and becomes a valuable Wehrmacht specialist - tracks down Russian partisans by radio signal in the snow (whom his friend - but not he - then shoots in the back of the head ).

A high-ranking German officer, requisitioning valuables for the Fuhrer in occupied France, is obsessively hunting for a single famous diamond: the officer is ill with lymphoma, and the stone, according to legend, protects the life of its owner. In general, "Indiana Jones and the last Crusade»: Nazis against brave scientists, the former vainly strive for personal immortality, the latter are convinced that jewels belong in a museum. In this "invisible light", even a terrible train with ghost-like Russian prisoners evokes a reassuring association with Flying Dutchman: “A face rushes by, pale and waxy, pressed with its cheekbone to the floor of the platform. Werner blinks wildly. These are not bags. And not sleeping. Each platform has a wall of the dead in front of it" - out of context it is not obvious, but there one would like to add: "The fires of St. Elmo glow, / Dotted with its board and gear."

The main pirate scenery - the Breton fortress of Saint-Malo - is constantly burning: this last German foothold is almost demolished by the advancing allies in August 1944. In fact, the assault lasts less than a week, but the author stretches it for the whole book, demonstrating to us in real time what efforts it takes to level the city, which was still defending itself from the Romans. Each new, lovingly marked hole from a shell in the pavement only confirms the strength of its centuries-old world in both senses of the word, each new flash somehow more clearly highlights the moment when, as Yan Satunovsky wrote on the same occasion:

"Outside
howitzer tied up.
But the city was not on fire yet.

He was still
by this time
the whole
in the windows
the whole
on rooftops,
the whole
in complete peace
that lasting happiness is given.

Any coastal inn mentioned in the text has received seven generations of guests without interruption, and when the last siege reduces the building to ruins, these seven generations rise above it in stone dust, like a happy mirage.

In the Russian context, this loss seems almost more bitter because it resonates with our own old wounds. In Russia, in force different features recent history appeasement ended half a century earlier. Against this background, it becomes somehow especially clear that in terms of material culture, bearing the successive warmth of human hands, by the time of World War II, we had approximately nothing to lose, except for our chains.

Meanwhile, in order to somehow comprehend the catastrophe in a humanistic way and, say, not to turn Victory Day into an obscene carnival of costumed veterans and decorative St. George ribbons, but to remember it as a day of mourning, material culture and the unbroken fabric of life are very important. You need some kind of fulcrum, an idea of the norm, in order to recognize the catastrophe as an anomaly and at least somehow repair life after - this fulcrum is usually located somewhere in everyday life, in the family, at home, among floral wallpapers. In the simple world of adventure, the indispensable chest of the dead, the Holy Grail, or the cursed diamond represent the same continuity on a historical scale: they must be touched in order to eventually sit at home all by the same fire.

"To feel something for real - the bark of a plane tree in the garden, a stag beetle on a pin in the entomology department, the smooth, varnished inside of a scallop<…>means to love”: Dorr’s increased tactility of the world has a practical explanation, since main character- blind, but the author, figuratively speaking, just as carefully feels her characters when she raises inevitable questions like collective responsibility and personal choice of a person in inhuman conditions.

The childhood of Europe - its sense of unshakable, lasting peace - was largely ended by the two great wars of the twentieth century, and the events of the twenty-first, it seems, left no stone unturned from it. At the end of the book, the reality principle forces the author to deceive genre expectations. A nearsighted boy who was beaten in the head by his classmates in a Nazi school for showing pity for the enemy “did not die, but he is not getting better either,” and this diagnosis applies to some extent to every survivor of the war: to avoid spoilers, let's say that the author managed with their heroes in a merciful way who could afford it. His heroes are scientists and do not believe in personal immortality, however, their “other light” (which cannot be seen, but can be traveled around in 80 days) turns out to be quite convincing. For a while, you completely believe the crazy uncle who advises you to stay at home during the shelling: “This cellar has stood for five hundred years, and will stand for several nights.” In general, this is exactly what we expect from a good adventure novel.

publishing house "ABC-Atticus", Moscow, 2015, translated by E. Dobrokhotova-Maykova

Anthony Dorr

All the light we can't see

ALL THE LIGHT WE CANNOT SEE Copyright

AZBUKA® publishing house

* * *

Dedicated to Wendy Weil 1940-2012

Philip Beck

Leaflets

The tide is coming. A flawed moon hangs in the sky, small and yellow. On the rooftops of seaside hotels to the east of the city, American gunners insert incendiary shells into mortar muzzles.

Bombers

In the tall and narrow house number four Rue Vauborel, on the top sixth floor, sixteen-year-old blind Marie-Laure Leblanc is kneeling in front of a low table. The entire surface of the table is occupied by a model - a miniature likeness of the city in which she kneels, hundreds of houses, shops, hotels. Here is a cathedral with an openwork spire, here is the Château Saint-Malo, rows of seaside boarding houses studded with chimneys. Thin wooden spans of the pier stretch from the Plage du Mol, the fish market is covered with a lattice vault, tiny squares are lined with benches; the smallest of them are no larger than an apple seed.

Marie-Laure runs her fingertips along the centimetric parapet of the fortifications, outlining the wrong star of the fortress walls - the perimeter of the model. Finds openings from which four ceremonial cannons look out to sea. “Dutch bulwark,” she whispers as she slides her fingers down the tiny ladder. - Rue de Cordière. Rue Jacques Cartier.

She can hear the bombers three miles away. A rising sound, like static in a radio. Or the rumble in a sea shell.

And another sound, very close.

Some kind of rumble. Marie-Laure opens the left sash of the window wider and runs her hand over the right. A slip of paper stuck to the binding.

Marie-Laure brings it to her nose. It smells of fresh printing ink and maybe kerosene. The paper is hard - it did not stay long in the damp air.

Anthony Dorr

All the light we can't see

ALL THE LIGHT WE CANNOT SEE Copyright

AZBUKA® publishing house

* * *

Dedicated to Wendy Weil 1940-2012

Philip Beck

Leaflets

The tide is coming. A flawed moon hangs in the sky, small and yellow. On the rooftops of seaside hotels to the east of the city, American gunners insert incendiary shells into mortar muzzles.

Bombers

She can hear the bombers three miles away. A rising sound, like static in a radio. Or the rumble in a sea shell.

And another sound, very close.

Some kind of rumble. Marie-Laure opens the left sash of the window wider and runs her hand over the right. A slip of paper stuck to the binding.

Marie-Laure brings it to her nose. It smells of fresh printing ink and maybe kerosene. The paper is hard - it did not stay long in the damp air.

Five blocks to the north, Werner Pfennig, a blond, eighteen-year-old German soldier, wakes up to a quiet rumble. Even more buzzing - as if flies are beating against glass somewhere far away.

Where is he? The cloying, slightly chemical smell of gun grease, the aroma of fresh shavings from brand new shell boxes, the naphthalene smell of an old bedspread - he is in a hotel. L'hotel des Abeilles- "Bee house".

Another night. Far from morning.

In the direction of the sea whistles and rumbles - anti-aircraft artillery is working.

And even earlier, before an inn was opened here, five centuries ago, a rich privateer lived in the house, who abandoned sea robbery and took up the study of bees in the vicinity of Saint-Malo; he wrote down observations in a book and ate honey straight from the honeycomb. An oak bas-relief with bumblebees still survives above the front door; the mossy fountain in the yard is made in the shape of a beehive. Werner's favorite is the five faded frescoes on the ceiling of the largest room on the top floor. Against a blue background, bees the size of a child spread their transparent wings - lazy drones and worker bees - and a three-meter queen with compound eyes and a golden fluff on her abdomen curled up above a hexagonal bath.

"Her Majesty," the Austrians call their cannon. last week they cared for her like bees for a queen: they filled her with oil, lubricated the mechanism, painted the barrel, laid out sandbags in front of her, like offerings.

The regal "akht-akht", the deadly monarch, must protect them all.

Werner is on the stairs, between the basement and first floor, when Eight-Eight fires two shots in a row. He had never heard her at such close range; the sound is like half the hotel was blown away by an explosion. Werner stumbles, covers his ears. The walls are shaking. Vibration rolls first from top to bottom, then from bottom to top.

You can hear the Austrians reloading a cannon two floors above. The whistle of both shells gradually subsides - they are already three kilometers above the ocean. One soldier sings. Or not alone. Maybe they all sing. Eight Luftwaffe fighters, of whom no one will be left alive in an hour, sing a love song to their queen.

Werner runs through the lobby, shining a flashlight at his feet. The anti-aircraft gun rumbles for the third time, somewhere nearby a window shatters with a clang, soot pours down the chimney, the walls hum like a bell. Werner has a feeling that the sound will make his teeth fly out.

He opens the door to the basement and freezes for a moment. Floats before your eyes.

This is it? he asks. Are they really coming?

However, there is no one to answer.

In the houses along the streets, the last non-evacuated residents are waking up, moaning, sighing. Old maids, prostitutes, men over sixty. Diggers, collaborators, skeptics, drunkards. Nuns of various orders. Poor. Stubborn. Blind.

Some rush to bomb shelters. Others tell themselves it's a drill. Someone lingers to pick up a blanket, a prayer book, or a pack of cards.

ALL THE LIGHT WE CANNOT SEE Copyright

AZBUKA® publishing house

* * *

Dedicated to Wendy Weil 1940-2012

In August 1944, the ancient fortress of Saint-Malo, the brightest jewel of the Emerald Coast of Brittany, was almost completely destroyed by fire ... Out of 865 buildings, only 182 remained, and even those were damaged to one degree or another.

0. August 7, 1944

Leaflets

The tide is coming. A flawed moon hangs in the sky, small and yellow. On the rooftops of seaside hotels to the east of the city, American gunners insert incendiary shells into mortar muzzles.

Bombers

Young woman

She can hear the bombers three miles away. A rising sound, like static in a radio. Or the rumble in a sea shell.

And another sound, very close.

Some kind of rumble. Marie-Laure opens the left sash of the window wider and runs her hand over the right. A slip of paper stuck to the binding.

Marie-Laure brings it to her nose. It smells of fresh printing ink and maybe kerosene. The paper is hard - it did not stay long in the damp air.

young man

Five blocks to the north, Werner Pfennig, a blond, eighteen-year-old German soldier, wakes up to a quiet rumble. Even more buzzing - as if flies are beating against glass somewhere far away.

Another night. Far from morning.

In the direction of the sea whistles and rumbles - anti-aircraft artillery is working.

And even earlier, before an inn was opened here, five centuries ago, a rich privateer lived in the house, who abandoned sea robbery and took up the study of bees in the vicinity of Saint-Malo; he wrote down observations in a book and ate honey straight from the honeycomb. An oak bas-relief with bumblebees still survives above the front door; the mossy fountain in the yard is made in the shape of a beehive. Werner's favorite is the five faded frescoes on the ceiling of the largest room on the top floor. Against a blue background, bees the size of a child spread their transparent wings - lazy drones and worker bees - and a three-meter queen with compound eyes and a golden fluff on her abdomen curled up above a hexagonal bath.

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