Eduard Asadov was rightfully considered a singer of love in the Soviet Union. His books were sold out instantly, his poems were copied into notebooks. And he dedicated the most penetrating poem to his wife, Galina Razumovskaya, whom he had never seen.

At the break of the war

He began writing poetry while still in elementary school. And he dreamed that he would enter a literary or theater institute. But the Great Patriotic War began. It was the war that left its mark on the entire future fate of Eduard Asadov. He is one of those who put on a tunic immediately after graduation. He survived this monstrous military meat grinder, but forever plunged into darkness.

His combat crew was supposed to deliver the combat stock to the front line. A German shell that exploded next to him almost took his life. Bleeding from his wound, he refused to return without completing his mission. The shells were delivered on time, and then the doctors fought for twenty-six days to save his life.

He was only 21 years old when the doctors announced their verdict: eternal blindness. It seemed that life was crumbling before it even started. But according to Eduard Asadov, six girls who regularly visited the young hero in the hospital helped him cope with depression. One of them, Irina Viktorova, became his first wife.

Later, Eduard Asadov, in a letter to a friend, admits that he connected his life with the wrong person. There will be a difficult divorce and a broken relationship with my son. But before that, a young and very organized young man, despite being completely blind, will begin to write poetry, enter the Literary Institute and begin to write a lot.

First success

The first success came to him when his poems were published in the Ogonyok magazine with the light hand of Korney Chukovsky, to whom Asadov sent his creations for the first time, while still in the hospital. Korney Ivanovich criticized the work of the young poet, but at the same time he strongly advised Asadov not to quit what he started, writing to him: “... You are a true poet. For you have that genuine poetic breath, which is inherent only in a poet!

From that moment on, his life will change drastically again. He will write about the most important human quality - the ability to love. Critics treated his work very condescendingly, considering the ego of the work too simple. But it was difficult to find a person who did not know Asadov's poems. Popular love and recognition were the answer to critics.

Creative evenings with the participation of the beloved poet invariably gathered full houses. People recognized themselves in his works and wrote letters of gratitude and appreciation for such an accurate description of feelings. No one had any idea how lonely the poet was in his personal life. But one meeting changed everything.

Literary meeting

At one of the literary meetings, Mosconcert actress Galina Razumovskaya asked to skip her performance ahead, as she was afraid to miss the plane. She had to read the poems of women poets. Asadov then joked that men also write. She stayed to listen to what he would read. After his speech, she asked me to send poems to her in Tashkent so that she could read them. After her speech, Galina wrote a detailed letter to the author about the success of his works.

He was very afraid to make a mistake again, but Galina Razumovskaya became not only his wife for him. She became his eyes, his feelings, his true love. He found the strength in himself at that moment to break off his past, which was very burdensome to him. And go to the one he loves. He dedicated his amazing poems to her.

simple happiness

Since then, she has always taken part in his creative evenings, read his poems, and accompanied him everywhere. Only he wrote poetry on his own, blindly typing them on a typewriter.

The whole life of the Asadov family was subject to a clear schedule: getting up early, having breakfast at seven in the morning, and then reciting poems on a voice recorder in the office. After dinner, which was always at two o'clock, the poet sat down to type his poems. And the wife, after completely reprinting them, prepared them for delivery to the publishing house.

He did not use any devices for the blind in everyday life, except for special watches that allow him to tell the time. He was very fond of discipline, could not stand non-obligation or non-punctuality.

Galina Valentinovna at the age of 60 learned to drive a car so that her husband could comfortably move around the city and visit the dacha. She categorically refused to purchase a TV, because she considered it unethical to watch it with a blind husband. But they listened to the radio together, and Galina Valentinovna also read books, newspapers, magazines aloud to him. He did not even use a wand, because Galina was always by his side, helping and guiding him in the most direct sense.

She passed away before her husband, having died of a heart attack in 1997. The poet recalled this period as one of the most difficult in his life. After all, he was left all alone. And he wrote again. To her, her beloved, but already unearthly.

Through the stellar ringing, through truths and lies,
Through pain and darkness and through the winds of loss
I think that you will come
And softly knock on the door...
On our familiar floor
Where are you forever imprinted in the dawn,
Where do you live and don't live anymore
And where, like a song, you are and are not.
And then suddenly I start to think
That the phone will ring one day
And your voice, as in an unreal dream,
Shaking, it will scorch the whole soul at once.
And if you suddenly step on the threshold,
I swear that you can be anyone!
I am waiting. No shroud, no harsh rock,
And neither horror nor shock
I can no longer be intimidated!
Is there anything scarier in life?
And something more monstrous in the world
Than among familiar books and things,
Frozen in soul, without relatives and friends,
Wandering around an empty apartment at night ...

But the fighting character did not allow him to give up his positions. He again rushed into the creative battle and was able to defeat depression and loneliness. His fighting friends came to his aid, all of them generals, as he proudly spoke.

And soon his next book, “Don't Give Up, People!”, was published. He did not give up until the very end, in 2004. He wrote, met with admirers of his talent and sincerely enjoyed life until the last day, until a heart attack claimed his life.

Eduard Asadov was happy with his beloved. The great storyteller could not melt the heart of his snow queen.

Biography and episodes of life Edward Asadov. When born and died Eduard Asadov, memorable places and dates of important events in his life. Quotes of the poet and writer, Photo and video.

The years of the life of Eduard Asadov:

born September 7, 1923, died April 21, 2004

Epitaph

"And I'm ready to swear to you:
There is so much light in his poems,
That you can't find it sometimes
Even a sighted poet!”
From a poem by Ilya Suslov in memory of Asadov

Biography

His works were never included in the school curriculum, which did not prevent thousands of people from knowing Asadov's poems by heart. A man of amazing destiny, he conquered his readers with genuine sincerity and purity. He always wrote about the most important thing - about love and tenderness, about the Motherland, friendship and devotion, which is why his words resonated in the hearts of many people. Not becoming a literary classic, Asadov's poems became folk classics.

Eduard Asadov was born in Turkmenistan. Childhood was difficult - the civil war, the death of his father, poverty. Asadov began to write poetry as a child, but after graduating from school, he immediately went to the front - the Great Patriotic War began. A great misfortune happened to Asadov in the war - during the battle near Sevastopol, he was seriously wounded in the face. Losing consciousness, Asadov was able to take the ammunition to the place. A series of operations followed, but, alas, he was never able to save his eyesight. Asadov became blind and for the rest of his life wore a black bandage on his face, which he never took off in public.

Probably, any other person after such a tragedy would have become angry, hardened, but not Asadov. He continued to write poetry - all the same sincere, intimate, cheerful. After the war, he entered the Literary Institute, where he graduated with honors, and in the same year he published a collection of his poems, immediately gaining fame. Asadov very quickly became popular - his books were sold out instantly, there was simply no end to invitations to poetry evenings and concerts. Every day Asadov received many letters in which people from all over the country shared their life stories, in which the poet drew inspiration. During his life, Asadov published about sixty collections of poetry and prose.

When Asadov was in the hospital after being wounded, he was often visited by familiar girls, one of whom he later married, but, alas, the marriage soon broke up. Asadov found happiness in his personal life, having already become a famous poet. At one of the concerts, he met a girl artist. At first, she simply read his poems during her performances, but over time, Edward and Galina became friends, and soon became husband and wife.

Asadov's death occurred on April 21, 2004. The cause of Asadov's death was a heart attack - the poet died before the ambulance arrived. The poet bequeathed to bury his heart on Sapun Mountain, but Asadov's relatives opposed the execution of his will. Asadov's funeral was held in Moscow, Asadov's grave is located at the Kuntsevo cemetery.

life line

September 7, 1923 Date of birth of Eduard Arkadyevich Asadov (real middle name Artashesovich).
1929 Moving to Sverdlovsk.
1939 Moving to Moscow.
1941 Graduation from the 38th Moscow school, volunteering for the front.
night from 3 to 4 May 1944 A severe wound, as a result of which Asadov lost his sight.
1946 Admission to the Literary Institute. A. M. Gorky.
1956 Release of Asadov's book of poems "Snowy Evening".
1951. Graduation from the institute, publication of Asadov's first collection of poems "Bright Road", entry into the CPSU and the Writers' Union.
1961 Acquaintance with Galina Razumovskaya, Asadov's future wife.
April 29, 1997 Death of Asadov's wife, Galina.
2001 The publication of Asadov's book “Laughing is better than tormenting. Poetry and Prose.
April 21, 2004 Date of Asadov's death.
April 23, 2004 Asadov's funeral.

Memorable places

1. The city of Mary, Turkmenistan, where Asadov was born.
2. School No. 38, Moscow, where Asadov studied.
3. Literary Institute. A. M. Gorky, who graduated from Asadov.
4. Writer's village DNT Krasnovidovo, where Asadov lived and worked in recent years.
5. Museum "Protection and Liberation of Sevastopol" on Sapun-mountain in Sevastopol, which houses a stand dedicated to Asadov.
6. Kuntsevo cemetery, where Asadov is buried.

Episodes of life

In 1945, straight from the hospital where Asadov was after being wounded, he sent a notebook with his poems to Korney Chukovsky. In response, he received a letter with severe criticism from the famous poet, which, however, ended with the words: “And yet, despite everything that has been said, I can tell you with full responsibility that you are a true poet. For you have that lyrical breath, which is inherent only in a poet. I wish you success. Your Korney Chukovsky. These words inspired Asadov so much that he decided that he would devote his whole life to creativity.

Asadov first nurtured his poems in himself, then he slandered on a tape recorder, corrected, edited, and then sat down at a typewriter. Asadov himself typed his works on a typewriter, and he typed at a good average speed.

Covenant

“We should always be proud of love, because it is the rarest value!”

"Do whatever you do with your heart."

Asadov's poem "Value happiness, cherish it!"

condolences

“Grandfather was not one of those who fall into despair. He had an incredibly strong will."
Kristina Asadova, granddaughter of Eduard Asadov

“A synthetic author, he immediately made that catharsis, that drive that a marching song, a Kondo-Soviet verse, a story in the Yunost magazine, a shabby volume of Pushkin or Yesenin and much, much more did in parts. The poet is reckless, cool, not subject to culture, neither this nor that, nothing known to us, an apophatic poet, there is no such thing anymore. There is no such poet.
Psoy Korolenko, songwriter, philologist, journalist

Eduard Arkadyevich Asadov - poet, prose writer, translator - was born September 7, 1923 in the city of Mary, Turkestan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, in a family of teachers, and this largely determined the boy's interest in books and knowledge.

In 1929 the father died, and the mother and son moved to their grandfather in Sverdlovsk. The Urals became, as it were, the second homeland of the poet, which had a great influence on the formation of his soul. At the age of 8, Asadov wrote his first poems, read them at school evenings. In 1939 the family moved to Moscow.

In 1941 Asadov finished school, June 14 in the 38th school in Moscow, where he studied, a graduation ball was held. A week later - the war, and Asadov goes to the district committee of the Komsomol with a request to send him as a volunteer to the front. He became a guards mortar gunner, the legendary "Katyusha", took part in fierce battles on the Volkhov front.

In 1943 graduated from the Guards Artillery and Mortar School, became the commander of the Katyusha battery and fought on the Leningrad, North Caucasian, 4th Ukrainian fronts. In echelons, in dugouts, in dugouts, by the light of an oil lamp, he wrote poetry. In the battle for the liberation of Sevastopol at night from 3 to 4 May 1944 was seriously wounded in the face, but did not withdraw from the battle. Asadov spent a year and a half in the hospital, underwent 12 operations, but failed to restore his sight. While in the hospital, Asadov received a personal thanks from Marshal G.K. Zhukov.

Asadov's poem "Letter from the Front", written in 1943 20-year-old lieutenant, was later taken to the exposition of the Central Museum of the Armed Forces of the USSR. K.I. Chukovsky, to whom Asadov sent his poems from the hospital, appreciated the talent of the young author. Asadov writes the poem "Back in service", which has an autobiographical character. “I will see with my heart,” says her hero, a young volunteer Sergei Raskatov. Asadov himself, having lost his sight, learned to "see with his heart." The poem "Back in line" was in 1949 published in the collection of students of the Literary Institute. M. Gorky, where Asadov studied. The poem immediately attracted attention, it was written about in newspapers and magazines, it was discussed at readers' conferences, the author received hundreds of letters from readers. Criticism put her next to P. Antokolsky's "Son" and M. Aliger's "Zoya".

Literary Institute. M. Gorky Asadov graduated with honors in 1951, in the same year he published his first book "Light Roads" and was accepted as a member of the joint venture. Asadov's collection of poems "Bright Roads", "Snowy Evening" ( 1956 ), "The soldiers returned from the war" ( 1957 ) testified that the poet courageously conquered that loneliness, that darkness into which the war plunged him. The poetry of the Asads is distinguished by its vivid publicism, born of the drama of the author's fate; in terms of life and creativity, the fate of Asadov resembles the fate of N. Ostrovsky ... "Back in the ranks" - P. Antokolsky called his review of Asadov. A group of soldiers wrote to him: “We assure you, Comrade Asadov, that we will follow your example all our lives and will never let go of our weapons. And if misfortune overtakes us, we, just like you, will overcome our illness and return to duty again! (Moscow. 1957. No. 7. P. 197). Similar letters came from abroad - from Poland, Bulgaria, Albania.

Particularly popular in 1950-70s acquired Asadov’s poems about love: readers were attracted by the purity of intimate feeling sung by the poet (“I’ll come anyway”, 1973 ; "Compass of Happiness" 1979 , and etc.). Readers saw in the poet a friend who, as it were, extends a helping hand, encouragement to those who are in trouble, experiencing grief. Asadov affirms faith in nobility, young people are drawn to romance in his poems, to the restless search for difficult but interesting roads. Asadov's poems are attracted by emotional sharpness, romantic elation; the stern and courageous gaze of a warrior is combined here with youthful inspiration and even childish immediacy.

Asadov tends to plot poetic narration, his favorite genre is the ballad (“Ice Ballad”, “Ballad of Hatred and Love”, etc.). He develops the genres of the poem, the poetic story - the poem "Shurka", the small poem "Petrovna", the lyrical story in verse "Galina", "The Poem of the First Tenderness", etc. The poet expands his thematic range - "The Song of Wordless Friends", poems “Pelican”, “Bear cub”, “Poems about a red mongrel” he devotes to caring for “our smaller brothers”. Remaining faithful to poetry, Asadov also works in prose: memoirs of the Lightning Lightning of War (Spark. 1985 . No. 17-18; Banner. 1987 . No. 6), the story "Scout Sasha" (Friendship of Peoples. 1988 . No. 3), the documentary story "Front Spring" (Young Guard. 1988 . № 2-3).

In 1985 the first book of his prose was published, a collection of front-line stories "Zarnitsy war".

Asadov's poems were translated into Ukrainian, Armenian, Tatar, Moldavian, Kirghiz, Estonian and other languages ​​of the peoples of the USSR, as well as into Polish, Bulgarian, Czech, German, English, Spanish, etc. Asadov, in turn, translated the poems of Uzbek poets (Mirmukhsin, M Babaev, M. Sheikhzade), Azerbaijan (M. Ragim, R. Rza), Georgia (A. Tevzade), Kazakhstan (A. Sarsenbaev), Bashkiria (B. Ishemgulov), Kalmykia (A. Suseev) and others.

But difficult times have come for Asadov's poems. However, after a number of years of oblivion, coinciding with the reforms late 1980s - mid 1990s, it seemed to be rediscovered. “One of the features of Asadov, both in poetry and in prose,” S. Baruzdin proclaimed in 1995, “is his extraordinary optimism. Every page of Assad's prose breathes with unshakable kindness, love for people, faith in the victory of justice over the forces of evil and, in general, in all the best” (Zarnitsy Voyny. M., 1995, p. 6).

In 2003 In connection with his 80th birthday, Asadov was awarded the Order of Merit for the Fatherland, IV degree.

Asadov Eduard Arkadievich

Eduard Arkadyevich (Artashezovich) Asadov(September 7, 1923, Merv, Turkestan ASSR, RSFSR, USSR - April 21, 2004, Odintsovo, Moscow Region, Russia) - Russian Soviet poet, prose writer.

Autobiography

I was born at the junction of two epochs, two worlds, two civilizations, at the junction of the ancient and new East. My curiously open eyes could simultaneously reflect a pioneer tie, and a black veil, and a European suit, and a Turkmen robe red on wadding with a black sheepskin hat, and a car, and a long caravan of camels entering the city to the chime of bells full of khurjins of fruits and all kinds of spices, and a plane sparkling in the sky, and an anguished groaning muezzin. In short, both old and new, and everything is convex, motley, embossed.

A person has, in general, little thoughtless, carefree childhood, until the first school bell. And they, these years, were generously flooded for me by the hot Asian sun, permeated with the variegated sound of Russian, Armenian and Turkmen songs and flowed on my lips with cool trickles of watermelon and grape juice.

My father died early and unexpectedly, within three days from an intestinal volvulus. The doctors misdiagnosed him because they were misled by his calm smile and the fact that he never groaned in incredible physical pain. The father believed that doctors should understand everything themselves, and moaning is simply unworthy of a man. I was then less than six years old.

Mom couldn’t stay here anymore, and we went with her to the Urals, to Sverdlovsk, where my grandfather Ivan Kalustovich Kurdov lived. She was given a room on Lenin Avenue, not far from the Verkh-Isetsky plant. And soon we went to the "first class" together. Only she - as a teacher, and I - a student. Justice requires clarifying that I did not go to my mother's class - I was well aware of her severity - but tried to get into a parallel one.

Each person probably has a "country of his childhood." I consider Sverdlovsk to be such a country, the working Urals with its calm, strict, but kind people, with mighty factories, endless taiga and severe frosts. If Turkmenistan was imprinted in my childhood memory mainly with a reddish-golden color scheme of sands, sun and fruits, then the Urals are white and green: a huge amount of sugar-crunchy snow on lawns, roofs, trees, on hats and even on wires and boundless sea of ​​dark green taiga in summer.

Here in the Urals, in Sverdlovsk, I lived from six to sixteen years old, and this in my youth is a whole era. Here, at the age of eight, he wrote his first poem, at fifteen he joined the Komsomol, fell in love with literature, theater, music and art in general. He was engaged in drama circles of the Sverdlovsk Palace of Pioneers, was a member of the Youth Theater, spoke with greetings on behalf of the Ural pioneers at party and Komsomol conferences and recited poetry at youth olympiads and competitions. My Armenian energy and literary soul were seething with might and main!

He often came to visit his grandfather, listened to his laconic stories about the revolutionary democrats, about Chernyshevsky, for whom he worked as a secretary in his youth. He sometimes spoke with him on international and the most everyday topics, sometimes he argued passionately and, perhaps, naively. But he never met in the eyes of the old man even a shadow of irony or anger. He was stern, but fair, and sometimes cornered in some dispute by my lively arguments, he smiled thoughtfully and said: “Unfortunately, I did not see this and do not know. But since you saw it, I believe you.” And, suffering from shortness of breath, he slowly went to his office.

My mother, as befits her family, loved me dearly. She was indulgent to some disadvantages, but she stood up against other shortcomings as a wall. So, most of all she did not tolerate laziness and lies. From early childhood she taught and taught me never and under no circumstances to lie, no matter what it cost me. And she struggled with my laziness very simply: with work. For example, I always had some duties in the house that no one but me had to perform. And this, frankly, disciplined.

A life full of new and vivid impressions began. The beauty of Moscow, with its Red Square, avenues, squares, metro stations, theaters, the Tretyakov Gallery, and who knows what else, literally whirled me, filling my soul with bright, bright, unforgettable. Lessons again, disputes in the school corridors, new friends, amateur evenings and poems, poems ...

My first performance as a poet took place on February 23, 1940 in the Red Banner Hall of the Central House of Artists, or in the old way - Central House of Arts. I read my poem dedicated to our army to the fighters and commanders. I am not inclined to overestimate the qualities of my first poems, and I attribute the warm reception given to me only to my boyish enthusiasm, broken by the excitement of the voice and the kindness of my listeners. But this success was probably especially important for me, since it did not yet destroy the very fragile and quivering sprout of poetry in my heart. On the contrary, it even seems to have strengthened it.

Moscow, like the whole country, lived in those pre-war years some kind of energetic, joyful and at the same time anxious life. Everyone admired the exploits of the Paginians, the courage and courage of Vodopyanov, Chkalov, Gromov, Lyapidevsky, Grizodubova, Kravchenko and other heroes. Almost everyone knew from the portraits of production heroes such as Stakhanov, Izotov, Maria and Evdokia Vinogradov, Makar Mazai, the blacksmith Busygin, the first tractor driver Pasha Angelina, and others. The country seemed to be torn from the past into the future, torn, overcoming snowstorms and storms, breaking all the norms and schedules that were aging right before our eyes.

Some argue today, so to speak, in hindsight, that we knew about the approaching war. Yes, there was a premonition of something disturbing. We spoke about the possibility of a war that our enemies might someday unleash. But no one thought it would be so soon. None. We lived both anxiously and joyfully. The GSO (sanitary defense) and PHO (anti-chemical defense) circles worked in schools, military science was taught in the tenth and ninth grades. Sometimes, under the guidance of a military instructor, anti-chemical and air defense exercises were held on a school scale. But all this was more like a lesson, like some kind of war game, but not real preparation for war. In reality, we still tried not to believe it.

Together, we went to the cinema in companies, arranged amateur performances and danced cheerfully and selflessly. What did they dance then? Yes, perhaps, everything: the waltz, and the blues, and the foxtrot, and the rumba, even sometimes circled in a cheerful polka. But the main dance of those years, the lord of all evenings, carnivals and friendly meetings was tango. Its slow and clear rhythm, shuddering and soul-stirring sounds conquered literally everyone. This dance amazingly helped acquaintance, some kind of inner rapprochement, and sometimes created an atmosphere of something intimately light-logo and a little sad. Such melodies as “Champagne Splashes”, “It's Raining”, “Song of Friendship” performed by Vadim Kozin and “Gypsies” were especially often put on discs of gramophones and players. Without any exaggeration, we can say that the thirties in the sense of dance music were the era of tango.

Prom! There is hardly a person on earth who would not keep this unique evening in his life forever in his soul! I remember him too. And it’s so clear, as if it took place just some two or three weeks ago ... Although time has passed since then, not two or three weeks, but, alas, “a little” more ...

The graduation ball in our 38th Moscow school took place on June 14, 1941. And although we were dressed in a simpler way than, say, graduates of the current post-war years (our parents had more modest material resources), we nevertheless dressed and polished ourselves well and had no less fun, and maybe even hotter. And this emotionality was to some extent determined by an elusive feeling of anxiety and sadness, apparently greater than the usual separation after the school years had rushed by.

The warm starry night looked softly through the windows, noisy, cheerful voices flew like birds on all floors. By the end of the evening, some of the guys who seemed to have matured for the first time, almost without hiding, were smoking somewhere in an empty classroom, talking with their peers at the open window.

They spoke chaotically, sadly and cheerfully. They dreamed, made plans, joked, argued about something passionately and easily ...

All the plafonds and chandeliers shone in the assembly hall, the old school radiogram worked tirelessly, endless couples were spinning, and overhead, through an amplifier, as if impressing our mood, the voice of Vadim Kozin rolled down the stairs and corridors:

Let's shake hands - And on a long journey for many years! ..

We danced, joked, shook hands with each other and did not know that we were parting with many not for a month, not for a year and not for “long years”, but until the end of our days, forever ...

On June 22, 1941, a sunny, bright dawn stood over Moscow. I was returning from the Moscow region, where from Saturday to Sunday at Losinoostrovskaya station I spent the night with my aunt. It was noisy and cheerful in the train car. After all, there is a whole Sunday ahead and a very nice sunny day! People were talking loudly, rustling frosty popsicle papers, leafing through fresh newspapers and magazines.

For some reason, a young couple (obviously newlyweds), sitting on a bench opposite me, ran into my memory. He is broad-shouldered, freckled, with a round good-natured face, in white pressed trousers and a blue T-shirt on a strong chest. She is ugly, but surprisingly sweet, apparently from happiness, just blazing from her little round "lanterns", in a motley short skirt and the same colorful jacket, which poorly hides her already noticeably rounded waist. He only did what he offered her everything that was carried past - from ice cream to railway timetables and OSOAVIAKhIM lotteries. Every time he jumped up, he excitedly said: “Helen, do you want it?” And she, laughing happily, seated him back and affectionately answered: “Dimusha, calm down! Not all at once. We'll make it..."

A group of soldiers, or, as they were then called, Red Army soldiers, sang in gallant voices in the vestibule, whistling valiantly, the song:

The cavalrymen fly by on a stony path, The front line stands up in the stirrup, And the squadron cavalrymen, Pulling up the reins, fly out into battle!

We arrived at the Yaroslavsky railway station. The doors of the carriages opened, and then, as if an alarming wind ran through the hearts. The revival went down.

There is a dense crowd of silent people in front of the loudspeaker. On some faces - confusion, on others - tension and severity. The unhurried but agitated voice of Molotov announces the treacherous attack of Nazi Germany on our country.

The cheerful song of the soldiers ceased. Standing on the platform, they somehow immediately fell silent, became stern, surrounded their platoon commander and began to confer about something in an undertone. Obviously, that the leave is off, and we must urgently return to the unit.

“Dimusha” with a face on which the joy that had not yet cooled down had already begun to give way to bitter confusion, stood at the newsstand, and on his chest, clasping his tanned neck with short arms, with frank despair, choking in sobs, his young wife fought.

At home, I had an application to the institute. And not even one, but two whole statements.

The fact is that from early childhood, two beautiful and wonderful worlds, whose names were: "Literature" and "Theatre", pulled me to myself with almost equal force. From the age of eight I wrote poetry and from the same age I devoted myself to drama circles and circles of the artistic word. What is more in me? Who am I after all by calling: a poet or a theater director? I couldn't decide until the very last minute. Or rather, he didn't. Everything that followed was determined by life itself. The war began, and now it was necessary to solve completely different problems. A call flew over the country: "Komsomol members - to the front!" And I tore both my statements. Sat down and wrote the third. This time to the district committee of the Komsomol with a request to send me as a volunteer to the front. I was then still seventeen years old, and I was not yet subject to conscription. Comrade Ilyin, secretary of the Frunzensky Komsomol Committee of the Komsomol, received me with my application at the district committee. The question was only one and short: “Good. Are you not afraid?" - and the same short answer: "Never!"

In the evening I came to the district committee, and in the morning my mother accompanied me with a small backpack on her shoulders to the district committee truck, where a group of the same beardless volunteers was waiting for me, determined to fight the enemy to the end. Mom carried a bunch of carnations in her hand. But I forgot in my excitement, saying goodbye, to stretch them out to me. And to this day, as if from a car, I see her lonely figure, slightly hunched over with grief, on the corner of Kropotkinskaya Street near the House of Scientists with a forgotten bouquet in her hand ...

And if on that memorable morning, the morning of the first month of the war, a miracle happened and some prophetic voice suddenly told me: “Look more carefully. Look and remember this crimson bouquet of carnations, and this motley scarf, and a smile, and eyes full of tears, because you will have to meet in the future, but you see your mother for the last time ... For the last time in your life ... ”- then I, who did not yet know my fate, would probably be simply amazed: how can this be? And I wouldn't understand a thing. And yet, it’s probably for the best that I couldn’t understand anything! ..

Who does not know today the legendary "Katyushas"? Who has not seen these formidable artillery mortars in museums and on movie screens?! And I and many of my comrades had a chance not only to see, but also to control and fire the first volleys from these mighty guns.

In the summer of 1941, the first divisions and regiments of the famous Katyushas were formed near Moscow. This weapon was secret, and the personnel of the guards units in those days consisted only of Komsomol members and communists. I received a respected and serious position - a gunner, although I was the youngest in the battery.

After a short but intensive study, our 3rd division of the 4th guards artillery regiment was "forged" and sent to Leningrad. And from that moment it became known as the 50th Separate Guards artillery mortar division.

The enemy madly rushed to the city of Lenin and was already on its outskirts. So only a very strong and unexpected rebuff could stop him. Our volley was just such a biting and deafening blow. And we gave it on September 19, 1941 in the Sinyavino area. With all the hardships and drama of those days, a smile still once ran through our hearts. The fact is that the Katyushas, ​​I repeat, were a secret weapon. And no one knew about his existence, and even more so about his arrival at the front - neither the enemies, nor our fighters. And when we fired the first mighty volley, the Germans rushed in one direction, and ours - out of surprise - in the other ... Then the soldiers fell in love with the divisions of the guards mortars. And then, in the fall of 1941, under the walls of Leningrad, the fighters affectionately began to call them "Katyushas." And under this name they went through the whole war.

I won't talk about this time for a long time now. A whole book should be written about him. Many books have been written about the war, but is at least a quarter of everything told? Yes, of course not. Let me just say that in this most difficult and cruel time, our division rushed from sector to sector along the entire Volkhov Front and fired volleys in the most breakthrough and difficult places. In total, during the winter of 1941-1942, I fired 318 volleys at the enemy from my gun. Translated into "fire" language, this is 5088 shells, each weighing 50 kilograms! And this is only from one of my tools, which sent to the other world more than one hundred lovers of a foreign land.

Burning thirty-forty-degree frosts, hundreds and hundreds of kilometers back and forth along the broken front line: Voronovo, Gaitolovo, Sinyavino, Mga, Volkhov, Novaya village, Settlement No. 1, Putilovo ...

Can you tell about day and night salvos, sometimes right under the heaviest artillery fire, can you tell in two or three words about how we fought our way out of the encirclement several times, how my combat installation was hit and burned twice and, after a quick repair, returned to service again ?! Can you convey in a short conversation about how hard it is to bury dead friends, who were cheerful, warm, alive an hour ago! .. Maybe someday I will take up such a story or novel ... In the meantime ... that, despite everything mortally difficult, sometimes overwhelming and chilling the soul, they did not doubt our coming victory for a single moment. In between fights, I wrote poetry.

Some of them, such as "Letter from the front", "To the starting line", "In the dugout", a few years later entered the first book of my poems.

In the spring of 1942, the commander of the gun was seriously wounded, and I was appointed to take his place. I had to perform two duties at once: gun commander and gunner. It seemed to work out well.

Our weapons were new, and there were not enough officer cadres. We received an order to urgently send the most experienced and educated junior commanders to officer schools.

In the autumn of 1942, with a group of my comrades who had been fired upon, I was urgently sent to the 2nd Omsk Guards Artillery School. Six months of classes on a double and triple program. During this period, it was necessary to complete a course of a two-year peace school. And we passed. They practiced thirteen to sixteen hours a day, got tired to death, but did not give up. Studied well. We knew that the front needed us, and this was the most important and important thing in those days.

In May 1943, having successfully passed the exams and received an officer's rank and a certificate for excellent success, he again went to the front. Omsk was in those days the deepest rear. There was not even a blackout here. The war, where the fate of the country, friends who fought without sparing themselves, was decided, was far, far away. And I wanted to leave the “rear areas” as soon as possible there, to the fight, to the front-line brothers!

And that's all! On the shoulders are officer epaulettes with guns and two stars. On the chest is a guards badge smoked in battles, and in front is Moscow, from where we will be distributed along the fronts. We were escorted from the Omsk barracks by the merry spring sun and sad faces, alas, of some cadets, the so-called "burrowers". That is, those who flunked at least one state exam for a "three". The conditions were harsh in a military way: those who grabbed at least one troika did not receive an officer rank and went to the front in the same rank as a sergeant.

There are miracles on earth! On a tender May morning I walk around Moscow. Dismissal until 15.00, that is, for five hours. A whole five hours!

I know mom is out of town. She is in evacuation in Ufa. But there is Kropotkinskaya Street, dear from adolescence, there is Lopukhinsky Lane adjoining it, where my former school stands. However, why "former"? Just a school, mine, my childhood, my friends!

I'm walking through military Moscow. I recognize and do not recognize familiar streets. Store shutters lowered, paper stickers criss-crossed on the windows of houses, sandbags, military patrols on Gogolevsky Boulevard, like giant white airships barrage balloons, girls in military uniform around them.

I walked around familiar places, sat on the boulevard and ... back. Farewell, my peaceful youth. You are gone, only a light scent of lilacs remains from you, which still blooms in defiance of the war.

And again the front. This time, not in the snows and swamps, but in the steppe near the village of Krymskaya near the subsequently famous "Malaya Zemlya".

General Degtyarev, the commander of the headquarters of the GMC (guards mortar units) of the front - small, round, noisy, without even knowing about the vacancies, immediately sent me to the 50th guards mortar regiment, where there was no position of a fireman. And instead of a platoon commander or a battalion commander, I was appointed the division's communications chief. However, a warrior must be able to do everything. And I tried, worked on the conscience. Although I fought well, the post of chief of communications did not worry my soul much. I was, as they say, a "born fireman." I had to deal with the batteries, prepare fire crews, fire volleys at the enemy. I think that fate understood this. Understood and eliminated the positions of chiefs of communications divisions.

Again for a whole week in Moscow. No, not everyone has such luck - in the difficult, merciless years of the war, to see the capital twice and walk twice along the familiar streets and lanes! However, I also had enough of the bitter, perhaps more generously than the joyful. Well, yes, the conversation is not about that now. It remains to talk about the war, it seems, a little.

4th Ukrainian Front. The last and, perhaps, the most difficult page of my combat life. This time, I was already a fireman again. First, the battalion commander, and when the battalion commander Turchenko near Sevastopol "went on promotion", - the battery commander.

So, again roads and again battles: Chaplino, Sofiyivka, Zaporozhye, Dnepropetrovsk region, Melitopol, Orekhov, Askaniya-Nova, Perekop, Armenianek, State Farm, Kachi, Mamashai, Sevastopol. They fought hard. In rare moments of calm, pensive songs were sung in an undertone: “When I went on a campaign”, “Who said that you need to give up songs in the war”, which then became famous “Spark” and “Scoots full of mullets”.

I won’t talk about how they broke the enemy’s defenses near Perekop, how, stepping on the firing lines, they kneaded at night the gray mud of Sivash, thick like clay and sticky like glue.

There is no place or time now to tell about all the friends, victories, hardships and losses. I will limit myself to what I will say: they lived stormily, passionately, knew how to fight and knew how to joke. Everyone felt the elbow of a comrade, and no one ever complained or betrayed friends in a difficult moment. Yes, nobody. Nobody but... Except maybe one. But no, I won't give his last name. For, being cowardly, he appreciated the generosity of his comrades, boldly went into battle and, having been wounded in the arm, after bandaging, he did not leave the battlefield for another good half an hour.

Having broken through Perekop, our troops rolled south uncontrollably, with some assertive and cheerful anger.
“Comrades! We will win the glory of the liberators of the Crimea!” - burning slogans on the walls of houses. The Russian and Ukrainian population greeted us stormily, joyfully, with milk, rolls and eyes full of tears. They kissed like relatives, and literally forced them to take a roll or a roll.

The fighting in the Crimea was coming to an end. With the forces of the 2nd Guards Army, the forces of the 9th Primorsky Army, the forces of glorious and valiant sailors, Crimea was lit up with five-pointed stars and the smiles of our soldiers. The enemy had only one Sevastopol. But now not for long. For it was Sevastopol! The city of Nakhimov and Ushakov, Lazarev and Kornilov, thousands and thousands of famous and unknown sailors and soldiers - heroes and patriots of their native land.

How long could the enemy sit there, if every stone in this city burned his heels like red-hot metal!

For the first time in my life I saw the sea near Kacha... From a high hill it sparkled under the sun. It was bright blue< мним, выпуклым и громадным. Пораженный, велел шоферу затормозить. Смотрел долго, радостно и неотрывно. Затем, сдернув пилотку, дружески помахал ему из кабины,

May 1, 1944. Our favorite holiday, but there is no time to celebrate. We are preparing to storm the positions of the enemy, to the last battles for Sevastopol. We know it will be hard and frying Prague has nowhere to go. He doesn't have enough ships. And he will fight like a doomed one.

And here, in the battles for the liberation of Sevastopol, in preparation for the decisive salvo before the assault on the enemy's fortifications, on the morning of May 4, 1944, I was wounded. I am talking about this briefly, because I am going to talk about the battles and campaigns, and, in particular, about the battles for the Crimea in a special book, which I will call "War Lightning Lightning".

Well, in a nutshell, that's all about my front-line life. What happened next?

And then there was a hospital and twenty-six days of struggle between life and death. "To be or not to be?" - in the most literal sense of the word. When consciousness came, he dictated a postcard to his mother two or three words, trying to avoid disturbing words. When consciousness left, he was delirious.

It was bad, but youth and life still won. However, I had not one hospital, but a whole clip. From Mamashaev I was transferred to Saki, then to Simferopol, then to Kislovodsk to the hospital named after the Decade of October (now there is a sanatorium), and from there to Moscow. Moving, surgeons' scalpels, dressings. And the most difficult thing is the verdict of the doctors: “Everything will be ahead. Everything but the light." This is what I had to accept, endure and comprehend, to decide for myself the question: “To be or not to be?” And after many sleepless nights, weighing everything and answering: “Yes!” - set yourself the biggest and most important goal for yourself and go towards it, no longer giving up.

I started writing poetry again. He wrote night and day, before and after the operation, he wrote persistently and stubbornly. understood

which is still not right, but again I searched and worked again. However, no matter how strong the will of a person, no matter how persistently he goes to his goal and no matter how much work he puts into his business, true success is not yet guaranteed to him. In poetry, as in any other art, you need help, talent, vocation. It is difficult to assess the dignity of your poems yourself, because you are most partial to yourself.

No professional writer has ever read my poems. It is necessary not to make a mistake and send it to the one in whose word you believe. Most of all, I was afraid that they would answer condescendingly, after all, it is difficult for the author to work ... But I needed a direct and clear answer, without the slightest discount. And so I decided: I will send Korney Chukovsky. Even before the hospital, once in the library, I read his article on the translations of Shakespeare by Anna Radlova. The article was so clever, caustic and merciless that from the poor translator, I think, there were only shoes and a hairstyle.

Dear Eduard Arkadyevich! (It's me, Eduard Arkadyevich, at my age of twenty!)

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your letter and for your trust. However, I must warn you right away that, when evaluating poetry, I do not prevaricate and do not try to “sweeten the pill”, no matter how bitter it is. Especially with you. Here I would consider it simply blasphemous.

Well, and then, after such a “warning thunder”, lightning also flashed. From the verses I sent, perhaps only my surname and dates remained. Everything else was smashed, smashed and turned to dust and ashes. And a lot of effort was spent on this, since almost every line was provided with lengthy comments.

The most unexpected was the conclusion: “... However, despite everything said above, I can say with full responsibility that you are a true poet. For you have that genuine poetic breath, which is inherent only in a poet! Wish you luck. K. Chukovsky.

I think that these words have done more for me than many medicines and vitamins. Even now I am grateful to the cheerful and prickly old man for these sincere and bright words.

He, my dear, is the editor-in-chief of Ogonyok. And if he likes your poems, he will do much more for you than I could do.

Surkov received me in his huge office in the editorial office. He spoke kindly, promised to “conjure” my notebook and ordered me to come back in five days. And at a new meeting, he smashed my literary boat into a small chip. But he didn’t let me blow bubbles, but after a considerable pause, he said in his hoarse voice:

Even though I scuffed you, you will still write. For this I vouch for you. Otherwise, I wouldn't waste so much time on you. As you understand, I have less and less time every year ... - And he laughed with sly innocence.

Inspired by such authorities as Chukovsky and Surkov, he plucked up courage and took the poems along with an application for admission to the Gorky Literary Institute. And not in vain. In the autumn of 1946, I was already proudly feeling in my pocket and taking out my brand new, crisp student card, where it was needed and where it was not needed.

However, he continued to visit Alexei Surkov both at the editorial office and at home. There were fewer and fewer divisions, and more and more in the voice of kindness. I worked a lot, day and night. I had to study at the institute and write poetry. to reach the human heart, otherwise what a poet I am!

And then one day Surkov slapped the leaves with a cheerful palm and said, no, he didn’t say, but he said solemnly and lightly:

Now it's a completely different matter! Perhaps this will work.

I will not forget that May Day in 1948 and how happy I was when I kept the issue of Ogonyok bought near the House of Scientists, in which my poems were printed. That's it, my poems, and not someone else's! Festive demonstrators walked past me with songs, and I was probably the most festive of all in Moscow!

How many publications later in my life both in our country and abroad, but the first publication, like the first love, is never forgotten!

The years of study at the Literary Institute were stormy, intense and bright. There were ups and downs, victories and disappointments. But to give up - never gave up either in creativity or in studies.

And it seems to me that he wrote and worked, it seems, not in vain. The results of the All-Institute Poetry Competition were especially dear to me, where I was awarded the first prize for the poem “Back in Service”. I mention this not to brag. The quality just makes me uncomfortable. I mention this only as the result of my work, as a personal victory in which I believed and, alas, some did not want to believe. Skeptics, what to hide, were.

The creative seminars I attended were led by good and different poets: Vasily Kazin, Vladimir Lugovskoy, Mikhail Svetlov, Pavel Antokolsky and Evgeny Dolmatovsky.

Each of them enriched me with something, advised me something, left something in my soul. I am proud that I never imitated anyone, but I studied everything that could excite the soul. But you can't be a poet and not be an erudite. And I went through all the storms of exams and storms of exams without a single "triple" and graduated from the institute in 1951 with a diploma with honors.

By the way, I call this year fruitful, because, in addition to my diploma, three more books fell into my palm this year: the first book of my poems, Bright Roads, a party card and a membership card of the Writers' Union.

And then work again. Meetings with readers in Moscow, Leningrad, Kyiv, Baku, Tbilisi, Yerevan, Tashkent, Minsk, Novosibirsk, Sverdlovsk, Omsk, Odessa and dozens of other cities, large and small. It is simply impossible to name everything here.

For many years now I have been speaking in this way not for the sake of posters and applause, but for the sake of meeting people and for the sake of, so to speak, accumulating the high energy of human hearts, for the sake of belonging to something common, important for us, for all.

Sometimes people ask me: how do I consider myself a pop - civil or lyrical - and what topics are closest to me?

I reply that I do not fit under any headings in this respect. I do not belong to the topic, but the topic belongs to me. Everything I write about is poetry. I am a lyricist in civil poems, and in poems about love, and in poems about animals or nature. In every poem I put a piece of my soul, each one I pass through my heart.

What do I see as my main and main task as a poet?

I deeply and sincerely believe that with each generation, with each decade, even with each year, more and more bright and kind will be born in a person. This faith always warms me on the way. I consider serving the people, the Motherland and the struggle, the struggle to the last breath with every lie and meanness on earth as my main and highest goal.

My wealth is all honest, proud and beautiful ideals that live in my heart from my youth. The consciousness that other people need you always inspires and gives new strength on the way.

And if my books help people, at least to some extent, to love our Fatherland and everything beautiful on earth even more, to become more courageous, firmer, kinder and happier, then there is no brighter joy for me and cannot be!

This is how I lived, this is how I live, and this is how I will always live!

Awards

• Order "For Merit to the Fatherland" IV degree (February 7, 2004) - for great services in the development of national literature
• Order of Honor (September 7, 1998) - for his great contribution to Russian literature
• Order of Friendship of Peoples (October 20, 1993) - for merits in the development of national literature and the strengthening of interethnic cultural ties
• The order of Lenin
• Order of the Patriotic War, 1st class
• Order of the Red Star

... What happened next? And then there was a hospital and twenty-six days of struggle between life and death. "To be or not to be?" - in the most literal sense of the word. When consciousness came, he dictated a postcard to his mother two or three words, trying to avoid disturbing words. When consciousness left, he was delirious.

It was bad, but youth and life still won. However, I had not one hospital, but a whole clip. From Mamashaev I was transferred to Saki, then to Simferopol, then to Kislovodsk to the hospital named after the Decade of October (now there is a sanatorium), and from there to Moscow. Moving, surgeons' scalpels, dressings. And here is the most difficult thing - the verdict of the doctors: “Everything will be ahead. Everything but the light." This is what I had to accept, endure and comprehend, to decide for myself the question: “To be or not to be?” And after many sleepless nights, weighing everything and answering: “Yes!” - set yourself the biggest and most important goal for yourself and go towards it, no longer giving up. I started writing poetry again. He wrote night and day, before and after the operation, he wrote persistently and stubbornly. I understood that it was not yet right, but I searched again and worked again. However, no matter how strong the will of a person, no matter how persistently he goes towards his goal and no matter how much work he puts into his business, true success is not yet guaranteed to him. In poetry, as in any other art, one needs abilities, talent, and vocation. It is difficult to assess the dignity of your poems yourself, because you are most partial to yourself. …

I will never forget this May 1, 1948. And how happy I was when I kept the issue of Ogonyok bought near the House of Scientists, in which my poems were printed. That's it, my poems, and not someone else's! Festive demonstrators walked past me with songs, and I was probably the most festive of all in Moscow!