Stories about the Great Patriotic War for schoolchildren. Stories about the Great Patriotic War Stories in Belarusian about the war

We will never forget

Stories of Belarusian children about the days of the Great Patriotic War

Work on this book began shortly after the war.

On April 3, 1946, the Piyaner Belarusi newspaper published a letter from the pioneers of the 37th Minsk school, in which they addressed all schoolchildren of the republic with a proposal to write a collective book about the participation of Belarusian children in the Great Patriotic War.

The editors of Piyaner Belarus sent out thousands of leaflet letters to the pioneer squads, which described in detail how to start collecting material, what and how to write. Editorial staff, students of the journalism department of the Belarusian State University went on business trips to meet young authors on the spot and help them write their memoirs.

In two years, about 400 stories were collected. Some of them were included in the book, which was first published in the Belarusian language in 1948.

Practical work on compiling the book was carried out by P. Runets.

Translation from Belarusian by B. I. Burian and V. A. Zhizhenko.

Artist I. A. Davidovich.

Foreword

Reading the book “We will never forget”, I involuntarily recall one of the last days of June 1941. We were driving a truck from Gory to Mstislavl. It was barely starting to get light. Approaching one village, we noticed in the morning twilight a flock of children - girls and boys - from ten to twelve years old. Divided into two groups, they stood on both sides of the road, raising their hands, shouting. The driver stopped the car. Children surrounded us. They were excited and excited. They already felt the breath of war. The eldest of them said to the driver:

Two boys stood on the footboard of the truck and showed them how to get around the destroyed bridge. And men and women were already scurrying around the bridge. They hastily built a new bridge.

This road accident in a dangerous time of the war sunk deep into my memory. I was moved to the depths of my soul by a simple childish desire to help my people in the days of terrible events. And today, reading a book written by the children themselves, who survived all the horrors of a war unprecedented in its scope and cruelty and took an active part in it, I remember that meeting with our glorious children. These are the children of the new Soviet generation, brought up by our native Communist Party. These are ardent patriots of their homeland, humble heroes, ready to give their lives for their people, for their homeland, for their bright and joyful childhood, which is possible only in the Soviet country. Perhaps one of those kids who warned us about the bridge malfunction is the author of one of the exciting stories in the book Never Forget. I take this opportunity to say from the bottom of my heart: thank you guys!

I warmly welcome the appearance of this book, which deserves great attention.

What is its value?

Firstly, the book largely fills an unfortunate gap in our Belarusian fiction, which does not yet contain any outstanding work about the heroic struggle of our people against the German invaders, about their steadfastness, devotion to their homeland, their loyalty to the friendship of peoples, Soviet authorities and the Bolshevik Party.

Secondly, the book shows the greatness of the soul and patriotism of the whole people as a whole and in particular - its heroic children, brave, resourceful, fearless, strong-willed, courageously enduring unheard of torment, strong in their faith in victory over the enemy.

Thirdly, Never Forget is a formidable indictment against those international brigands who dream of their dominion over the peoples, of establishing their power over the world, and at the same time it eloquently predicts the fate of these bandits of a worldwide scale.

The book about the war written by our children should become the property of not only the readers of Soviet Belorussia, it is worth it to be translated into the languages ​​of other peoples of the Soviet Union.

Yakub Kolas

1948

under death

We lived in the village of Usokhi in the Begoml district. Our family was small - six souls: father, mother, sisters Zhenya and Lida, brother Vitya and me. We lived quietly and calmly, but the Germans violated everything. It was so.

In 1943 the Germans blockaded our area. All the inhabitants hid in the swamp. The Germans arrived in Usokhi by car, but there was no one there. They caught one woman from another village - Rooney - and sent her to tell people to return home by 9 pm, otherwise they would all be killed. But the people did not listen to the Germans and did not go home. They talked:

If we go, then death will not be avoided.

And the next day, people from the village of Gantsevichi got scared and left the swamp. As soon as they got home, the Germans herded them into the cowshed and set it on fire. Those who tried to escape were killed. Then a lot of people burned down. We stayed in the swamp.

The Germans, as soon as they burned people, went to the swamp to look for the rest. So they quietly approached the first huts and began to shoot. Here they killed Poljuta Chebotar and her four children. Everyone else started running in all directions. And we ran. The Germans fired at us, but missed. So we ran to the river. But the river in that place was wide and deep, and it was impossible to cross it. Then we ran along the coast, and then the Germans caught up with us and started firing from machine guns. The mother and father were killed, and both sisters were killed, and the brother was wounded in the right eye. He screamed and grabbed his eye with his hand. Blood flowed through his fingers. I ran up to him and began to wipe his blood with a handkerchief. At this time, a German jumped up and fired: his brother fell - he was killed. And the German kept shooting and wounded me in my left shoulder, and the second bullet hit my right arm, but did not touch the bones. The third bullet grazed his back. I felt hot, and I fell, and the German left - he thought I was dead. It was early, at ten o'clock.

All day I lay with my relatives, and in the evening one woman, Olga, from the village of Smolyarovo, slightly wounded, got up and saw me. She helped me up and off we went. At one point we forded the river. On the other side we met grandfather Yanulya, and he took us to his home. There they gave me food, but I didn’t eat anything for four days - I only drank water. Then she ate the egg. Here I was found by the daughter of my uncle Elisha Alai - Marusya.

However, it didn't take long. The Germans bombed and fired, and again we had to run away to the swamp. I was completely weak, and they carried me on a stretcher. They made a stretcher on sticks, spread out a bed and carried it like that. I was carried by two men - my uncle and Ivan Gerasimovich, and my uncle's two daughters, Marusya and Nina, were carrying the teacher's son - Gena. I was bleeding all day. Then Marusya bandaged my wounds.

When the Germans left the village, people began to come out of the swamp. Uncle asked the people, they dug a hole on the island and buried my relatives. I could not walk and did not see how they were buried.

My mother had two sisters who lived ten kilometers from us. They heard that our relatives were killed by the Germans, that I was left alone, and they came to me. One of them, Aunt Fruza, took me in.

There was no doctor anywhere, and my aunt treated me with her medicines. I was sick for a long time, but my aunt cured me.

Tanya Alai (1933)

Begomlsky district, Mstizhsky village council, Rem.

With my own eyes

It was February 1943. It was a quiet and clear night. In the evening, distant shots of cannons and explosions of shells were heard. It was our artillery firing.

During the night I woke up from some noise. Everyone in the house was alarmed. I ran out into the yard, but the German brought me back. I figured something bad was going on. Near each hut there was a German patrol and did not let anyone out.

When it was completely dawn, the Germans drove up the cars and began to load people on them. They were not allowed to take anything with them. Our family was driven into one of the cars. We had two small children of my older sister Katya with us. She was sick with typhus and was in a separate hut, where the Germans gathered all the typhoid. Upon learning that everyone was being taken out, she rushed to look for us. She ran home, but found no one there. We were already outside the village. For some reason, the cars stopped. My sister noticed and ran to us. The motor blew. The truck was about ready to move. But she still managed to run. We helped her get on the car. My sister suddenly turned pale and lost consciousness.

The Brest Fortress stands on the border. The Nazis attacked it on the very first day of the war.

The Nazis could not take the Brest Fortress by storm. Passed her left and right. She remained with the enemies in the rear.

The Nazis are coming. Fights are going on near Minsk, near Riga, near Lvov, near Lutsk. And there, in the rear of the Nazis, he does not give up, the Brest Fortress is fighting.

It's hard for heroes. Bad with ammunition, bad with food, especially bad with water for the defenders of the fortress.

Around the water - the Bug River, the Mukhovets River, branches, channels. There is water all around, but there is no water in the fortress. Under fire water. A sip of water here is more valuable than life.

Water! - rushes over the fortress.

There was a daredevil, rushed to the river. Rushed and immediately collapsed. The enemies of the soldier were killed. Time passed, another brave rushed forward. And he died. The third replaced the second. The third one did not survive.

A machine gunner lay not far from this place. He scribbled, scribbled a machine gun, and suddenly the line broke off. The machine gun overheated in battle. And the machine gun needs water.

The machine gunner looked - the water evaporated from the hot battle, the machine gun casing was empty. He looked to where the Bug, where the channels are. Looked left, right.

Eh, it wasn't.

He crawled towards the water. He crawled in a plastunsky way, snuggled up to the ground like a snake. He is closer to the water, closer. It's right next to the coast. The machine gunner grabbed his helmet. He scooped up water like a bucket. Snake crawls back again. Closer to their own, closer. It's quite close. His friends took over.

I brought water! Hero!

The soldiers are looking at the helmet, at the water. From thirst in the eyes of muddied. They do not know that the machine gunner brought water for the machine gun. They are waiting, and suddenly a soldier will treat them now - at least a sip.

The machine gunner looked at the fighters, at the withered lips, at the heat in his eyes.

Come on, said the machine gunner.

The fighters stepped forward, but suddenly ...

Brothers, it would not be for us, but for the wounded, - someone's voice was heard.

The soldiers stopped.

Of course, the wounded!

That's right, take it to the basement!

The soldiers of the fighter were detached to the basement. He brought water to the basement where the wounded lay.

Brothers, - he said, - water ...

Take it, - he handed the soldier a mug.

The soldier reached for the water. I already took a mug, but suddenly:

No, not me, - said the soldier. - Not for me. Bring the children, dear.

The fighter carried water to the children. And I must say that in the Brest Fortress, along with adult fighters, there were women and children - the wives and children of military personnel.

The soldier went down to the basement where the children were.

Well, come on, - the fighter turned to the guys. - Come, stand, - and, like a magician, he takes out a helmet from behind his back.

The guys look - there is water in the helmet.

The children rushed to the water, to the soldier.

The fighter took a mug, carefully poured it on the bottom. See who to give. He sees a baby with a pea next to him.

On, - handed the baby.

The kid looked at the fighter, at the water.

Folder, - said the kid. - He's there, he shoots.

Yes, drink, drink, - the fighter smiled.

No, the boy shook his head. - Folder. - I never took a sip of water.

And others refused him.

The fighter returned to his own. He told about the children, about the wounded. He gave the water helmet to the machine gunner.

The machine gunner looked at the water, then at the soldiers, at the fighters, at his friends. He took a helmet, poured water into the metal casing. Came to life, earned, zastrochit machine gun.

The machine gunner covered the fighters with fire. The daredevils have been found again. To the Bug, towards death, they crawled. The heroes returned with water. Drink the children and the wounded.

The defenders of the Brest Fortress fought bravely. But there were fewer and fewer of them. Bombed them from the sky. Cannons fired direct fire. From flamethrowers.

The Nazis are waiting - just about, and people will ask for mercy. That's it, and the white flag will appear.

Waited, waited - the flag is not visible. Nobody asks for mercy.

For thirty-two days the battles for the fortress did not cease. “I am dying, but I do not give up. Farewell, Motherland! - one of her last defenders wrote on the wall with a bayonet.

These were words of goodbye. But it was also an oath. The soldiers kept their oath. They did not surrender to the enemy.

The country bowed to the heroes for this. And stop for a minute, reader. And you bow low to the heroes.

The feat at Dubosekov

In mid-November 1941, the Nazis resumed their attack on Moscow. One of the main tank attacks of the enemy fell on the division of General Panfilov.

Passage Dubosekovo. 118th kilometer from Moscow. Field. Hills. Coppices. A little further away, Lama winds. Here, on a hill, in an open field, heroes from the division of General Panfilov blocked the path of the Nazis.

There were 28 of them. Political instructor Klochkov led the fighters.

Soldiers dug into the ground. They clung to the edges of the trenches.

Tanks rushed, motors roar. The soldiers counted

Twenty pieces.

Klochkov chuckled.

twenty tanks. So this, it turns out, is less than one per person.

Less, - said Private Yemtsov.

Of course, less, - said Petrenko.

Field. Hills. Coppices. A little further away, Lama winds.

The heroes entered the battle.

Hooray! - spread over the trenches.

It was the soldiers who first knocked out the tank.

Again thunders "hurrah!". It was the second one who stumbled, snorted his engine, clanged his armor and froze. And again "hurrah!". And again. Fourteen of the twenty tanks were destroyed by the heroes. Withdrew, the surviving six crawled away.

He choked, you see, a robber, - said Sergeant Petrenko.

Eka, the tail is tucked.

The soldiers took a breath. They see - again there is an avalanche. Counted - thirty fascist tanks.

Political instructor Klochkov looked at the soldier. All froze. Silenced. Only iron clang is heard. Closer all the tanks, closer.

Friends, - said Klochkov, - Russia is great, but there is nowhere to retreat. Behind Moscow.

The soldiers entered the battle. Fewer and fewer living heroes. Paly Yemtsov and Petrenko. Bondarenko died. Trofimov died, Narsunbai Yesebulatov was killed. Shopokov. Fewer and fewer soldiers and grenades.

Here Klochkov himself was wounded. I went up to the tank. Threw a grenade. A fascist tank was blown up. The joy of victory lit up Klochkov's face. And at the same moment the hero was struck down by a bullet. Political instructor Klochkov fell.

Panfilov's heroes fought steadfastly. Proved that courage knows no bounds. They did not miss the Nazis.

Passage Dubosekovo. Field. Hills. Coppices. Somewhere nearby, a Lama is winding. Dubosekovo junction is a dear, holy place for every Russian heart.

House

The Soviet troops were advancing rapidly. On one of the sectors of the front, a tank brigade of Major General Katukov operated. Tankers overtook the enemy.
And suddenly stop. The blown up bridge in front of the tanks. It happened on the way to Volokolamsk in the village of Novopetrovsk. The tankers turned off their engines. The fascists are leaving before their eyes. Someone shot at the fascist column from a cannon, only the shells were fired into the wind.

Aufwiederseen! Farewell! shout the Nazis.
- A ford, - someone suggested, - a ford, comrade general, across the river.
General Katukov looked - the river Maglusha winds. Steep coast near Maglusha. Do not climb the slopes of the tanks.
The general thought.
Suddenly a woman appeared at the tanks. She has a boy with her.
“It’s better there, near our house, Comrade Commander,” she turned to Katukov. - There is a river. Get up.

The tanks moved forward behind the woman. Here is the house in the hollow. Rise from the river. The place is really better. And yet ... The tankers are watching. Watching General Katukov. Tanks can't pass here without a bridge.
“We need a bridge,” the tankers say. - Logs are needed.
“There are logs,” the woman replied.
The tankers looked around: where are the logs?
- Yes, here they are, here, - the woman says and points to her house.
- It's a house! - escaped from the tankers.
The woman looked at the house, at the soldiers.
- Yes, what a house - pieces of wood, poles. Whether the people are losing ... About the house now, is it sad, - said the woman. - Really, Petya? - turned to the boy. Then again to the soldiers: - Take it apart, dear ones.
The tankers do not dare to touch the house. The cold is in the yard. Winter is gaining momentum. How can you be homeless at this time?
The woman understood
- Yes, we are in a dugout somehow. - And again to the boy: - Really, Petya?
- True, mother, - answered Petya.
And yet they crumple, there are tankers.
Then the woman took an ax and went to the edge of the house. She hit the crown first.
- Well, thank you, - said General Katukov.
The tankers dismantled the house. Made a crossing. Rushed after the Nazis. Pass tanks on a fresh bridge. A boy and a woman are waving their hands.

What is your name? shout the tankers. - With a kind word, whom should we remember?
“Petenka and I are Kuznetsovs,” the woman replies, blushing.
- And by name, first name and patronymic?
- Alexandra Grigorievna, Pyotr Ivanovich.
- A low bow to you, Alexandra Grigorievna. Become a hero, Pyotr Ivanovich.
The tanks then caught up with the enemy column. They crushed the fascists. Then we went west.

The war has died down. She danced with death and misfortune. Her tremors subsided. But did not erase the memory of human exploits. The feat at the Maglusha River is not forgotten either. Go to the village of Novopetrovskoe. In the same hollow, in the same place, a new house flaunts. The inscription on the house: "Alexandra Grigoryevna and Pyotr Ivanovich Kuznetsov for the feat accomplished during the Great Patriotic War."
Winding river Maglusha. There is a house above Maglusha. With a veranda, with a porch, in carved patterns. Windows look at the good world.

Novo-Petrovskoye, the place of the feat of the Kuznetsov family. On 12/17/1941, they gave their house to the tankers of the 1st Guards Tank Brigade for the construction of a bridge across the Maglusha River. Eleven-year-old Petya Kuznetsov led tanks through a minefield, receiving a severe concussion in the process. There is a memorial plaque on the Kuznetsovs' house.

Dovator

In the battles near Moscow, along with other troops, Cossacks also took part: Don, Kuban, Terek ...

Dashing, sparkling in battle Dovator. Well sits in the saddle. Kuban cap on the head.

Commanded by General Dovator cavalry Cossack corps. The villagers look at the general:

Our blood - Cossack!

General Lev Mikhailovich Dovator

The fighters argue where he comes from:

From Kuban!

He is Tersky, Tersky.

Ural Cossack, from the Urals.

Transbaikalian, Dahurian, consider a Cossack.

The Cossacks did not agree. We contacted the Dovator:

Comrade commander, tell me, what village are you from?

Dovator smiled:

Not there, comrades, you are looking for. Village in the Belarusian forests.

And right. Not a Cossack Dovator at all. He is Belarusian. In the village of Khotyn, in the north of Belarus, not far from the city of Polotsk, this is where commander Dovator was born.

Back in August - September, the Dovator cavalry group went around the fascist rear. She smashed warehouses, headquarters, convoys. Then the Nazis got it badly. Rumors spread among the Nazi soldiers - 100 thousand Soviet horsemen broke through to the rear. But in fact, there were only 3,000 people in the Dovator equestrian group.

When the Soviet troops near Moscow went on the offensive, the Cossacks of Dovator again broke through to the fascist rear.

The Nazis are afraid of Soviet horsemen. Behind every bush they see a Cossack...

The fascist generals set a reward for the capture of Dovator - 10,000 German marks.

Like a thunderstorm, like spring thunder, Dovator goes through the fascist rear.

Throws fascists in a shiver. Wake up, hearing the whistle of the wind.

Dovator! - they shout. - Dovator!

They hear the thump of hooves.

Dovator! Dovator!

Raise the price of the Nazis. They appoint 50 thousand marks for Dovator. Like a dream, a myth for the enemies of Dovator.

Rides a horse Dovator. The legend follows him.

Fortress

The Nazis cannot take Stalingrad. They began to assert that Stalingrad was an impregnable fortress: they say, impenetrable ditches surround the city, they say, ramparts and embankments have risen around Stalingrad. Every step - then powerful defensive structures and fortifications, various engineering tricks and traps.

The Nazis do not call city blocks quarters, they write - fortified areas. They do not call houses houses, they write - forts and bastions.

Stalingrad is a fortress, the Nazis repeat.

German soldiers and officers write about this in letters to their homes. Reading letters in Germany.

Stalingrad is a fortress, a fortress, they trumpet in Germany.

Generals scribble reports. Each line is the same:

“Stalingrad is a fortress. An impregnable fortress. Solid fortified areas. Irresistible bastions.

Fascist newspapers publish articles. And these articles are all about the same:

"Our soldiers are storming the fortress."

"Stalingrad is the strongest fortress in Russia."

"Fortress, fortress!" the newspapers shout. Even front-line leaflets write about it.

But Stalingrad was never a fortress. There are no special fortifications in it. The city is like a city. Houses, factories.

One of the fascist leaflets came to the Soviet soldiers. The soldiers laughed: “Yeah, it’s not from an easy life that the Nazis write this.” Then they carried it, showed a leaflet to a member of the Military Council of the 62nd Army, divisional commissar Kuzma Akimovich Gurov; they say, look, comrade commissar, what fables the fascists write.

The commissioner read the leaflet.

Everything is right here, - he told the soldiers. - The fascists write the truth. And, of course, the fortress.

The soldiers were confused. Maybe it is. The bosses always know best.

A fortress, Gurov repeated. - Of course, the fortress.

The soldiers looked at each other. Don't argue with your boss!

Gurov smiled.

Your hearts and your courage - here it is, an impregnable fortress, here they are, insurmountable frontiers and fortified areas, walls and bastions.

The soldiers smiled too. The commissar said clearly. It's nice to hear that.

Kuzma Akimovich Gurov is right. About the courage of Soviet soldiers - these are the walls against which the Nazis broke their necks in Stalingrad.

twelve poplars

There were stubborn battles in the Kuban. Once the commander of one of the regiments visited the rifle department. Twelve fighters in the department. The soldiers froze in the ranks. They stand in a row, one to one.

Presented to the commander:

Private Grigoryan.

Private Grigoryan.

Private Grigoryan.

Private Grigoryan.

What is it, the regiment commander is amazed. The soldiers continue their report:

Private Grigoryan.

Private Grigoryan.

Private Grigoryan.

The regiment commander does not know what to do - are the soldiers joking with him?

Set aside, - said the regiment commander.

Seven fighters introduced themselves. Five are unnamed. The company commander leaned over to the regiment commander, pointed to the others, and said quietly:

Also all Grigoryans.

Now the regiment commander looked in surprise at the company commander - is the company commander not joking?

All Grigorians. All twelve,” said the company commander.

Indeed, all twelve people in the department were Grigoryans.

namesakes?

Twelve Grigoryans, from the elder Barsegh Grigoryan to the younger Aghasi Grigoryan, were relatives, members of the same family. They went to the front together. Together they fought, together they defended their native Caucasus.

One of the battles for the Grigoryans' squad was especially difficult. The soldiers held an important line. And suddenly the attack of fascist tanks. People got along with metal. Tanks and Grigoryans.

They climbed, climbed, tore the tanks howling around. They threw fire without counting. The Grigoryans withstood the battle. We held the line until ours arrived.

Victory comes at a heavy price. There is no war without death. There is no fight without death. Six Grigoryans dropped out of the department in that terrible battle with the Nazis.

There were twelve, there are six. The brave warriors continued to fight. They drove the Nazis from the Caucasus, from the Kuban. Then the fields of Ukraine were liberated. Soldier's honor and family honor were brought to Berlin.

There is no war without death. There is no fight without death. Three died in the fighting. The lives of two were shortened by bullets. Only the youngest Aghasi Grigoryan returned unharmed from the battlefields.

Twelve poplars have been planted in memory of a brave family, of warrior-heroes in their native city of Leninakan.

Now the poplars have grown. From meter-long seedlings they became giants. They stand in a row, one to one, like fighters in the ranks - a whole squad.

Soldier Zhelobkovich walked with everyone. On the Belarusian land, along the father's land, a soldier is walking. Closer and closer to home. His village is Khatyn.

A soldier walks to friends fighting in a company:

Do you know Khatyn? Khatyn, brother, forest miracle!

And the soldier begins the story. The village stands on a clearing, on a hillock. The forest parted here, gave free rein to the sun. Like, thirty houses in Khatyn. Houses ran across the clearing. Wells slid into the ground. The road darted through the fir trees. And where the road pressed against the forest, where the spruces rested their trunks against the sky, on the very hillock, on the highest edge of Khatyn, he lives - Ivan Zhelobkovich.

Zhelobkovich lives opposite. And Zhelobkovich lives on the left. And Zhelobkovich lives on the right. There are a dime a dozen of them, Zhelobkovichs, in this Khatyn, as they say.

There was a warrior to his Khatyn.

House remembered. The ones who stayed in the house. He left his wife. An old mother, a three-year-old daughter Marishka. A soldier is walking, Mariska is carrying a gift - a ribbon in her pigtail, a ribbon red like fire.

Troops are moving fast. Soon the warrior will see the old woman's mother. Hug the old woman's mother. The soldier will say:

Soon the soldier will see his wife. Kiss the soldier's wife. The soldier will say:

Take Mariska in her arms. The soldier will throw Mariska. He will tell her:

The soldier will take out a gift:

Get it, Mariska!

There was a warrior to his Khatyn. I thought about friends and neighbors. Soon he will see all the Zhelobkoviches. He will see Yatskeviches, Rudakovs, Mironoviches. The soldier of Khatyn will smile. The soldier will say:

They went to Khatyn. Very close, a kilometer away from these places.

Soldier to commander. Like, near the village. Here, they say, is a ravine, beyond the ravine there is a forest. A forest passed, and here is Khatyn. The company commander listened.

Well then, he said, go.

A soldier walks towards Khatyn. Here is the ravine. Here is the forest. That's it, the huts will now appear. Now he sees his mother. Now he will hug his wife. Mariska will give a gift. Throw Mariska up to the sun.

He passed through the forest. Went out to the field. Came out and froze. He looks, does not believe - there is no Khatyn in his place. On the ashes, burnt pipes stick out alone.

The soldier stopped and shouted:

Where are people?! Where are people?!

People died in Khatyn. Adults, children, old women - everyone. The Nazis came here

Partisans! Bandits! Forest robbers!

The fascists drove the inhabitants into the barn. They burned all the people in the barn.

The soldier ran up to his father's house. Crashed to ashes. The soldier sobbed and moaned. Flew off, fell out of the hands of the hotel. The ribbon trembled and fluttered in the wind. Soared red flames above the ground.

Khatyn is not alone. There were many such Khatyns on Belarusian soil.

Sea on the right, mountains on the left

Extreme Soviet North. Kola Peninsula. Barents Sea. Polar circle.

And here, beyond the Arctic Circle, there are battles. The Karelian Front is fighting.

You turn here to face the front - the mountains on the left, the sea on the right. There, further, behind the front line, lies the state of Norway. The Nazis took over the country of Norway.

In 1941, the Nazis broke into the Soviet Arctic. They tried to capture the city of Murmansk - our northernmost seaport.

Our troops did not let the Nazis to Murmansk. Murmansk is not only the northernmost port, it is an ice-free port in the north. All year round, both in summer and in winter, ships can come here. Important military cargoes came to us through Murmansk by sea. That is why Murmansk is so important to the Nazis. The Nazis were torn, but did not break through. Our heroes kept Murmansk. And now the time has come to defeat the Nazis here too.

The places here for combat are extremely difficult. The mountains. Cliffs. Rocks. Chilling winds. The sea is always pounding on the shore. There are many places here where only a deer will pass.

It was autumn. It was October. Just about - and the long polar night will come.

Preparing to defeat the enemies in the north, the commander of the Karelian Front, General of the Army Kirill Afanasyevich Meretskov, turned to the Headquarters of the Supreme High Command in Moscow with a request to allocate KV tanks for the front. Their armor is thick, durable, powerful weapons. KB are good tanks. However, by this time they were outdated.

General Meretskov asks at Headquarters KB, and they tell him:

Why KV. We will provide you with more advanced tanks.

No, please KB, says Meretskov.

Surprised at Headquarters:

Why is KB in the North? There in many places only deer will pass.

Where the deer passes, Soviet tanks will pass there too, Meretskov replies. - Please KV.

Well, look - after all, you are the commander! - said in Headquarters.

Got the front these tanks.

The Nazis did not bring tanks or heavy weapons to the Far North.

“Mountains, cliffs, rocks. Where is the trouble with heavy tanks here, ”they reasoned.

And suddenly there were Soviet tanks, besides, also KV.

Tanks?! - Fascists are perplexed. - KB? What's happened! How? Why? Where?! Here, after all, only a deer will pass!

Soviet tanks went to the Nazis.

On October 7, 1941, the offensive of the Soviet troops in the Far North began. Our troops quickly broke through the fascist defenses. Break through, go ahead.

Of course, not only tanks played a major role here. The attack came from land. The attack came from the sea. On the left - infantry, on the right - the Northern Fleet. Soviet pilots hit from the air. Sailors, infantrymen, tankers, and aviators fought here in the general row. The overall victory was.

The year 1944 ended with battles for the liberation of the Soviet Arctic - a military and decisive year. 1945 was approaching - a victorious year.

The last meters of the war counts

The assault on the Reichstag began. Together with everyone in the attack, Gerasim Lykov.

The soldier never dreamed of such a thing. He is in Berlin. He is at the Reichstag. The soldier looks at the building. Columns, columns, columns. A glass dome crowns the top.

The soldiers broke through here with a fight. In the last attacks, in the last battles, soldiers. The war counts the last meters.

Gerasim Lykov was born in a shirt. He has been fighting since the 41st. He knew the retreat, he knew the environment, he has been moving forward for two years. Stored the fate of a soldier.

I'm lucky, the soldier joked. - In this war, a bullet is not cast for me. The shell is not machined for me.

And it is true that the soldiers are not touched by the fate.

A wife and parents are waiting for a soldier in a distant Russian region. Soldier's children are waiting.

Waiting for the winner. Are waiting!

In the attack, in a fit of dashing soldiers. The war counts the last meters. Does not hide the joy of his soldiers. The soldier looks at the Reichstag, at the building. Columns, columns, columns. A glass dome crowns the top.

The last peal of the war.

Forward! Hooray! - shouts the commander.

Hooray! - Lykov repeats.

And suddenly, next to the soldier, a shell hit. He raised the earth with the ninth wave. She killed a soldier. Soldier covered with earth.

Who saw, only gasped:

That's how the bullet was not cast for him.

This is how the projectile is not machined.

Everyone in Lykov's company knows - an excellent comrade, an exemplary soldier.

He should live and live. To return to his wife, to his parents. Kiss children happily.

And suddenly the shell hit again. Near the place that the first. Slightly out of the way. Ran and this huge force. He raised the earth with the ninth wave.

The soldiers are watching - they do not believe their eyes.

The soldier was alive. He fell asleep - he poured out his projectile. That's where fate happens. To know, indeed, a bullet was not cast for him. The shell for him is not machined.

Banner of Victory

- Sergeant Egorov!

I am Sergeant Egorov.

Junior Sergeant Kantaria.

I, junior sergeant Kantaria.

The commander called the fighters to him. Soviet soldiers were entrusted with an honorable task. They were given a battle flag. This banner had to be installed on the Reichstag building.

The fighters left. Many looked at them with envy. Everyone now wanted to be in their place.

The Reichstag is fighting.

Bending down, Yegorov and Kantaria run across the square. Soviet soldiers closely follow their every step. Suddenly, the Nazis opened furious fire, and the standard-bearers had to lie down behind cover. Then our fighters begin the attack again. Yegorov and Kantaria run on.

Here they are on the stairs. We ran up to the columns supporting the entrance to the building. Kantaria gives Yegorov a lift, and he tries to attach a banner at the entrance to the Reichstag.

"Oh, higher!" - breaks out from the fighters. And, as if having heard their comrades, Yegorov and Kantaria take off the banner and run on. They burst into the Reichstag and disappear behind its doors.

The fight is already on the second floor. A few minutes pass, and in one of the windows, not far from the main entrance, the Red Banner reappears. Appeared. It swayed. And disappeared again.

The soldiers were worried. What about comrades? Haven't they been killed?

A minute passes, two minutes, ten. The soldiers are getting more and more anxious. Another thirty minutes pass.

And suddenly a cry of joy breaks out from hundreds of fighters. Friends are alive. The banner is intact. Crouching, they run at the very top of the building - along the roof. So they straightened up to their full height, holding the banner in their hands and waving greetings to their comrades. Then they suddenly rush to the glazed dome, which rises above the roof of the Reichstag, and carefully begin to climb even higher.

Fighting was still going on on the square and in the building, and on the roof of the Reichstag, at the very top, in the spring sky over defeated Berlin, the Victory Banner was already fluttering confidently. Two Soviet soldiers, the Russian worker Mikhail Yegorov and the Georgian youth Militon Kantaria, and with them thousands of other fighters of different nationalities, brought him here through the war, to the very fascist lair, and set him at the fear of the enemies, as a symbol of the invincibility of Soviet weapons.

Several days passed, and the fascist generals recognized themselves as finally defeated. Nazi Germany was completely defeated. The great liberation war of the Soviet people against fascism ended in our complete victory.

It was May 1945. Thundered spring. The people and the earth rejoiced. Moscow saluted the heroes. And joy soared into the sky with lights.

Stories about the battles of the Great Patriotic War for Stalingrad. Interesting and good war stories.

Bulbul.

Some fascist pissed off Sergeant Noskov. Our trenches and the Nazis here passed side by side. Speech is heard from trench to trench.

The fascist sits in his shelter, shouting:

- Rus, tomorrow bul-bul!

That is, he wants to say that tomorrow the Nazis will break through to the Volga, throw the defenders of Stalingrad into the Volga.

- Rus, tomorrow bul-bul. - And he clarifies: - Bul-bul at Volga.

This "boom-boo" is getting on the nerves of Sergeant Noskov.

Others are calm. Some of the soldiers even chuckle. And Noskov:

- Eka, damned Fritz! Yes, show yourself. Let me take a look at you.

The Hitlerite just leaned out. Noskov looked, other soldiers looked. Reddish. Ospovat. Ears up. The cap on the crown miraculously holds.

The fascist leaned out and again:

— Boo-boo!

One of our soldiers grabbed a rifle. He jumped up and took aim.

- Don't touch! Noskov said sternly.

The soldier looked at Noskov in surprise. Shrugged. Pulled out the rifle.

Until the very evening, the eared German croaked: “Rus, tomorrow bul-bul. Tomorrow at Volga.

By evening, the fascist soldier fell silent.

“I fell asleep,” they understood in our trenches. Gradually, our soldiers began to doze. Suddenly they see someone starting to crawl out of the trench. They look - Sergeant Noskov. And behind him is his best friend, Private Turyanchik. My friends-friends got out of the trench, clung to the ground, crawled to the German trench.

The soldiers woke up. They are perplexed. Why did Noskov and Turyanchik suddenly go to visit the Nazis? The soldiers look there, to the west, their eyes break in the dark. The soldiers began to worry.

But someone said:

- Brothers, crawl back.

The second confirmed:

“That’s right, they’re coming back.

The soldiers peered - right. Creep, hugging the ground, friends. Just not two of them. Three. The fighters took a closer look: the third fascist soldier, the same one - "bul-bul". He just doesn't crawl. Noskov and Turyanchik drag him. A gag in the soldier's mouth.

Friends of the screamer were dragged into the trench. We rested and went on to the headquarters.

However, the road fled to the Volga. They grabbed the fascist by the hands, by the neck, they dipped him into the Volga.

- Boob-boo, boo-boo! shouts Turyanchik mischievously.

“Bul-bull,” the fascist blows bubbles. Shaking like an aspen leaf.

"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid," said Noskov. - Russian does not beat the lying.

The soldiers handed over the prisoner to the headquarters.

He waved goodbye to the fascist Noskov.

"Bull-bull," said Turyanchik, saying goodbye.

Evil last name. Author: Sergey Alekseev

The soldier of his surname was shy. He was unlucky at birth. His surname is Trusov.

Military time. Surname catchy.

Already in the military registration and enlistment office, when a soldier was drafted into the army, the first question was:

- Surname?

- Trusov.

- How how?

- Trusov.

- Y-yes ... - drawled the workers of the military registration and enlistment office.

The fighter got into the company.

- What's your last name?

— Private Trusov.

- How how?

— Private Trusov.

“Y-yes…” drawled the commander.

A soldier took on a lot of troubles from the surname. All around jokes and jokes:

— Looks like your ancestor was not a hero.

- In the convoy with such a name!

Will bring field mail. The soldiers will gather in a circle. Letters are being distributed. Names are called:

— Kozlov! Sizov! Smirnov!

Everything is fine. Soldiers approach, take their letters.

Shout out:

- Cowards!

Soldiers laugh all around.

The surname somehow does not fit with wartime. Woe to the soldier with this surname.

As part of his 149th separate rifle brigade, Private Trusov arrived near Stalingrad. The fighters were transported across the Volga to the right bank. The brigade went into action.

"Well, Trusov, let's see what kind of soldier you are," said the squad leader.

Trusov does not want to disgrace himself. Tries. Soldiers go on the attack. Suddenly, an enemy machine gun fired from the left. Trusov turned around. From the machine gave a turn. The enemy machine gun fell silent.

- Well done! - praised the fighter squad leader.

The soldiers ran a few more steps. The machine gun fires again.

Now to the right. Trusov turned. I approached the machine gunner. Threw a grenade. And this fascist subsided.

— Hero! the squad leader said.

The soldiers lay down. They are shooting with the Nazis. The fight is over. The soldiers of the killed enemies were counted. Twenty people ended up at the place where Private Trusov was firing.

- Oh! burst out from the squad leader. - Well, brother, your surname is evil. Evil!

Trusov smiled.

For courage and determination in battle, Private Trusov was awarded a medal.

The medal "For Courage" hangs on the hero's chest. Whoever meets it will squint its eyes at the reward.

The first question for the soldier is now:

- What was the award for, hero?

No one will ask again the name now. No one will giggle now. With malice, the word will not leave.

From now on, it is clear to the soldier: the honor of a soldier is not in the surname - the deeds of a person are painted.

Only from fragments of letters and from the recollections of soldiers can we imagine how the Germans fed Russian children, how they actually treated the Jews, how they were buried alive in the ground and how they were called nothing more than “geeks”. Only from the brief stories of veterans, who, alas, are becoming less and less every year, can we imagine what impression Molotov's speech made on the first day of the war, how our grandfathers and great-grandfathers perceived Stalin's speech. Only from stories (whether they are small or large) can we imagine how Leningraders day and night dreamed of breaking the blockade, Victory and the imminent restoration of the country.

An artistic story about the war can give a modern young man the opportunity, at least in his head, to draw what our people had to endure.

Stories about the heroes of the Great Patriotic War

In war, everyone is a hero. And it's not the number of stars on shoulder straps and not the rank. It's just that every schoolboy who picks up a shovel and goes to dig trenches is a hero. Most of the guys and girls went to the front from graduation. They were not afraid to put on military uniforms and look the enemy in the eye, so they are heroes.

In fact, a big Victory consists of small victories of individuals: a soldier, a partisan, a tanker, a sniper, a nurse, orphans; all participants in the war. Each of them contributed to the common Victory.

Remembering works about the war, the following works immediately come to mind: “The Dawns Here Are Quiet” by Boris Vasilyev about the girls at the front who did not allow the Kirov railway to be blown up, “The same author did not appear on the lists” about the defender of the Brest Fortress Nikolai Pluzhnikov, “ Survive until dawn" by Vasily Bykov about Lieutenant Igor Ivanovsky, who blew himself up with a grenade to save his comrades, "War has no woman's face" by Svetlana Aleksievich about the role of women in war and many other books. These are not stories, but large novels and novellas, so reading them is even more difficult. Everything that is written in them is probably remembered by someone's grandfather, a veteran.

On our site "Literary Salon" there are a lot of works about the war by modern authors. They write emotionally, poignantly, complexly, relying on the same letters and eyewitness accounts, on films, on the legendary Katyusha and Cranes. If you like some verse or story on our portal, you can always comment on it, ask a question about the plot and communicate directly with the author. In addition, we try to keep up with the times, so we have organized several unique sections on our resource. For example, we have a format of literary fights. These are such battles of authors on different topics. Now the topic of the Great Patriotic War is the most relevant. There are "competitions" called "Memory of the Victory" (prose), "What do we know about the war?" (prose), "Song of Victory" (poetry), "Long World War II" (poetry), "Short stories about the war for children" (prose), etc.

The second interesting format, which is presented on our website, is implemented in the "Places" section. Thanks to this section, the communication of writers can be taken beyond the Internet. The site has a map where you can select your area and see which of the authors is near you. If you are interested in someone's thoughts, you can meet him in a cafe to drink delicious coffee and talk about your literary preferences. You can also subscribe to a newsletter about new authors who appear on the site.

Stories about the Great Patriotic War for children

If we drive the query “stories about the Great Patriotic War for schoolchildren” into the search engine, we will get a lot of different results - texts aimed at different ages. It is necessary to talk with schoolchildren about the war as early as possible. Teachers today agreed that it is possible to start introducing stories about the Second World War into the program already in the first grade. Of course, these texts should be written in a simple and understandable language on topics that are understandable to the child. Stories for children should not deal with the cruelty in the concentration camps or such complex psychological aspects as the crippled fate of disabled soldiers and their wives. In fact, there are a lot of so-called taboo topics here, since war is the most cruel thing that mankind has ever seen.

Teenagers in high school can try to show popular Soviet films about the war. For example, “The Dawns Here Are Quiet”, “The Fate of a Man”, etc. But returning to the kids, it is worth noting that the stories about the war for them should be based on an accessible description of the main battles. So, literature in this version will be combined with history and a short story will give the child a lot of new knowledge.

The site "Literary Salon" has a lot of children's stories about the war from contemporary authors. These texts are very interesting, informative and at the same time adapted for understanding by children. Come to our impromptu literary salon, choose the desired topic and evaluate the quality yourself children's stories about the Great Patriotic War.

This is the story of Sergei Alekseev about the huge military operation that led to the liberation of Belarus. A story for reading in literature lessons, for family reading.

"BAGRATION"

"Bagration" - that was the name of the huge offensive operation that our troops carried out, liberating Soviet Belarus.

It took place in the summer of 1944.

Pyotr Bagration is an associate and student of Alexander Suvorov, the closest associate of Mikhail Kutuzov. It was a determined general. They called him "attack general". The Belarusian operation was just as resolute and advancing. The troops of four fronts took part in it.

The operation was being prepared for a long time and secretly. Plans were being made. The places of blows were outlined. New weapons, fuel, ammunition were brought in. The troops were concentrated in the right places.

In June 1944, the Belarusian strategic operation "Bagration" began. Immediately four fronts went on a grandiose offensive. Ours attacked from the north, east and south.

Troops rushed forward, broke the fascist defense. And here are the messages from the fronts one by one:

- Our troops surrounded the Nazis near the city of Vitebsk.

We entered Zhlobin.

The Nazis flee from Orsha.

Mogilev is taken.

The Nazis are surrounded near Bobruisk.

Slutsk taken,

And here's the most important thing. On July 3, 1944, our troops liberated the capital of Soviet Belarus, the city of Minsk. They not only liberated Minsk, but to the east of the city they surrounded the Nazis, drove them into a large "boiler". Then came the troops. And the messages come again:

- Captured Polotsk,

Molodechno,

Ours in Baranovichi!

Ours in Grodno!

Pinsk meets the liberators.

Linda is free!

Somehow, the commanders of all four fronts, who were chasing the fascists across the Byelorussian soil, gathered - generals Rokossovsky, Chernyakhovsky, Bagramyan, Zakharov. Other military leaders gathered. Together with everyone and representatives of the Headquarters of the Supreme High Command, Marshals Zhukov and Vasilevsky.

Marshal Zhukov looked at his comrades-in-arms:

- They did not shame, it turns out, the memory.

The Soviet generals guessed:

— Bagration?

“Bagration,” answered Zhukov.