Read the book "The Apostle Paul" online in full - Varlam Shalamov - MyBook. Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov - (Kolyma stories). Apostle Paul Kolyma stories apostle paul summary

Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov

Apostle Paul

Kolyma stories
“When I sprained my foot, falling off a slippery ladder of poles in a pit, it became clear to the authorities that I would be limping for a long time, and since it was impossible to sit idle, I was transferred as an assistant to our carpenter Adam Frizorger, to which both of us - Frizorger and I – were very happy…”

Varlam Shalamov

Apostle Paul

When I sprained my foot, falling off the slippery ladder of poles in the pit, it became clear to the authorities that I would be limping for a long time, and since it was impossible to sit idle, I was transferred as an assistant to our carpenter Adam Frizorger, to which both of us - both Frizorger and I - were very happy.

In his first life Frisorger was a pastor in some German village near Marksstadt on the Volga. We met him on one of the big transfers during the typhoid quarantine and came here together to the coal prospecting. Frizorger, like me, had already been in the taiga, had been a goner, and ended up half-crazy from the mine for shipment. We were sent to the coal reconnaissance as invalids, as servants - the working personnel of the reconnaissance were staffed only by civilians. True, they were yesterday's prisoners, who had just served their "term", or term, and were called in the camp by the semi-contemptuous word "freemen". During our journey, forty of these civilian employees barely had two rubles when they needed to buy shag, but still it was no longer our brother. Everyone understood that two or three months would pass, and they would dress up, they could drink, they would receive a passport, maybe even go home in a year. These hopes were all the brighter because Paramonov, the head of intelligence, promised them huge earnings and polar rations. “You’ll go home in top hats,” the boss constantly told them. With us, the prisoners, there was no talk about cylinders and polar rations.

However, he was not rude to us. Prisoners were not given to him for reconnaissance, and five people for servants - that was all that Paramonov managed to beg from his superiors.

When we, who did not yet know each other, were called from the barracks according to the list and brought before his bright and penetrating eyes, he was very pleased with the questioning. One of us was a stove-maker, a gray-whiskered wit from Yaroslavl Izgibin, who did not lose his natural briskness in the camp. His skill gave him some help, and he was not as exhausted as the others. The second was a one-eyed giant from Kamenetz-Podolsk - a "locomotive stoker", as he introduced himself to Paramonov.

“Locksmith, then you can do a little,” said Paramonov.

“I can, I can,” the stoker readily confirmed. He had long realized the benefits of working in civilian intelligence.

The third was the agronomist Ryazanov. Such a profession delighted Paramonov. Of course, no attention was paid to the torn rags in which the agronomist was dressed. In the camp, people are not met by their clothes, and Paramonov knew the camp well enough.

The story of V. Shalamov "The Apostle Paul" is the most famous from the book "Kolyma Tales". The emotional strength of the story is deeply striking, born of a sharp contrast between the inhuman conditions of life in which the heroes found themselves, and humanity that is not killed either by the regime or by camp conditions. Humanity, which may be the only chance to somehow make life easier not only for others, but also for yourself. Humanity, which always becomes a blow to the terrible political system and predicts its death. It is important to pay attention to the non-random subject of "discrepancy" that arose between the two heroes of the story. The Apostle Paul... The first simple association is a Christian motif, reminiscent of the fact that it was with the beginning of the era of Christianity that the idea of ​​the great significance of the individual and his "power" in people's lives arose (the reference mission of Jesus in this regard) .. Man saves the world saves another...

The story claims that Christianity still lives, first of all, in the soul and actions of an individual, and not in a crowd or a team, not in the idea of ​​"good", which is always the backbone of an inhumane regime, but in a simple one, as Grossman wrote in "Notes Ikonnikova", "kindness". Prayer, translated into an act filled with pity, the most human feeling, is the key to the invincible vitality of the Christian idea in people. The key to the victory of kindness over evil.

Ch. Aitmatov "Scaffold"

Ch. Aitmatov offered his artistic interpretation of the gospel story - the dispute between Jesus Christ and Pontius Pilate about truth and justice, the purpose of man on earth - in the novel "The Scaffolding Block". Jesus sees the meaning of people's existence on earth in self-improvement, following the ideals of goodness, for the sake of which he is ready to accept death. “For this I was born into the world,” Jesus says to Pilate, “to serve as an unfading example to people. So that people trust my name and come to me through suffering, through the struggle against evil in themselves from day to day, through disgust for vices, violence and bloodthirstiness ... "

Pontius Pilate does not accept the humanistic philosophy of Christ, because he believes that man is a beast, that he cannot do without wars, without blood, like flesh without salt. He sees the meaning of life in wealth and strong power.

Avdiy Kalistratov, a kind of double of Jesus Christ, enters into a duel with evil in the novel. But he is alone, and therefore powerless before evil. At first, he is brutally, half to death, beaten by the “messengers” for marijuana, and then, like Jesus Christ, the thugs from the “junta” of Ober-Kandalov are crucified. But the pain of his soul, his moral feat infect other people, induce them to join the fight against evil.

As you can see, the appeal to Christ by the writers of the 20th century is due to the idea of ​​saving our world, devoid of the "name of the saint", the tragedy of which was foreseen at the beginning of the revolution by A Yulok in his poem "The Twelve".

The article was posted on a hard-to-reach site, I duplicate it here.

The artistic world of Varlam Shalamov's "Kolyma Tales" (on the example of the stories "The Apostle Paul" and "Rain")

In our work, we propose to analyze the artistic world of V. Shalamov on the example of two stories - "Rain" and "The Apostle Paul", considering the originality of the composition, characters, chronotope, the main motives of these works.
A feature of the composition of V. Shalamov's stories is its mirror image, which emphasizes the illusory, unnatural nature of the world created by the writer. Many objects are compared and reflected in each other: prisoners and “freemen”, people and apostles, Frisorger’s reverent attitude towards his daughter and her rejection of her father (“The Apostle Paul”), pick and lever, cloak and pyramid, death and the end of the working day ("Rain"). However, the “crooked” mirror, true and false, are indistinguishable from each other, and the path to death is insurmountable, although more desirable. Shalamov assigns an important role to retreats. They help the author to create the atmosphere of Kolyma, briefly, succinctly talk about the laws of existence in the camp, achieve typification of situations and images.
All the heroes of Shalamov are united by several features. Firstly, physical and spiritual weakness, a distorted way of thinking. In the story "Rain" we have two heroes. The narrator painfully waits for the end of the work shift, comparing it with death. However, he only has enough strength to end the day. It is said about the second hero (Rozovsky) that he "rushed" under the trolley, but in reality he only put his foot under the wheel. Neither one nor the other has the strength to do really bold deeds. The hero of the story "The Apostle Paul" Frizorger is also powerless - before the betrayal of his daughter, the indifference of the authorities. Another feature that unites the characters is the desire to close themselves off from others: Adam Frisorger fences himself off with a wall of “his sweet peaceful smile” from everything around; the heroes of the story "Rain" are closed, each in his own pit.
The main motifs of the stories are the motif of life and death, the motif of freedom and lack of freedom, the motif of loneliness. All of them show a terrible, unnatural displacement of boundaries in the human mind between the basic philosophical concepts: life and non-existence, freedom and bondage. The line between life and death in the story "Rain" is transparent, moreover, life and death seem to have merged here. Survival means hurting yourself, crippling yourself. The hero, proving that he is alive, turns to a dead stone, hoping that he will help. Man relies only on himself, his plan and stone. This is how another motive manifests itself - the motive of the total loneliness of a person in the face of life and death. Everything that Frisorger believed in in the story “The Apostle Paul” also died: no one needs his faith anymore, and he himself confuses names and concepts, and the only close person, the daughter, abandoned her father. Life becomes an illusion that is sustained only by the unknown.
Another motive is freedom and lack of freedom. The man in the camp is limited by the boundaries of the walls and fences, but he is even more limited by the internal frames. The ability to think clearly, to see the bright side of people and situations, is lost. There is a comprehensive fear that haunts throughout the rest of his life. Frizorger is limited by his "shell", Paramonov (head of the camp) - by a mask, the narrator - by the lack of faith. In the story "Rain" people are so internally not free that suicide is impossible for them.
The deformations of the world of Kolyma are also revealed at the level of the chronotope of stories. The closeness of space is indicated not only by the very fact of the conclusion. The heroes of the story "Rain" are also limited by the space of the pit, in other words, the pit, one of the symbolic meanings of which is the grave. The action of the story "The Apostle Paul" takes place in a coal mine. Characters too
you have to go down as deep as possible, dig pits and mines. It seems that they "burrow" from the outer life, go deeper and deeper underground, change more and more, become further and further from the former, "first" life. “Closed” is not only the prisoners, but all the authorities. The foreman's cloak in the story "Rain" resembles a pyramid - a place of ancient burials; Paramonov
from the story "The Apostle Paul" hides behind a mask of unnatural enthusiasm and false smiles. Closed space also affects the internal state of people. The captivity of the body turned into the captivity of the soul, hence the distortion of the human qualities of the heroes, the wrong idea of ​​good and evil. Often they do not even understand where is the truth and where is the illusion. The feeling of illusion, distortion is also enhanced by the image of rain in the story of the same name. Time is also blurred by rain, it is not known when it will end, and the heroes do not know what to expect. The time in the story "The Apostle Paul" is also not precisely defined, and the characters understand this well. From this and dislike for the "freemen", who will soon be able to go home; the prisoners know nothing about their future. The motif of half, division into two parts is involved in creating the image of time. From the first lines it is said about Frisorger's "past" life. It is obvious that he himself very clearly distinguishes between the life "that" and the life of the present, although he continues to look for at least something that will connect him with his past. Thus, the spatio-temporal organization of V. Shalamov's stories shows deformations not only in the external environment, but also in the souls of the characters.
After analyzing the stories "The Apostle Paul" and "Rain", we came to the conclusion that in his works Varlam Shalamov paints a picture of a cruel, inhuman, unnatural world, where the most terrible thing happens - the "dehumanization" of man. The creation of such a picture is facilitated by the originality of the composition, the main motives, the images of the characters, the features of the chronotope of the stories.

M. A. Elzenbakh, lyceum No. 124, 11 class.
Supervisor — N. N. Martyushova, teacher of the highest category

When I sprained my foot, falling off the slippery ladder of poles in the pit, it became clear to the authorities that I would be limping for a long time, and since it was impossible to sit idle, I was transferred as an assistant to our carpenter Adam Frizorger, to which both of us - both Frizorger and I - were very happy.

In his first life Frisorger was a pastor in some German village near Marksstadt on the Volga. We met him on one of the big transfers during the typhoid quarantine and came here together to the coal prospecting. Frizorger, like me, had already been in the taiga, had been a goner, and ended up half-crazy from the mine for shipment. We were sent to the coal reconnaissance as invalids, as servants - the working personnel of the reconnaissance were staffed only by civilians. True, they were yesterday's prisoners, who had just served their "term", or term, and were called in the camp by the semi-contemptuous word "freemen". During our journey, forty of these civilian employees barely had two rubles when they needed to buy shag, but still it was no longer our brother. Everyone understood that two or three months would pass, and they would dress up, they could drink, they would receive a passport, maybe even go home in a year. These hopes were all the brighter because Paramonov, the head of intelligence, promised them huge earnings and polar rations. “You will go home in top hats,” the boss constantly told them. With us, the prisoners, there was no talk about cylinders and polar rations.

However, he was not rude to us. Prisoners were not given to him for reconnaissance, and five people for servants - that was all that Paramonov managed to beg from his superiors.

When we, who did not yet know each other, were called from the barracks according to the list and brought before his bright and penetrating eyes, he was very pleased with the questioning. One of us was a stove-maker, a gray-whiskered wit from Yaroslavl Izgibin, who did not lose his natural briskness in the camp. His skill gave him some help, and he was not as exhausted as the others. The second was a one-eyed giant from Kamenetz-Podolsk - a "locomotive stoker", as he introduced himself to Paramonov.

Locksmith, then you can do a little, - said Paramonov.

I can, I can,” the stoker readily confirmed. He had long realized the benefits of working in civilian intelligence.

The third was the agronomist Ryazanov. Such a profession delighted Paramonov. Of course, no attention was paid to the torn rags in which the agronomist was dressed. In the camp, people are not met by their clothes, and Paramonov knew the camp well enough.

I was the fourth. I was neither a stove-maker, nor a mechanic, nor an agronomist. But my high growth, apparently, calmed Paramonov, and it was not worth bothering with correcting the list because of one person. He nodded his head.

But our fifth behaved very strangely. He muttered the words of a prayer and covered his face with his hands, not hearing Paramonov's voice. But this was not new to the chief. Paramonov turned to the contractor, who was standing right there and holding in his hands a yellow pile of folders - the so-called "personal files".

This is a carpenter, - said the contractor, guessing Paramonov's question. The reception was over, and we were taken to reconnaissance.

Frizorger later told me that when he was summoned, he thought that he was being summoned to be shot, so he was intimidated by the investigator at the mine. We lived with him for a whole year in the same barracks, and there was no case that we quarreled with each other. This is a rarity among prisoners both in the camp and in prison. Quarrels arise over trifles, instantly swearing reaches such a degree that it seems that the next step can only be a knife or, at best, some kind of poker. But I quickly learned not to attach much importance to this pompous swearing. The heat quickly subsided, and if both continued to lazily scold for a long time, then this was done more for order, to save “face”.

But I never quarreled with Frizorger. I think that this was the merit of Frisorger, for there was no person more peaceful than him. He didn't insult anyone, he didn't talk much. His voice was senile, rattling, but somehow artificially, emphasized rattling. In the theater, young actors playing old people speak in such a voice. In the camp, many try (and not unsuccessfully) to show themselves older and physically weaker than they really are. All this is done not always with conscious calculation, but somehow instinctively. The irony of life here is that more than half of the people who add years to themselves and reduce their strength have reached a state even more difficult than they want to show.

Every morning and evening he silently prayed, turning away from everyone and looking at the floor, and if he took part in general conversations, then only on religious topics, that is, very rarely, because prisoners do not like religious topics. The old bawdy fellow, dearest Izgibin, tried to make fun of Frizorger, but his witticisms were met with such a peaceful smile that Kgibin's charge was empty. Frizorger was loved by all intelligence and even Paramonov himself, to whom Frizorger made a wonderful desk, having worked on it, it seems, for half a year.

Our bunks stood side by side, we often talked, and sometimes Frisorger was surprised, waving his small hands like a child, when he met with me the knowledge of any popular gospel stories - material that, due to the simplicity of his soul, he considered the property of only a narrow circle of religious people. He chuckled and was very pleased when I discovered such knowledge. And, inspired, he began to tell me the gospel that I did not remember firmly or that I did not know at all. He really enjoyed these conversations.

But once, listing the names of the twelve apostles, Frisorger made a mistake. He named the apostle Paul. I, who, with all the self-confidence of an ignoramus, always considered the Apostle Paul the real founder of the Christian religion, its main theoretical leader, knew a little about the biography of this apostle and did not miss the opportunity to correct Frisorger.

No, no, - Friezorger said, laughing, - you don't know, here. - And he began to bend his fingers. - Peter, Paul, Markus...

I told him everything I knew about the apostle Paul. He listened to me attentively and remained silent. It was already late, it was time for bed. At night I woke up and in the flickering, smoky light of the oil lamp I saw that Frisorger's eyes were open, and I heard a whisper: “Lord, help me! Peter, Paul, Markus…” He did not sleep until morning. In the morning he left for work early, and in the evening he came late, when I had already fallen asleep. I was awakened by the soft cry of an old man. Friezorger knelt down and prayed.

What's wrong with you? I asked, waiting for the end of the prayer.

Friezorger found my hand and shook it.

You are right, he said. - Paul was not among the twelve apostles. I forgot about Bartholomew.

I was silent.

Are you surprised by my tears? - he said. These are tears of shame. I could not, should not have forgotten such things. This is a sin, a big sin. To me, Adam Frisorger, a stranger points out my unforgivable mistake. No, no, you are not to blame for anything - it's me, it's my sin. But it's good that you corrected me. Everything will be fine.

I barely calmed him, and from that time (it was not long before the dislocation of the foot) we became even better friends.

Once, when there was no one in the carpentry shop, Frisorger took a greasy cloth wallet from his pocket and beckoned me to the window.

Here, - he said, holding out to me a tiny broken photo - "instant". It was a photograph of a young woman, with a kind of casual, as in all snapshots, facial expression. The yellowed, cracked photograph was carefully pasted over with colored paper.

This is my daughter,” Frisorger said solemnly. - The only daughter. My wife died long ago. My daughter does not write to me, however, she probably does not know the address. I wrote to her a lot and now I write. Only to her. I don't show this photo to anyone. I'm taking this from home. Six years ago I took it from the chest of drawers.

Paramonov silently entered the workshop door.

Daughter, right? he said, glancing quickly at the photo.

Daughter, citizen chief, - said Frizorger, smiling.

Why did she forget the old man? Write me a statement about the search, I'll send it. How is your leg?

I'm limping, citizen chief.

Well, hobble, hobble. - Paramonov left. From that time on, no longer hiding from me, Frisorger, having finished the evening prayer and lay down on his bed, took out a photograph of his daughter and stroked the colored headband.

So we lived peacefully for about six months, when one day they brought mail. Paramonov was away, and the mail was received by his secretary from the prisoners of Ryazan, who turned out to be not an agronomist at all, but some kind of Esperantist, which, however, did not prevent him from deftly skinning fallen horses, bending thick iron pipes, filling them with sand and heating them up. at the stake, and lead the entire office of the chief.

Look, - he told me, - what a statement addressed to Frisorger was sent.

The package contained a government letter with a request to acquaint the prisoner Frizorger (article, term) with the statement of his daughter, a copy of which was attached. In the statement, she briefly and clearly wrote that, having convinced herself that her father was an enemy of the people, she renounced him and asked to consider the relationship as not former.

Ryazanov turned the paper over in his hands.

What a mess, he said. - Why does she need it? Is he joining the party?

I thought about something else: why send such statements to the prisoner father? Is this a kind of peculiar sadism, like the practice of notifying relatives of the imaginary death of a prisoner, or simply a desire to do everything according to the law? Or something else?

Listen, Vanyushka, I said to Ryazanov. - Did you register mail?

Where, just now came.

Give me this package. - And I told Ryazanov what the matter was.

And the letter? he said uncertainly. She will probably write to him too.

You will also delay the letter.

Well, take it.

I crumpled up the package and threw it into the open door of the burning stove.

A month later, a letter arrived, as short as the statement, and we burned it in the same stove.

Soon they took me somewhere, but Frizorger stayed, and I don’t know how he lived on. I often remembered him as long as I had the strength to remember. Heard his trembling, excited whisper: “Peter, Paul, Markus…”

Apostle Paul

When I sprained my foot, falling off the slippery ladder of poles in the pit, it became clear to the authorities that I would be limping for a long time, and since it was impossible to sit idle, I was transferred as an assistant to our carpenter Adam Frizorger, to which both of us - both Frizorger and I - were very happy.

In his first life Frisorger was a pastor in some German village near Marksstadt on the Volga. We met him on one of the big transfers during the typhoid quarantine and came here together to the coal prospecting. Frizorger, like me, had already been in the taiga, had been a goner, and ended up half-crazy from the mine for shipment. We were sent to the coal reconnaissance as invalids, as servants - the working personnel of the reconnaissance were staffed only by civilians. True, they were yesterday's prisoners, who had just served their "term", or term, and were called in the camp by the semi-contemptuous word "freemen". During our journey, forty of these civilian employees barely had two rubles when they needed to buy shag, but still it was no longer our brother. Everyone understood that two or three months would pass, and they would dress up, they could drink, they would receive a passport, maybe even go home in a year. These hopes were all the brighter because Paramonov, the head of intelligence, promised them huge earnings and polar rations. “You’ll go home in top hats,” the boss constantly told them. With us, the prisoners, there was no talk about cylinders and polar rations.

However, he was not rude to us. Prisoners were not given to him for reconnaissance, and five people for servants - that was all that Paramonov managed to beg from his superiors.

When we, who did not yet know each other, were called from the barracks according to the list and brought before his bright and penetrating eyes, he was very pleased with the questioning. One of us was a stove-maker, a gray-whiskered wit from Yaroslavl Izgibin, who did not lose his natural briskness in the camp. His skill gave him some help, and he was not as exhausted as the others. The second was a one-eyed giant from Kamenetz-Podolsk - a "locomotive stoker", as he introduced himself to Paramonov.

“Locksmith, then you can do a little,” said Paramonov.

“I can, I can,” the stoker readily confirmed. He had long realized the benefits of working in civilian intelligence.

The third was the agronomist Ryazanov. Such a profession delighted Paramonov. Of course, no attention was paid to the torn rags in which the agronomist was dressed. In the camp, people are not met by their clothes, and Paramonov knew the camp well enough.

I was the fourth. I was neither a stove-maker, nor a mechanic, nor an agronomist. But my high growth, apparently, calmed Paramonov, and it was not worth bothering with correcting the list because of one person. He nodded his head.

But our fifth behaved very strangely. He muttered the words of a prayer and covered his face with his hands, not hearing Paramonov's voice. But this was not new to the chief. Paramonov turned to the contractor, who was standing right there and holding in his hands a yellow pile of folders - the so-called "personal files".

“This is a carpenter,” said the contractor, guessing Paramonov's question. The reception was over, and we were taken to reconnaissance.

Frizorger later told me that when he was summoned, he thought that he was being summoned to be shot, so he was intimidated by the investigator at the mine. We lived with him for a whole year in the same barracks, and there was no case that we quarreled with each other. This is a rarity among prisoners both in the camp and in prison. Quarrels arise over trifles, instantly swearing reaches such a degree that it seems that the next step can only be a knife or, at best, some kind of poker. But I quickly learned not to attach much importance to this pompous swearing. The heat quickly subsided, and if both continued to lazily scold for a long time, then this was done more for order, to save “face”.

But I never quarreled with Frizorger. I think that this was the merit of Frisorger, for there was no person more peaceful than him. He didn't insult anyone, he didn't talk much. His voice was senile, rattling, but somehow artificially, emphasized rattling. In the theater, young actors playing old people speak in such a voice. In the camp, many try (and not unsuccessfully) to show themselves older and physically weaker than they really are. All this is done not always with conscious calculation, but somehow instinctively. The irony of life here is that more than half of the people who add years to themselves and reduce their strength have reached a state even more difficult than they want to show.

Every morning and evening he silently prayed, turning away from everyone and looking at the floor, and if he took part in general conversations, then only on religious topics, that is, very rarely, because prisoners do not like religious topics. The old bawdy fellow, dearest Izgibin, tried to make fun of Frizorger, but his witticisms were met with such a peaceful smile that Kgibin's charge was empty. Frizorger was loved by all intelligence and even Paramonov himself, to whom Frizorger made a wonderful desk, having worked on it, it seems, for half a year.

Our bunks stood side by side, we often talked, and sometimes Frisorger was surprised, waving his small hands like a child, when he met with me the knowledge of any popular gospel stories - material that, due to the simplicity of his soul, he considered the property of only a narrow circle of religious people. He chuckled and was very pleased when I discovered such knowledge. And, inspired, he began to tell me the gospel that I did not remember firmly or that I did not know at all. He really enjoyed these conversations.

But once, listing the names of the twelve apostles, Frisorger made a mistake. He named the apostle Paul. I, who, with all the self-confidence of an ignoramus, always considered the Apostle Paul the real founder of the Christian religion, its main theoretical leader, knew a little about the biography of this apostle and did not miss the opportunity to correct Frisorger.

“No, no,” Friezorger said, laughing, “you don’t know, here. And he began to curl his fingers. Peter, Paul, Markus...

I told him everything I knew about the apostle Paul. He listened to me attentively and remained silent. It was already late, it was time for bed. At night I woke up and in the flickering, smoky light of the oil lamp I saw that Frisorger's eyes were open, and I heard a whisper: “Lord, help me! Peter, Paul, Markus…” He did not sleep until morning. In the morning he left for work early, and in the evening he came late, when I had already fallen asleep. I was awakened by the soft cry of an old man. Friezorger knelt down and prayed.

- What's wrong with you? I asked, waiting for the end of the prayer.

Friezorger found my hand and shook it.

“You are right,” he said. Paul was not among the twelve apostles. I forgot about Bartholomew.

I was silent.

Are you surprised by my tears? - he said. “Those are tears of shame. I could not, should not have forgotten such things. This is a sin, a big sin. To me, Adam Frisorger, a stranger points out my unforgivable mistake. No, no, you are not to blame for anything - it's me, it's my sin. But it's good that you corrected me. Everything will be fine.

I barely calmed him, and from that time (it was not long before the dislocation of the foot) we became even better friends.

Once, when there was no one in the carpentry shop, Frisorger took a greasy cloth wallet from his pocket and beckoned me to the window.

“Here,” he said, handing me a tiny, broken-down snapshot. It was a photograph of a young woman, with a kind of casual, as in all snapshots, facial expression. The yellowed, cracked photograph was carefully pasted over with colored paper.

"That's my daughter," Frisorger said solemnly. - Only daughter. My wife died long ago. My daughter does not write to me, however, she probably does not know the address. I wrote to her a lot and now I write. Only to her. I don't show this photo to anyone. I'm taking this from home. Six years ago I took it from the chest of drawers.

Paramonov silently entered the workshop door.

- Daughter, right? he said, quickly looking at the photo.

“Daughter, citizen chief,” Frisorger said, smiling.

Why did she forget the old man? Write me a statement about the search, I'll send it. How is your leg?

- I'm limping, citizen chief.

- Well, limp, limp. - Paramonov left. From that time on, no longer hiding from me, Frisorger, having finished the evening prayer and lay down on his bed, took out a photograph of his daughter and stroked the colored headband.

So we lived peacefully for about six months, when one day they brought mail. Paramonov was away, and the mail was received by his secretary from the prisoners of Ryazan, who turned out to be not an agronomist at all, but some kind of Esperantist, which, however, did not prevent him from deftly skinning fallen horses, bending thick iron pipes, filling them with sand and heating them up. at the stake, and lead the entire office of the chief.

“Look,” he said to me, “what a statement addressed to Friesorger was sent.

The package contained a government letter with a request to acquaint the prisoner Frizorger (article, term) with the statement of his daughter, a copy of which was attached. In the statement, she briefly and clearly wrote that, having convinced herself that her father was an enemy of the people, she renounced him and asked to consider the relationship as not former.

Ryazanov turned the paper over in his hands.

“What a mess,” he said. What does she need it for? Is he joining the party?

I thought about something else: why send such statements to the prisoner father? Is this a kind of peculiar sadism, like the practice of notifying relatives of the imaginary death of a prisoner, or simply a desire to do everything according to the law? Or something else?

“Listen, Vanyushka,” I said to Ryazanov. - Have you registered your mail?

“Where are you, just now.

Give me this package. “And I told Ryazanov what the matter was.