In the novel All Quiet on the Western Front, one of the most characteristic works of literature of the “lost generation,” Remarque depicted everyday life at the front, which preserved the soldiers only elementary forms of solidarity that rallied them in the face of death.

Erich Maria Remarque

All Quiet on the Western Front

I

This book is neither an accusation nor a confession. This is just an attempt to tell about the generation that was destroyed by the war, about those who became its victims, even if they escaped from the shells.

We are standing nine kilometers from the front line. Yesterday we were replaced; now our stomachs are stuffed with beans and meat, and we all walk around well-fed and satisfied. Even for supper each got a pot full; moreover, we get a double portion of bread and sausage - in a word, we live well. This has not happened to us for a long time: our kitchen god with his bald head, crimson like a tomato, himself invites us to eat more; he waves the scoop, beckoning the passers-by, and pours them hefty portions. He still does not empty his "peep-gun", and this leads him to despair. Tjaden and Müller got hold of a few cans from somewhere and filled them to the brim as a reserve. Tjaden did it out of gluttony, Mueller out of caution. Where everything that Tjaden eats goes is a mystery to all of us. He still remains as skinny as a herring.

But most importantly, the smoke was also served in double portions. There are ten cigars, twenty cigarettes and two sticks of chewing tobacco for each. In general, pretty decent. I exchanged Kutchinsky's cigarettes for my tobacco, and now I have forty. You can last one day.

But, as a matter of fact, we are not entitled to all this at all. The bosses are not capable of such generosity. We were just lucky.

Two weeks ago we were sent to the front line to change another unit. It was quite calm in our area, so by the day of our return the captenarmus received allowance according to the usual layout and ordered to cook for a company of one hundred and fifty people. But just on the last day, the British suddenly threw in their heavy "meat grinders", unpleasant contraptions, and beat them on our trenches for so long that we suffered heavy losses, and only eighty people returned from the front line.

We arrived at the rear at night and immediately stretched out on bunks to get a good night's sleep first; Kutchinsky is right: it would not be so bad in war if only you could get more sleep. After all, you never really sleep on the front lines, and two weeks drag on for a long time.

When the first of us began to crawl out of the barracks, it was already noon. Half an hour later, we grabbed our pots and gathered at our dear "peep-gun", which smelled of something rich and tasty. Of course, the first in line were those who always have the greatest appetite: short man Albert Kropp, the lightest head in our company and, probably, therefore, only recently promoted to corporal; Muller the Fifth, who still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing the preferential exams; under a hurricane of fire he cramps the laws of physics; Leer, who wears a thick beard and has a soft spot for brothel girls for officers; he swears that there is an order from the army, obliging these girls to wear silk underwear, and before receiving visitors with the rank of captain and above, to take a bath; the fourth is me, Paul Beumer. All four of them are nineteen years old, all four went to the front from the same class.

Immediately behind us are our friends: Tjaden, a locksmith, a puny young man of the same age with us, the most voracious soldier in the company - he sits down thin and slender at food, and after eating, he gets up pot-bellied, like a sucking bug; Haye Vesthus, also our age, a peat bog worker, who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask: “Well, guess what’s in my fist?”; Detering, a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife; and, finally, Stanislav Katchinsky, the soul of our department, a man of character, clever and cunning - he is forty years old, he has an sallow face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders, and an extraordinary sense of when the shelling will begin, where you can get some food and how best to hide from superiors.

Remarque Erich Maria.

Quiet on the Western Front. Return (collection)

© The Estate of the Late Paulette Remarque, 1929, 1931,

© Translation. Yu Afonkin, heirs, 2010

© Edition in Russian by AST Publishers, 2010

All Quiet on the Western Front

This book is neither an accusation nor a confession. This is just an attempt to tell about the generation that was destroyed by the war, about those who became its victims, even if they escaped from the shells.

I

We are standing nine kilometers from the front line. Yesterday we were replaced; now our stomachs are stuffed with beans and meat, and we all walk around well-fed and satisfied. Even for supper each got a pot full; moreover, we get a double portion of bread and sausage - in a word, we live well. This has not happened to us for a long time: our kitchen god with his bald head, crimson like a tomato, himself invites us to eat more; he waves the scoop, beckoning the passers-by, and pours them hefty portions. He still does not empty his "peep-gun", and this leads him to despair. Tjaden and Müller got hold of a few cans from somewhere and filled them to the brim as a reserve. Tjaden did it out of gluttony, Mueller out of caution. Where everything that Tjaden eats goes is a mystery to all of us. He still remains as skinny as a herring.

But most importantly, the smoke was also served in double portions. There are ten cigars, twenty cigarettes and two sticks of chewing tobacco for each. In general, pretty decent. I exchanged Kutchinsky's cigarettes for my tobacco, and now I have forty. You can last one day.

But, as a matter of fact, we are not entitled to all this at all. The bosses are not capable of such generosity. We were just lucky.

Two weeks ago we were sent to the front line to replace another unit. It was quite calm in our area, so by the day of our return the captenarmus received allowance according to the usual layout and ordered to cook for a company of one hundred and fifty people. But just on the last day, the British suddenly threw in their heavy "meat grinders", unpleasant contraptions, and beat them on our trenches for so long that we suffered heavy losses, and only eighty people returned from the front line.

We arrived at the rear at night and immediately stretched out on bunks to get a good night's sleep first; Kutchinsky is right: it would not be so bad in war if only you could get more sleep. After all, you never really sleep on the front lines, and two weeks drag on for a long time.

When the first of us began to crawl out of the barracks, it was already noon. Half an hour later, we grabbed our pots and gathered at our dear "peep-gun", which smelled of something rich and tasty. Of course, the first in line were those who always have the greatest appetite: short man Albert Kropp, the lightest head in our company and, probably, therefore, only recently promoted to corporal; Müller the Fifth, who still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing preferential exams: under a hurricane of fire he cramps the laws of physics; Leer, who wears a thick beard and has a weakness for girls from brothels for officers: he swears that there is an order from the army, obliging these girls to wear silk underwear, and before receiving visitors with the rank of captain and above, take a bath; the fourth is me, Paul Beumer.

All four of them are nineteen years old, all four went to the front from the same class.

Immediately behind us are our friends: Tjaden, a locksmith, a puny young man of the same age with us, the most voracious soldier in the company - he sits down thin and slender for food, and after eating, he gets up pot-bellied, like a sucking bug; Haye Vesthus, also our age, a peat bog worker, who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask: “Well, guess what’s in my fist?”; Detering, a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife; and, finally, Stanislav Katchinsky, the soul of our department, a man of character, clever and cunning - he is forty years old, he has an sallow face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders and an extraordinary nose about when the shelling will begin, where you can get some food and how it is best to hide from the authorities.

Our department was at the head of the line in front of the kitchen. We became impatient as the unsuspecting chef was still waiting for something.

Finally Katchinsky shouted to him:

- Well, open up your glutton, Heinrich! And so you can see that the beans are cooked!

The cook shook his head sleepily.

- Let everyone get together first.

Tjaden grinned.

- And we are all here!

The chef still didn't notice anything:

- Hold your pocket wider! Where are the others?

- They are not on your allowance today! Who is in the infirmary, and who is in the ground!

Upon learning of what had happened, the kitchen god was smitten. He was even shaken:

- And I cooked for a hundred and fifty people!

Kropp poked him in the side with his fist.

“So we’ll eat our fill at least once. Come on, start the distribution!

At that moment, a sudden thought struck Tiaden. His face, sharp as a mouse's muzzle, lit up, his eyes narrowed slyly, his cheekbones began to play, and he came closer:

- Heinrich, my friend, so you got bread for a hundred and fifty people?

The dumbfounded chef nodded absently.

Tjaden grabbed him by the chest.

- And the sausage too?

The cook nodded his tomato-purple head again. Thiaden's jaw dropped.

- And tobacco?

- Well, yes, that's all.

Tjaden turned to us, his face beaming:

“Damn it, that's lucky! After all, now everything will get to us! It will be - wait! - it is, exactly two servings per nose!

But then the Tomato came to life again and declared:

- It won't work that way.

Now we, too, shook off sleep and squeezed closer.

- Hey you, carrot, why won't it work? Katchinsky asked.

- Yes, because eighty is not a hundred and fifty!

“We’ll show you how to do it,” grumbled Mueller.

“You’ll get the soup, so be it, but I’ll give out bread and sausage only for eighty,” Tomato continued to persist.

Kutchinsky lost his temper:

- Send you yourself once to the front line! You got food not for eighty men, but for the second company, basta. And you will give them away! The second company is us.

We took the Pomodoro into circulation. Everyone disliked him: more than once, due to his fault, lunch or dinner fell into our trenches cooled down, with a great delay, since at the most trifling fire he did not dare to drive closer with his cauldron and our food carriers had to crawl much farther than their brethren from other mouths. Here is Bulke from the first company, he was much better. Although he was fat as a hamster, if necessary, he dragged his kitchen almost to the most advanced.

We were in a very belligerent mood, and, probably, it would have come to a fight if the company commander had not appeared at the scene. When he found out what we were arguing about, he only said:

- Yes, yesterday we had big losses ...

Then he looked into the cauldron:

- And the beans, it seems, are not bad.

The tomato nodded.

- With lard and beef.

The lieutenant looked at us. He understood what we were thinking. In general, he understood a lot - after all, he himself came from our midst: he came to the company as a non-commissioned officer. He lifted the cauldron lid once more and sniffed. As he left, he said:

- Bring me a plate too. And distribute portions to everyone. Why should the good be lost.

The face of the Tomato took on a stupid expression. Tjaden danced around him:

- Nothing, you will not be lost from this! Imagines he is in charge of the entire quartermaster office. Now start, you old rat, but be careful not to miscalculate! ..

- Get lost, gallows! - Tomato hissed. He was ready to burst with anger; everything that happened did not fit into his head, he did not understand what was happening in this world. And as if wishing to show that now everything is one for him, he himself distributed another half a pound of artificial honey to his brother.

It's been a really good day today. Even the mail came; almost everyone received several letters and newspapers. Now we are slowly wandering into the meadow behind the barracks. Kropp carries a round margarine barrel lid under his arm.

On the right edge of the meadow there is a large soldier's lavatory - a well-cut structure under the roof. However, it is only of interest to recruits who have not yet learned how to benefit from everything. We are looking for something better for ourselves. The fact is that in the meadow here and there there are single cabins designed for the same purpose. These are rectangular drawers, neat, made entirely of planks, closed on all sides, with a gorgeous, very comfortable seat. They have handles on the side so that the cabins can be carried.

We move the three cabins together, put them in a circle and sit down slowly. We will not get up from our seats in less than two hours.

I still remember how shy we were at first, when the recruits lived in the barracks and for the first time we had to use the common toilet. There are no doors, twenty people are sitting side by side, like in a tram. They can be surveyed with one glance - after all, the soldier must always be under supervision.

Since then, we have learned to overcome not only our bashfulness, but also many other things. Over time, we also got used to not such things.

Here, in the fresh air, this activity gives us real pleasure. I don’t know why we were embarrassed to talk about these items before - after all, they are as natural as food and drink. Perhaps it would not be worthwhile to talk about them especially if they did not play such an essential role in our life, and if their naturalness would not be new to us - precisely for us, because for others it has always been an obvious truth.

For a soldier, the stomach and digestion constitute a special area that is closer to him than to all other people. Three-quarters of his vocabulary is borrowed from this sphere, and it is here that the soldier finds those colors with the help of which he is able to express both the greatest joy and the deepest indignation in such a rich and original way. No other dialect can be expressed more succinctly and clearly. When we get home, our family and our teachers will be very surprised, but what can you do - everyone here speaks this language.

For us, all these body functions have again acquired their innocent character due to the fact that we involuntarily send them out in public. Moreover: we are so unaccustomed to see something shameful in this that the opportunity to do our business in a comfortable atmosphere is regarded by us, I would say, as highly as a beautifully executed combination in a slope 1
Skat is a card game widespread in Germany. - Hereinafter, note. per.

With sure odds of winning. It is not for nothing that the expression “news from latrines” arose in the German language, which denotes all kinds of chatter; Where else can a soldier chat if not in these corners that replace his traditional place at a table in a pub?

Now we feel better than in the most comfortable toilet with white tiled walls. There can be clean - and nothing more; it's just good here.

Surprisingly thoughtless hours ... Above us is the blue sky. Brightly lit yellow balloons and white clouds - the explosions of anti-aircraft shells - hung on the horizon. Sometimes they take off in a high sheaf - these are anti-aircraft gunners hunting for an airplane.

The muffled hum of the front reaches us only very faintly, like a distant, distant thunderstorm. As soon as the bumblebee buzzes, this hum is no longer heard at all.

A flowering meadow is spreading around us. Gentle grass panicles sway, cabbage plants flutter; they float in the soft, warm air of late summer; we read letters and newspapers and smoke, we take off our caps and put them next to us, the wind plays with our hair, it plays with our words and thoughts.

Three booths stand among the fiery red flowers of the field poppy ...

We put the margarine lid on our knees. It is convenient to play scat on it. Kropp brought the cards with him. Each skat knight alternates with a rams game. You can sit for such a game for ages.

The sounds of a harmonica fly to us from the barracks. Sometimes we lay down cards and look at each other. Then someone says: "Eh, guys ..." or: "But a little more, and we would all be covered ..." - and we are silent for a minute. We surrender ourselves to an imperious feeling driven inside, each of us feels its presence, words are not needed here. How easy it could be that today we no longer have to sit in these booths - after all, damn it, we were on the verge of it. And that is why everything around is perceived so sharply and anew - scarlet poppies and hearty food, cigarettes and a summer breeze.

Kropp asks:

- Have any of you seen Kemmerich since then?

“He’s in Saint-Joseph, in the infirmary,” I say.

“He's got a perforating hip wound - a sure way to get home,” says Mueller.

We decide to visit Kemmerich this afternoon.

Kropp pulls out a letter:

- Greetings to you from Kantorek.

We are laughing. Müller drops his cigarette butt and says:

- I wish he was here.

Kantorek, a stern little man in a gray frock coat, with a face as sharp as a mouse's face, was our great mentor. He was about the same height as NCO Himmelstoss, "Klosterberg's Thunderstorm." By the way, oddly enough, all sorts of troubles and misfortunes in this world very often come from people of small stature: they have a much more energetic and quarrelsome character than tall people. I have always tried not to get into the unit where the companies are commanded by short officers: they are always terribly nagging.

In gymnastics lessons, Kantorek made speeches in front of us and in the end made sure that our class, in formation, under his command, went to the district military administration, where we signed up as volunteers.

I remember now how he looked at us, glinting with the glass of his glasses, and asked in a sincere voice: "You, of course, will also go with everyone, won't you, my friends?"

These educators will always have high feelings, because they carry them at the ready in their waistcoat pocket and give them out as needed in lesson. But then we did not think about it yet.

True, one of us still hesitated and didn't really want to go along with everyone. It was Josef Boehm, a fat, good-natured guy. But he still succumbed to persuasion, otherwise he would have closed all the ways for himself. Perhaps there were still some who thought like him, but staying aloof didn’t smile at anyone either, because at that time everyone, even their parents, so easily threw the word “coward”. Nobody just had any idea how things would turn out. In fact, the smartest people turned out to be the poor and simple - from the very first day they accepted the war as a misfortune, while everyone who lived better lost their heads with joy, although they could have figured out much more quickly why all this will lead.

Katchinsky claims that this is all from education, from it, they say, people become stupid. And Kat does not throw words to the wind.

And it so happened that Boehm was one of the first to die. During the attack, he was wounded in the face, and we considered him killed. We could not take it with us, as we had to hastily retreat. In the afternoon we suddenly heard him cry; he crawled in front of the trenches and called for help. During the battle, he only lost consciousness. Blind and distraught with pain, he no longer looked for cover, and he was shot down before we could pick him up.

Of course, you cannot blame Kantorek for this - to blame him for what he did would mean going very far. After all, there were thousands of Kantoreks, and all of them were convinced that in this way they were doing a good deed, without bothering themselves too much.

But this is precisely what makes them bankrupt in our eyes.

They should have helped us, eighteen years old, to enter the time of maturity, into the world of work, duty, culture and progress, to become intermediaries between us and our future. Sometimes we made fun of them, we could sometimes make a joke to them, but deep down we believed them. Recognizing their authority, we mentally associated knowledge of life and foresight with this concept. But as soon as we saw the first person killed, this conviction was shattered to dust. We realized that their generation is not as honest as ours; their superiority lay only in the fact that they knew how to speak beautifully and possessed a certain dexterity. The very first artillery bombardment revealed our delusion to us, and under this fire the worldview that they instilled in us collapsed.

They were still writing articles and giving speeches, and we had already seen infirmaries and dying; they still insisted that there is nothing higher than serving the state, and we already knew that the fear of death is stronger. Because of this, none of us became either a rebel, or a deserter, or a coward (after all, they threw themselves so easily with these words): we loved our homeland no less than they did, and never wavered, going on the attack; but now we have understood something, as if we suddenly saw the light. And we saw that nothing remained of their world. We suddenly found ourselves in a terrifying loneliness, and we had to find a way out of this loneliness ourselves.

Before going to Kemmerich, we pack his things: they will come in handy on the way.

The field hospital is overcrowded; here, as always, it smells of carbolic acid, pus and sweat. Those who lived in the barracks are accustomed to many things, but here even the usual person will feel bad. We ask how to get to Kemmerich; he lies in one of the chambers and greets us with a faint smile, expressing joy and helpless excitement. While he was unconscious, his watch was stolen.

Müller shakes his head dismissively.

“I told you, you can't take such a good watch with you.

Müller is not very good at thinking and likes to argue. Otherwise, he would have held back his tongue: after all, everyone can see that Kemmerich will no longer leave this chamber. Whether his watch is found or not is absolutely indifferent, at best they will be sent to his family.

- Well, how are you, Franz? Kropp asks.

Kemmerich lowers his head.

- In general, nothing, only terrible pain in the foot.

We look at his blanket. His leg rests under the wire frame, the blanket humps over him. I push Muller on the knee, otherwise he, what good, will tell Kemmerich what the orderlies told us in the yard: Kemmerich no longer has a foot - his leg was amputated.

He looks terrible, he is yellow-pale, an expression of aloofness appeared on his face, those lines that are so familiar, because we have seen them hundreds of times already. These are not even lines, they are rather signs. The beating of life is no longer felt under the skin: it has flown away to the far corners of the body, death is making its way from within, it has already taken possession of its eyes. Here lies Kemmerich, our comrade in arms, who until so recently was roasting horse meat with us and lying in a funnel — this is still him, and yet this is no longer him; his image blurred and became indistinct, like a photographic plate on which two pictures were taken. Even his voice is kind of ashy.

I remember how we left for the front. His mother, a fat, good-natured woman, accompanied him to the station. She cried incessantly, from this her face was limp and swollen. Kemmerich was ashamed of her tears, no one around was behaving as unrestrained as she was - it seemed that all her fat would melt from dampness. At the same time, apparently, she wanted to pity me - every now and then she grabbed my hand, begging me to look after her Franz at the front. He really had a very childish face and such soft bones that, having dragged his knapsack on himself for a month, he had already acquired flat feet. But how do you order to look after a person if he is at the front!

“Now you’ll get home right away,” says Kropp, “otherwise you would have had to wait three or four months for a vacation.

Kemmerich nods. I can't look at his hands - they are like wax. Trench dirt has settled under the nails, it has some kind of poisonous bluish-black color. It suddenly occurs to me that these nails will not stop growing and after Kemmerich dies, they will grow for a long, long time, like porcini mushrooms in a cellar. I imagine this picture: they curl up in a corkscrew and everything grows and grows, and hair grows along with them on a rotting skull, like grass on fat earth, just like grass ... Is it really so? ..

Müller leans over to retrieve the package.

“We brought your things, Franz.

Kemmerich makes a sign with his hand:

- Put them under the bed.

Mueller stuffs things under the bed. Kemmerich starts talking about watches again. How to calm him down without arousing suspicion in him!

Mueller crawls out from under the bed with a pair of flying boots. These are gorgeous English boots made of soft yellow leather, high, to the knee, laced up to the top, the dream of any soldier. Mueller is delighted at their sight, he puts their soles on the soles of his clumsy boots and asks:

“So you want to take them with you, Franz?

All three of us now think the same thing: even if he recovered, he would still be able to wear only one shoe, which means he would not need them. And given the current state of affairs, it is simply terribly offensive that they will remain here, because as soon as he dies, the orderlies will immediately take them for themselves.

Müller asks again:

- Maybe you will leave them with us?

Kemmerich doesn't want to. These boots are the very best he has.

“We could exchange them for something,” Muller suggests again. “Here at the front, such a thing will always come in handy.

But Kemmerich does not give in to persuasion.

I step on Mueller's foot; he reluctantly puts the lovely shoes under the bed.

We continue the conversation for a while, then we begin to say goodbye:

- Get well, Franz!

I promise him to stop by tomorrow again. Müller talks about it too; he thinks about boots all the time and therefore decided to watch them.

Kemmerich groaned. He's in a fever. We go out into the yard, stop one of the orderlies there and persuade him to give Kemmerich an injection.

He refuses:

“If everyone is given morphine, we’ll have to grind him down in barrels.”

All Quiet on the Western Front(it. Im westen nichts neues) - the famous novel by Erich Maria Remarque, published in 1929. In the preface, the author says: “This book is neither an accusation nor a confession. This is only an attempt to tell about the generation that was destroyed by the war, about those who became its victims, even if they escaped from the shells. "

The anti-war novel tells the story of all the experiences seen at the front by the young soldier Paul Beumer, as well as by his front-line comrades in the First World War. Like Ernest Hemingway, Remarque used the term “lost generation” to describe young people who, due to the mental trauma they suffered in the war, were unable to settle into civilian life. Thus, Remarque's work stood in sharp contradiction with the right-wing conservative military literature that prevailed in the era of the Weimar Republic, which, as a rule, tried to justify the war lost by Germany and heroize its soldiers.

Remarque describes the events of the war from the perspective of a simple soldier.

History of creation

The writer offered his manuscript "All Quiet on the Western Front" to the most authoritative and well-known publisher in the Weimar Republic, Samuel Fischer. Fischer confirmed the high literary quality of the text, but refused to publish on the grounds that in 1928 no one would want to read a book about the First World War. Fischer later admitted that this was one of the most significant mistakes of his career.

Following the advice of his friend, Remarque brought the text of the novel to Haus Ullstein, where it was accepted for publication by order of the company's management. The contract was signed on August 29, 1928. But the publisher was also not fully convinced that such a specific novel about the First World War would be successful. The contract contained a clause, according to which, in the event of a failure of the novel, the author must work out the costs of publishing as a journalist. To be on the safe side, the publishing house provided preliminary copies of the novel to various categories of readers, including World War I veterans. As a result of criticism from readers and literary scholars, Remarque is urged to revise the text, especially some particularly critical statements about the war. The author's major corrections to the novel are indicated by a copy of the manuscript in the New Yorker. For example, the following text is missing in the latest edition:

We killed people and waged war; we must not forget about this, because we are at an age when thoughts and actions had the strongest connection with each other. We are not hypocrites, not timid, we are not burghers, we look both ways and do not close our eyes. We do not justify anything by necessity, idea, Motherland - we fought with people and killed them, people whom we did not know and who did nothing to us; what will happen when we return to the previous relationship and confront people who hinder us, hinder us?<…>What should we do with the goals that are offered to us? Only memories and my vacation days convinced me that a dual, artificial, contrived order called "society" cannot calm us down and will not give us anything. We will remain isolated and grow, we will try; some will be quiet, while others will not want to part with their weapons.

Original text(German)

Wir haben Menschen getötet und Krieg geführt; das ist für uns nicht zu vergessen, denn wir sind in dem Alter, wo Gedanke und Tat wohl die stärkste Beziehung zueinander haben. Wir sind nicht verlogen, nicht ängstlich, nicht bürgerglich, wir sehen mit beiden Augen und schließen sie nicht. Wir entschuldigen nichts mit Notwendigkeit, mit Ideen, mit Staatsgründen, wir haben Menschen bekämpft und getötet, die wir nicht kannten, die uns nichts taten; was wird geschehen, wenn wir zurückkommen in frühere Verhältnisse und Menschen gegenüberstehen, die uns hemmen, hinder und stützen wollen?<…>Was wollen wir mit diesen Zielen anfangen, die man uns bietet? Nur die Erinnerung und meine Urlaubstage haben mich schon überzeugt, daß die halbe, geflickte, künstliche Ordnung, die man Gesellschaft nennt, uns nicht beschwichtigen und umgreifen kann. Wir werden isoliert bleiben und aufwachsen, wir werden uns Mühe geben, manche werden still werden und manche die Waffen nicht weglegen wollen.

Translated by Mikhail Matveev

Finally, in the fall of 1928, the final version of the manuscript appears. November 8, 1928, on the eve of the tenth anniversary of the armistice, Berlin newspaper Vossische Zeitung, part of the Haus Ullstein concern, publishes a "preliminary text" of the novel. The author of All Quiet on the Western Front appears to the reader as an ordinary soldier, without any literary experience, who describes his experiences of the war in order to "speak out", to free himself from mental trauma. The introduction to the publication was as follows:

Vossische Zeitung feels “obligated” to open this “authentic”, free and thus “genuine” documentary account of the war.

Original text(German)

Die Vossische Zeitung fühle sich "verpflichtet", diesen "authentischen", tendenzlosen und damit "wahren" dokumentarischen über den Krieg zu veröffentlichen.

Translated by Mikhail Matveev

This is how the legend about the origin of the text of the novel and its author appeared. On November 10, 1928, excerpts from the novel began to appear in the newspaper. The success exceeded the wildest expectations of the Haus Ullstein concern - the newspaper's circulation increased several times, the editorial office received a huge number of letters from readers delighted with such an "unadorned image of war".

At the time of the book's release on January 29, 1929, there were approximately 30,000 pre-orders, which forced the concern to print the novel in several printers at once. All Quiet on the Western Front became Germany's best-selling book ever. On May 7, 1929, 500 thousand copies of the book were published. The novel was published in a book version in 1929, after which it was translated into 26 languages, including Russian, in the same year. The most famous translation into Russian is by Yuri Afonkin.

Main characters

Paul Beumer- the main character, on whose behalf the story is told. At the age of 19, Paul was voluntarily (like his entire class) drafted into the German army and sent to the western front, where he had to face the harsh reality of military life. Killed in October 1918.

Albert Kropp- Paul's classmate, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes it as follows: "Little Albert Kropp is the lightest head in our company." Lost a leg. Was sent to the rear.

Muller Fifth- Paul's classmate, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes it as follows: “… he still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing the preferential exams; under a hurricane fire he cramps the laws of physics. " He was killed by a flare that hit the stomach.

Leer- Paul's classmate, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: "wears a thick beard and has a weakness for girls." The same shard that tore off Bertinka's chin rips open Leer's thigh. Dies of blood loss.

Franz Kemmerich- Paul's classmate, who served with him in the same company. At the very beginning of the novel, he is seriously injured, which led to the amputation of his leg. A few days after the operation, Kemmerich dies.

Joseph Boehm- Boymer's classmate. Boehm was the only one of the class who did not want to volunteer for the army, despite Kantorek's patriotic speeches. However, under the influence of the class teacher and those close to him, he enlisted in the army. Boehm was one of the first to die, two months before the official deadline for conscription.

Stanislav Katchinsky (Cat)- served with Boymer in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: “the soul of our squad, a man of character, clever and cunning - he is forty years old, he has an earthy face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders and an extraordinary sense of when the shelling begins, where to get hold of food and how best to hide from the authorities. " The example of Katchinsky clearly shows the difference between adult soldiers, who have a lot of life experience behind their backs, and young soldiers, for whom war is their whole life. Was wounded in the leg, crushing of the tibia. Paul managed to carry him to the orderlies, but on the way Kat was wounded in the head and died.

Tiaden- one of Boymer's non-school friends, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: "a locksmith, a puny young man of the same age with us, the most voracious soldier in the company - he sits down thin and slender for food, and after eating, he gets up pot-bellied like a sucking bug." Has disorders of the urinary system, which is why it sometimes peeles in a dream. Its fate is not exactly known. Most likely, he survived the war and married, the daughter of the owner of a horse meat shop. But he may have died shortly before the end of the war.

Haye Westhus- one of Boymer's friends who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: "our peat bog worker of the same age, who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask," Well, guess what is in my fist? " but a young man with a good sense of humor, was carried out from under the fire with his back torn.

Detering- one of Boymer's non-school friends, who served with him in the same company. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes it as follows: "a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife." Deserted to Germany. Was caught. The further fate is unknown.

Kantorek- class teacher for Paul, Leer, Müller, Kropp, Kemmerich and Behm. At the beginning of the novel, Paul describes him as follows: "a stern little man in a gray coat, like a mouse's face, with a face." Kantorek was an ardent supporter of the war and urged all his students to go to war as volunteers. Later he volunteered himself. The further fate is unknown.

Bertink- Company commander Paul. He treats his subordinates well and is loved by them. Paul describes him as follows: "a real front-line soldier, one of those officers who are always ahead with any obstacle." Saving the company from the flamethrower, he received a through wound in the chest. A shrapnel tore off his chin. Dies in the same battle.

Himmelstoss- the commander of the squad, in which Boymer and his friends underwent military training. Paul describes him as follows: “He was known as the most ferocious tyrant in our barracks and was proud of it. A small, stocky man who served twelve years, with a bright red, twisted up mustache, in the past a postman. " He was especially cruel to Kropp, Tjaden, Beumer and Westhus. Later he was sent to the front in Paul's company, where he tried to make amends.

Joseph Hamacher- one of the patients of the Catholic hospital, where Paul Beumer and Albert Kropp were temporarily housed. He is well versed in the work of the hospital, and, in addition, has "absolution." This testimony, given to him after being shot in the head, confirms that he is at times insane. However, Hamacher is mentally healthy and uses the testimony to his advantage.

Screen adaptations

• The work has been filmed several times.
• American film All Quiet on the Western Front() directed by Lewis Milestone won an Oscar.
• In 1979, director Delbert Mann directed the television version of the film All Quiet on the Western Front.
• In 1983, famed singer Elton John wrote an anti-war song of the same name related to the film.
• Film .

Soviet writer Nikolai Brykin wrote a novel about the First World War (1975), entitled “ Change on the Eastern Front».

Links

• Im Westen nichts Neues in German at the philologist's library E-Lingvo.net
• All Quiet on the Western Front in the Library of Maxim Moshkov

Wikimedia Foundation. 2010.

See what "All Quiet on the Western Front" is in other dictionaries:

From German: Im Westen nichts Neues. Russian translation (translator Y. N. Lfon'kin) of the title of the novel by German writer Erich Maria Remarque (1898 1970) about the First World War. This phrase was often found in German reports from the theater of operations ... Dictionary of winged words and expressions

Other films with the same or similar title: See All Quiet on the Western Front (film). All Quiet on the Western Front ... Wikipedia

All Quiet on the Western Front Genre Drama / War Director Lewis Milestone ... Wikipedia

Other films with the same or similar title: See All Quiet on the Western Front (film). All Quiet On The Western Front Genre ... Wikipedia

All Quiet On The Western Front All Quiet On The Western Front Genre Drama Director Mann, Delbert Starring ... Wikipedia

Erich Maria Remarque

All Quiet on the Western Front

This book is neither an accusation nor a confession. This is just an attempt to tell about the generation that was destroyed by the war, about those who became its victims, even if they escaped from the shells.

We are standing nine kilometers from the front line. Yesterday we were replaced; now our stomachs are stuffed with beans and meat, and we all walk around well-fed and satisfied. Even for supper each got a pot full; moreover, we get a double portion of bread and sausage - in a word, we live well. This has not happened to us for a long time: our kitchen god with his bald head, crimson like a tomato, himself invites us to eat more; he waves the scoop, beckoning the passers-by, and pours them hefty portions. He still does not empty his "peep-gun", and this leads him to despair. Tjaden and Müller got hold of a few cans from somewhere and filled them to the brim as a reserve. Tjaden did it out of gluttony, Mueller out of caution. Where everything that Tjaden eats goes is a mystery to all of us. He still remains as skinny as a herring.

But most importantly, the smoke was also served in double portions. There are ten cigars, twenty cigarettes and two sticks of chewing tobacco for each. In general, pretty decent. I exchanged Kutchinsky's cigarettes for my tobacco, and now I have forty. You can last one day.

But, as a matter of fact, we are not entitled to all this at all. The bosses are not capable of such generosity. We were just lucky.

Two weeks ago we were sent to the front line to change another unit. It was quite calm in our area, so by the day of our return the captenarmus received allowance according to the usual layout and ordered to cook for a company of one hundred and fifty people. But just on the last day, the British suddenly threw in their heavy "meat grinders", unpleasant contraptions, and beat them on our trenches for so long that we suffered heavy losses, and only eighty people returned from the front line.

We arrived at the rear at night and immediately stretched out on bunks to get a good night's sleep first; Kutchinsky is right: it would not be so bad in war if only you could get more sleep. After all, you never really sleep on the front lines, and two weeks drag on for a long time.

When the first of us began to crawl out of the barracks, it was already noon. Half an hour later, we grabbed our pots and gathered at our dear "peep-gun", which smelled of something rich and tasty. Of course, the first in line were those who always have the greatest appetite: short man Albert Kropp, the lightest head in our company and, probably, therefore, only recently promoted to corporal; Muller the Fifth, who still carries textbooks with him and dreams of passing the preferential exams; under a hurricane of fire he cramps the laws of physics; Leer, who wears a thick beard and has a soft spot for brothel girls for officers; he swears that there is an order from the army, obliging these girls to wear silk underwear, and before receiving visitors with the rank of captain and above, to take a bath; the fourth is me, Paul Beumer. All four of them are nineteen years old, all four went to the front from the same class.

Immediately behind us are our friends: Tjaden, a locksmith, a puny young man of the same age with us, the most voracious soldier in the company - he sits down thin and slender at food, and after eating, he gets up pot-bellied, like a sucking bug; Haye Vesthus, also our age, a peat bog worker, who can freely take a loaf of bread in his hand and ask: “Well, guess what’s in my fist?”; Detering, a peasant who thinks only about his farm and his wife; and, finally, Stanislav Katchinsky, the soul of our department, a man of character, clever and cunning - he is forty years old, he has an sallow face, blue eyes, sloping shoulders, and an extraordinary sense of when the shelling will begin, where you can get some food and how best to hide from superiors.

Our department was at the head of the line in front of the kitchen. We became impatient as the unsuspecting chef was still waiting for something.

Finally Katchinsky shouted to him:

Well, open up your glutton, Heinrich! And so you can see that the beans are cooked!

The cook shook his head sleepily.

Let everyone get together first.

Tjaden grinned.

And we are all here!

The chef still didn't notice anything:

Hold your pocket wider! Where are the others?

They are not on your allowance today! Who is in the infirmary, and who is in the ground!

Upon learning of what had happened, the kitchen god was smitten. He was even shaken:

And I cooked for a hundred and fifty people!

Kropp poked him in the side with his fist.

This means that we will fill our fill at least once. Come on, start the distribution!

At that moment, a sudden thought struck Tiaden. His face, sharp as a mouse's muzzle, lit up, his eyes narrowed slyly, his cheekbones began to play, and he came closer:

Heinrich, my friend, so you got bread for a hundred and fifty people?

The dumbfounded chef nodded absently.

Tjaden grabbed him by the chest.

And the sausage too?

The cook nodded his tomato-purple head again. Thiaden's jaw dropped.

And tobacco?

Well, yes, that's all.

Tjaden turned to us, his face beaming:

Damn it, that's lucky! After all, now everything will get to us! It will be - wait! - it is, exactly two servings per nose!

But then the Tomato came to life again and declared:

This will not work.

Now we, too, shook off sleep and squeezed closer.

Hey you, carrot, why won't it come out? Katchinsky asked.

Because eighty is not a hundred and fifty!

We’ll show you how to do it, ”grumbled Mueller.

You get the soup, so be it, but I’ll give out bread and sausage only for eighty, ”Tomato continued to persist.

Kutchinsky lost his temper:

Send you to the front line once! You got food not for eighty men, but for the second company, basta. And you will give them away! The second company is us.

We took the Pomodoro into circulation. Everyone disliked him: more than once, due to his fault, lunch or dinner fell into our trenches cold, with a great delay, since at the most trifling fire he did not dare to drive closer with his cauldron, and our food carriers had to crawl much further than theirs. brothers from other mouths. Here is Bulke from the first company, he was much better. He, although he was fat as a hamster, but if necessary, he dragged his kitchen almost to the most advanced.

We were in a very belligerent mood, and probably it would have come to a fight if the company commander had not appeared at the scene. When he found out what we were arguing about, he only said:

Yes, yesterday we had big losses ...

Then he looked into the cauldron:

And the beans seem to be pretty good.

The tomato nodded.

With lard and beef.

The lieutenant looked at us. He understood what we were thinking. In general, he understood a lot, - after all, he himself came out of our midst: he came to the company as a non-commissioned officer. He lifted the cauldron lid once more and sniffed. As he left, he said:

Bring me a plate too. And distribute portions to everyone. Why should the good be lost.

The face of the Tomato took on a stupid expression. Tjaden danced around him:

Nothing, you will not be lost from this! Imagines he is in charge of the entire quartermaster office. Now start, you old rat, but be careful not to miscalculate! ..

Get lost, gallows! - Tomato hissed. He was ready to burst with anger; everything that happened did not fit into his head, he did not understand what was happening in this world. And as if wishing to show that now everything is one for him, he himself distributed another half a pound of artificial honey to his brother.

It's been a really good day today. Even the mail came; almost everyone received several letters and newspapers. Now we are slowly wandering into the meadow behind the barracks. Kropp carries a round margarine barrel lid under his arm.

On the right edge of the meadow there is a large soldier's lavatory - a well-cut structure under the roof. However, it is only of interest to recruits who have not yet learned how to benefit from everything. We are looking for something better for ourselves. The fact is that in the meadow here and there there are single cabins designed for the same purpose. These are rectangular drawers, neat, made entirely of planks, closed on all sides, with a gorgeous, very comfortable seat. They have handles on the side so that the cabins can be carried.

We move the three cabins together, put them in a circle and sit down slowly. We will not get up from our seats in less than two hours.

I still remember how shy we were at first, when the recruits lived in the barracks and for the first time we had to use the common toilet. There are no doors, twenty people are sitting side by side, like in a tram. They can be glanced at with one glance - after all, the soldier must always be under supervision.

The novel All Quiet on the Western Front was released in 1929. Many publishers doubted his success - he was too frank and uncharacteristic for the ideology of glorification of Germany, which had lost the First World War, which existed in society at that time. Erich Maria Remarque, who volunteered for the war in 1916, acted in his work not so much as an author, but as a merciless witness of what he saw on the European battlefields. Honestly, simply, without unnecessary emotions, but with merciless cruelty, the author described all the horrors of war that irrevocably destroyed his generation. All Quiet on the Western Front is a novel not about heroes, but about victims, to which Remarque counts both the dead and those young people who escaped the shells.

main characters works - yesterday's schoolchildren, as well as the author, who volunteered for the front (students of the same class - Paul Beumer, Albert Kropp, Müller, Leer, Franz Kemmerich), and their senior comrades in arms (Tjaden locksmith, peat bog worker Haye Westhus, peasant Detering, Stanislav Katchinsky, who knows how to get out of any situation) - not so much live and fight, but try to escape from death. Young people who fell for the bait of teacher propaganda quickly realized that war is not an opportunity to valiantly serve their homeland, but the most ordinary slaughter in which there is nothing heroic and humane.

The first artillery bombardment immediately put everything in its place - the authority of the teachers collapsed, pulling the worldview that they instilled with them. On the battlefield, everything that the heroes had been taught at school turned out to be unnecessary: ​​physical laws were replaced by the laws of life, consisting in the knowledge of "How to light a cigarette in the rain and in the wind" and how best ... to kill - "It is best to hit with a bayonet in the stomach, not in the ribs, because the bayonet does not get stuck in the stomach".

The First World War divided not only peoples - it severed the internal connection between two generations: while "parents" they also wrote articles and made speeches about heroism, "children" passed through hospitals and dying; while "parents" they also put service to the state above all, "children" already knew that there is nothing stronger than the fear of death. In Paul's opinion, the realization of this truth did not make any of them "Neither a rebel, nor a deserter, nor a coward" but it gave them a terrible insight.

Internal changes in the heroes began to take place even at the stage of the barracks drill, which consisted of a senseless trump card, standing at attention, shagistics, taking on guard, turning right and left, clicking heels and constant abuse and nagging. Preparing for war made young men "Callous, distrustful, ruthless, vengeful, rude"- the war showed them that it was these qualities that they needed in order to survive. Barracks training worked out in future soldiers "A strong, always ready to be translated into action feeling of mutual solidarity"- the war turned him into "The only good" what she could give to humanity - "partnership" ... But at the time of the beginning of the novel, only twelve people remained from the former classmates instead of twenty: seven had already been killed, four were wounded, one was in an insane asylum, and at the time of its completion - no one. Remarque left everyone on the battlefield, including his protagonist, Paul Boymer, whose philosophical reasoning constantly burst into the fabric of the narrative in order to explain to the reader the essence of what was happening, understandable only to a soldier.

War for the heroes All All Quiet on the Western Front three artistic spaces: on the front line, at the front and in the rear. The worst of all happens where shells are constantly exploding, and attacks are replaced by counterattacks, where flares burst "Rain of white, green and red stars" and the wounded horses scream so terribly, as if the whole world is dying with them. There, in this Ominous maelstrom that draws in a person, "Paralyzing all resistance", the only "Friend, brother and mother" for the soldier, the earth becomes, because it is in its folds, depressions and hollows that one can hide, obeying the only instinct possible on the battlefield - the instinct of the beast. Where life depends only on chance, and death lies in wait for a person at every step, everything is possible - to hide in coffins torn apart by bombs, kill your own people to save them from torment, regret the bread eaten by rats, listen for several days in a row how he screams in pain a dying man who cannot be found on the battlefield.

The rear part of the front is the borderline space between military and peaceful life: there is a place for simple human joys - reading newspapers, playing the map, talking with friends, but all this somehow passes under the sign of every soldier who has eaten into the blood "Coarsening"... Shared restroom, stealing food, waiting for comfortable shoes passed from hero to hero as they are injured and killed are completely natural things for those who are used to fighting for their existence.

The vacation given to Paul Beumer and his immersion in the space of peaceful existence finally convinces the hero that people like him will never be able to return back. Eighteen-year-olds, just getting to know life and beginning to love it, were forced to shoot at it and hit them right in the heart. For older people who have strong ties with the past (wives, children, professions, interests), war is a painful, but still a temporary break in life, for the young it is a stormy stream that easily pulled them out of the shaky soil of parental love and children's rooms with bookshelves and carried it to no one knows where.

The meaninglessness of war, in which one person must kill another just because someone from above told them that they are enemies, she forever cut off faith in human aspirations and progress in yesterday's schoolchildren. They only believe in war, so they have no place in a peaceful life. They believe only in death, with which sooner or later everything ends, so they have no place in life as such. The “lost generation” has nothing to talk about with their parents who know the war from rumors and newspapers; The “lost generation” will never pass on their sad experience to those who come after them. You can learn what war is only in the trenches; you can tell the whole truth about her only in a work of fiction.