“Paper victory” composition

When the sun melted the black granular snow and the dirty water accumulated from the dirty water accumulated over the winter waste of human habitation – rags, bones, broken glass – and in the air a smell of smells rose in which the strongest sweet and sweet smell of spring land was, Genya Piraplotchikov. His name was written so ridiculously that since he learned to read, he felt it as humiliation.

In addition, his birth was wrong with his legs, and he walked a strange, jumping gait.

In addition, he always had a stuffy nose, and he was breathing through his mouth. The lips were dry, and they often had to be licked.

Besides this, he did not have a father. Fathers did not have a half of the guys. But unlike others, Genya could not say that his father was killed in the war: he did not have a father at all. All this, combined, made him a very unhappy man.

So, he went out into the yard, barely recovering from the spring-winter illnesses, in a woolen

ski cap with a handkerchief under her, and in a long green scarf wrapped around his neck.

In the sun it was incredibly warm, little girls let down their stockings and twisted them on the ankles with stiff sausages. The old woman from the seventh apartment with the help of her granddaughter pulled out a chair under the window and sat in the sun, throwing back her face.

And the air and the earth – everything was swollen and crowded, and especially bare trees, ready to explode from minute to minute shallow happy foliage.

Genya stood in the middle of the courtyard and listened dazedly to the subterranean rumble, and the fat cat, gently rubbing the wet earth with his paws, crossed the courtyard obliquely.

The first clod of earth fell just in the middle, between the cat and the boy. The cat, bent, jumped back. Genya flinched – mud splashed heavily on his face. The second lump fell in the back, and the third he did not wait, he skipped skipping to his door. A homemade rhyme flew up like a sonorous spear,

– Genka lame, snot river!

He glanced back: Kolka Klukvin threw himself,

girls were shouting, and behind them stood the one for which they were trying, the enemy of all who were not at his errands, deft and fearless Zhenya Aityr.

Genya rushed to his door-his grandmother was coming down the stairs, a tiny granny in a brown hat with evergreen and everlasting flowers over his ear. They were going for a walk to the Miusskiy Square. A dead, shabby fox, sparkling amber eyes, lay flat on her shoulder.

In the evening, when Genya snored in a dream behind a green screen, his mother and grandmother were sitting at the table for a long time.

– Why? Why do they always offend him? “The grandmother asked at last in a bitter whisper.

“I think we should invite them on a visit, to Gene’s birthday,” answered my mother.

– You’re crazy, – my grandmother was frightened, – these are not children, they are bandits.

“I do not see any other way out,” the mother said gloomily. “We need to bake a cake, make a treat and even arrange a children’s party.”

“They’re bandits and thieves.” They will take out the whole house, “my grandmother protested.

“Do you have something to steal?” The mother asked coldly.

“You do not need your old boots.”

– What does the boots. – Grandmother sighed. “I’m sorry for the boy.”

Two weeks passed. A calm and tender spring came. The mud dried up. Sharply honed grass covered the clogged courtyard, and the whole population, no matter how hard they tried, could not litter it, the yard remained clean and green.

The boys played lapta from morning till night. Fences were covered with chalk and coal arrows – these are “robbers”, fleeing from the “Cossacks”, left their signs.

Genia had already gone to school for the third week. Mother and grandmother exchanged glances. Grandmother, who was superstitious, spit over her shoulder – she was afraid to jinx: usually the breaks between the illnesses lasted no more than a week.

Grandmother accompanied her grandson to school, and by the end of the class she was waiting for him in the school lobby, wrapped a green scarf around him and led her home by the arm.

On the eve of her birthday, the mother told Gene that he would arrange a real holiday for him.

“Call someone from the class you want from the yard,” she suggested.

“I do not want anyone.” Do not, Mom, “Genya asked.

“It’s necessary,” the mother replied shortly, and by the way her eyebrows trembled, he realized that he could not turn away.

In the evening the mother went out into the yard and invited the children herself for tomorrow. She invited everyone in a row, indiscriminately, but she turned to Aytir separately:

– And you, Zhenya, come.

He looked at her with such cold and adult eyes that she was embarrassed.

– And what? I’ll come, “Aytir said calmly.

And her mother went to put the dough.

Genya looked around the room sadly. Most of all, he was embarrassed by the brilliant black piano – this certainly was not for anyone. The bookcase, the notes on the bookshelf – it was still forgivable. But Beethoven, this awful mask of Beethoven! Surely somebody will ask sarcastically: “And this is your grandfather? Or Dad?”

Genia asked my grandmother to remove the mask. Grandmother was surprised:

“Why did she interrupt you?” Her mother gave me a teacher. – And my grandmother began to tell a long-known story about which mother is a talented pianist, and if not for war, she would graduate from the conservatory.

By four o’clock on the spreading table there was a large soup bowl with finely chopped vinaigrettes, fried bread with herring and pies with rice.

Genya sat at the window-sill, his back to the table, and tried not to think about how noisy, merry and irreconcilable enemies would break into his house. It seemed that he was completely absorbed in his favorite pastime: he was putting out a boat with a sail from the newspaper.

He was a great master of this paper art. He spent thousands of days of his life in bed. Autumn catarrh, winter quinsy and spring colds, he patiently endured, bending corners and straightening the folds of paper sheets, and at his side lay a bluish-gray book with an embossed giraffe on the cover. It was called “Happy Hour”, wrote it sage, a wizard, the best of people – a certain M. Gershenzon. He was a great teacher, but Genya was a great disciple: he was incredible

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“Paper victory” composition