The writing of the war through the eyes of children

The writing of the war through the eyes of children

How does the war look through the eyes of children who have passed through its millstones? V. Zhilkin reflects on this question in the text proposed for analysis. Revealing the given problem, the author tells about one night, experienced by the child during the battle on the Orel-Kursk arc. Night bombing has become the most terrible event in the life of the narrator. “When I think of Hell, I remember that night and this morning.” The words of the narrator characterize the horror that the child experienced.

The author’s position is expressed clearly: in the eyes of children who survived the horror of war, this is Hell on Earth, which is nothing more terrible. With V. Zhilkin’s opinion it is impossible not to agree! About the war thousands of works have been

created: novels, poems, symphonies, films. This problem finds a response in the soul of every person, especially when it is told about the fate of children who have learned military hard times.

Let us recall the heroes of A. Pristavkin’s story “The Golden Cloud Last Night”. Russian and Chechen boy. Kolka and Alkhuzur, became brothers after the horrors of the war. The terrible death of Kolka’s twin brother, the constant threat of death, a disease – all this happened to the boys. I think that they would agree with the statement of V. Zhilkin and also could say that the war is Hell on Earth. It’s impossible to read lines of poetry without shudder. O. Berggolts: I saw a boy in the hospital. With him, the projectile killed his sister and mother. He tore his hands to his elbow. And the boy at that time was five. Scary to imagine. that survived this kid! Hell on Earth came for him in five years!

Thus, the war in the eyes of children. passed through its millstones, looks like hell. She became such for them.

Already during the battle on the Orel-Kursk Bulge the whole village: old men, women, children were loaded on the Komarichi station into freight cars along with all our village belongings, even with horses and carts, and were taken. Where? Did I know then-where? This I now know, we were

taken to Ukraine to work in the Junker farms created there. The wagons were coming, over the cars from time to time the planes rushed with a roar, as they used to do over me, running through the meadow, but I remember that they never bombed. We were brought to the station to the city of Smolensk. There we had to be overloaded. We settled down all our village camp right next to the station. It was summer. We went to bed under carts. Horses were tied to carts. And at night the station was bombed. At the same time, and our camp. Our Russian bomber planes bombed. “I do not know my own.”

The bombing, as it seemed then, was long and scary. This was the worst thing in my life. Dark night. Sudden pillars of fire. In sequence. Right next to you. The horse stands on its hind legs, tears. Tears and groans all around. Tears and moans all in me. Inside, one desire that disrupts me: jump up and run without looking back, run, run, run. But my grandmother lay down on me and crushed her aging, also defenseless body to the ground. And this was even more frightening. “This night crushed me.” In the morning, when it was dawn, the vision was murderous: everything was razvorocheno. And among this ravaged chaos wandered those who yesterday were still people. Half of the village remained forever at the station of the city of Smolensk. When I think of Hell, I remember that night and this morning. Hell is not somewhere there, far away, it’s here on Earth, it’s next to us, it’s in us. We humans have created this earthly Hell.


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The writing of the war through the eyes of children