Photo. How much she can tell us!.. Leafing through the pages of the family album, I relive the events that are captured in the photo. “How beautiful! This is us with the whole family in a pine forest - the air there is clean, clean, some kind of transparent! And this is me, very small, with funny curls, in funny shorts and with multi-colored balloons in my hands. Wedding color photos of dad and mom - both serious, solemn, with flowers. Mom recently told me that her bride’s bouquet, when she threw it, fell into the hands of a twelve-year-old boy, everyone laughed so much! in the summer at grandpa Tolya's. Oh, what is this picture? A small black-and-white photograph fell out of the album, yellowed from time to time ...
Ba, grandma? Look what I found.
Grandmother sat at the table in the kitchen and made dumplings for dinner. I placed the photo carefully on the table.
Look, some unfamiliar children, who are they?
This photograph is over sixty years old,” she replied.
- The girl is me, I was 9 years old then. And this is my younger brother Tolya, here he is about seven.
I looked at the little girl. skinny, long braid over shoulder. And how carefully he hugs his younger brother with his thin arm. Is this my grandmother Toma? And then the grandmother began her story in a low, low voice:
1943 ... Outside the window frost, the wind briskly tosses snowflakes. I am sitting by the window, and in my thoughts: “Where are you, dad? Why are not you here?" My father, Yakov Konstantinovich, was called to the front in the very first days of the war. I almost didn’t remember him, I only remember how he played with me - he carried me on his shoulders, he carved a wooden doll ... Following my father, two of his younger brothers went to the front. I was four years old, my brother was even younger. He crawled across the cold, unpainted floor, we had no toys, we played with mugs, spoons, and other household utensils. Mom worked a lot, she needed to somehow feed us. She also helped her sister and her children, who lived even worse: they ate grass and swelled from hunger. I remember our village, all pitted with ditches - we hid there when there were bombings ... The howl of planes, the roar of engines - I still remember it! .. After one of the bombings, I began to stutter, cried a lot.
When the village was captured by the Nazis, my grandfather Konstantin was ordered to work for them. He was the chairman of the collective farm. Without arousing suspicion in the enemy, Konstantin helped his fellow villagers, prisoners and wounded, at night he carried food to the partisans. When the war ended, the "traitors to the motherland" were called to account, and grandfather fell under the "execution article."
Shoot the traitor,” the man in uniform ordered coldly. But the whole village stood up for the grandfather, and they let him go!
Grandmother's eyes either filled with tears, or, on the contrary, shone mischievously and young. She fell silent, thought about something ... “Baba, my dear woman, what grief you all experienced!”
What about your father, his brothers? They are back? Did your mother survive? I quietly broke the silence.
My father never returned. We received a letter that he was missing. How mom screamed when she found out about it, how Tolya and I cried, not understanding why she was beating her head on the floor! Both of my father's brothers returned - invalids. Uncle Kolya - without a leg. There was a shootout, he and his two colleagues crawled to the hut where the Nazis settled. Explosion! Uncle Kolya was wounded in the leg, and his comrades were torn apart right before his eyes. Many years later, I asked him: “Was it not scary to go into battle?” He replied: “You know, Toma, when they shout:“ Forward! For the Motherland! ”, Fear is dulled, such hatred for the Nazis appears. The worst thing is when your friends die, it's scary to bury them in mass graves. A huge pit, two to three meters deep, the size of a hut, is a grave. The first ones are laid facing the ground, the next - in the intervals between the first and second, the third and fourth, head to head ... And so the bodies were buried up to five hundred, or even up to a thousand ... "
And Uncle Fedya reached Berlin, was wounded in the spine, was treated for a long time, moved to Moscow, helped Tolya and me, both with money and with parcels. At the age of 11, I was left an orphan - my mother died of tuberculosis. And after the war, she worked hard, raising my brother and me. You, my granddaughter, were named after your great-grandmother Anya.
How much you all had to endure, woman, - I said, hugging my grandmother.
Carefully taking old photo I quietly left the room.
What a terrible price mankind paid for my life, for the life of my parents, for the life of my future children! How much blood was shed, how many lives were taken by the war! God grant that we only know about the war from history books.
I understand how important it is to love! To love a blooming dandelion outside the window, a butterfly flying past, to love life, to love each other. After all, love is the most powerful weapon, a weapon against war!
…After straightening the corners of the photo, I carefully put it back into the album. How much an old photo from a family album can tell! ..
The same photograph that evoked so many memories of a distant and terrible war.
Paranina Anna, 16 years old, Novoselovskaya school No. 5, grade 10
MOU - Sosnovskaya secondary general education
school number 32
The writing
Photo from a family album
Alla's deacon
With. Sosnovka 2010
How many yellow pictures in Russia ...
And the soul will not forget all the loved ones!
N. Rubtsov
One evening, leafing through one of the family albums, I noticed a small photograph yellowed from time to time. The serious eyes of adults and children looked at me from her. I thought that she was not here by accident. Who is imprinted on it? It seemed to me that an adult man with big, overworked hands was somewhat similar to my dad.
A little later it turned out: this photo is a real family heirloom. It was taken shortly before the start of the Great Patriotic War by a visiting photographer (the exact date could not be established). This yellowed photograph is very memorable for our family. It depicts my great-grandfather (on the far left) in the circle of his loved ones before being sent to the war, from which he did not return.
before the war he was a rural librarian, at the front he served as a nurse. He died in August 1942 near Leningrad. (far right) was mainly engaged in housework and raising children. She accompanied her husband to the front with a heavy heart: she was left alone with small children. In the arms of the great-grandmother is the daughter Vera, she is a year old “with a ponytail”. In the foreground is the little son Tolik. The oldest of the children, Timothy, is in the center of the photo. He main character my story.
This is the grandfather. He was born and raised in the village of Rovensk, Kargatsky District, Novosibirsk Oblast. When did the Great Patriotic War, he was 13 years old, a little more than I am now. He remained the eldest in the family, studied in the sixth grade. Once he was summoned to a local office, offered to quit his studies and start working at a state farm: plowing, harrowing on horseback, hauling firewood. Timofey Naumovich agreed and began to work for an adult. The time was difficult, the grown bread was sent to the front. Hunger raged, the workers were given 220 grams of gray flour per day. Mostly they lived on what grows in the garden. Grandfather recalls how in the spring they were looking forward to the growth of nettles in order to cook cabbage soup from it.
It's hard for me to imagine that time. But after grandfather's stories, I realized how important it is not to get lost in a difficult situation. Children during the war grew up very quickly. My grandfather felt like a real man at the age of 15. In 1944, in the village where the family of Timofey Naumovich lived, a terrible epidemic took place - all the horses died out. But my grandfather was not at a loss: he raised a young cow so that it was possible to plow and carry goods on it, he specially made a cart for her.
Despite the horrors of wartime, hunger, cold, grandfather still graduated from a seven-year school. After the war, he moved to Novosibirsk, entered the school, for a long time worked at the Sibselmash plant. Has awards for conscientious work. Now Timofey Naumovich is 81 years old. The habit of work, love of life does not leave him. He works very hard on his personal plot, grows wonderful vegetables, berries and fruits. It is surprising that at this age, grandfather, despite the experience, remains a cheerful and active person. I really like to visit him, especially at the dacha.
Communication with him this time opened a small page of our family's biography for me - the history of a photo from a family album. Someday I will tell my children about it, and they will tell theirs. This is how the memory of the heart is passed on from generation to generation. I want to say about myself in the words of the poet Rubtsov: “And the soul will not forget everyone close to me!”
Branch of MBOU Volchkovskaya secondary school in the village. Rakhmanino
Petrovsky district, Tambov region
An essay about
"Family album photo"
4th grade student
branch in the village Rakhmanino
Head: Belyaeva T.A.,
teacher of history and social studies
S. Rakhmanino, 2015
The house is reliable, if they keep it in it
Through the years, dashing times,
Family album, the very first volume,
In the knowledge of the history of Russia.
N. Rubtsov
Each family has its own roots, its own unique history, its own memories. Our family has its own relic, which is of great value to us. This is a family album, where the memory of relatives is stored, about what has been experienced over the years.
In cares, the years imperceptibly fled,
We filled this album with the whole family.
Come on, let's look through it with you,
What you were, what we have become.
Family album- yellowed photos -
Suddenly, the memory will tell you something forgotten,
Can turn the hands of the clock back,
Stretch a thread from the past to us.
In the evening, when we gather with the whole family, I like to look at family photos again and again. I turn page after page and recognize familiar faces. With this the kindest and most beautiful mother in the world is looking at me, next to her is my father, the most beloved in the world, bright photographs of my older sister flash by. Here is a favorite portrait from childhood, from which my grandmother, my mother’s mother, smiles affectionately at me. To her left, a rosy-cheeked, chubby toddler in a beautiful dress is me.
But there is a photo in this album that is not like our modern ones. I take it in my hands with excitement, the young, handsome face of a man in military uniform is looking at me. His facial features remind me of someone very dear. I stealthily shift my gaze from the photo to my dad. A dumb question froze in his eyes, to which dad proudly answered: “This is your great-grandfather - Belyaev Fedor Fedorovich!”. Dad tremblingly took the photo and in a quiet voice, slowly began to tell a family story that he had heard as a child.
So from his story I learned that my great-grandfather was born and lived in our native village of Rakhmanino. Before the war, he worked as a tractor driver on a collective farm. When in 1941 the terrible news about the beginning of the war came to the village, men began to be called to the front. My great-grandfather had a reservation because he was a good tractor driver. But he believed that he had to protect his family, his homeland from the Nazis and went to the front as a volunteer, leaving his wife at home with two small children.
Letters from the front came infrequently. But all of them were filled with care and love for children, dear wife. Great-grandfather believed that they would soon drive the Nazis out of their native land. The last letter the family received from Novorossiysk was in 1942. Fedor Fedorovich wrote that a part of them was standing by the Black Sea, when there was a new address, he would inform. But the family did not wait for more letters, the great-grandfather went missing.
War is over. All those who did not receive a funeral, waited for their fathers, sons from the front. My great-grandfather did not return from that terrible war. But he will forever remain in our memory, our memories. He is next to us, in the Immortal Regiment, every year he celebrates the great Victory! His name is forever frozen on the granite stone of the memorial, which was opened this year in our village in honor of the 70th anniversary of the Victory.
Every year on May 9 my family watches the Victory Parade on Red Square in Moscow with great pride and respect. This parade is in honor of those heroes who defended their Motherland, among whom was my great-grandfather Fedor Fedorovich Belyaev.
My dear great-grandfather, I only saw you in an old yellowed photograph. But I am your continuation, I bear your last name and I promise to always be your worthy great-granddaughter. I remember! IM proud of!
Daguerreotypes are old photographs. In every family there are those about whom we don’t even know anything and don’t even know who is depicted on them.
So I also wondered all the time: "Who is this depicted in the photo of my mother's album?" As for me, it was a boy of about five, dressed in a shirt and trousers under a belt. The photo seemed to me to be very old and black and white, so it was difficult to determine even any color! His hair was very short and only a bang protruded a little on his forehead, his hair seemed blond, and his eyes were dark and very expressive. It was as if the boy was smiling directly with his eyes, although there was no smile on his face. He stood on a chair and looked into the distance.
One day I came across her again and once again I was interested in this photo again, and this time I finally decided to ask my grandmother, who is it in the photo? And she began her story:
This is your mother, and in this photo she is only three years old, although she seemed small by age, but even then she was big, smart and quick-witted.
Yes, but why is she dressed like a boy?
Your grandfather then served in the army and I wanted to surprise him so that he could show off what a hero he is growing.
And so, for some reason, that's what came to my mind. Natasha then looked very solid and it was difficult to distinguish her from a real boy.
And despite the fact that the photograph was old, she was able to survive to this day and bring with her such interesting story. Soon the photographs taken by us now will become degerrotypes and will also carry information with them.
Updated: 2017-02-06
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