Part one

1. Not cancer at all

2. Education does not improve intelligence

4. Anxiety of patients

5. Doctors' concerns

6. History of analysis

7. Right to treat

8. How people live

11. Birch cancer

12. All passions return

13. And shadows too

14. Justice

15. To each his own

16. Absurdities

17. Issyk-Kul root

18. “And let at the tomb entrance...”

19. Speed ​​close to light

20. Memories of the Beautiful

21. Shadows disperse

Part two

22. River flowing into the sands

23. Why live badly

24. Blood transfusion

26. Good start

27. What is anyone interested in?

28. Odd everywhere

29. Hard word, soft word

30. Old Doctor

31. Market idols

32. From the back

33. Happy ending

34. A little heavier

35. First day of creation

36. And the last day

The Cancer Ward also wore number thirteen. Pavel Nikolaevich Rusanov never was and could not be superstitious, but something sank in him when they wrote in his direction: “Thirteenth Corps.” I wasn’t smart enough to call the thirteenth something leaky or intestinal.

However, in the entire republic they could not help him anywhere except this clinic.

But I don’t have cancer, doctor? I don't have cancer, do I? - Pavel Nikolaevich asked hopefully, lightly touching his right side neck its evil tumor, growing almost every day, and the outside is still covered with harmless white skin.

“No, no, of course not,” Dr. Dontsova reassured him for the tenth time, scribbling out pages in the medical history in her flourishing handwriting. When she wrote, she put on her rounded rectangular glasses, and as soon as she stopped writing, she took them off. She was no longer young, and she looked pale and very tired.

This was still at the outpatient prism, a few days ago. Appointed to the cancer department even for an outpatient appointment, the patients no longer slept at night. And Dontsova ordered Pavel Nikolaevich to lie down as quickly as possible.

Not only the disease itself, not foreseen, not prepared, which came like a squall in two weeks on the careless happy person, - but what depressed Pavel Nikolaevich now no less than the illness was the fact that he had to go to this clinic on a general basis, he no longer remembered how he was treated. They started calling Evgeny Semyonovich, and Shendyapin, and Ulmasbaev, and they in turn called, finding out the possibilities, and whether there was a special ward in this clinic or whether it was possible to at least temporarily organize a small room as a special ward. But due to the cramped conditions here, nothing came of it.

And the only thing we managed to agree on through the chief doctor was that it would be possible to bypass the waiting room, the general bathhouse and the changing room.

And in their little blue Muscovite, Yura drove his father and mother to the very steps of the Thirteenth Building.

Despite the frost, two women in washed cotton robes stood on the open stone porch - they huddled and stood. (6)

Starting with these unkempt robes, everything here was unpleasant for Pavel Nikolaevich: the cement floor of the porch, too worn out by feet; dull door handles, grasped by the hands of the sick; a lobby of people waiting with peeling floor paint, high olive panel walls (the olive color seemed dirty) and large slatted benches on which there was no room for patients who had come from afar to sit on the floor - Uzbeks in quilted cotton robes, old Uzbek women in white scarves, and young people - in purple, red and green, and all in boots and galoshes. One Russian guy was lying, occupying an entire bench, with his coat unbuttoned and hanging to the floor, exhausted himself, his stomach swollen, and constantly screaming in pain. And these screams deafened Pavel Nikolaevich and hurt him so much, as if the guy was screaming not about himself, but about him.

Pavel Nikolaevich turned pale to the lips, stopped and whispered:

Mouth guard! I'll die here. No need. We'll be back.

Kapitolina Matveevna took his hand firmly and squeezed:

Pashenka! Where will we return?.. And what next?

Well, maybe things will work out somehow with Moscow... Kapitolina Matveevna turned to her husband with her whole wide head, still broadened by lush copper-cut curls:

Pashenka! Moscow—maybe another two weeks, maybe it won’t be possible. How can you wait? After all, every morning it is bigger!

His wife squeezed him tightly at the wrist, conveying cheerfulness. In civil and official matters, Pavel Nikolayevich himself was unwavering; it was all the more pleasant and calm for him to always rely on his wife in family matters: she decided everything important quickly and correctly.

And the guy on the bench was torn and screaming!

Maybe the doctors will agree to go home... We'll pay... - Pavel Nikolaevich answered hesitantly.

Pasik! - the wife inspired, suffering together with her husband, - you know, I myself am always the first for this: to call a person and pay. But we found out: these doctors don’t come, they don’t take money. And they have equipment. It is forbidden...

Pavel Nikolaevich himself understood that it was impossible. He said this just in case.

By agreement with the head physician of the oncology dispensary, the older sister was supposed to be waiting for them at two o'clock in the afternoon here, at the bottom of the stairs, down which the patient was now carefully descending on crutches. But, of course, the elder sister was not there, and her closet under the stairs was locked.

You can't come to an agreement with anyone! - Kapitolina Matveevna flushed. - Why do they only pay them a salary?

As she was, hugged on the shoulders by two silver foxes, Kapitolina Matveevna walked along the corridor, where it was written: “Entry is prohibited in outer clothing.” (7)

Pavel Nikolaevich remained standing in the lobby. Fearfully, with a slight tilt of his head to the right, he felt his tumor between the collarbone and jaw. It seemed that in the half hour since he had been home in last time I looked at her in the mirror, wrapping my muffler around her - in that half hour she seemed to have grown even more. Pavel Nikolaevich felt weak and wanted to sit down. But the benches seemed dirty and some woman in a headscarf with a greasy bag on the floor between her legs had to be asked to move. Even from afar, the stinking smell from this bag seemed not to reach Pavel Nikolaevich.

And when will our population learn to travel with clean, neat suitcases! (However, now, with the tumor, it was no longer the same.)

Suffering from the screams of that guy and from everything that his eyes saw, and from everything that entered through his nose, Rusanov stood, slightly leaning against the ledge of the wall. A man came in from outside, carrying in front of him a half-liter jar with a sticker, almost full of yellow liquid. He carried the can not hiding it, but proudly raising it, like a mug of beer standing in line. Just before Pavel Nikolaevich, almost handing him this jar, the man stopped, wanted to ask, but looked at the seal's hat and turned away, looking further, to the patient on crutches:

Honey! Where should I take this, eh?

The legless man showed him the laboratory door.

Pavel Nikolaevich simply felt sick.

The outer door opened again - and a sister came in wearing only a white robe, not pretty, too long-faced. She immediately noticed Pavel Nikolaevich and guessed, and approached him.

Excuse me,” she said through a puff, blushing to the color of her painted lips, she was in such a hurry. “Please forgive me!” Have you been waiting for me for a long time? They brought medicine there, I take it.

Pavel Nikolaevich wanted to answer caustically, but restrained himself. He was glad that the wait was over. Yura came up, carrying a suitcase and a bag of groceries - in only a suit, without a hat, as he was driving a car - very calm, with a swaying high light forelock.

Let's go! - the older sister led to her closet under the stairs. - I know, Nizamutdin Bakhramovich told me, you will be in your underwear and brought your pajamas, just not yet worn, right?

From the shop.

This is mandatory, otherwise disinfection is needed, you understand? This is where you change clothes.

She opened the plywood door and turned on the light. There was no window in the closet with a sloping ceiling, but there were many colored pencil charts hanging.

Yura silently carried his suitcase there, went out, and Pavel Nikolaevich went in to change clothes. The elder sister rushed to go somewhere else during this time, but then Kapitolina Matveevna approached: (8)

Girl, are you in such a hurry?

Yes a-a little...

What is your name?

What a strange name. Are you not Russian?

German...

You made us wait.

Excuse me, please. I'm receiving there now...

So listen, Mita, I want you to know. My husband is an honored man, a very valuable worker. His name is Pavel Nikolaevich.

Pavel Nikolaevich, okay, I'll remember.

You see, he’s generally used to being taken care of, but now he has such a serious illness. Is it possible to arrange for a permanent nurse to be on duty around him?

Mita's worried, restless face became even more preoccupied. She shook her head.

In addition to operating rooms for sixty people, we have three nurses on duty during the day. And at night two.

Well, you see! You'll die here, screaming - they won't come.

Why do you think so? They approach everyone.

To “everyone”!.. If she said “to everyone,” then why explain to her?

Besides, are your sisters changing?

Yes, twelve hours.

This impersonal treatment is terrible!.. I would sit with my daughter in shifts! I would invite a permanent nurse at my own expense, they tell me, and that’s not allowed..?

I think it's impossible. No one has ever done this before. There’s not even room to put a chair in the room.

My God, I can imagine what kind of room this is! We still need to see this chamber! How many beds are there?

Nine. Yes, it’s good that we go straight to the ward. We have new ones lying on the stairs and in the corridors.

Girl, I’ll still ask you, you know your people, it’s easier for you to organize. Agree with your sister or with the nurse so that Pavel Nikolayevich receives some extra attention... - she already opened the large black reticule and pulled out three fifties.

The silent son standing nearby turned away.

Mita moved both hands behind her back.

No no. Such orders...

But I’m not giving it to you! — Kapitolina Matveevna shoved spread-out pieces of paper into her chest. “But since it can’t be done legally... I pay for the work!” And I only ask you to convey the courtesy!

Review of the book “Cancer Ward” by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, written as part of the competition “ Bookshelf#1".

Until recently, I tried to avoid domestic literature for reasons inexplicable even to me, however, “Cancer Ward” had been in my plans for a long time and was located on the imaginary “I want to read-shelf” in the honorable first rows. The reason for this was the following...

The title of Alexander Solzhenitsyn's story alone contains immense fear, endless pain and bitterness, bitterness for a person...

That's why I couldn't pass by. Best books They turn you inside out. And this one did it, despite my readiness, despite the fact that I realized how difficult it would be. Alexander Isaevich’s work was the first to make me cry. What made the situation worse was that the story is largely autobiographical. Solzhenitsyn is a writer who endured many hardships and hardships in his life: from war, arrest, criticism and expulsion from the country, to cancer, which served as the basis for, I’m not afraid of this word, a great work. And it was here, in the cracked walls of the cancer building, that the writer concluded all his thoughts and experiences that accompanied him throughout the long and difficult journey, the path to building number thirteen.

“During this autumn, I learned for myself that a person can cross the line of death even when his body has not died. Something else is circulating or digesting in you - and you have already, psychologically, gone through all the preparation for death. And survived death itself."

It is with these thoughts that a man who once heard three scary words "you have cancer", crosses the threshold of the oncology department. And it doesn’t matter whether you are old or young, woman or man, an exemplary party member - a child of the system or a prisoner sentenced to eternal link - the disease will not choose.

And it seems to me that the entire horror of any disease - and especially cancer - lies, despite the above-mentioned humility, in ordinary human disbelief, in the notorious “maybe.” All of us, like the heroes of Solzhenitsyn’s story, are trying to brush it aside, disown it, and convince ourselves that under no circumstances will such grief happen to us, which is teeming all around.

“...he’s already sucking on an oxygen pillow, he’s barely moving his eyes, and he’s proving everything with his tongue: I won’t die! I don’t have cancer!”

And when we finally believe, and most importantly let's accept illness - then, again, having humbled ourselves, we begin to ask why we are so unfair, and we dig into our past, as if in a black hole, and try in the darkness, in the name of justification, to find no less black rot, from which this mortal disease descended on us. But we don’t find anything, because, I repeat, the disease doesn’t matter. And we know this. But I think this is our human nature- look for an excuse for everything. Justification for yourself alone, and don’t care about others...

“Everyone is more annoying than his own troubles.”

Each of the heroes of the “Solzhenitsyn” story leads to the thirteenth building. It's amazing how different people maybe one day fate will bring you together. At such moments you really begin to believe in her. This is how Rusanov and Kostoglotov meet here, in the cancer ward - two different people from one powerful system. Pavel Nikolaevich Rusanov is her adherent, an ardent supporter. Oleg Kostoglotov is a victim, a man forced to drag out his existence in exile and camps (how telling surname!). But the main thing is not that Where they meet ( cancer building here it acts only as decoration, if you may). What is more important here, of course, is When! The 50s are a turning point in the history of the Union, and, more importantly, in the history of two specific people - Rusanov and Kostoglotov. The death of Stalin, the emerging conversations about exposing the cult of personality, the change of power - all this is clearly expressed in their reactions: what for one is an inevitable collapse, almost the end of life, and for the other - a long-awaited path to liberation.

And when in the middle of a ward of hopelessly ill patients useless disputes flare up about a regime that is ruining destinies, when one is ready to inform the authorities about the other “if only they were in another place,” when someone who agrees with you at the same time wants to argue - then it is so right and timely, even though through force, the hoarse voice of neighbor Ephraim sounds:

“What are people alive for?”

And, despite dislike and conflicts, having united in the face of death, everyone will answer the question in their own way, if, of course, they can answer at all. Some will say - food and clothing, another - the youngest, Demka - air and water, someone - qualifications or the Motherland, Rusanov - public good and ideology. And you are unlikely to find the correct answer. It's not worth looking for. I think he will find you one day.

Hard. It is sincerely difficult for me to understand how a person, being on the verge of death, can even think for a minute about the meaning of life. And so it is with the whole story: it’s easy to read, and you slowly float along the lines, and you want to read, read, read, and when you imagine the patient, look into his empty eyes, listen to the words, plunge into the pool of his disordered, perhaps incorrect, but the thoughts are so maddeningly strong that tears well up and you stop, as if afraid to continue.

But there is a small thread that stretches to the very end of the story, which seems to have been created in order to save. Of course, we are talking about love. About simple and real love, without embellishment, about unhappy and contradictory love, but unusually warm, about bitter and unsaid love, but still saving.

And therefore I want to say that life wins, and I want to be filled with great hope, and then before my eyes there is a terminally ill person, his thick medical history, metastases and a certificate with the inscription tumor cordis, casus inoperabilis(heart tumor, case not amenable to surgery). And tears.

In conclusion, having already left the cancer ward, I want to say that I am grateful to Alexander Isaevich for one carefully presented thought, in which I saw my attitude towards literature, but, fortunately, not towards people. I have to digest it.

— What are theater idols?

- Oh, how often this happens!

- And sometimes - what I myself experienced, but it’s more convenient to believe not in myself.

- And I saw such...

— Another idol of the theater is immoderation in accordance with the arguments of science. In a word, this is the voluntary acceptance of the delusions of others.

I cannot help but add that I felt an ineradicable feeling of shame in front of the book and the writer during breaks in reading. “Cancer Ward” is a difficult story, which is why leaving it and returning to the real “easy” world was awkward, I repeat, shameful, but it had to be done for obvious reasons.

The Cancer Ward is a place to which, alas, cured people often return. I most likely will not return to the book. I can not. And I don’t recommend everyone to read it. But I’ll probably continue my acquaintance with Alexander Isaevich Solzhenitsyn. Later.

1

The Cancer Ward also wore number thirteen. Pavel Nikolaevich Rusanov never was and could not be superstitious, but something sank in him when they wrote in his direction: “Thirteenth Corps.” I wasn’t smart enough to name any prosthetic or intestinal device as thirteenth.

However, in the entire republic they could not help him anywhere except this clinic.

– But I don’t have cancer, doctor? I don't have cancer, do I? – Pavel Nikolaevich asked hopefully, lightly touching his evil tumor on the right side of his neck, growing almost every day, and on the outside still covered with harmless white skin.

“No, no, of course not,” Dr. Dontsova reassured him for the tenth time, scribbling out pages in the medical history in her flourishing handwriting. When she wrote, she put on glasses - rounded rectangular ones, and as soon as she stopped writing, she took them off. She was no longer young, and she looked pale and very tired.

This was at an outpatient appointment a few days ago. Appointed to the cancer department even for an outpatient appointment, the patients no longer slept at night. And Dontsova ordered Pavel Nikolaevich to lie down, and as quickly as possible.

Not only the illness itself, unforeseen, unprepared, which came like a squall in two weeks on a carefree happy person, but no less than the illness now oppressed Pavel Nikolaevich, the fact that he had to go to this clinic on a general basis, how he was treated, he no longer remembered when. They started calling Evgeny Semyonovich, and Shendyapin, and Ulmasbaev, and they, in turn, called and found out the possibilities, and whether there was a special ward in this clinic, or whether it was impossible to at least temporarily organize a small room as a special ward. But due to the cramped conditions here, nothing came of it.

And the only thing we managed to agree on through the chief doctor was that it would be possible to bypass the emergency room, the general bathhouse and the changing room.

And in their blue Muscovite, Yura drove his father and mother to the very steps of the Thirteenth Building.

Despite the frost, two women in washed cotton robes stood on the open stone porch - they shivered, but stood.

Starting with these unkempt robes, everything here was unpleasant for Pavel Nikolaevich: the cement floor of the porch, too worn out by feet; dull door handles, grasped by the hands of the sick; a lobby of people waiting with peeling paint on the floor, high olive panel walls (the olive color seemed dirty) and large slatted benches on which patients who had come from far away did not fit and sat on the floor - Uzbeks in quilted cotton robes, old Uzbek women in white scarves, and young - in purple, red and green, and all in boots and galoshes. One Russian guy lay, occupying an entire bench, with his coat unbuttoned and hanging to the floor, exhausted himself and with a swollen belly, and continuously screamed in pain. And these screams deafened Pavel Nikolaevich and hurt him so much, as if the guy was screaming not about himself, but about him.

Pavel Nikolaevich turned pale to the lips, stopped and whispered:

- Mouth guard! I'll die here.

No need. We'll be back.

Kapitolina Matveevna took his hand firmly and squeezed:

- Pashenka! Where will we return?.. And what next?

- Well, maybe things will work out somehow with Moscow...

Kapitolina Matveevna turned to her husband with her wide head, still broadened by lush copper-cut curls:

- Pashenka! Moscow is maybe another two weeks, maybe it won’t be possible. How can you wait? After all, every morning it is bigger!

His wife squeezed him tightly at the wrist, conveying cheerfulness. In civil and official matters, Pavel Nikolayevich himself was unwavering - the more pleasant and calm it was for him to always rely on his wife in family matters: she decided everything important quickly and correctly.

And the guy on the bench was torn and screaming!

“Maybe the doctors will agree to go home... We’ll pay...” Pavel Nikolaevich hesitantly denied.

- Pasik! - the wife inspired, suffering together with her husband, - you know, I myself am always the first for this: to call a person and pay. But we found out: these doctors don’t come, they don’t take money. And they have equipment. It is forbidden…

Pavel Nikolaevich himself understood that it was impossible. He said this just in case.

By agreement with the head physician of the oncology dispensary, the older sister was supposed to be waiting for them at two o'clock in the afternoon here, at the bottom of the stairs, down which the patient was now carefully descending on crutches. But, of course, the older sister was not there, and her closet under the stairs was locked.

– You can’t come to an agreement with anyone! – Kapitolina Matveevna flushed. – Why do they only get paid a salary?

As she was, hugged on the shoulders by two silver foxes, Kapitolina Matveevna walked along the corridor, where it was written: “Entry is prohibited in outerwear.”

Pavel Nikolaevich remained standing in the lobby. Fearfully, with a slight tilt of his head to the right, he felt his tumor between the collarbone and jaw. It was as if in the half hour since he had last looked at her in the mirror at home, wrapping his muffler around her, she seemed to have grown even more. Pavel Nikolaevich felt weak and wanted to sit down. But the benches seemed dirty, and you also had to ask some woman in a headscarf with a greasy bag on the floor between her legs to move. Even from afar, the stinking smell from this bag seemed not to reach Pavel Nikolaevich.

And when will our population learn to travel with clean, neat suitcases! (However, now, with the tumor, it was no longer the same.)

Suffering from the screams of that guy and from everything that his eyes saw, and from everything that entered through his nose, Rusanov stood, slightly leaning against the ledge of the wall. A man came in from outside, carrying in front of him a half-liter jar with a sticker, almost full of yellow liquid. He carried the can not hiding it, but proudly raising it, like a mug of beer standing in line. Just before Pavel Nikolaevich, almost handing him this jar, the man stopped, wanted to ask, but looked at the seal's hat and turned away, looking further, to the patient on crutches:

- Honey! Where should I take this, eh?

The legless man showed him the laboratory door.

Pavel Nikolaevich simply felt sick.

The outer door opened again - and a sister came in wearing only a white robe, not pretty, too long-faced. She immediately noticed Pavel Nikolaevich, and guessed, and approached him.

“Sorry,” she said through a puff, blushing to the color of her painted lips, she was in such a hurry. - Excuse me, please! Have you been waiting for me for a long time? They brought medicine there, I take it.

Pavel Nikolaevich wanted to answer caustically, but restrained himself. He was glad that the wait was over. Yura came up, carrying a suitcase and a bag of groceries, wearing only a suit, without a hat, as he was driving a car, very calm, with a swaying high light forelock.

- Let's go! - the older sister led to her closet under the stairs. – I know, Nizamutdin Bakhramovich told me, you will be in your underwear and brought your pajamas, just not yet worn, right?

- From the shop.

– This is mandatory, otherwise disinfection is necessary, you understand? This is where you change clothes.

She opened the plywood door and turned on the light. There was no window in the closet with a sloping ceiling, but there were many colored pencil charts hanging.

Yura silently carried his suitcase there, went out, and Pavel Nikolaevich went in to change clothes. The older sister rushed to go somewhere else during this time, but then Kapitolina Matveevna approached:

- Girl, are you in such a hurry?

- Yes, a little...

- What is your name?

- What a strange name. Are you not Russian?

- German...

- You made us wait.

- Excuse me, please. I am currently receiving...

- So listen, Mita, I want you to know. My husband... is an honored man, a very valuable worker. His name is Pavel Nikolaevich.

– Pavel Nikolaevich, okay, I’ll remember.

– You see, he’s generally used to being taken care of, but now he has such a serious illness. Is it possible to arrange for a permanent nurse to be on duty around him?

Mita's worried, restless face became even more worried. She shook her head.

– In addition to the operating rooms, we have three nurses on duty during the day for sixty people. And at night two.

- Well, you see! You’ll die here, scream, they won’t come.

- Why do you think so? They approach everyone.

To “everyone”!.. If she said “to everyone,” then why explain to her?

- Besides, your sisters change?

- Yes, twelve hours.

– This impersonal treatment is terrible!.. I would sit with my daughter in shifts! I would invite a permanent nurse at my own expense, they tell me, but that’s not possible...?

- I think it's impossible. No one has done this before. There’s not even room to put a chair in the room.

- My God, I can imagine what kind of room this is! You still need to see this room! How many beds are there?

- Nine. Yes, it’s good that we go straight to the ward. We have new ones lying on the stairs and in the corridors.

- Girl, I’ll still ask, you know your people, it’s easier for you to organize. Agree with your sister or with the nurse so that Pavel Nikolayevich receives private attention... - she already opened the large black reticule and pulled out three fifties.

The silent son standing nearby turned away.

Mita moved both hands behind her back.

- No no! Such orders...

- But I’m not giving it to you! - Kapitolina Matveevna shoved spread-out pieces of paper into her chest. – But since it can’t be done legally... I pay for the work! And I only ask you to convey the courtesy!

“No, no,” my sister said coldly. – We don’t do that.

With the creaking of the door, Pavel Nikolaevich came out of the closet in brand new green-brown pajamas and warm slippers with fur trim. On his almost hairless head was a brand new crimson skullcap. Now, without his winter collar and muffler, his fist-sized tumor on the side of his neck looked especially menacing. He no longer held his head straight, but slightly to one side.

The son went to pack everything he had taken into a suitcase. Having hidden the money in her reticule, the wife looked at her husband with alarm:

– Aren’t you going to freeze?.. I should have taken a warm robe for you. I'll bring it. Yes, there’s a scarf here,” she took it out of his pocket. - Wrap it up so you don’t catch a cold! – In silver foxes and a fur coat, she seemed three times more powerful than her husband. - Now go to the room and get settled. Lay out the groceries, look around, think about what you need, I’ll sit and wait. Come down and tell me I’ll bring everything by evening.

She didn’t lose her head, she always foresaw everything. She was a true lifelong friend. Pavel Nikolaevich looked at her with gratitude and suffering, then at his son.

- So, are you going, Yura?

“There’s a train in the evening, dad,” Yura came up. He behaved respectfully with his father, but, as always, he had no impulse, now there was an impulse of separation from his father, who was being left in the hospital. He perceived everything extinguished.

- Yes, son. This means this is the first serious business trip. Take the right tone right away. No complacency! Complacency is ruining you! Always remember that you are not Yura Rusanov, not a private person, you are a representative of the cause, understand?

Whether Yura understood or not, it was difficult for Pavel Nikolaevich to find more precise words now. Mita hesitated and was eager to go.

“Then I’ll wait with mom,” Yura smiled. - Don’t say goodbye, go bye, dad.

-Will you get there on your own? – Mita asked.

- My God, the man can barely stand, can’t you bring him to the bed? Bring the bag!

Pavel Nikolayevich looked forlornly at his people, rejected Mita’s supporting hand and, firmly grasping the railing, began to climb up. His heart began to beat, and not yet from the excitement at all. He climbed the steps, as one climbs this one, what’s his name... well, like a tribune, to give his head up there.

The elder sister, ahead of him, ran upstairs with his bag, shouted something to Maria and, even before Pavel Nikolaevich had completed the first flight, she was already running down the stairs on the other side and out of the building, showing Kapitolina Matveevna what kind of sensitivity awaits her husband here.

And Pavel Nikolaevich slowly climbed up landing- wide and deep, which can only be in ancient buildings. On this middle platform, without interfering with the movement at all, there were two beds with patients and also bedside tables with them. One patient was ill, exhausted and sucking on an oxygen cushion.

Trying not to look at his hopeless face, Rusanov turned and walked higher, looking up. But even at the end of the second march no encouragement awaited him. Sister Maria stood there. Neither a smile nor a greeting radiated from her dark, iconic face. Tall, thin and flat, she waited for him like a soldier, and immediately went along the upper vestibule, showing him where to go. There were several doors from here, and, just not blocking them, there were still beds with sick people. In a windowless corner, under a constantly burning table lamp, stood the sister’s desk, her treatment table, and next to it hung a wall cabinet with frosted glass and a red cross. Past these tables, even past the bed, and Maria pointed with a long, dry hand:

- Second from the window.

And she was already in a hurry to leave - an unpleasant feature of a general hospital, she won’t stand and won’t talk.

The doors to the room were constantly open, and yet, crossing the threshold, Pavel Nikolaevich felt a damp, stale mixed, partly medicinal smell - painful given his sensitivity to odors.

The beds stood across the walls closely, with narrow passages the width of the bedside tables, and the middle passage along the room was also a space for two to pass each other.

In this passage stood a stocky, broad-shouldered patient in pink-striped pajamas. His entire neck was wrapped thickly and tightly in bandages - high, almost under his earlobes. The white compressive ring of bandages did not leave him freedom to move his heavy, dull, brown-overgrown head.

This patient spoke hoarsely to others listening from their beds. When Rusanov entered, he turned to him with his whole body, with which his head tightly merged, looked without participation and said:

- And here is another crustacean.

Pavel Nikolaevich did not consider it necessary to respond to this familiarity. He felt that the whole room was now looking at him, but he did not want to look back at these random people or even greet them. He just moved his hand in the air with a moving movement, indicating to the brown-haired patient to step aside. He let Pavel Nikolaevich pass and again, with his whole body with his head riveted, turned after him.

- Listen, brother, you have cancer - what? – he asked in an unclean voice.

Pavel Nikolayevich, who had already reached his bed, was startled by this question. He raised his eyes to the impudent man, trying not to lose his temper (but still his shoulders twitched), and said with dignity:

- Neither what. I don't have cancer at all.

Brown snorted and announced to the whole room:

- What a fool! If it weren’t for cancer, would they have put me here?

2

That very first evening in the ward, within a few hours, Pavel Nikolaevich felt terrified.

A hard lump of tumor - unexpected, unnecessary, meaningless, of no use to anyone - dragged him here like a hook drags a fish, and threw him onto this iron bed - narrow, pathetic, with a creaking mesh, with a meager mattress. As soon as I changed my clothes under the stairs, said goodbye to my family and went up to this room, the whole room slammed shut. old life, and here it was so disgusting that it was even more terrifying than the tumor itself. It was no longer possible to choose what was pleasant, soothing, what to look at, but had to look at eight crippled creatures, now as if equal to him - eight sick people in pink and white pajamas, already very faded and worn, some patched, some torn, almost all not to measure. And it was no longer possible to choose what to listen to, but it was necessary to listen to the boring conversations of these rabble of people, which had nothing to do with Pavel Nikolaevich and were of no interest to him. He would willingly order them to shut up, and especially this annoying brown-haired guy with a bandage around his neck and a pinched head - everyone just called him Ephraim, although he was not young.

But Ephraim did not calm down in any way, did not lie down and did not leave the room, but restlessly walked along the middle passage along the room. Sometimes he would wince, twist his face as if from an injection, and hold his head. Then I walked again. And, walking like this, he stopped right next to Rusanov’s bed, leaned over the back of him with his entire stiff upper half, exposed his wide, freckled, gloomy face and inspired:

- That's it now, professor. You're not coming home, okay?

It was very warm in the room; Pavel Nikolaevich was lying on top of the blanket in pajamas and a skullcap. He straightened his gold-rimmed glasses, looked at Ephraim as sternly as he knew how to look, and answered:

“I don’t understand, comrade, what do you want from me?” And why are you intimidating me? I'm not asking you questions.

Ephraim just snorted angrily:

- Yes, don’t ask, but you won’t return home. You can return your glasses. New pajamas.

Having said such rudeness, he straightened his clumsy torso and again walked along the aisle, carrying him lightly.

Pavel Nikolaevich could, of course, cut him off and put him in his place, but for this he did not find the usual will in himself: it fell and, from the words of the wrapped devil, he sank even more. He needed support, but they pushed him into a hole. In a few hours, Rusanov lost all his position, merits, plans for the future - and became seven tens of kilograms of a warm white body that did not know its tomorrow.

Probably, the melancholy was reflected on his face, because in one of the next passages Ephraim, standing opposite, said peacefully:

“If you do get home, it won’t be for long, but here you go again.” Cancer loves people. Whoever the cancer grabs with its claw will die.

Pavel Nikolayevich did not have the strength to object - and Ephraim began to walk again. And who was there in the room to stop him! – they all lay there, somehow beaten down or non-Russian. Along the wall where, because of the stove ledge, there were only four beds, one bed - directly opposite Rusanov’s, legs to feet across the passage - was Efremova, and on the other three there were completely youngsters: a rustic, dark-skinned lad at the stove, a young Uzbek with a crutch , and at the window - a yellowish, moaning guy, thin as a worm, and twisted in his bed. In the same row where Pavel Nikolaevich was, to the left lay two national men, then at the door a tall Russian boy, with a buzz cut, sat reading, and on the other hand, on the last bed by the window, he also sat as if he were Russian, but you won’t be happy with such a neighborhood: his face was like that of a bandit. This is what he looked like, probably because of the scar (the scar began near the corner of his mouth and went along the bottom of his left cheek almost to his neck); or maybe from the unkempt, long black hair that stuck out both up and to the side; or maybe, in general, from a rude, harsh expression. This bandit was drawn to the same place, to culture - he finished reading the book.

The light was already on - two bright lamps from the ceiling. It was dark outside the windows. We were waiting for dinner.

“There’s an old man here alone,” Ephraim continued, “he’s lying downstairs, he’ll have surgery tomorrow.” So back in the forty-second year, they cut out a small crustacean and told him - nothing, go for a walk. Understood? “Efrem spoke as if he was brisk, and his voice was as if he were being cut himself. - Thirteen years have passed, he forgot about this dispensary, drank vodka, talked to women - a musical old man, you'll see. And now he has grown into such a rachische! – Ephraim even smacked his lips with pleasure. - Straight from the table, but not to the morgue.

- Okay, enough of these gloomy predictions! – Pavel Nikolaevich waved and turned away and did not recognize his voice: it sounded so unauthoritative, so pitiful.

And everyone was silent. This emaciated, always fidgeting guy at the window in that row was still catching up with the nerds. He sat - did not sit, lay - did not lie, hunched over, tucked his knees to his chest, and, unable to find anything more comfortable, rolled his head not to the pillow, but to the foot of the bed. He moaned quietly, grimacing and twitching to express how much pain he felt.

Pavel Nikolayevich turned away from him, put his feet into slippers and began mindlessly inspecting his bedside table, opening and closing either the door where his groceries were thickly stacked, or the top drawer where toiletries and an electric razor were stored.

And Ephraim kept walking with his hands clasped in front of his chest, sometimes shuddering from the injections and humming his tune, like a chorus, as if for a dead person:

- So, our business is very difficult... very difficult...

A light clap sounded behind Pavel Nikolaevich. He turned around carefully, because every movement of his neck was reflected in pain, and saw that it was his neighbor, a half-bandit, who had slammed the crust of the book he had read and was turning it over in his big, rough hands. Diagonally across the dark blue binding, and the same along the spine, was the writer’s gold-embossed and already faded painting. Whose painting this was, Pavel Nikolaevich couldn’t make out, but he didn’t want to ask this type. He came up with a nickname for his neighbor - Ogloed. It was very suitable.

The Ogloeder looked at the book with gloomy eyes and announced shamelessly loudly to the whole room:

“If it weren’t for Demka picking out this book from the closet, it would be impossible to believe that it wasn’t given to us.”

- What - Demka? Which book? – the boy responded from the door, reading his own.

- Search all over the city - perhaps you won’t find one like this on purpose. – Ogloed looked at the wide, blunt back of Ephraim’s head (his hair hadn’t been cut for a long time, his hair was sticking to the bandage due to discomfort), then at his tense face. - Ephraim! Stop whining. Take this book and read it.

Ephraim stopped like a bull and looked dull.

The razor-eater moved his scar:

“That’s why you hurry up, because we’ll die soon.” On, on.

He was already handing the book to Ephraim, but he did not take a step:

- Are you illiterate, or what? – Ogloed did not really persuade.

– I’m even very literate. Where I need it, I am very competent.

The Ogloeder fumbled for a pencil on the windowsill, opened the book at the back and, looking through it, made dots here and there.

“Don’t be afraid,” he muttered, “there are little stories here.” Here are a few - try them. Yes, you're tired of it, you whine. Read it.

- But Ephraim is not afraid of anything! “He took the book and threw it onto his bed.

The novel was originally planned to be published in the magazine New world"in the mid-1960s. However, in those years the book was never officially published in the Soviet Union. A little later, the novel began to be published in samizdat and distributed throughout the USSR. In addition, the book was published in other countries in Russian and in translations. The novel became one of A. Solzhenitsyn's greatest literary successes. The work becomes the basis for awarding the author Nobel Prize. In 1990, the novel was officially published in the Soviet Union in the New World magazine.

The action takes place in the hospital at the Tashkent clinic medical institute(TashMi). The thirteenth (“cancer”) building gathered people affected by one of the most terrible diseases, undefeated by humanity to the end. With no other activities to do, patients spend their time engaged in numerous debates about ideology, life and death. Each inhabitant of the gloomy building has his own fate and his own way out of this terrible place: some are discharged home to die, others are improved, others are transferred to other departments.

Characteristics

Oleg Kostoglotov

Main character Romana is a former front-line soldier. Kostoglotov (or as his comrades in misfortune call him, Ogloed) went to prison and was then sentenced to eternal exile in Kazakhstan. Kostoglotov does not consider himself dying. He does not trust “scientific” medicine, preferring it folk remedies. Ogloed is 34 years old. He once dreamed of becoming an officer and getting a higher education. However, none of his wishes came true. He was not accepted as an officer, and he will no longer go to college, since he considers himself too old to study. Kostoglotov likes the doctor Vera Gangart (Vega) and the nurse Zoya. Ogloed is full of desire to live and take everything from life.

Informer Rusanov

Before being admitted to the hospital, a patient named Rusanov held a “responsible” position. He was an adherent of the Stalinist system and made more than one denunciation in his life. Rusanov, like Ogloed, does not intend to die. He dreams of a decent pension, which he has earned through his hard “work.” The former informer doesn't like the hospital he ended up in. A person like him, Rusanov believes, should undergo treatment in better conditions.

Demka is one of the youngest patients in the ward. The boy has experienced a lot in his 16 years. His parents separated because his mother became a bitch. There was no one to raise Demka. He became an orphan with living parents. The boy dreamed of getting on his own feet and getting a higher education. The only joy in Demka’s life was football. But it was his favorite sport that took away his health. After being hit in the leg by a ball, the boy developed cancer. The leg had to be amputated.

But this could not break the orphan. Demka continues to dream about higher education. He perceives the loss of his leg as a blessing. After all, now he won’t have to waste time on sports and dance floors. The state will pay the boy a lifelong pension, which means he will be able to study and become a writer. Demka met his first love, Asenka, in the hospital. But both Asenka and Demka understand that this feeling will not continue beyond the walls of the “cancer” building. The girl's breasts were amputated, and life lost all meaning for her.

Efrem Podduvaev

Ephraim worked as a builder. Once a terrible illness had already “let go” of him. Podduvaev is confident that this time everything will work out. Shortly before his death, he read a book by Leo Tolstoy, which made him think about many things. Ephraim is discharged from the hospital. After some time he was gone.

Vadim Zatsyrko

Geologist Vadim Zatsyrko also has a great thirst for life. Vadim was always afraid of only one thing - inaction. And now he has been in the hospital for a month. Zatsyrko is 27 years old. He's too young to die. At first, the geologist tries to ignore death, continuing to work on a method for determining the presence of ores from radioactive waters. Then self-confidence begins to gradually leave him.

Alexey Shulubin

Librarian Shulubin managed to tell a lot in his life. In 1917 he became a Bolshevik, then participated in civil war. He had no friends, his wife died. Shulubin had children, but they had long forgotten about his existence. The illness became the last step towards loneliness for the librarian. Shulubin doesn't like to talk. He's much more interested in listening.

Character prototypes

Some of the novel's characters had prototypes. The prototype of the doctor Lyudmila Dontsova was Lydia Dunaeva, head of the radiation department. The author named the treating doctor Irina Meike as Vera Gangart in his novel.

The “cancer” corps united great amount different people with different destinies. Perhaps they would never have met outside the walls of this hospital. But then something appeared that united them - a disease from which it is not always possible to recover even in the progressive twentieth century.

Cancer made people equal of different ages, having different social status. The disease behaves the same way both with Rusanov, who occupies a high position, and with former prisoners Ogloedom. Cancer does not spare those who have already been offended by fate. Left without parental care, Demka loses his leg. Forgotten by his loved ones, librarian Shulubin will not have a happy old age. Disease rids society of the old and infirm, without anyone the right people. But why then does she take the young, beautiful, full of life and plans for the future? Why should a young geologist leave this world before reaching the age of thirty, without having time to give humanity what he wanted? Questions remain unanswered.

Only when they found themselves far from the hustle and bustle of everyday life did the inhabitants of the “cancer” building finally have the opportunity to think about the meaning of life. All their lives these people strived for something: they dreamed of higher education, family happiness, about having time to create something. Some patients, such as Rusanov, were not too picky about the methods they used to achieve their goals. But the moment came when all successes, achievements, sorrows and joys ceased to have any meaning. On the threshold of death, the tinsel of existence loses its luster. And only then does a person understand that the main thing in his life was life itself.

The novel was originally planned to be published in the New World magazine in the mid-1960s. However, in those years the book was never officially published in the Soviet Union. A little later, the novel began to be published in samizdat and distributed throughout the USSR. In addition, the book was published in other countries in Russian and in translations. The novel became one of A. Solzhenitsyn's greatest literary successes. The work becomes the basis for awarding the author the Nobel Prize. In 1990, the novel was officially published in the Soviet Union in the New World magazine.

The action takes place in a hospital at the clinic of the Tashkent Medical Institute (TashMi). The thirteenth (“cancer”) building gathered people affected by one of the most terrible diseases, undefeated by humanity to the end. With no other activities to do, patients spend their time engaged in numerous debates about ideology, life and death. Each inhabitant of the gloomy building has his own fate and his own way out of this terrible place: some are discharged home to die, others are improved, others are transferred to other departments.

Characteristics

Oleg Kostoglotov

The main character of the novel is a former front-line soldier. Kostoglotov (or as his comrades in misfortune call him, Ogloed) went to prison and was then sentenced to eternal exile in Kazakhstan. Kostoglotov does not consider himself dying. He does not trust “scientific” medicine, preferring folk remedies to it. Ogloed is 34 years old. He once dreamed of becoming an officer and getting a higher education. However, none of his wishes came true. He was not accepted as an officer, and he will no longer go to college, since he considers himself too old to study. Kostoglotov likes the doctor Vera Gangart (Vega) and the nurse Zoya. The Ogloed is full of desire to live and take everything from life.

Informer Rusanov

Before being admitted to the hospital, a patient named Rusanov held a “responsible” position. He was an adherent of the Stalinist system and made more than one denunciation in his life. Rusanov, like Ogloed, does not intend to die. He dreams of a decent pension, which he has earned through his hard “work.” The former informer doesn't like the hospital he ended up in. A person like him, Rusanov believes, should undergo treatment under better conditions.

Demka is one of the youngest patients in the ward. The boy has experienced a lot in his 16 years. His parents separated because his mother became a bitch. There was no one to raise Demka. He became an orphan with living parents. The boy dreamed of getting on his own feet and getting a higher education. The only joy in Demka’s life was football. But it was his favorite sport that took away his health. After being hit in the leg by a ball, the boy developed cancer. The leg had to be amputated.

But this could not break the orphan. Demka continues to dream of higher education. He perceives the loss of his leg as a blessing. After all, now he won’t have to waste time on sports and dance floors. The state will pay the boy a lifelong pension, which means he will be able to study and become a writer. Demka met his first love, Asenka, in the hospital. But both Asenka and Demka understand that this feeling will not continue beyond the walls of the “cancer” building. The girl's breasts were amputated, and life lost all meaning for her.

Efrem Podduvaev

Ephraim worked as a builder. Once a terrible illness had already “let go” of him. Podduvaev is confident that this time everything will work out. Shortly before his death, he read a book by Leo Tolstoy, which made him think about many things. Ephraim is discharged from the hospital. After some time he was gone.

Vadim Zatsyrko

Geologist Vadim Zatsyrko also has a great thirst for life. Vadim was always afraid of only one thing - inaction. And now he has been in the hospital for a month. Zatsyrko is 27 years old. He's too young to die. At first, the geologist tries to ignore death, continuing to work on a method for determining the presence of ores from radioactive waters. Then self-confidence begins to gradually leave him.

Alexey Shulubin

Librarian Shulubin managed to tell a lot in his life. In 1917 he became a Bolshevik, then participated in the Civil War. He had no friends, his wife died. Shulubin had children, but they had long forgotten about his existence. The illness became the last step towards loneliness for the librarian. Shulubin doesn't like to talk. He's much more interested in listening.

Character prototypes

Some of the novel's characters had prototypes. The prototype of the doctor Lyudmila Dontsova was Lydia Dunaeva, head of the radiation department. The author named the treating doctor Irina Meike as Vera Gangart in his novel.

The “cancer” corps united a huge number of different people with dissimilar destinies. Perhaps they would never have met outside the walls of this hospital. But then something appeared that united them - a disease from which it is not always possible to recover even in the progressive twentieth century.

Cancer has equalized people of different ages and different social status. The disease behaves in the same way with both the high-ranking Rusanov and the former prisoner Ogloed. Cancer does not spare those who have already been offended by fate. Left without parental care, Demka loses his leg. Forgotten by his loved ones, librarian Shulubin will not have a happy old age. The disease rids society of old and frail, useless people. But why then does she take the young, beautiful, full of life and plans for the future? Why should a young geologist leave this world before reaching the age of thirty, without having time to give humanity what he wanted? Questions remain unanswered.

Only when they found themselves far from the hustle and bustle of everyday life did the inhabitants of the “cancer” building finally have the opportunity to think about the meaning of life. All their lives these people have been striving for something: they dreamed of higher education, of family happiness, of having time to create something. Some patients, such as Rusanov, were not too picky about the methods they used to achieve their goals. But the moment came when all successes, achievements, sorrows and joys ceased to have any meaning. On the threshold of death, the tinsel of existence loses its luster. And only then does a person understand that the main thing in his life was life itself.