A Time to Love and a Time to Die / Время жить и время умирать
Фамилия автора на языке аудиокниги: Remarque
Имя автора на языке аудиокниги: Erich Maria
Фамилия автора на русском языке: Ремарк
Имя автора на русском языке: Эрих Мария
Исполнитель на языке аудиокниги: MacLeod Andrews
Год выпуска: 2019
Язык: Английский
Жанр: Роман
Издательство: Recorded Books
ISBN или ASIN: Нет
Время звучания: 12:36:12
Аудио кодек: MP3
Битрейт аудио: 64 kbps
Описание: Война. Страшная и ненавистная.
Эрнст Гребер - рядовой немецкий солдат - впервые после двух лет войны на три недели отправляется в отпуск.
Три бесценные недели - времени жить!..
Он уезжает, чтобы вновь оказаться на войне - в городе, где бесконечные бомбежки… В городе, где жители боятся лишний раз вздохнуть, где никому и никогда нельзя доверить свои мысли и чувства, иначе - расстрел…
Но эти три недели, словно целая жизнь, в которой Эрнст становится совсем другим человеком, нашедшим любовь, счастье и недолгое успокоение… Чтобы, вернувшись на фронт идти к другому времени - времени умирать…
From the quintessential author of wartime Germany, A Time to Love and a Time to Die echoes the harrowing insights of his masterpiece All Quiet on the Western Front.
After two years at the Russian front, Ernst Graeber finally receives three weeks’ leave. But since leaves have been canceled before, he decides not to write his parents, fearing he would just raise their hopes.
Then, when Graeber arrives home, he finds his house bombed to ruin and his parents nowhere in sight. Nobody knows if they are dead or alive. As his leave draws to a close, Graeber reaches out to Elisabeth, a childhood friend. Like him, she is imprisoned in a world she did not create. But in a time of war, love seems a world away. And sometimes, temporary comfort can lead to something unexpected and redeeming.
Доп. информация:
Каким то образом именно этот роман Ремарка остался непрочитанным во времена моей молодости. Да и честно говоря тогда, вся эта война казалось настолько далека. Я признавал Ремарка как писателя огромной величины, к тому же писатель он замечательный. Но слава богу все это было не с нами, давным давно прошло и никогда больше не вернеться!. Но, никогда не говори никогда! К сожалению сейчас роман актуален как никогда и рекомендуется абсолютно всем. Возмущающимся, поддерживающим, сомневающимся, равнодушным и всем всем остальным.
В романе есть бесподобная сцена где главный герой приходит у своему бывшему однокласснику а ныне партийному бонзе, для очередного "раскулачивания" а его дом почти полностью разбомблен. Сам товарищ доблестно погиб лежа на очередной подруге, но что-то урвать все равно получилось. Хотел проверить есть ли эта сцена в Советском переводе, да к сожалению книги не осталось.
Во время чтения я набрал целый ворох цитат, что делаю сейчас очень редко: -
"The world," he said. "The world does not stand still. When one despairs for a time of his own country he must believe in the world. An eclipse is possible but not an enduring period of night. Not on this planet. One must not make things easier for oneself by simply giving way to despair."
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Graeber looked at the satisfied, harmless face and, with sudden shock, he realized the eternal hopelessness to which justice and sympathy are condemned: always to suffer shipwreck on egoism and indifference and fear—he realized it and he realied, too, that he himself was not exempt, that he too was caught in it in an anonymous, indirect, and sinister fashion, as though he and Binding somehow belonged together, however much he might struggle against it.
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Here was embodied the past that had once been— kindness, tolerance, and knowledge—and the rubble outside the windows was what the present had made out of it. "I would like to know how far I am involved in the crimes of the last ten years," he said. "And I would like to know what I ought to do."
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Pohlmann came back and sat down again. "By crime do you mean the war?"
"I mean everything that led up to it. The lies, the oppression, the injustice, the use of force. And I mean the war. The war and the way we wage it—with slave camps, concentration camps, and the mass murder of civilians."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pohlmann shook his head. "You have the right to ask. Complicity!" he said with sudden vehemence. "What do you know of that? You were young and they poisoned you with lies before you had learned to judge. But we—we saw it and let it happen! What caused it? Hardness of heart? Indifference? Poverty? Egoism? Despair? And how could it become such a plague? Do you suppose that I don't think about it every day?"
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"Let her howl. She won't miss it. True National Socialists don't bathe very often. Cleanliness is a Jewish vice."
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"Hate! Who can allow himself such a luxury? Hate makes one forget to be cautious."
The miraculous always lies in wait close by despair.
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"You can't see a single ruin from here. This garden is arranged so that you just don't see them. The trees cover them. To think there are whole countries like this!"
"We will go to them after the war. We will see nothing but undestroyed cities and in the evening they will be lighted and no one will go in fear of bombs. We will stroll past shop windows full of lights and it will be so bright we'll actually be able to recognize one another's face on the street at night."
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"It will be beautiful to live," she said. "We're so unused to it. Unused to so much. That's why we have so much before us still. Things that are a matter of course to other people will be a great adventure to us. Even air that doesn't smell of burning. Or a dinner without ration coupons. Stores where you can buy what you like. Cities that haven't been bombed. Or to be able to talk without first looking all around. Not to need to be afraid any more! That will take a long time, but the fear will grow less and less and even if it comes back once in a while it will be a joy because we will know at once that we no longer need to feel it. Do you believe that?"
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"No. There were too many Party members in uniform there. I didn't go along. I just listened to Group Leader Hildebrandt's oration. He said we should all imitate Alfons and fulfill his last wish. He meant remorseless strife against the foe. But Binding's last wish was something different. Alfons was in pajamas in the cellar with a blonde in a negligee."
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Nothing must be mentioned about their time at the front. Nothing about positions, locations, troop disposal, or troop movements. Spies were lying in-wait everywhere. Therefore silence was of the utmost importance. Whoever talked loosely could count on severe punishment. Idle criticism, too, was treason. The Fuehrer was conducting the war; he knew what he was doing. The situation was brilliant. The Russians were bleeding to death. They had suffered unprecedented losses, and the counterattack was being mounted. Care of the troops was first class and their spirit excellent. Once more: to divulge the names of places or the position of troops was high treason. Alarmism also. The Gestapo was on the alert everywhere. Everywhere.
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He had learned long since that it was only the simple things that never disappointed one—warmth, water, a roof, bread, quietness, and confidence in one's own body.
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It was easy to judge and to be brave when one had nothing, he thought. But when one possessed something the world changed. It made things easier and harder and sometimes almost impossible. It was still bravery, but it looked different and it had entirely different names and it really began only there.
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Graeber shook his head. "They don't help me. But there's one thing I'd like to know: how does all this fit together— these books, these poems, these philosophies—with the inhumanity of the S.A., the concentration camps and the liquidation of innocent people?"
"They don't fit together. They simply exist at the same time. If the men who wrote these books were alive most of them would be sitting in a concentration camp too."
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Graeber walked on. What would never be forgiven? he thought. After this war there would be horribly much to forgive and not to forgive. A single lifetime would not be enough for that. He had seen more dead children than these—he had seen them everywhere, in France, in Holland, in Poland, in Africa, in Russia, and all had had mothers who wept for them, not the Germans alone—if they still could weep and had not already been liquidated by the S.S. But why did he think about that? Had not he himself an hour ago been shouting, "Swine! Swine!" at the sky that held the airplanes?
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That's something I would have to prove. We have factory doctors and factory police. If they find out someone, has cheated there are penalties. Extra work, no vacation—and if that doesn't help, an educational course in patriotism in a concentration camp. Those who have been through that never stay away from work again."
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"Now I know why we feel old," he said. "It's because we've seen too much filth. Filth stirred up by people who are older than we and ought to be wiser."
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It's the piano! It's the piano!" the warden mimicked him. "What do you understand about it, you unconscionable murderer! It's the funeral bell and the wind rings it. It is Heaven calling for mercy, for mercy, you rifle-shooting automaton, for that mercy which no longer exists on earth! What do you know about death, you vandal! And what could you know? Those who cause it never know anything about it!" He stooped over. "The dead are everywhere," he whispered. "They lie under the ruins with their trodden faces and outstretched arms, they lie there but they will arise and they will hunt all of you down-—"
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Русский перевод романа появился почти сразу после выхода романа в 1957 плюс еще два издания в 1959 и 1960 году. После чего не издавался 19 лет когда наконец был издан двухтомник Ремарка куда и вошел роман.
Опять же читая роман сейчас и тогда это две громадные разницы. Сегодня возникают совершенно неожиданные ассоциации.
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Сыны мои, рявкнул могучим голосом Начальник. Родина не требует... Родина просит вас... Родина умоляет... От имени... объявляю вам всем амнистию, гремит Начальник. Ура, кричат амнистированные штрафники. За Родину, за Хозяина, даешь Н, гремит Начальник. Ура, кричат амнистированные. Какие будут просьбы, спрашивает Начальник. Есть просьба, кричит Уклонист. Можно только за Родину? Начальник посмотрел на Заместителя, Заместитель на Сотрудника, Сотрудник на Начальника. Можно, рявкнул Начальник. Ура, закричали обреченные штрафники. И падая от истощения и усталости, они побрели брать Н.
А. Зиновьев "Зияющие высоты"
