The meaning of the lyrics of the song "The Ballad of Childhood" (Ballada o detstve) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

The hour of my conception, I don't quite recall, -

Must mean my memory's flawed, after all, -

But I was conceived one night, in sin,

And came to this world a premature twin.

I wasn't born in agony, or in spite, -

Nine months - it's not like years, not quite!

My first term I served in the womb's confine, -

Nothing good can be said of that time.

Thank you, saints above,

For spitting and blowing life in,

That my parents, in their love,

Decided to conceive me within -

In those times secluded,

Now almost a legend untold,

When sentences were concluded

In long, drawn-out episodes of old.

They were taken on the night they were seized,

And many, even before their time, -

But look, my brethren still breathe,

My honest company, standing in line!

Go on, my daring thoughts, go on!

Flow forth, my darling words, flow on!

For the first time, I was free to roam,

By decree of the thirty-eighth to call home.

If I only knew who toiled so long, -

I'd get back at the scoundrel, and strong!

But I was born, I lived, I survived, somehow, -

The house on First Meshchanskaya - that's how.

There, behind the wall, the partition thin,

Behind the flimsy divider within,

A neighbor and his neighbor's wife

Were having fun, drinking for dear life.

Everyone lived modestly, all the same, -

A corridor system, it was a shame,

Thirty-eight rooms, can you believe,

Shared one single toilet, can you conceive?

Here, no one had it out for another,

No electric heater to warm the cold,

Here, I learned for sure, like no other,

What a kopek was worth, be it young or old.

...The neighbor wasn't scared of the siren's call,

And my mother got used to it, gradually,

And I, a healthy three-year-old, would bawl,

At this airborne alert, mockingly!

But not everything from above is divine, -

And people put out the "lighters" with care;

And, like small aid to the front line,

My sand and leaky bucket I'd share.

The sun shone in three streams,

Through the holes in the roof, a radiant display,

On Evdokim Kirilych, it seems,

And Gisya Moiseyevna, come what may.

She asked him, "How are your sons?"

"Gone missing, no word, no trace!

Ah, Gisya, we're family, under the guns, -

You're also sufferers in this disgrace!

You're also sufferers, it's true,

And that means, Russified you've become:

Mine - missing in action, it's true,

Yours - imprisoned for nothing, succumb."

...I grew out of diapers and baby bottles,

Lived on, not forgotten, not left behind,

And they teased me, "Preemie," amid the battles, -

Even though I was born full-term, you'll find.

I tried to tear off the masking disguise:

They're driving the captives, why the fear in our eyes?!

Our fathers, brothers, were coming back home,

To their own houses, or some they'd just roam...

Aunt Zina had a blouse, I recall,

With dragons and snakes, a sight to behold,

While Popova's son, little Vova, stood tall,

His father returned with trophies, we were told.

Trophy Japan, a conquered land,

Trophy Germany, brought to her knees...

Came the land of Limonia, close at hand,

A suitcase kingdom, if you please!

At the station, from my father's embrace,

I took his epaulettes, like trinkets to hold, -

And from evacuation's distant space,

Civilians poured in, stories yet untold.

They looked around, came to their senses, it's true,

Had a drink, then sobered up, clear as day,

And those who were reunited, cried anew,

While those who waited in vain, just wasted away.

Vitya's and Genka's father, he began to dig, -

"Why?" we asked - he said, "Don't you see,

Corridors end with a wall, so thick,

But tunnels lead out to the light, you and me!"

His father's prophecy, wise and deep,

Vitya ignored, with his friend by his side -

From our corridor, into darkness they'd leap,

Into a prison corridor, where some reside.

He was always one to argue and clash,

Backed against the wall, he'd never concede...

He walked down the corridor, in a flash,

And it seems, he met his "wall," indeed.

But fathers have their own thoughts, it's true,

And as for us, what we had to do,

We looked at life, on our own, it's a fact,

Independent, that's where we were at.

All of us, from toddlers to almost a year old,

Were driven to a frenzy, blood would be spilled,

And in basements, and half-basements, bold,

The kids wished for tanks, their desires fulfilled.

They didn't even get a bullet, not one,

In the "trade school," life was good, no strife:

No daring, no risk, but they had begun,

To make knives out of files, risking life.

They would pierce into lungs, so black,

From nicotine, a grim reminder of vice,

The handles, light, no turning back,

Three-colored, a dangerous device...

Snotty-nosed youngsters, sharp and sly,

Conducted their trade, with cunning and speed -

German prisoners, passing by,

Exchanged bread for knives, a desperate need.

At first, they played "flinch," a simple game,

In the "courtyard," with penny-pinchers around, -

And so, the romantics, escaping the blame,

From back alleys, as thieves, they were bound.

...The number one speculator, she reigned supreme, -

Fearing neither neighbors nor God above,

Ended her life as a millionaire, it would seem -

Aunt Marusya Peresvetova, driven by love.

They caroused behind Marusya's wall,

And she drank there, in secret, they say...

But she fell by the door, a tragic downfall,

An ugly death, she breathed her last that day.

Greed is like a drug, so it seems,

She couldn't handle it, no matter how hard,

The wealthy aunt, lost in her dreams,

Marusya Peresvetova, caught off guard.

But it was all so ordinary, you see,

Anyone who looked in would feel a despair.

What hurt the most, particularly,

Was the metro worker's wealth, beyond compare.

He demolished the house, and to us, he proclaimed,

"Your noses aren't even wiped, it's a disgrace,

And me, what did I fight for?" he exclaimed,

And other epithets, in this unfortunate place.

...There was a time, and there were basements, it's true,

There was business, and prices fell, it's a fact,

And the canals flowed where they needed to,

And in the end, they flowed into the right track.

Children of former majors and such,

Rose to the icy latitudes, far and wide,

Because from those corridors, they felt the clutch,

It seemed easier for them to slide.

Час зачатья я помню неточно, -

Значит, память моя - однобока, -

Но зачат я был ночью, порочно

И явился на свет не до срока.

Я рождался не в муках, не в злобе, -

Девять месяцев - это не лет!

Первый срок отбывал я в утробе, -

Ничего там хорошего нет.

Спасибо вам, святители,

Что плюнули, да дунули,

Что вдруг мои родители

Зачать меня задумали -

В те времена укромные,

Теперь - почти былинные,

Когда срока огромные

Брели в этапы длинные.

Их брали в ночь зачатия,

А многих - даже ранее, -

А вот живет же братия -

Моя честна компания!

Ходу, думушки резвые, ходу!

Слова, строченьки милые, слова!..

В первый раз получил я свободу

По указу от тридцать восьмого.

Знать бы мне, кто так долго мурыжил, -

Отыгрался бы на подлеце!

Но родился, и жил я, и выжил, -

Дом на Первой Мещанской - в конце.

Там за стеной, за стеночкою,

За перегородочкой

Соседушка с соседушкою

Баловались водочкой.

Все жили вровень, скромно так, -

Система коридорная,

На тридцать восемь комнаток -

Всего одна уборная.

Здесь на зуб зуб не попадал,

Не грела телогреечка,

Здесь я доподлинно узнал,

Почем она - копеечка.

...Не боялась сирены соседка

И привыкла к ней мать понемногу,

И плевал я - здоровый трехлетка -

На воздушную эту тревогу!

Да не все то, что сверху, - от бога, -

И народ "зажигалки" тушил;

И, как малая фронту подмога -

Мой песок и дырявый кувшин.

И било солнце в три ручья

Сквозь дыры крыш просеяно,

На Евдоким Кирилыча

И Гисю Моисеевну.

Она ему: "Как сыновья?"

"Да без вести пропавшие!

Эх, Гиська, мы одна семья -

Вы тоже пострадавшие!

Вы тоже - пострадавшие,

А значит - обрусевшие:

Мои - без вести павшие,

Твои - безвинно севшие".

...Я ушел от пеленок и сосок,

Поживал - не забыт, не заброшен,

И дразнили меня: "Недоносок", -

Хоть и был я нормально доношен.

Маскировку пытался срывать я:

Пленных гонят - чего ж мы дрожим?!

Возвращались отцы наши, братья

По домам - по своим да чужим...

У тети Зины кофточка

С драконами да змеями,

То у Попова Вовчика

Отец пришел с трофеями.

Трофейная Япония,

Трофейная Германия...

Пришла страна Лимония,

Сплошная Чемодания!

Взял у отца на станции

Погоны, словно цацки, я, -

А из эвакуации

Толпой валили штатские.

Осмотрелись они, оклемались,

Похмелились - потом протрезвели.

И отплакали те, кто дождались,

Недождавшиеся - отревели.

Стал метро рыть отец Витькин с Генкой, -

Мы спросили - зачем? - он в ответ:

"Коридоры кончаются стенкой,

А тоннели - выводят на свет!"

Пророчество папашино

Не слушал Витька с корешом -

Из коридора нашего

В тюремный коридор ушел.

Да он всегда был спорщиком,

Припрут к стене - откажется...

Прошел он коридорчиком -

И кончил "стенкой", кажется.

Но у отцов - свои умы,

А что до нас касательно -

На жизнь засматривались мы

Уже самостоятельно.

Все - от нас до почти годовалых -

"Толковищу" вели до кровянки, -

А в подвалах и полуподвалах

Ребятишкам хотелось под танки.

Не досталось им даже по пуле, -

В "ремеслухе" - живи не тужи:

Ни дерзнуть, ни рискнуть, - но рискнули

Из напильников делать ножи.

Они воткнутся в легкие,

От никотина черные,

По рукоятки легкие

Трехцветные наборные...

Вели дела обменные

Сопливые острожники -

На стройке немцы пленные

На хлеб меняли ножики.

Сперва играли в "фантики"

В "пристенок" с крохоборами, -

И вот ушли романтики

Из подворотен ворами.

...Спекулянтка была номер перший -

Ни соседей, ни бога не труся,

Жизнь закончила миллионершей -

Пересветова тетя Маруся.

У Маруси за стенкой говели, -

И она там втихую пила...

А упала она - возле двери, -

Некрасиво так, зло умерла.

Нажива - как наркотика, -

Не выдержала этого

Богатенькая тетенька

Маруся Пересветова.

Но было все обыденно:

Заглянет кто - расстроится.

Особенно обидело

Богатство - метростроевца.

Он дом сломал, а нам сказал:

"У вас носы не вытерты,

А я, за что я воевал?!" -

И разные эпитеты.

...Было время - и были подвалы,

Было дело - и цены снижали,

И текли куда надо каналы,

И в конце куда надо впадали.

Дети бывших старшин да майоров

До ледовых широт поднялись,

Потому что из тех коридоров,

Им казалось, сподручнее - вниз.

In his ballad "About Childhood," Vladimir Vysotsky describes his childhood, which fell on the war and post-war years, with bitter irony and piercing sincerity. He draws parallels between his birth, conception in difficult times, and the fate of a generation born in an era of change and trials.

Already in the first stanzas, the author ironically describes his birth, using prison jargon ("my first term I was serving in the womb"). This sets the tone for the entire work, where the tragic is intertwined with the comic, and the harsh reality - with childlike spontaneity.

Vysotsky paints a picture of life in a communal apartment, where cramped conditions, poverty and hopelessness coexist with ordinary joys and sorrows. He recalls his neighbors, their fates marked by war and repression: "Mine are missing in action, yours are innocently imprisoned."

The author's childhood is a constant struggle for survival, games against the backdrop of devastation, early adulthood and awareness of the injustice of the world. Children playing war, teenagers making knives and exchanging them for bread from captured Germans - these are all images of a generation deprived of childhood, tempered by hardship.

The ballad also touches upon the theme of social contrasts. The death of the "rich lady" Marusya Peresvetova, who made a fortune by speculation, is contrasted with the tragedy of the subway builder who lost his sons in the war and is outraged by the "unwiped noses."

The finale of the ballad is imbued with tragedy and hopelessness. The children of war, who grew up in "corridors", see no way out, it seems to them that "it is easier - down." The fate of Vitka, a childhood friend who ended up in prison, is a vivid confirmation of this.

"Ballad of Childhood" is not just an autobiographical work, it is a reflection of an entire era, the songs of an entire generation that survived the war and repressions, knew the value of freedom and bread.