Lead waves near granite rocks. Lead "waves of memory" Lead wind or deja vu

Chapter One LEAD CYLINDER The plane lay down on its wing and went down. The clouds parted and the island became visible - a huge motley rusty-gray spot on the blue surface of the ocean, bordered by the white lace of the surf. “It seems we’ve finally arrived,” the major said with relief

Locusts, Fire and the Plumb Line 1 This is what the Lord Eternal showed me: He was preparing swarms of locusts when the king's share was reaped and the late grass began to rise. a 2 When they completely ate the earth, I cried out: “Eternal Lord, I pray to You, forgive me!” How can Yakub's descendants survive?

Locusts, fire and lead plumb

Locusts, fire and plumb line 1 This is what the Sovereign Lord showed me: He prepared swarms of locusts when the king's share was reaped, and the late grass began to rise a. 2 When they completely devoured the earth, I cried out: “Lord, Lord, I pray to You, forgive me!” How can Jacob survive? He's so

Early in the morning, a transparent muslin of fog hung over the city of St. John's, like a memory of the bursting rain, slowly melting under the dim rays of the rising sun. From the height of the ninth floor, the magnificent harbor is clearly visible. Various-sized houses with intricately painted walls and roofs ran down steep slopes towards it. The wide main street, Water Street, was filled with cars moving in one direction - towards the port. Most of the hundred thousand residents of St. John's, the capital of the Canadian province of Newfoundland, are busy in the port, in one way or another in contact with the sea and ships.

The inhabitants of the island of Newfoundland, its cities, villages, and fishing villages are closely connected with the Atlantic. “Flesh of the sea, an island hanging like a giant granite plug over the neck of the mouth of the Gulf of St. Lawrence,” wrote the famous Canadian writer Farley Mowat in the book “A Rock in the Middle of the Sea,” “it turned its back to the mainland, isolating itself from it like a rampart , a three-hundred-mile mountain ridge that, approaching the sea, forms the inhospitable western coast of the island. The rest of its coast faces the open sea and is indented to such an extent by bays, bays, gorges and fiords that the total length of the island’s coastline is more than five thousand miles...”

Their dislike has long historical roots. For generations, over the course of a century, traders who settled in St. John's defrauded and robbed the inhabitants of the coastal fishing villages. The fantastic fortunes of the “Water Street Pirates”—as Newfoundland fishermen dubbed them—were amassed through the brutal exploitation of ordinary sea workers. The smell of land piracy still hovers over the vast warehouses and respectable offices built from unhewn granite blocks. Many of them bear the signs of "Mc-Do" ald phishing company or "O" Rourke Fish and Shipping Store. Outright robbery has since been replaced by sophisticated robbery. Climbing to the highest point of St. John's, the Cabot Tower, built in honor of the navigator John Cabot, I watched the dizzying flight of seagulls skimming over the granite piers.

At their ends there are candy-striped cones of lighthouses, shining day and night for ships, seaplanes and other floating and flying equipment,

In the port, far from modern piers, where cranes bent their metal necks, selecting bundles of bales, boxes, and bags from the bowels of steamship holds, fishing boats crowded around the wooden piers. Shining with fresh paint, durable boots seem to boast of the prosperity of their owners. And side by side with them are modest shells, completely devoid of external luster.

Cod daily

Turning off the silver-gray asphalt highway, we jolted along a country road that runs along the coast. Fog settled on the glass like pinpoint droplets of moisture: originating on the Big Bank, it constantly swirls here, creeping along the rocky shores onto the plateau where the road winds. Judging by the fresh dumps of earth, blocks of stone and uprooted stumps, which looked like monstrous octopuses with their long, bizarre rhizomes, it was clear that road builders were expanding a section of the road here. About two miles later we stopped near a triangular sign: “Caution! Road work is underway." A huge man was fiddling with a scraper standing on the side of the road with his back to us. Here we decided to find out the easiest way to get to the village of Top Sale.

Hearing the slamming of doors and our voices, the road worker turned around. Large blue eyes shone from a square face, the skin of which was hardened by salt spray and the sea sun. He looked like a real Newfoundland fisherman. But instead of a coarse wool sweater, black twill trousers, heavy rubber boots, a raincoat and a sou'wester, he was dressed in oiled overalls and rough boots. The head was covered with a cap with a long visor, the kind worn by golfers. As it turned out, Jeremy O'Shea is indeed a hereditary fisherman.

- That’s how it is, but I had to forget about cod nets and get hired as a builder. The work is temporary, but it pays money. Perhaps, when this road line joins Trans-Canada, it will give us income from trucks and tourists. May be...

There was a note of great doubt in this “maybe”. I have already heard talk about the future prosperity that will be provided by Trans-Canada, and the development of modern industrial enterprises, copper mines in Weilsbeck, and the construction of a chain of tourist motels, and the replacement of fishing scows with ultra-modern trawlers. I have already met people in Newfoundland with a dream of a future happy future, diluted with a fair amount of doubt. "Who knows?" The consolation is a character trait characteristic of almost all Newfoundlanders without exception - amazing optimism. Without it, they would have long ago had to cede their hard-lived land to seagulls and seals. In no other part of Canada have I met such dexterous, resilient and cheerful people.

The overwhelming majority of Pomors are descendants of immigrants from France, the western regions of England, Ireland and the island of Jersey. Resistant to life's hardships, stubborn, unusually courageous, they withstood the onslaught of harsh nature and the British authorities, who ruled the island until 1949. A popular referendum decided that Newfoundland belonged to Canada.

Having received precise instructions from the former fisherman, we moved towards Top Sail. The narrow country roads leading to the sea were marked with signs with the names of the villages: “Black Goose Cave”, “Bard’s Port” or “The Square Where the Vikings Sang”. Here comes the turn to Top Sail - “Top Sail”.

Lumps of wet earth clattered on the bottom of the car. A small harbor opened before my eyes - a narrow strip of water between curved coastal cliffs. Like a flock of sleeping ducks, a dozen boats were dozing at anchor. Fifty brightly colored square houses with flat roofs climbed up the slope from the edge of the shore. Almost right next to the water, next to the fragile piers, there were fish dryers and sheds for storing the catch. Topsail was no different from the fifteen hundred similar fishing towns and villages scattered along the east coast of Newfoundland.

There was no hotel in the village. But we were told that an old man with a small family, Jules Gornier, sometimes rents out a room to visiting fishing enthusiasts. His house was built on the edge of a granite cliff, gnawed by the waves, half a mile from the two black barracks of the fish factory. There the shift had just ended, and dozens of women and girls in canvas aprons and men in overalls and rubber boots poured out onto the road.

A small, fragile woman with tiredly lowered arms, wearing a heavy apron soaked in fish mucus and covered with scales, which beat like a bell on her knees, walked up to the porch and pulled out the key from under the rug.

This is how we met Marie Gornier, the mistress of this house, the mother of four sons, of whom only one survived. Three were taken by the Atlantic - the eternal tomb of those who connected themselves with the water element. There aren't even mother's graves left...

Late in the evening Jules Gornier himself arrived, a stocky, strongly built man. Judging by his entire appearance, the red beard that framed his narrow face, his light blue eyes, thin lips, his impressive cartilaginous nose, and his entire stately figure, it was impossible to call him an old man, although he was in his seventies. Jules was the senior man on a fishing boat whose crew consisted of four people.

Gornier introduced me to fishing life for several days. He took him with him on the boat, and then - when an attack of rheumatism broke his joints - he simply sent him to sea with his fishing friends.

The life of cod fishermen is monotonous. Every morning the fishing boat, a small, wide vessel driven by a five-horsepower motor, left Topsail Harbor. A mile and a half away, the fishermen checked the cod traps they had set earlier in the evening—huge boxes made of nets. Each side of such a box is fifteen meters long. The top of the trap is missing. A long, vertically suspended net stretches from a hole in one of the sides. She is called the leader. It is she who directs the school of cod into the trap. In order to check whether there is fish in the net, fishermen use bait - a lead fish the size of two palms. Two or three large hooks are soldered to the fish. The bait is attached to the end of a strong thick line. Someone - usually a senior person - drops a lead fish into the trap and jerks the line sharply. If after two or three such attempts a cod is caught on the bait, then the trap is full. Then the fishermen, moving through the leading net, begin to close the entrance with it. Then, when the top of the trap is tightly packed with the net, they take hold of the cable and select it. The entire fishing structure is collected in a bag.

When I went out to sea with Jules, the cod was especially abundant. In one session, which took about four hours, at the bottom of the boat there were one hundred and fifty kilograms of magnificent, sparkling silver scales of fatty cod.

Salmon on the rocks

One day Jules told me that he was going to a nearby river to fish for salmon.

— Henry spends the whole day working on the engine. Don't be foolish. If there is a hunt, we'll go for a ride together.

Of course, I immediately agreed, since I had never seen salmon being taken in my life.

Jules took me into the barn where he had all sorts of things piled up. I took out oars, two well-worn spinning rods, a box with fishing line and lures. He brought a small plastic skiff. The whole thing was loaded onto a two-wheel trailer, which he attached to his old Ford.

An hour later we found ourselves on the rocky bank of a rather stormy river. Below, a large pool turned leaden blue, in which ragged clouds were clearly reflected. At the top of the rapids the current was stormy, turning into a narrow waterfall. Below it, the flow is also very fast, and the water here is so shallow that you can see many sharp stones covering the bottom,

“What happens is that you take salmon on a lure, and it ends up in this part of the rapids, and all is lost.” No salmon, no lures, no fishing lines - you’ll lose everything,” said Jules, preparing the spinning rod for a throw.

The pool is deep and quiet. Salmon, going up the river, stop here to take a short rest before the stormy rapids.

Jules said that he caught hundreds of salmon in this pool and there were days when he earned quite decent money. But fishing in the pool is dangerous. The boat can be carried far down and pulled into a stormy stream at the exit of the rapids.

Where the pool ends, in the middle of the foaming stream lies a large granite block. Topsail fishermen call it "Hope Stone" - "Stone of Fortune."

“When the river floods during heavy rains,” says Jules, “the stone is not visible at all.” It is completely hidden under water.

But now the meltwater has passed, and the stream, flowing around the stone, rushes strongly and quickly nearby. And below, in a small pool, wisps of white foam dance and rage in an eternal cycle.

- Look and remember for the future if you have to find yourself here again. You see, there, just below the stone, there is always a fish walking. Both salmon and rock bass. Their meat, although not so prized, is very tasty and tender...

Pssh... psst! The spinner, launched with an elastic swing of my spinning rod, soared up and, describing an arc, disappeared under the water.

Suddenly the rod tip bent and my hands involuntarily tightened their grip on the rod. The reel whirred, rapidly releasing sparkling nylon thread.

- There is an initiative! - Jules shouted joyfully. - Now we'll have the catch.

But only half an hour later, a salmon weighing about three kilograms had calmed down and lay at our feet. It was an unforgettable moment. I admired the graceful lines of the elastic body of the fish, its amazing coloring.

Within a few hours of biting, we caught quite large fish from our heels. And in the evening we feasted on salmon fried on the stones.

Lighting a fire, heating rocks, gutting fish, Jules lamented that the fishery that had provided Newfoundlanders with a livelihood for five centuries was withering away. Feeding from the sea becomes more and more difficult every year. Men his age still stick to fishing, but there is no future for young people. The sons of fishermen go to seek their fortune in mainland Canada. Jules said that several years ago, Newfoundland’s Prime Minister, John Smallwood, who had been serving since 1949, urged the islanders to burn their piers, drag their boats ashore and throw away their gear, because fishermen should no longer go to sea. The fish, they say, will be hunted by large fishing vessels equipped with the most modern technology. Those who follow the prime minister's call will be provided with work on the shore. As it turned out, the promised jobs turned out to be a real sham. Those who succumbed to Smallwood’s assurances, and there are many thousands of them, are now sitting on unemployment benefits, at best getting by with seasonal work. I immediately remembered the giant guy at the road construction site. Others who continue to go to sea, as Jules and his friends do, somehow make ends meet. They are really being squeezed by a powerful fishing fleet owned by large companies run by the “Water Street Pirates.”

“Moreover,” says Jules, “the owners of the companies, who do not understand the habits of fish and the vagaries of the sea, thirsting for only one thing - to grab as much coin as possible, hire captains on their ships who are unfamiliar with the elementary customs of maritime politeness, do not have the slightest ideas about the rules for passing ships, small or large. They don't care about our rules. Often the ignorance of aliens with captain's stripes ends in tragedy...

Jules also talked about other troubles that plague fishermen. The worst thing is fish contaminated with industrial waste, a scourge not only of Newfoundland, but of the entire North American continent. In addition to the owners of industrial enterprises, farmers are also to blame for this; by fighting crop pests with the help of pesticides, they become accomplices of fish poisoning.

With industrialists who shamelessly dump waste from their factories and factories, the matter is clear. They wrote a lot about this, trying to bring them to their senses. But we are talking about farmers in a special way. It turns out that some of them threw their spoiled grain into the waters of rivers and lakes. Grain, like industrial waste containing chloroalkaloid products, as studies have shown, contains mercury to varying degrees.

After this discovery, the United States and Canada strictly prohibited the fishing and sale of fish caught in rivers and other bodies of water where toxic impurities containing mercury were found. However, this measure had very little impact on the activities of the monopolies, but it hit the fishermen hard, as it sharply reduced the use of reservoirs. Of course, Newfoundlanders also suffered from this.

Those few days that I spent in the family of Jules Gornier brought me closer to him, his wife Marie, his son Renard - his father’s assistant and hope - and with the Top Sail fishermen, the fish factory workers - cheerful, hospitable, sympathetic people, seasoned in all sorts of troubles .

When we parted with Gornier, we only patted each other on the shoulder - as is the Newfoundland tradition: it is believed that farewell promises misfortune.

Returning to the mainland, we took with us the smell of fish oil, ingrained into all our pores...

At the "Merciful Patroness"

Many months have passed since my trip to the island province of Canada. The persistent fishy smell had long since faded, but I often remembered the Gornier family, their fellow countrymen who, in spite of everything, catch cod, salmon, lobsters and shrimp near the harsh coast.

There is a square market square in Montreal. It is located in the very center of the city. Once you cross it, you find yourself at the entrance to the gloomy, majestic building of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Bon Secur - the Merciful Patroness of the Madonna. The cathedral is considered the oldest building in the city. The building was built and is being renovated today with donations from tens of thousands of those whose fathers, husbands, brothers and sons died in the waves of the Atlantic. The gray granite blocks of the cathedral seemed to have absorbed the inescapable bitterness of loss, and the cement holding these blocks together seemed to be mixed with the tears of widows and orphans.

Inside the cathedral, images of saints - the patrons of all sailors and travelers - look out from the walls. There, in niches, there are miniature copies of a wide variety of ships: from 15th-century sailing ships and modest fishing scows to modern ocean liners. Along the edges of the altar are placed weather-worn Admiralty anchors with traces of rust, items of sailor's use, soaked in the winds and salt of different seas, and the vestibule is decorated with garlands of fishermen's cuddles. In this cathedral, masses and sermons are filled with nautical words and expressions.

One autumn day, the rain drove me under the arches of this cathedral. A service was underway at Notre-Dame de Bon Secure.

There were a lot of people in the cathedral, most of them women. A little to the side of the long, polished oak benches, near a copper lamp with a dozen brightly burning candles, stood a dry elderly woman. Her hands were limp and mournfully lowered. And yet I did not see her face. It was hidden under a black cape. But her whole pose and, most importantly, her hands immediately reminded me of Marie Gornier.

I could not approach her during mass, but I tried not to let her out of sight, not to give her the opportunity to mingle with the crowd. After patiently waiting for the end of the service, I approached the woman.

- Madame Gornier?..

- Yes. What do you want? “The woman raised her head, peering at me with moisture-stained eyes, and then nodded restrainedly, recognizing me.

As usual, Jules went to sea. They said that the cod was especially thick that time. Jules' team decided to fill the bot to capacity. Evening came, and the guys kept casting and pulling nets. They lit the bow and side lights. Out of nowhere, a large minesweeper appeared forty meters from the boat. He walked, without lighting the lights, straight towards the boat, which was commanded by Jules. Seeing that it would be difficult, the foreman ordered everyone to put on life jackets and jump overboard. Left alone on the fragile boat, he tried to use all his skill as a helmsman to dodge the steel colossus. But the boat, overloaded with fish, lost maneuverability and did not obey the rudder well.

In a matter of seconds, the minesweeper's bow broke the boot in half like a nut. How Jules died, his friends did not see. Only a few hours later they swam to the shore.

After the death of their father, the orphaned family boarded up the house and moved to the continent. Renard found a job in Montreal - delivering O'Keefe beer. So they settled in this city. For how long?

Marie doesn't know this...

Ozhegov's explanatory dictionary.

lead

Efremova T.F. Explanatory dictionary of the Russian language.

lead

S.I.Ozhegov, N.Yu.Shvedova. Explanatory dictionary of the Russian language.

lead

"Special transport" to the former camp of the canal builders.

The first decades of Soviet power became a time of cyclopean projects to reorganize not only cities - the foundations of the universe. The projects were grandiose, the construction projects were grandiose...

The sacrifices are enormous.

And the first victim of the great construction projects of socialism that thundered 80 years ago was, perhaps, the very project of an unprecedented just world order - along with the hopes and aspirations of the revolutionaries, who also did not escape the sad fate of romantics in the gears of an authoritarian system.

By the beginning of the 30s, in the decade and a half that had passed since the revolution, the population of Moscow had tripled - to 3.6 million people. The city was rapidly being rebuilt. Neither railways nor public utilities could cope with the huge flow of people and building materials. But the worst situation was with ordinary drinking water, which the capital desperately needed. The city’s waterways were depleted and clogged with garbage: “heavy pollution, feces are floating in the river,” the Sanitary Institute named after. Erisman in 1934. Moscow needed a new water supply system. And, like all projects of the republic of workers and peasants, it was obliged not just to be an instrument of urban improvement, but to direct the entire life of a Soviet person in a new direction.

It was in this spirit that Maxim Gorky described the construction of the Moscow-Volga canal: “In old Moscow there was one canal - the Kanava near Balchug; in the new Moscow there will be dozens of them. 37 rivers with old dirty names flow under the streets of Moscow like poisonous, dirty water. The subway tunnels greet rivers like an enemy; strive to flood the work; moving in dirty quicksand towards the underground troops of the new Moscow - towards the Komsomol members. The past has poisoned the Moscow rivers: they have been stinking for many hundreds of years. Merchant Moscow scored, abandoned, and forgot them. The Volga-Moskvorets water will come to the new, clean Moscow... Moscow is overcoming its old appearance of a “big village”, a large county town, these days it is becoming prettier, turning into a European capital - smooth houses, asphalt avenues. But this appearance is temporary. Moscow will overcome its similarities with a capitalist city. Water and greenery will give it the appearance of a park city. Linden trees, poplars, cedars, pine trees, Michurin hybrid trees, fruit orchards along the current suburban highways, the very growth of the city, when more and more green areas will be included - all this will change Moscow.”

In the same spirit, Gorky wrote about the canal builders: “Released early, has the right to live in all cities of the USSR! This means that a person has found a new homeland, a new country, a beautiful country, with many villages and cities, rivers and seas, a country where work decides everything. A new life begins, real life.”

There is a bitter irony in the fact that the construction of waterways in the 30s really shaped the appearance of a new person - a canal army prisoner. For several decades now, the short word “zek” has meant prison inmates in Russia. I don’t have any other “new man,” the leader of the peoples might say, for you. And the canals were supposed to transform not only those who would use them, but also their builders into the people of the future. That is why the “class enemy” - priests, dispossessed peasants - was sent to build them... Old Russia built a new one, using medieval tools, and erected a monument to its own death. To some extent, the Moscow Canal is a monument to itself and its time, standing on the bones of its builders and marking another milestone in the history of the entire country. This makes it similar to St. Petersburg, by the way.

This is partly why the “Waves of Memory” event, which was held by the Orthodox Transfiguration Brotherhood on October 29, on the eve of the Day of Remembrance for Victims of Political Repression, fell on the most suitable weather. A boat excursion at the end of October is a dubious pleasure. However, strictly speaking, a funeral voyage should not be a pleasure.

The leaden autumn sky hangs heavily over the laconic constructivist buildings of the canal (the last gasps of this avant-garde style - very soon it will give way to Stalinist neoclassicism), pressing them to the ground and emphasizing the crumbling plaster. Among the canal's builders there were many ardent communists accused of Trotskyism - more than 80 years after its construction, the canal's existence still reminds us of the collapse of their hopes for a new world. The pleasure motor ship "Riviera", on which a round table dedicated to the memory of the canal builders was held, was built half a century ago as a dry cargo ship - it also had to be “reforged” when the country once again began to build itself anew.

The motor ship sailed through the 10th lock of the Moscow Canal, leading to the embankment of Kolomenskoye Park. Here, on the left bank, there was a camp for priests working on construction, and a little further away there was a cemetery for prisoners who died during construction: human bones from flooded graves were washed up more than once by waves onto the banks of the canal.

The young Soviet state was generally quite dismissive of death, believing that medicine would solve this problem facing humanity in the coming years. Therefore, many Soviet industrial cities, the rapid development of which began in the 20s, did not even have cemeteries in their general plan - Soviet people had to live forever or technologically burn in a crematorium oven, said a participant in the round table held on board the ship, historian Sergei Mokhov . Fire burial, which required complex and expensive equipment, however, turned out to be too high-tech for the USSR. In contrast to the mighty deep canal, the construction tools of which were a pick, a shovel, a wheelbarrow and thousands of people, from Orthodox priests to former Basmachi, participants in the uprisings against Soviet power in Central Asia. It is difficult not to draw a parallel between them and those who today are called guest workers - the driving force of many thousands of Moscow construction projects.

The voyage along the Moscow Canal ended with a lithium - a funeral service - in memory of its fallen builders, after which flowers were laid directly on the water, as if on a tombstone. Now it is difficult to determine exactly where the prisoners were buried - there are very few documents left indicating this. The current carried several bouquets of carnations past former barracks and quarries and the remains of the embankment built in their place - pieces of iron fence grown into tree trunks. Past Kolomenskoye, to the old merchant cities on the Oka and Volga - it seems, in the opposite direction to the history of the 20th century.

Lead

Lead

LEAD

lead, lead.

1. Adj. To lead. Lead ore. Lead mass.

|| Made of lead, with lead, using lead. Lead bullet. Lead Vinegar(lead acetate solution, used in medicine). Lead water or lotion(weak solution of lead vinegar). Lead acid battery(those.). White lead. Lead bronze(an alloy of copper and lead).

2. trans. Gloomy, blue-black gloomy shade (book). Lead clouds. “In the billiard room, flooded with lead waves of tobacco smoke...” Turgenev .

❖ Lead Army(rhetor.) - see army. Lead pencil(obsolete livery). - original name of lead stick, used. in ancient times for drawing, later transferred to a graphite black-gray pencil to distinguish it from a colored one.

Ushakov's Explanatory Dictionary. D.N. Ushakov. 1935-1940.

See what “lead” is in other dictionaries:

Full-weight, heavy, mouse-like, gray, as if filled with lead, heavy, steel, weighty, weighty, hundred-pound, ponderous, bluish-gray, mousey, lead-gray, heavy-lifting, massive, ponderous, mouse-colored, lead-tin, ashy, ... ... Synonym dictionary

LEAD, oh, oh; ov. 1. see lead. 2. transfer Bluish gray, lead-colored. Lead clouds. Lead waves. 3. transfer Very heavy. C. blow. Lead fists (very strong). S. sleep (non-waking). Lead head (about heaviness and pain in the head) ... Ozhegov's Explanatory Dictionary

Lead monoxide (PbO). β PbO massicot, has a characteristic yellow color. Lead oxides are a group of lead compounds with oxygen. Pb2O Lead oxide (1+) (information about this compound requires verification) Pb3O4 Minium (lead), Orthoplumbate ... ... Wikipedia

Adj. 1. ratio with noun lead 1. associated with it 2. Peculiar to lead [lead 1.], characteristic of it. Ott. trans. Heavy, strong (about a blow, the force of a fist, etc.). 3. Consisting of, made of lead [lead 1.], containing lead. ott... Modern explanatory dictionary of the Russian language by Efremova

Lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead, lead... Forms of words

lead- lead... Russian spelling dictionary

lead - … Spelling dictionary of the Russian language

Aya, oh. 1. to Lead (1 digit). C. ingot. From the dust. // Contains lead. Ore ores. Saya water. // Made with lead. Whitewash. With lotions. S. pencil. That's the bullet. S litera. // Related to lead mining and processing. WITH … encyclopedic Dictionary

lead- oh, oh. see also lead 1) a) to lead 1) Lead ingot. From the dust. b) ott. Contains lead. Ore ores. From the water... Dictionary of many expressions

litharge- lead(II) oxide... Dictionary of chemical synonyms I

Books

• Lead Sunset, Roman Glushkov. Military intelligence major Kalter intends to go to Pripyat, infested with mutants, and incites the stalker Obscurantist to accompany him. He doesn’t trust his overly secretive companion, but he doesn’t get to the goal...
• Leaden verdict. Long way home. Night kidnapping. Leave Jack, Michael Connelly, Will North, Patricia McDonald, Gareth Crocker. The book includes four novels by foreign authors...