Yard of eight graves:

This report is not written by a journalist. The author is an ordinary resident of Grozny, now the former. Yes, and Grozny himself - the city is rather a former, only its ruins are real. And the people living in them are also real. We publish the story of Olga Mishina by virtually no editing and abbreviations.

- ALL. They will not let me go further, ”said the driver, stopping at the checkpoint at the entrance to Grozny from the side of the Staropromyslovsky district. We pull out our bags from the miraculous “Niva”, I watch with envy how dexterously my fellow travelers put up huge bauls on carts. The snub -haired boy is only interested in the cliches about Grozny registration, it is useless to accommodate photos in passports with our faces - the year of the war goes on ten, and the boy knows about it. -You, aunts, go along the edge of the road, otherwise the beempacks rush ... I might not have warned. In the last war, such a Baempashka crushed in my eyes on the old man’s Victory Avenue. The old man walked with her grandson, Katya in front of him a cart. The boy managed to bounce, but his grandfather was not, because he was deaf after the contusion. The car rushed off, not even slowing down, and on the side of the side there remained a bloodied body and a boy that was numb with horror. We go along the side of the highway and after half an hour we become white with dust. Soon we were lucky: the UAZ was slowing down nearby, and the lieutenant colonel shouted from the window cheerfully shouted: "Well, butterfly, give up?" The "butterflies" quickly throw bags into the car, still not believing their luck. We drove the Electric PribB plant. Closer to the center, people with carts, cars or just baby strollers began to come across more and more often. This is now Grozny folk fishing - to dig in ruins, in which you can find everything: from food and dishes to gold jewelry and fur coats. “Local Rospers,” the lieutenant colonel jokes. The car stops. We are on the former Friendship of Peoples. One pedestal remained from the monument to the heroes of the revolution, which survived after the first war. Personally looking under their feet, people walked by stupidly - all with carts. Until this moment, the hope was still in the soul that everything would be fine in the end, if only they would not be bombed. There was no more hope. - Why are you going there? - crying was asked by a friend with whom we lived together in an apartment in Ingushetia. - There is nothing there, you know, no! During the bombing, a friend died. I silently collected a bag of food. Why food? Probably because it is my city. She studied here, worked, my children were born here. In the last war from my house, only ruins remained on the station square, and we lived in my mother’s apartment on the Revolution Avenue, and on the contrary, in the former Building Building Building, there was a Maskhadov residence. I walk past the military unit, the theater and do not recognize my city. I go, as a blind, to the touch. To reduce the path, I go through the courtyard, once cozy and green. I climb over a pile of ruins, stumble and fall, painfully hitting my knee on a sticking iron. Calling around mechanically, I am a bit with my own cry: a hand sticks out of the ruins in a knitted sweater. I quickly collect crumbling products, and suddenly a shabby dog grabs a stick of sausage directly from my hands and, bouncing on three legs, runs away. There are a lot of such dogs of disabilities, which were blown up on stretch marks, in Grozny - the reaction in dogs is better than human, but often they do not have time to bounce. The house where my mother lived was no longer there, but the tenants remained. In a large basement, where there was once a TV repair workshop, those who have nowhere to go, that is, Russian-speaking live. While Aunt Olya (a former geologist) sorts the products (we eat these today, these - for later), Tanya Babayants leads me around the yard: - Dmitry Ivanovich was buried here, remember the war veteran lived in the corner entrance? He collected snow for tea, and killed his sniper. Such a little hole, here, at the temple. And a little blood. For two days they dug the grave, the earth was frozen. And here they buried a woman Tonya, she died easily, in a dream. Eight graves in the yard. Soon, according to Tanya, they will be reburied all, came from the Ministry of Emergencies, rewrote all the graves. When it got dark, shooting began. Automatic queues cracked from all sides, sometimes a large -caliber machine gun entered - every old woman can distinguish these sounds in Grozny. “There are militants in the city, they are sitting on the basements,” Tanya lying nearby whispered in my ear. “Somehow they went to look for water and found a scullet under the stands of the Dynamo stadium. There are bloodied bandages, syringes, from under the bags with inscriptions in English.” Tanya believes that the end of the war is still far away, and she does not believe that local authorities are able to at least somehow establish life. Probably Tanya knows what he says. She is an engineer-builder, after the first war she worked in the Chechen construction department. She said that the posts were terrible, everything stole - both Moscow and Grozny. Early in the morning in the basement begins movement. Everyone gathers at a “minute”, where they give free food, and if you are lucky, you can get water. They put me some kind of card: "You will get a solder (they say -" rations "), this is Marya Kirillovna's coupon, and she was blown up two days ago." In a “minute” I was put in a pot of two millets of millet porridge with meat of meat, and I, together with everyone, are waiting for a whirlpool. Many eat porridge without departing from the distribution and, cleaning the walls of the dishes with a crust of bread, become in line for the second time. The distributor pokes the ladle in the old woman and refuses to give porridge in excess of the norm. Grandmother in response shows a pot of cleaned to a shine and cries - either from the blinding spring sun, or from humiliation. Without waiting for a whirlpool, we wandered home. We reached almost to the tunnel, where General Romanov was blown up, when someone shouted: "Water!" Aunt Olya, putting my bags to me, ran upstairs, ordering us almost in a military way: "I am in line, and you are behind me!" The water poured with a tight stream in cans, buckets, pots. I wanted to wash myself, but Aunt Olya said: "No! Wet a bandik and wipe his face. We have a weight of gold." Two days later, I left Grozny, where I was once my house. There, where there is no house and is unlikely to be. I took an empty bag with me, in it lay only a shapeless, melted piece of porcelain with barely distinguishable ornament and a twisted handle from a cup - everything that was left of the Japanese service, which I bought in my daughter’s dowry.

- ALL. They will not let me go further, ”said the driver, stopping at the checkpoint at the entrance to Grozny from the side of the Staropromyslovsky district.

We pull out our bags from the miraculous “Niva”, I watch with envy how dexterously my fellow travelers put up huge bauls on carts. The snub -haired boy is only interested in the cliches about Grozny registration, it is useless to accommodate photos in passports with our faces - the year of the war goes on ten, and the boy knows about it.

-You, aunts, go along the edge of the road, otherwise the backages rush ...

I could not warn. In the last war, such a Baempashka crushed in my eyes on the old man’s Victory Avenue. The old man walked with her grandson, Katya in front of him a cart. The boy managed to bounce, but his grandfather was not, because he was deaf after the contusion. The car rushed off, not even slowing down, and on the side of the side there remained a bloodied body and a boy that was numb with horror.

We go along the side of the highway and after half an hour we become white with dust. Soon we were lucky: the UAZ was slowing down nearby, and the lieutenant colonel shouted from the window cheerfully shouted: "Well, butterfly, give up?" The "butterflies" quickly throw bags into the car, still not believing their luck.

We drove the Electric PribB plant. Closer to the center, people with carts, cars or just baby strollers began to come across more and more often. This is now Grozny folk fishing - to dig in ruins, in which you can find everything: from food and dishes to gold jewelry and fur coats. “Local Rospers,” the lieutenant colonel jokes.

The car stops. We are on the former Friendship of Peoples. One pedestal remained from the monument to the heroes of the revolution, which survived after the first war. Personally looking under their feet, people walked by stupidly - all with carts. Until this moment, the hope was still in the soul that everything would be fine in the end, if only they would not be bombed. There was no more hope.

- Why are you going there? - crying was asked by a friend with whom we lived together in an apartment in Ingushetia. - There is nothing there, you know, no!

During the bombing, a friend died. I silently collected a bag of food. Why food? Probably because it is my city. She studied here, worked, my children were born here. In the last war from my house, only ruins remained on the station square, and we lived in my mother’s apartment on the Revolution Avenue, and on the contrary, in the former Building Building Building, there was a Maskhadov residence.

I walk past the military unit, the theater and do not recognize my city. I go, as a blind, to the touch. To reduce the path, I go through the courtyard, once cozy and green. I climb over a pile of ruins, stumble and fall, painfully hitting my knee on a sticking iron. Calling around mechanically, I am a bit with my own cry: a hand sticks out of the ruins in a knitted sweater. I quickly collect crumbling products, and suddenly a shabby dog grabs a stick of sausage directly from my hands and, bouncing on three legs, runs away. There are a lot of such dogs of disabilities, which were blown up on stretch marks, in Grozny - the reaction in dogs is better than human, but often they do not have time to bounce.

The house where my mother lived was no longer there, but the tenants remained. In a large basement, where there was once a TV repair workshop, those who have nowhere to go, that is, Russian-speaking live.

While Aunt Olya (a former geologist) sorts products (these are eating today, these - for later), Tanya Babayants leads me in the yard:

- Dmitry Ivanovich was buried here, remember the war veteran, lived in the corner entrance? He collected snow for tea, and killed his sniper. Such a little hole, here, at the temple. And a little blood. For two days they dug the grave, the earth was frozen. And here they buried a woman Tonya, she died easily, in a dream.

Eight graves in the yard. Soon, according to Tanya, they will be reburied all, came from the Ministry of Emergencies, rewrote all the graves.

When it got dark, shooting began. Automatic queues cracked from all sides, sometimes a large -caliber machine gun entered - every old woman can distinguish these sounds in Grozny. “There are militants in the city, they are sitting on the basements,” Tanya lying nearby whispered in my ear. “Somehow they went to look for water and found a scullet under the stands of the Dynamo stadium. There are bloodied bandages, syringes, from under the bags with inscriptions in English.”

Tanya believes that the end of the war is still far away, and she does not believe that local authorities are able to at least somehow establish life. Probably Tanya knows what he says. She is an engineer-builder, after the first war she worked in the Chechen construction department. She said that the posts were terrible, everything stole - both Moscow and Grozny.

Early in the morning in the basement begins movement. Everyone gathers at a “minute”, where they give free food, and if you are lucky, you can get water. They put me some kind of card: "You will get a solder (they say -" rations "), this is Marya Kirillovna's coupon, and she was blown up two days ago." In a “minute” I was put in a pot of two millets of millet porridge with meat of meat, and I, together with everyone, are waiting for a whirlpool. Many eat porridge without departing from the distribution and, cleaning the walls of the dishes with a crust of bread, become in line for the second time. The distributor pokes the ladle in the old woman and refuses to give porridge in excess of the norm. Grandmother in response shows a pot of cleaned to a shine and cries - either from the blinding spring sun, or from humiliation.

Without waiting for a whirlpool, we wandered home. We reached almost to the tunnel, where General Romanov was blown up, when someone shouted: "Water!" Aunt Olya, putting my bags to me, ran upstairs, ordering us almost in a military way: "I am in line, and you are behind me!" The water poured with a tight stream in cans, buckets, pots. I wanted to wash myself, but Aunt Olya said: "No! Wet a bandik and wipe his face. We have a weight of gold."

Two days later, I left Grozny, where I was once my house. There, where there is no house and is unlikely to be. I took an empty bag with me, in it lay only a shapeless, melted piece of porcelain with barely distinguishable ornament and a twisted handle from a cup - everything that was left of the Japanese service, which I bought in my daughter’s dowry.