The exposure of the blogger

Wife diary | March 8 | Renovation | "Lame horse" | Leila and Majun | Fatal chicken | At Petrovich | The magical power of art is the diary of the wife today, March 12, the day of the employee of the FSIN . And today is an uncensored day on the Internet . Wow, how it bothers everything intently. It just returned from the zone, I was there for a long time. I brought my husband’s diary. I will decipher it on the weekend and publish it. I met prominent representatives of the team of the regional Federal Penitentiary Service , and on their initiative. Made a strong impression. Talked with Tajik criminals - not that migrant workers, but the real ones, basmachi. It is fascinated and bewitched by the head of the zone, Beautiful Petrovich. It is a pity that he is not on Facebook, I would have signed up for fans. A colonial ATM and an amazing painting of local craftsmen-conquered, agitation and educational nature were also discovered. She left a thanksgiving entry in a local mournful book. I brought a gift from my convicts: an oil picture called “Spring again” with the corresponding forest streams and willows. Shocked and crushed. On March 8, she was driving an angry, for nothing that on the night of March 8. I arrived in God's forgotten regional center in the morning, slipped to the market - well, yes, this should be expected: only cloves. And it is a pity, there are usually full of delicacies unprecedented by Muscovites and at a very similar price - especially advanced gourmets quite rightly call these places a Russian lion. Well, to do it, I went to the local branch of the “tape” and was not very upset: there was such a cooking that the “ABC of Taste” would be worth a shame to strangle. In general, it turned out, but the malice did not subside very much, since I reasoned logically: I’ll have a break to the zone, which is 550 km from my home, and in the yard - international women's day, be it wrong. Well, I need to formally formalize the relationship with her, with the zone: write out permission, go to the accounting department, write out a warrant, go to the cashier with him, etc. And what is the order, what is the accounting department on March 8? Frankly, at best, no. I reached our dense places, already completely relatives. Of course, the administrative building is empty. But - Ba! - What does it shine at the entrance there and winks at me with a cheerful green eye? By God, an ATM. That's the novelty. So it is, Sberbank of Russia. I put a card, which is not very sorry - it works! True, the coordinates of the technical support service could not be detected, so she did not risk and ask for money, limited himself to a sad balance. But she carefully rewrote the announcement, adjacent to the ATM (apparently, instead of a technical support phone): the internal affairs management warns!
Before transferring funds to an unfamiliar subscriber number of a cell phone or Internet, think carefully-perhaps you are a victim of fraudsters! I was not going to list anything, however, following the advice of the administration of the internal affairs, I carefully thought: from what kind of fright of the FSIN employee will transfer funds to an unfamiliar number or an unknown Internet wallet? Different options for answers occurred, and they all sincerely liked them. In general, it is high time to start an Internet wallet, the 21st century, is very convenient. That is, not for yourself, of course, to start. Here the zone is after 3 meters. But for the husband you need to start, since such amenities. We are all here scammers and their victims, and go, disassemble, huh from hu. The renovation and the zone, by the way, was missed without problems, and very quickly. The service of one window: you write a statement here, and transmit the transfer, and pay for your stay in the zone. Where everything turned out faster and better than when working accounting and checkout. Again I thought carefully: if without them is better, then why are they? I handed over a passport, money, a phone, a cut-finger (as it should be, and therefore I didn’t give it up-I go without them), dragged my bauls to the passing one. Then Dima meets, the ancient friend of my friend, he is from the convicts, leads our hostels, is called the Day, sits on a noble article - a counterfeiter, a very quick and sensible guy born of a major. I would honor any European hotel. Maybe he will do it - he is 25 years old, from strength. He grabs my Bauls and we climb to the second floor, to the hostel, it is also a room for long dates. There are three more zone workers with us, they must carefully search me and check each candy in three of my Bowcles, any of whom will refuse to raise a decent loader in an advanced European airport. They checked everything, turned everything in, they led the metal detector. The woman personally searched me - the men tactfully turned away to the wall, asked: can I turn around? Again, in decent European airports do not turn away with such careful shmon, I was even surprised: what are they? Yes, then they also worried if I had salty cucumbers after their deployment. Normally, have not leaked. Going out, they apologized: they say, such a work. This is always killing me in our zone: I can’t get used to it after the Butyrka, which is full of decent people in this system. Well, everyone has gone, there is time to look around: I was not here for 4 months: at first, quarantine was announced in connection with Pork influenza, then the repairs, which the convicts spoke about the horrors. My room in 4 months has not changed at all and it was not possible to detect any traces of repairs. I go out into a long common corridor. And I do not recognize him. To say that there was repairs here is nothing to say. This is a hotel corridor that will easily pull 3 stars, if you find fault, but you can pull 4. This is chic, brilliance and beauty - and 4 months ago it was a post -war communal. She slipped into the toilet and washing - she wrapped her eyes for a long time: there are shells such as “tulip” (hello to the world of new Russians), but there is a very stylish large lilac tick on the walls, such an expensive Italy. To match all this luxury is the kitchen, only the tiles are bright-salam. The refrigerator is new, two -chamber, “Indesite”, the stove is nearby with the grill and 16 oven modes. In the corner, local aunts are sitting, they cannot turn on - not familiar. European repair, as he is! I even sharpened it immediately in the old kitchen: there there was a fiery antique slab, with the entire heating surface on 16 pots in a free order, and a medium -sized bull would fit into the oven. There is no reverence for the old days, yes. But there is respect for the relatives of the convicts and to the Indusite brand, and even what. I wonder how long he will last here. And the rooms, as it turned out, are repaired one at a time. Locals claim that there will be even one luxury, with individual amenities. Perhaps I will not be surprised already. I caught Dima in the corridor, I ask: what did you have here? Did the directors of the construction market accept? No, he says, there were no such new receipts, they coped on their own. Well, I don’t even know what to say. My husband and I graduated from the construction of his house (which we immediately laid a bribe for a bribe) - so, we had the same tile, I remember, how much I paid. The “lame horse” here just came and the borsch arrived. Such a good husband, quite pink and well -fed. He spoke quickly about the presentation of the Oscars: I rode all night and missed everything, and he-the prepared came. He says that Cameron’s wife ordered himself. But not to Oscar, when there are such changes around. We threw it with him and borsch - not before him now - went together to inspect the premises. He also immediately admitted our tiles. But while examining, the anxiety grew: listen, I say to my husband, I'm afraid I am here. Earlier in the corridor there was a camera, and a phone for communication with the duty officer, and the evacuation plan for fire. And now - I don’t see anything like this, and I don’t see a reserve exit. At the same time, all the windows are taken by a double grate, and at night the whole farm is locked into a hundred locks and doors, and the convicts are convicts - they smoke wherever they get it, and they do not comply with fire safety rules. And the ceiling is plastic, and in general, I will not live in a “lame horse”, Chao. Now I’ll leave the borscht to you and go from sin, it’s scary for me - two dozen convicts will burn, no one will regret it. I must say, my stupid husband agreed with me, and we trudged with him to the borsch. While borsch, second-third, compote, we go out onto the washing of the dishes-look, but the fire extinguisher was put in the corner, the evacuation plan was depicted and the emergency exit was designated through the low kitchen window, behind which the balcony. True, together with the other wives, that balcony made pots, well, it’s nothing - in that “indesite” that is a refrigerator, they still won’t fit, here either a saucepan or evacuation in a fire. But, in general, the evacuation can no longer complain. Not a zone, but a thoughtful man. The magic lamp ALLADINA. For a day I was surprised at the miracles of thoughtwing, and then everything was clarified. Leila and Majun and these days still had to live. And it turned out that it was not so simple. Because there are ... e ... social strata, various folk traditions and culture, yes ... in general, I don’t even know what to say. In short, with my arrival I was a little late, the cases were detained. And in front of us had the whole company’s company - the economic convicts: the banker, realtor, developer, etc. Someone is sitting in the case, someone is clearly custom, but this people are understandable, no additional explanations are required. We are usually the whole company and call. And the hostel is easy and relaxed. And then I got into the Central Asian race. I must say, one family was lovely: husband and wife, steppe, as if in years (although a maximum of thirty years), with a bunch of children. She all the time in the kitchen, prepares exotic (very much, by the way), children, albeit small, but humble and respectful. Another family is a mixed marriage, it is completely blunder, he is an oriental man, such love shows in every movement that Leila and Majun nervously smoke aside. Children are mere robbers. And the third - I don’t even know, a family or not a family: harsh men in tracksuits with the inscription Tadjikistan on their backs, and a couple of women are tall, young, thin, very beautiful, terribly harsh and, to my surprise, very freely behavior. Wherever they go, they immediately occupied team heights, and the air was dark and began to thicken tangibly, and thunderstorm lightning flashed. They expressed themselves on such a virtuoso mate interspersed with the Tajik words that the bandage would go to them in the apprentices. They did not cook and did not wash the dishes. Their men did not prepare and did not wash the dishes. What they ate, how and what they live, remained a mystery to me. I will not even assume what they did or do in the wild, but phrases such as “drug trafficking, serious passengers” with uninvited climbing into the head. Moreover, the men were clearly older than the girls. I don’t know what kind of features this is connected with, but by dinner, the communal paradise significantly lost positions. The brand new tile floor was covered with greasy stains, the sinks were clogged with candy candy wrappers, but it was better to forget about the toilet forever and wait for death from the rupture of the bladder - all the less shameful death than that would inevitably expect when visiting a freshly trained institution. The next morning, a team of convicts from the Hozov services (a very specific contingent, well, you guess, not small) carefully removes all this. And by lunch everything is repeated. On my third day, everyone moved out, a new party from local residents came. And it became clean. Forgive me. I am not a nationalist. There are many freaks everywhere, and I am not an angel, I have no wings. I didn't want to write all this. But she set a goal - everything, as it was, is documented. That's how it was. I’m just sure that it was the Tajik drug trafficking that ”was ugly, and not their quiet and neat fellow tribesmen. She asked her husband: and in your detachment, too? Also cigarette butts in item, also disgrace on the floor? Yes, he says, too. 90 percent of convicts, the husband says, regardless of nationality, behave just like that. You will force you to remove - they will remove it, they won’t make it - they won’t remove it, but they can’t physiologically not throw a cigarette butt into a shower. ... How sorry for the work of people who found somewhere, brought, paid for something, put this Italian tile, these are stupid “tulips” and “Indesites”. Here is the Kitik Maksik, the favorite of the entire colony and all relatives, a native of the rooms of long -term dates, in connection with the repairs made, he was postponed to the detachment due to the fact that it could flood the fresh wallpapers of someone, it will become from it. Maksiku, therefore, is impossible. And this is not possible. And nothing can be done. The fatal chicken on the second day of our strange life in the zone happened a kaleidoscope of the brightest events that completely plowed my life. They began at noon. The time was dining, a bunch of people was pushed in the kitchen, I peacefully baked the chicken and at the same time comprehended the secrets of Tajik cuisine under the guidance of a quiet large young lady. In the corridor, a serious revitalization was noticeable: all our local guards came, who accompanied some large ranks in the FSINA uniform. At some point, the delegation looked into the kitchen, and from the threshold not a local officer addressed me immediately, by name and patronymic. Like, you are our dear, go after lunch to us, they spend you, but first, be sure to have lunch. My Tajichka dropped a spoon. The day, on the contrary, accepted the pose quite courteous and partly sizes: they say, if anything, then he is my rooster. From which I concluded that exactly half of my shares here shamefully collapsed, and the other half rushed up. District, in general, turned out to be a movement. “Well,” I say, “I will not go, I will come.” "We are here from the regional administration." Well, I answered honestly: I know you. I impressed. I did not say that all the local Uffer sites I know by heart a long time ago, I remember the face, positions and surnames, I watch the local thematic programs that are posting on the Internet-nightmare, reporting and election meetings and the ranges of the leads, but local journalistic specifics are the same everywhere. I pulled my chicken from the oven and in the grave silence went to her husband with her. “You hear,” I say, here is your local Federal Penitentiary Service to himself, in the sense, to the boss, for a conversation. You understand what. Meeting the writer with grateful readers. ” The conversation was expected, yes. In general, I like to talk with a variety of authorities after publications on the blog, or where else. My husband and I knew what we were going on when we started the publication of the Butyrsky diary. He was quickly calculated and at first sharply worsened the conditions. What we wrote about too. They demanded to stop, seized the diaries - they also wrote. Then a wonderful colonel from the Moscow Federal Penitentiary Service intervened in the situation - he talked with his husband in prison, and I went to him to Vyborg for conversations, witnesses asked to go to him. And it became easier, and then in Butyrka they realized that it was easier to lag behind us. They lagged behind us - set about Magnitsky, and how it ended for him is known. In the zone, the husband since July last year. For the first time I came to him in early August, which I wrote about right away . Since then we write, already about the zone. Moreover, they tried - although not very - encrypted: neither he nor me nor me, nor me are the zones, but also the region where everything happens. Today I will call, at the request of the workers. In general, Petrovich stated the obvious thing with my husband: now two options for the development of events are possible. The first is like in Butyrka: troubles will begin, we will begin to fiddle the prosecutor’s office, to write on the blog, of course, we will also, and so we will endlessly get each other in the next six years. There may be a serious problem: Valery Vasilievich Borschev , a member of the Moscow Helsinsky group, said that if you wish, they can and put something in the zone - to me or my husband, and the deadline for me to give or add, there have been such cases, and it is very difficult to prove that you are not a camel - but perhaps the straws in advance, than I am doing exactly now. The second option is if we come across reasonable people and understanding that, according to the law and conscience, it comes out better than without such. In general, I shoeed felt boots and went to the office of the head of the zone, to Petrovich. I mean, they had done solemnly, begging me not to slip. I go in - and there a brilliant society gathered, in the eyes from the stars of rowan. They seated it, they offered a coffee tea, how do you, ask, our zone? And what to ask me - you probably read it yourself? -It’s good for me to the zone, and my husband is even better: they feed, supply, and shahmat football provides books in bulk, fresh air, rustic products. Yes, and guard. And the wife does not particularly saw, that is, not every day, but exclusively on occasion. Again, there are no worries, you do not need to keep the family, and relatives do not bother. And they ask how to repair how? And it’s wonderful for me to repair! (Just in case, the authorities still asked about the landing of the director of the construction market - there was no such thing, they did it themselves). But what, they say, you write that everything is bad? Where, I ask, am I writing? But on some "elephant" there. Yes, have mercy, why am I? There are no surnames, no identification marks, or even mentioning the region. Come on, they say, they sent a printout from Moscow that you are writing about us here, they know everything there. So they said-this, they say, such and such, and her husband. Here I became completely interested. Понятное дело, что у нормального журналиста таких разговоров за месяц с десяток происходит, эка невидаль. Любое начальство желает редактировать и удивляется, отчего это нельзя. Но тут я даже опешила: надо же, читают во ФСИНе, и даже довольно скоро реагируют. И, в общем, правильно делают, для того и пишем. Показали мне на бумажке, в распечатке, вот этот пост, здесь он. Ну, говорят, пишите заявление на имя директора ФСИН России Александра Александровича Реймера , что, мол, ремонт понравился. Чего ж не написать? Да запросто, тем более, что хорош ремонт. И про бунты, говорят, пишите, что не было такого. Так и у меня в блоге, говорю, такого не было, написано же: муж ничего не рассказывает, а по разным доходящим сведениям, то ли так, то ли эдак. Карантин-то с начала декабря, никого не пускают, а на зоне слухи – главный источник информации, поди, разбери, где правда, а где слухи, раскрашенные по дороге до моего уха и другими зеками, и их женами, к тому ж не одну меня не пускают – всех, и люди, конечно, весьма недовольны. Вот меня только в марте на зону пустили, а в последний раз аж в октябре лично была. А давайте, говорят мне полковники, вы теперь раскроете всё, как есть, про зону. И как называется, и кто начальник – вот, Петрович сидит. Да зачем же, говорю, Петровичу такое несчастье? Начальник он хороший, его в зоне реально любят, всё беспокоятся, как бы он на пенсию не ушел. И тут ему такое приключение, как два писателя, один снаружи, другой внутри? И срока еще 6 лет, между прочим. Оно ему надо? Надо, говорят мне областные начальники. И вам надо, и нам надо, и системе надо, чтобы она улучшалась. Вот прямо пишите всё, как есть. Так я и про разговор наш напишу, говорю. And right. Вот так и напишите: мол, беседовали с вами в кабинете начальника ИК №3 Тамбовской области, Купорева Сергея Петровича, заместитель начальника УФСИН Черемисин И.А. и помощник начальника УФСИН по правам человека Михайлин А.В. (на него довольно много ссылок в интернете, он с докладами по правам заключенных часто выступает, его-то я и узнала на кухне). Так я ж, говорю, буду писать, как есть, а вы потом обижаться будете. И дневник мужа отсюда еще опубликую. Правильно, говорят, публикуйте, нам скрывать нечего, а недостатки мы и сами хотим искоренить. А вообще – пойдемте, говорят они мне, мы вам всю зону покажем, а вы и напишете, как есть. Wow! Of course. ВОЛШЕБНАЯ СИЛА ИСКУССТВА И мы тут же пошли по зоне. Зашли в барак – отряд называется, – где муж сидит. И правда, образцовый у него отряд. Чистенько, культурненько, дневальный исправно доложил, чего как, по виду – вылитый малец из «Кабаре», тот, что пел «Tomorrow belongs to me», – такой же боевитый и складный. Койку мне его показали, теперь знаю, где муж живет. А вот его шкафчик, а вот его ячейка с посудой. Зона как зона, в интернете миллион фотографий обычных российских зон, эта –и правда, поухоженней будет, потому что Петрович у нас – настоящий крестьянин с кулацкой жилкой, раньше такая порода называлась «крепкий хозяйственник», и с душой мужик. В баню сводили, в прачечную, в столовую, в молельный дом. Показали, что едят. Прожить можно, хотя мой муж исключительно посылками питается, но для тех, у кого этого нет, в общем, нормально. Баня – так просто почти что Сандуны, только без бассейна – явно понимают люди в этом деле. Но самое сильное впечатление – наглядная агитация, выполненная местными умельцами-художниками. Попробую уговорить УФСИН, чтобы дали как-нибудь сфотографировать, потому как словами это не описать, это нужно беречь и сдать потом тот бетонный забор, на котором вся эта наскальная живопись изображена, куда-нибудь в музей андеграунда. Особенно неизвестному художнику удалась картина, порицающая употребление наркотиков. Подход был избран нестандартный, а именно непосредственно сам наркотический угар передан: слева тучи с молниями, как будто бы предваряющие страшный суд, справа черный торнадо, в который засасывает домик, девочку, еще каких-то персонажей – в общем, «Волшебник страны Оз» на героине. И все это сопровождается соответствующими назидательными надписями, воспроизвести кои я не в состоянии: там не записала – нечем было, а по памяти такое не вспомнить. В общем, есть, где разгуляться ценителям и собирателям. Зона ждет своих Далей и Третьяковых, надеюсь, в хорошем смысле. Вернулись в кабинет Петровича. Дали мне книгу жалоб – мол, напишите ваши впечатления. Да чего в книге-то? – вон, я в блоге напишу, хотя мне и в книге жалоб не жалко. Спрашиваю: а чего вы к тому посту-то прицепились? И до него посты про вас были, и после. В «Слоне» с августа подробные истории про вашу зону выходят в блоге, разве не читаете? Да там за каждый пост Петровичу надо орден давать. Как, например, он не пустил прекрасную московскую девушку, хозяйку салона красоты, к мужу на свидание – она по переписке замуж вышла, а он не пустил, девушка рыдала, а уж потом тетки на кухне мне сказали, что жених забыл упомянуть: он не в первый раз по переписке женится, а сидит за изнасилование. И правильно Петрович, вопреки всем инструкциям, не пустил ее, вот здесь я об этом писала. Тут Петрович вскинулся и говорит: да мало того, жених еще забыл упомянуть, что он ВИЧ-инфицированный… Я аж присвистнула, вот этого не знала. Я ж говорю – Петрович у нас с совестью мужик. Ничего они, оказывается, не читали. Нету у них интернета. Прислали одну распечатку, из середины откуда-то, вот теперь разбирайтесь, полковники. А за все остальное, за хорошее, похвалить? Давайте я похвалю душевных тамбовских…даже и не знаю: тюремщиков? Мужиков? Полковников? Ну, не знаю, людей хороших. Ну, и московское начальство тоже – читают, реагируют, беспокоятся. Не иначе, и правда, что-то начало меняться: еще год назад мы об этом и подумать не могли, прошли ведь всю эту систему вдоль и поперек. Хотя – еще до отставок в системе ФСИН именно в тамбовском централе, на пересылке, мужу впервые за год дали молоко и яйца, вот уж он удивлялся – оказывается, положено. Вот ведь странно: в этих тамбовских лагерях сидели мой дед (58-ая, как у всех), прадед (антоновское восстание, ага), отец здесь родился, муж вот теперь сидит, тоже раскулаченный, а вот нет обиды никакой на лагеря. Как и 70 лет назад, настоящие враги все те же: следствие и суд. Раньше они сажали и стреляли всех подряд, потому что время было такое, а им самим надо было кушать и жить охота своей мерзкой жизнью, увенчанной в конце повышенной пенсией и почетом от пионерских дружин. А теперь их потомки тупо делают то же само за бабло. Потому что хотят кушать и проживать свою мерзкую жизнь. И стремиться к повышенным пенсиям и пионерским дружинам. И получат ведь, если мы опять все забудем и простим.