Everyone of God's March

In March, there is a day that more noticeably pushes aside the traditional women's holiday, no matter how we relate to this latter. And he polarizes the Russian -language sector of mankind much more than all these non -binding bouquets and congratulations from one half of the population to the other - on the ninth March we will forget about everything, but the sixth problems do not. The day before, one radicalized part of the population is remembered by the kind word of unknown John Chain and William Stox, English doctors of the early 19th century, and the other carries sacramental carnations to preserved or even re -built memorials. The disease, long -conveyed from the acute phase to chronic, makes itself felt annual relapses.

Traditionally, the fifth of March was the subject of envy for me. As life showed, the vast majority of my friends had some inveterate grandfather with the White Guard or Socialist Revolutionaries in the family, who could not resist the day of Tyran’s death and told the child that he was thinking about the deceased. And for others, even the whole family hardly hid glee, and from this day, according to the narrator, his insight began. I had no place to come from insight, because there was no not only seditious grandfather that year, but also the family as such. In those days, I was lying in the children's bone-tuberculosis sanatorium in Yevpatoria, I rarely saw my relatives and was surrounded by state-owned staff. No, this is not a complaint about a difficult childhood: the sanatorium was quite decent, the staff is responsive, and it was possible to compare only with books that reality, at my glance, did not reflect. I received the main part of the information about the world around us from sanatorium personnel and radio points, which in those days did not stop raising to the end of the rise.

The radio station tirelessly talked about Comrade Stalin, about his exploits and tireless care for children, and educators recalled him daily. Every day, when we were handed out pencils and paper, I stubbornly painted the same thing: a clumsy Kremlin with gear walls, men at these walls, who were supposed to portray a demonstration, but the leader of the peoples himself did not dare - in my thought, he was present there invisibly, a kind smile from an imaginary Spanish window. These drawings were the subject of my pride before most other children, unlike whom I saw the Kremlin personally in early childhood.

The fifth of March reality fell before our eyes. When we woke up, the adults first of all informed us with grief with sorrows that Comrade Stalin had died. Adults in this kind of institution were obliged to behave in a certain way in a certain way, and therefore, among them spontaneously, there was a kind of competition in the number of spilled tears-if anyone saw the scenes of sorrow in North Korea about the death of the next leader, then this was it. In tears, they gave us porridge and tea, duck and ship, in tears they read aloud, I no longer remember which books, and then put us to sleep. We, five to six years, naturally roared in unison, without doubt that the end of the world had come. The portrait of Comrade Stalin hung directly above my bunk, with his strict and kind look, and I freezed with despair that I would not meet with him in life, and he would no longer take me in his hands, as he took other children in the pictures.

Like Sofoklovsky Antigone, Russia has a problem - an unbroken corpse

The next day, the tears dried out and life continued, and a few years later they wrote me out, and, even in the absence of the White Guard grandfather, I began to put reality from pieces and gradually realized what was happening. But, judging by the indelible memories, this day was perhaps one of the most crisis and traumatic in my life - I am sure that if they announced the beginning of the World War, this news would seem quite optimistic at that age, not at all that the death of the author and the feeder of his lifetime.

Like Sofoklovsky Antigone, Russia has a problem - an unbroken corpse. And this corpse, it turns out, is not at all the one that lies in the Mausoleum, as we believed in the distant years of perestroika, and the other, for a long time, it would seem, taken out and buried at the Kremlin wall. Nazi Germany survived something similar, but you can’t do this parallel: there the death of the tyrant coincided with the real end of the world, and from the Germans, even if you take the American denationalization program for brackets, there was something to compare with. It is difficult to imagine that in today's Germany it would occur to someone to build memorials Fuhrer and lay scarlet carnations to them. But the parallel with the ancient myth can start too far, because Sophocles will not allow you to forget what fate befell the Antigon itself after the burial.

All of us, who have witnessed and contemporaries of this Cein-Koksov breathing, were at that time at a age when the memory was not yet sufficiently imposed on sharpness, and today it was involuntarily defocated, and it is pointless to hit the memoirs longer than one page. But once, relatively recently, I tried to collect a surviving memory in a small poem, which I bring in conclusion.

then not the wind

We are small we are each in bed

Blue veins cut down on zero on the temples

They gave me a book and I read about the steppes

and whose forests have not seen in my life in life

Lucy sleeping on the left remembers that she went

in a nursery but the meaning of the memory is unclear

No matter how the dark picture describes everything

I can't imagine any nursery

we are sick but do not know anything about it

Because they always hurt how much were

Many adults are good for dinner

adults in order to feed children

After a quiet hour, they make injections

Important Master of Mask comes

on the right it smells bad at Kolya

The gaps opened and it is on the dressing

Kolya when the walking was important and sulked

I saw the beetle and the horse says big

like an elephant but after the operation returned

in gypsum and how Lucy and I are silent without interfering

In the book they write about the partisan assure

that the book is like a fascist bullet.

the truth is one good that they die

adults and children know for yourself lying lying

On the day when Stalin died, we were worn to wash

They cry and still wash a bath day in the ward

Lucy on the Topchan as a plate bird

I never wore a braid

While we are lying so with her in a naked form

we are soaped and a nurse Verka

sings about that is not the wind lift the branch

hand who has not forgotten the taste of the wind in the language

I remember playing with rubber hedgehogs

Why is this day this day I am

I remembered since Stalin and we were lying

Alexey Tsvetkov-New York poet, publicist and political commentator

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