He cannot be buried!

He fell on my head - a trailer for the extension. I do not remember his last name, but I will never forget him

Svetlana Komarova has been living in Moscow for many years. Successful business coach, head forkhunter, career consultant. And in the 90s, she worked for eight years as a primary school teacher in the deaf Far Eastern villages.

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Nobody wanted to lead the extension cord, so they solemnly handed it to me as the youngest teacher at school. Pedagogical hazing, so to speak. All unwanted objects and responsibilities in rural schools are dumped either on the youngest or the most reliable. I went through two points at once. Times have changed - I no longer walk around.

The extension is when all the non -named people went home, and you, non -named, are sitting at a school with children, whom parents have nowhere to put or nothing to feed. A lunch and afternoon snack are given on the extension. There is no work in the village, the one that is - for a penny. Houses of Nemesteny six kilometers from the school, buses twice a day. Before he had time - either an hour on foot at minus thirty with a moisture content of 90%, or wait for the bus that will take you at seven in the evening.

"I will grow up, buy mom varnish, let it paint nails"

From lunch to evening, I am learning lessons with students from the first to eighth grades (one for the whole house of a motley kagal) and entertain them to everyone that can be occupied by the Ogri -Dogs locked from morning to evening at the rural school. Children from prosperous families are rarely given to the extension. And with deafics it happens, to put it mildly, not easy, especially to learn lessons. With one-to remember “Write to the letter“ and ”, with the other-an essay on the book that he did not take in his hands.

If “My Kagal” is studying diligently, after homework, I retell the fairy tales of Andersen, science fiction or articles from the journal “Technique - Youth”. The promotion was found empirically after long battles. The threat “If you do not make lessons, I will not say anything”. One and a half to two hours for lessons, then a thousand and one night with a promise to continue tomorrow. Jules Verne, Conan Doyle and Andersen were fertile for my happiness, the Smolensk Jew Ishim did not disappoint either.

The seventh grader Seryozha is my ray of light, a walking positive and a rare clever. He does everything quickly and is waited in anticipation, while everyone is housing homework, and I will check them. I pretend that I do not notice how he snoops in the class, slipping the sufferers of the solution. He helps me check the work. He sits at the first desk, a fly makes a home and asks to start retelling the books early, in a whisper, to him alone, and then start again, for everyone. He is ready to listen to Bradbury in a circle, I whispered science fiction across the table and drag books from the house.

Earring walks behind me with a tail and with childhood spontaneity sculpts compliments

The guy surprises me as a wavy parrot in the taiga: “You have such fingers beautiful, thin, no one has such fingers in the village. Mom’s hands are not like yours. And your nails are red. I will grow up, buy mom varnish, let it paint nails. ” I am ashamed and I want to hide my hands under the table. The mother of earrings is a technician in kindergarten. Water from the well, stove, garden, cattle. How to tell the boy that the mother is not to blame for the fact that she does not have thin fingers with red nails? She was born in the wrong place where a woman can keep her sleek hands until old age. One pulls two sons. Earring is its support and hope. The youngest is a resourceful, thieving, thyroid and stupid. Earring loves him very much-he does not find a place when his brother once again comes across something unseemly.

Earring follows me with a tail and with children's spontaneity sculpts compliments. He is everywhere, I stumble about him at every step. Six months later, a mathematician will come, which does not have enough load, and they will take me an extension to work it. And the earring will continue to mistake under the door of my class at changes and after lessons. During the summer, he waves a ninety -meter, matures, learn to be embarrassed, blushing and will come less often. I love when he comes in, warm and interesting with him. There are people who are always good next to. He is like that. Everyone loves him. A year later, I will go on maternity leave, my daughter, and by the time of my exit from the decree, Seryozha will finish the school and disappear somewhere.

Then there will be a horror of Chechnya. I will open the door of the apartment and see the crying sobbing of the school principal. Then I can’t understand for a long time that she mutters and figure out what kind of earring died. No, quit, this is some kind of confusion, another earrings! Then for many days we will wait for him to be brought. Then we will find out that he died almost a month ago. Together with him, a military commissar and four soldiers with weapons will come to his mother - a funeral with honors, shots above the coffin.

On the day of the funeral in our classes, we cut all the flowering geraniums, begonias and the Decembrists

We will look for flowers. February, nineties, the Far East, one hundred kilometers from Khabarovsk. What flowers? Everything is irreparable, nothing is impossible to do, you need to at least stop the refrain in the head: “You have such fingers beautiful, thin ...” On the day of the funeral in our classrooms, we will cut all the blooming geraniums, begonias and the Decembrists and give them to his classmates. A two -meter positive, how so?!

Do you know what is happening with the flowers of the Decembrist in minus thirty -five with the wind? They freeze like glass, as soon as you take them out into the street. And break like glass! The guys walking in front of the coffin throw them into trimmed snow. Flowers are broken into large red fragments, and you go behind the coffin on these fragments of blood and you see a mother with ugly red hands, which is dragged through the red Kroshev under the arms because it loses consciousness. She does not believe that her child lies in this long terrible coffin. She screams that this is a mistake, and demands to open the coffin. And the tears smearing with his fist violates all the prohibitions and gives the go -ahead to open the coffin. He asks her forgiveness for what he was never to blame. And the whole village is roaring and is ready to tear it to shreds and four frightened peers of earrings, because now these five embody all the injustice for them, all the horror and all the evil of the world.

Crushing soldiers standing at the grave of the peer in terrible frost, listen to how they curse themselves and their mothers

Singing the military man and the cringing soldiers standing at the grave of the peer in terrible frost and wind in thin knitted gloves, listen to how they curse themselves and their mothers, swallow tears, but cannot say anything in response. And when they open the coffin, everything will become even worse, because a person who was once lively, cheerful, warm and kind, cannot have such a terrible skin-the color of a white coat of chocolate. And the mother, seeing this alien dark skin on the face of her cheerful, kind, two -meter son, will joyfully scream over the open zinc coffin:

- Not him! Look, not him! He cannot be buried! His mother is looking for somewhere!

And the hands are already frostbitten, and the voice does not stop in your head: "You have such fingers beautiful, thin ...." And the Decembrists will never grow again. And I do not remember his last name!

War of the victim of hostilities of Chechnya