Slave in anarchocomone

“The slave is a simple word known to everyone. But try to consciously pronounce it out loud, and you will definitely be stuck. Just because you do not need to use this word in everyday communication. “Slave”, “slave” are the same impossible an anachronisms as the diagnosis of “plague” in the medical record, ”writes the journalist of Kommersant Alexander Chernykh in this story.

That summer, we organized the commune of anarchists - in other words, we began to live in a crowd in an old kopeck piece on the outskirts of Moscow. The hosts thought that they were giving the keys to a modest pair of students with a chipper in a cage. But that evening, the apartment caught in the Soviet sets was alive terribly radical youth: multi -colored Irroes, piercing, tattoos, and vegetarianism. No one even knew each other - just once an announcement about the search for neighbors appeared on a secret leftist forum. The promised “half an hour before the metro” and “View of the Bitsevsky Park” were interested in too many - and everyone was found here. We opened a couple of bottles of wine, launched a cigarette in a circle - we met, and the next six months no longer parted. This, of course, is possible only at twenty; Fortunately, at twenty it does not surprise anyone.

One room went to Jam and Vermouth - those "students" who, of course, did not study anywhere. Long as a match, Jam dyed her hair in the brightest shade of red; The dense vermouth, clogged with tattoos, was two heads lower - and when they cooed, they looked like a sweet couple in the world. This romantic image helped them carry wine and cigarettes from stores, which helped the commune at first. But the cashiers of the “Pyaterochki” in the sleeping areas are not very sentimental: the guys were quickly at a bit, and the photograph of lovers with stolen chocolate decorated all the surrounding stores. In the ghetto time flows slowly, viscously-it is quite possible that they are still hanging somewhere there: dusty, faded, but always young and forever together.

Everyone else lived in the second room. The lanky wolf devoted his life to the revolution: he read Kropotkin, watched anime and fundamentally slept on the floor. When the money ended, he was temporarily arranged by the watchman in the tram depot. The wolf was in love with a funny, shaved caught KAA - everyone understood this except her; In her slightly crazy world, nothing just existed.

The chatty Vyatka, as it was easy to guess, came from Kirov: in the evenings he licked the black Elvisa Coca, pissed off his shoes and moved to the center - to hang out with the fans of Saikobilli. But he did not forget about the roots: next to billiard balls, pistols and swallows filled a traditional Dymkovo toy, a young lady in a kokoshnik on his shoulder. Instead of her face, she had a grinned skull.

A quiet veterinarian also fit us, Natasha-hippie often stopped, traveling with a small affectionate mongrel; Friends, friends and acquaintances of friends spent the night. I was called the spirit in the commune - I was the only one to have a permanent job, so I left early, returned late; Some neighbors met me a month later, and before that they refused to believe in my existence.

It was impossible to guess what I would see when I returned home at night

I settled in the corner of the room and hung photographs of rats cut out of the calendar on the wall in their caps. I liked to fall asleep under funny drunken conversations in the kitchen and the slurred voices of anime heroes from the lynchise of the wolf. There was really a Bitsevsky park across the road, sometimes in the morning we ran to the spring and doused ourselves with ice water. The Academic Institute of Cosmic Research was discovered nearby; When I was completely pressed with money, I came there at morning conferences - to listen to scientists and at the same time have breakfast cookies with soluble coffee. I even shaved Iroquois, and Jam painted it in bright red. A couple of days later I was sent to interview from the Minister of Education Andrei Fursenko; He did not take an eyebrow.

I really liked to live like that: it was impossible to guess what I would see when I returned home at night. Sometimes backpacks stood in the hallway, and my bed was already busy-someone asked the guys to enter foreign activists. In the kitchen, meetings of the feminist circle could take place, and tattoos were stuffed there the next night. It happened that the guys and girls in black were sitting on the floor - they concentratedly painted political posters to the nearest rally. We silently nodded to each other, I made my way into my corner and fell asleep there, turning away to the wall. The apartment could be generally empty - with a note on the table: "Spirit, we went to St. Petersburg, back in a week." And once, at the very end of the summer, I came home and saw a brutally beaten girl in the kitchen.

She climbed onto a chair with her legs and sat so, clasping the thin knees. Bruises were blazed under the eyes, the cheekbones were covered with fresh abrasions and swollen. When I came in, she trembled with fear and closed her tear -stained face with her palms. The girls stood next to her, Jam cursed, pushed me out of the kitchen and slammed the door. I did not understand anything.

“Wait, do not go to the kitchen yet, do not,” said the unusually serious vermut. - She was only reassured, and now it will have to be new.
- But who is this at all?
- Larisa.
- What is Larisa? Where did she come from?
- Found on the street.
- In the sense, they “found”? Like a kitten, or what?
- Well, like that.

Larisa found a friend of our acquaintances-it seems, from the antifa-test. I just walked about my business and saw a ruptered beaten girl sitting on the asphalt. People passed by, he stopped alone. First, the girl scolded him and ordered him to get out; The guy stayed and offered to talk. Little by little found out that her name is Larisa, she has no money, documents and nowhere to go. The guy took out the phone, began to call his friends - and so Larisa ended up in anarchochemun.

We did not know anything about her: only the name and the fact that she is very afraid of men. The apartment was divided into male and female territories; Vermouth temporarily moved to us, and the girls slept in a room with Larisa so that she was not afraid.

Her clothes had to be thrown away - she was monstrously stinking.

After a couple of days, the girl calmed down a little. We did not ask her about anything - we simply accepted into our family. Just think, one person has become more - there is enough space and pasta. Larisa began to leave the room, but still tried to burn closer to the girls.

One of the last warm weekend, we decided to arrange a picnic in Bitsevsky Park, spend the summer. They made sandwiches, wrapped tofu in grape leaves, took wine. Larisa went with us. On the street, she began to tremble again, and when we went into the forest, she began to look at us with fear and suspicion. Noticing this, we stopped in the first meadow. They spread the rugs, drank wine and discussed what to do next: the owners of the apartment will return in the fall, you need to look for a new one or go away.

Larisa relaxed and lay on the grass. Nearby she had Kaa, laid her head on her knees and began to comb long blond hair. The girl was completely thawed and finally smiled.

“You live so strangely, I have never seen this.” Nobody lives like that with us.
- Where are you from? Jam asked.
- Far ... I'm from the village, near Kazan. Well, go from Kazan for a long time, of course ...

Then, in the forest, she told her story.

Larisa was also about twenty years old, she was born and lived in the village. She graduated from nine classes, became pregnant, married her child's father. The husband, according to her, at first there was a “normal man”, but then he began to “drink and beat”.

“Such a normal man,” Vermouth grunted and immediately received a slap from Jam. Everyone laughed, even Larisa.

The young family had no money, no one took her husband to work, he drank even more from this. The girl began to look for work herself, but she found nothing permanent in the village and the district center.

-I sat with the neighbor, complained-and some kind of relative just came to her. And he says: let's help you, I have friends in Moscow, they are looking for a waitress in a cafe. Go, you will take a bunk in a hostel for starters, and there you look and make money, ”Larisa was silent for a moment and continued evil. -After all, then I thought for a second: what if there is some kind of catch here? But not a stranger, after all, why deceive. I am a fool ...

We - completely strangers - did not know what to answer.

Larisa sat on the train, “acquaintances” met her right at the station and took her to the hostel - “you will throw things, rest from the road, and then show the cafe.” They immediately took a passport, they say, draw up documents.

The hostel turned out to be a brothel. The dumbfounded Larisa was told what she would actually do. When she refused, they beat. And they explained that now she does not belong to herself and will do what they say.

She did not tell us the details of life in the brothel, about other girls too. We did not ask.

“You see ...” Larisa tried to find words. - I was the worst thing not from what they could beat ... and not from the rest, well, the other. I was scared when I realized: now I am like a slave. That is, a slave. Do you understand? I am no longer Larisa, I'm not a mother, not a wife. I'm a slave.

She did not hesitate because she was a rural girl without education. “Slave” is a simple word known to everyone. But try to consciously pronounce it out loud, and you will definitely be stuck. Just because you do not need to use this word in everyday communication. “Slave”, “slave” are the same impossible anchronisms as the diagnosis of “plague” in the medical record. What other slavery in the twenty -first century? Maybe somewhere far away, where savages still live ... But not with us, no. And yet I saw with my own eyes a girl who seriously said in Russian: "I am a slave."

The main thing is to be as far as possible from the damned house

Larisa said that she tried to escape three times. First, she was regretted by a client, to whom she admitted that she was in a brothel of her own free will. He took her out into the street, but left her in the same place; The girl got lost, and she was quickly found.

- And then what did you do?
- Well, beat.

She could not really tell about the second attempt. It seems that once in a brothel they allowed everyone to drink, a drunk she noticed that the door was not locked and immediately ran out, stumbled upon the police near the house and even tried to explain something to them. But, according to her, they did not listen to a drunken beaten girl and gave them to those who followed her. A strange thing, of course, is a story, but we did not question the details.

For the third time, Larisa already knew: the main thing is to be as far as possible from the damned house. Therefore, jumping out into the street, she ran and ran until she felt that now no one would find her. And then she sat on the asphalt and cried. So our comrade found her.

After this conversation, Larisa completely came to her senses. She lived with us for a few more days until bruises and abrasions came up. And she could not decide what to tell the house and what to do with the neighbor. “I probably have to do something, declare to everyone what kind of creature she is ... But if they find out in the village what happened to me, then there will no longer be life there,” the girl reasoned. Here we could not give advice, but she no longer asked. Larisa again became herself - a young woman with responsibility for the family. We were the same age, but it seemed much, much older than us.

Without a passport, a train ticket is not sold, because we sent it home to an intercity bus. At the bus station, Larisa hugged us all goodbye. “You are good guys, thank you. Do not lose each other, ”she said, going on the bus. A day later, she called, said she got home and now everything is fine. In the tube we heard joyful children's cries. “Tell the guys thanks, say! - persuaded Larisa to her daughter. - Thank you!" The guys on the outskirts of Moscow listened and smiled.

Three days later, autumn came. And a month later we parted - who where