1. Alexander Solzhenitsyn. "Matrenin's Dvor"
It is possible to classify Solzhenitsyn (1918-2008) as a rural prose writer with a significant degree of convention. Despite the severity of the problems raised, be it collectivization, ruin or impoverishment of the village, none of the villagers have ever been dissidents. However, it is not without reason that Valentin Rasputin argued that the authors of this trend came from “ Matryona Dvor", like the Russian classics of the second half of the 19th century century - from Gogol’s “The Overcoat”. At the center of the story - and this is its main difference from other village prose - is not the collisions of rural life, but the life path of the heroine, a Russian peasant woman, a village righteous woman, without whom “the village does not stand. Neither the city. Neither the whole land is ours.” Nekrasov's peasant women can be considered Matryona's predecessors in Russian literature - with the only difference that Solzhenitsyn emphasizes meekness and humility. However, communal peasant traditions do not turn out to be of absolute value for him (and his autobiographical narrator Ignatich): the dissident writer reflects on man’s responsibility for his own destiny. If “our whole land” rests only on selfless and obedient righteous people, it is completely unclear what will happen to it next - Solzhenitsyn will devote many pages of his later work and journalism to the answer to this question.
“It cannot be said, however, that Matryona believed somehow earnestly. Even if she was a pagan, superstitions took over in her: that you can’t go into the garden to see Ivan Lenten - on next year there will be no harvest; that if a blizzard is blowing, it means that someone has hanged himself somewhere, and if you get your foot caught in a door, you should be a guest. As long as I lived with her, I never saw her pray, nor did she even cross herself once. And she started every business “with God!” and every time she told me “with God!” when I went to school.”
Alexander Solzhenitsyn."Matrenin's Dvor"
2. Boris Mozhaev. "Alive"
Mozhaev (1923-1996) is closer than other villagers to Solzhenitsyn: in 1965, they went together to the Tambov region to collect materials about the peasant uprising of 1920-1921 (known as the Antonov rebellion), and then Mozhaev became the prototype of the main peasant hero of the “Red Wheel” Arseny Blagodareva. Reader recognition came to Mozhaev after the publication of one of his first stories, “Alive” (1964-1965). The hero, Ryazan peasant Fyodor Fomich Kuzkin (nicknamed Zhivoy), who decided to leave the collective farm after he received only a bag of buckwheat for a year of work, is haunted by a whole heap of troubles: he is either fined, or forbidden to sell him bread in a local store, or they want take all the land to the collective farm. However, Kuzkin’s lively character, resourcefulness and indestructible sense of humor allow him to win and leave the collective farm authorities in disgrace. It was not for nothing that the first critics began to call Kuzkin “Ivan Denisovich’s own, half-brother,” and indeed, if Solzhenitsyn’s Shukhov, thanks to his own “inner core,” learned to be “almost happy” in the camp, did not give in to hunger and cold and did not stoop to curry favor with his superiors and denunciations, then Kuzkin is no longer in extreme, but also in not free conditions collective farm life manages to maintain dignity and honor, to remain oneself. Soon after the publication of the Mozhaev story, Yuri Lyubimov staged it at the Taganka Theater, which was a symbol of freedom in an unfree country, with Valery Zolotukhin in the title role. The performance was regarded as a libel on the Soviet way of life and was personally banned by the Minister of Culture Ekaterina Furtseva.
“Well, that’s enough! Let's decide with Kuzkin. “Where should we take him?” said Fyodor Ivanovich, wiping away the tears that had appeared from laughter.
“We’ll give him a passport, let him go to the city,” said Demin.
“I can’t go,” Fomich answered.<…>Due to the lack of any rise.<…>I have five children, and one is still in the army. And they themselves saw my wealth. The question is, can I rise with such a crowd?
“I gave these children a dozen scythes,” muttered Motyakov.
- After all, God created man, but didn’t put his horns on the planer. So I plan,” Fomich objected briskly.
Fyodor Ivanovich laughed loudly again, followed by everyone else.
- And you, Kuzkin, pepper! You should be an orderly for the old general... Telling jokes.”Boris Mozhaev."Alive"
3. Fedor Abramov. "Wooden horses"
At Taganka they staged “Wooden Horses” by Fyodor Abramov (1920-1983), who were more fortunate: the premiere, which took place on the tenth anniversary of the theater, according to Yuri Lyubimov, “was literally snatched from the authorities.” The short story is one of the characteristic works of Abramov, who actually became famous for the voluminous epic “Pryaslina”. Firstly, the action takes place on the writer’s native land of Arkhangelsk, on the coast of the Pinega River. Secondly, typical village everyday collisions lead to more serious generalizations. Thirdly, the main thing in the story is female image: the old peasant woman Vasilisa Milentyevna, Abramov’s favorite heroine, embodies unbending strength and courage, but more important in her are inexhaustible optimism, inescapable kindness and readiness for self-sacrifice. Willy-nilly, the narrator falls under the spell of the heroine, who at first did not experience the joy of meeting an old woman who could disturb his peace and quiet, which he had been looking for for so long and found in the Pinega village of Pizhma, “where everything was at hand: hunting and fishing , and mushrooms, and berries." Wooden skates on the roofs of village houses, which from the very beginning aroused the aesthetic admiration of the narrator, after meeting Milentyevna, begin to be perceived differently: beauty folk art appears inextricably linked with the beauty of the folk character.
“After Milentyevna’s departure, I didn’t live in Pizhma even three days, because I suddenly became sick of everything, everything seemed like some kind of game, and not real life: and my hunting wanderings through the forest, and fishing, and even my magic over peasant antiquity.<…>And just as silently, with their heads hanging dejectedly from the planked roofs, the wooden horses saw me off. A whole school of wooden horses, once fed by Vasilisa Milentyevna. And to the point of tears, to the point of heartache, I suddenly wanted to hear their neighing. At least once, at least in a dream, if not in reality. That young, deep neigh with which they filled the local forest surroundings in the old days.”
Fedor Abramov. "Wooden horses"
4. Vladimir Soloukhin. "Vladimir country roads"
Cornflowers. Painting by Isaac Levitan. 1894 Wikimedia Commons
Mushrooms, cornflowers and daisies as signs of poeticization of the rural world can easily be found on the pages of the books of Vladimir Soloukhin (1924-1997). Of course, more than attention to the gifts of nature, the writer’s name was preserved in the history of literature by the caustic lines from “Moscow-Petushki” by Venedikt Erofeev, who suggested spitting on Soloukhin “in his salty saffron milk caps.” But this author is not exactly a traditionalist: for example, he was one of the first Soviet poets who was allowed to publish free verse. One of the earliest and most famous stories of the writer, “Vladimir Country Roads,” is largely connected with poetry. It is structured as a kind of lyrical diary, the main intrigue of which is that the hero makes a discovery in his native land and, it would seem, well known world Vladimir region. At the same time, the hero strives to talk “about time and about himself,” so the main thing in Soloukhin’s story becomes the process of reflection and the hero’s revision of those value guidelines that have developed among the “simple” contemporary Soviet man" Soloukhin’s traditionalism was implicitly implicated in the opposition of old Russian and new Soviet (let’s add here his publications on Russian icons) and in the Soviet context looked like completely nonconformist.
“The lively buzz of the bazaar attracted passersby just as the smell of honey attracts bees.<…>It was a glorious bazaar, where one could easily determine what the surrounding lands were rich with. Mushrooms dominated - entire rows were occupied by all kinds of mushrooms. Salted white caps, salted white roots, salted saffron milk caps, salted russula, salted milk mushrooms.<…>Dried mushrooms (from last year) were sold in huge garlands at prices that would seem fabulously low to Moscow housewives. But most of all, of course, there were fresh, various mushrooms with pine needles stuck to them. They lay in heaps, piles, in buckets, baskets, or even just on a cart. It was a mushroom flood, a mushroom element, a mushroom abundance.”
Vladimir Soloukhin."Vladimir country roads"
5. Valentin Rasputin. "Farewell to Matera"
Unlike Soloukhin, Valentin Rasputin (1937-2015) lived to see the times of “spiritual bonds” and himself took part in their approval. Among all the village prose writers, Rasputin is perhaps the least lyrical; he, as a born publicist, was always more successful in finding and posing a problem than in translating it into artistic form (many people paid attention to the unnaturalness of the language of Rasputin’s characters, despite the general enthusiastic and apologetic attitude towards the writer critics). A typical example is that which managed to become a classic and enter the mandatory school curriculum story "Farewell to Matera". Its action takes place in a village located on an island in the middle of the Angara. In connection with the construction of the Bratsk hydroelectric power station (here Rasputin argues with the pathetic poem of Yevgeny Yevtushenko, aimed at the Soviet future, “ Bratsk hydroelectric power station") Matera should be flooded and the inhabitants resettled. Unlike young people, old people do not want to leave their native village and perceive the necessary departure as a betrayal of their ancestors buried in their small homeland. The main character of the story, Daria Pinigina, is demonstratively whitewashing her hut, which in a few days is destined to be set on fire. But the main symbol of traditional village life is a semi-fantastic character - the Master of the Island, who protects the village and dies with it.
“And when night came and Matera fell asleep, a small animal, slightly larger than a cat, unlike any other animal, jumped out from under the bank on the mill channel - the Master of the island. If there are brownies in the huts, then there must be an owner on the island. No one had ever seen or met him, but he knew everyone here and knew everything that happened from end to end and from end to end on this separate land surrounded by water and rising from the water. That’s why he was the Master, so that he could see everything, know everything and not interfere with anything. This is the only way to remain the Master - so that no one meets him, no one suspects his existence.”
Valentin Rasputin."Farewell to Matera"
Sheaves and a village across the river. Painting by Isaac Levitan. Early 1880s Wikimedia Commons 6. Vasily Belov. "Business as usual"
A much less successful publicist was Vasily Belov (1932-2012), who was ideologically close to Rasputin. Among the creators of rural prose, he has a well-deserved reputation as a soulful lyricist. It is not without reason that his main work remained his first story, which brought the writer literary fame - “A Business as Usual.” Her main character, Ivan Afrikanovich Drynov, as Solzhenitsyn put it, “a natural link in natural life.” It exists as an integral part of the Russian village, has no great pretensions and is subject to external events, as if to a natural cycle. The favorite saying of Belov’s hero, one might even say his life credo, is “business as usual.” “Live. Live, she is live,” Ivan Afrikanovich never tires of repeating, experiencing either an unsuccessful (and absurd) attempt to go to work in the city, or the death of his wife, who was unable to recover from the difficult ninth birth. At the same time, the interest of the story and its hero lies not in controversial morality, but in the charm of village life itself and the discovery of both unusual and reliable psychology of village characters, conveyed through a successfully found balance of the funny and tragic, epic and lyrical. It is not without reason that one of the most memorable and striking episodes of the story is the chapter dedicated to Rogula, Ivan Afrikanovich’s cow. Rogulya is a kind of “literary double” of the main character. Nothing can disturb her sleepy obedience: all events, be it communication with a person, a meeting with an inseminating bull, the birth of a calf and, ultimately, death from a knife, are perceived by her absolutely dispassionately and with almost less interest than the change of seasons.
“The gray invisible midge climbed deep into the fur and drank the blood. Roguli’s skin itched and ached. However, nothing could wake Rogulya. She was indifferent to her suffering and lived her life, internal, sleepy and focused on something even unknown to her.<…>At that time, children often met Rogulya at the house. They fed her with bunches of green grass picked from the field and tore out swollen ticks from Rogulina’s skin. The hostess brought Rogulya a bucket of swill, felt Rogulya’s beginning nipples, and Rogulya indulgently chewed grass by the porch. For her there was not much difference between suffering and affection, she perceived both only externally, and nothing could disturb her indifference to her surroundings.”
Vasily Belov."Business as usual"
7. Victor Astafiev. "Last bow"
The work of Viktor Astafiev (1924-2001) does not fit into the framework of village prose: military theme is also very important to him. However, it was Astafiev who summed up the bitter conclusion of the village prose: “We sang the last lament - there were about fifteen mourners for the former village. We sang her praises at the same time. As they say, we cried well, at a decent level, worthy of our history, our village, our peasantry. But it's over." The story “The Last Bow” is all the more interesting because in it the writer managed to combine several themes that were important to him - childhood, war and the Russian village. At the center of the story is an autobiographical hero, the boy Vitya Potylitsyn, who lost his mother early and lives in a poor family. The author talks about the little joys of the boy, his childhood pranks and, of course, about his beloved grandmother Katerina Petrovna, who knows how to fill ordinary household chores, be it cleaning the hut or baking pies, with joy and warmth. Having matured and returned from the war, the narrator hurries to visit his grandmother. The roof of the bathhouse has collapsed, the gardens are overgrown with grass, but the grandmother is still sitting near the window, winding yarn into a ball. Having admired her grandson, the old woman says that she will soon die and asks her grandson to bury her. However, when Katerina Petrovna dies, Victor cannot go to her funeral - the head of the personnel department of the Ural carriage depot only allows her to go to the funeral of her parents: “How could he know that my grandmother was my father and mother - everything that is dear to me in this world?” me!"
“I had not yet realized the enormity of the loss that had befallen me. If this happened now, I would crawl from the Urals to Siberia to close my grandmother’s eyes and give her my last bow.
And lives in the heart of wine. Oppressive, quiet, eternal. Guilty before my grandmother, I try to resurrect her in my memory, to find out from people the details of her life. But what interesting details can there be in the life of an old, lonely peasant woman?<…>Suddenly, very, very recently, quite by accident, I found out that not only did my grandmother go to Minusinsk and Krasnoyarsk, but also to pray in Kiev Pechersk Lavra I got there, for some reason calling the holy place the Carpathians.”Victor Astafiev."Last bow"
Evening. Golden Ples. Painting by Isaac Levitan. 1889 Wikimedia Commons 8. Vasily Shukshin. Stories
Vasily Shukshin (1929-1974), perhaps the most original author-villager, had not only success as a writer, but was much better known to the mass audience as a director, screenwriter and actor. But at the center of both his films and books is the Russian village, whose inhabitants are quirky, observant and sharp-tongued. According to the writer himself, these are “eccentrics,” self-taught thinkers, somewhat reminiscent of the legendary Russian holy fools. The philosophy of Shukshin's heroes, which sometimes appears literally out of the blue, comes from the contrast between city and countryside, which is characteristic of village prose. However, this antithesis is not dramatic: for the writer, the city is not something hostile, but simply completely different. A typical situation for Shukshin's stories: the hero, absorbed in everyday village worries, suddenly asks the question: what is happening to me? However, people who grew up in a world where simple material values predominate, as a rule, do not have enough tools to analyze either their own psychological state or what is happening around them in the “big” world. Thus, the hero of the story “Cut” Gleb Kapustin, who works at a sawmill, “specializes” in conversations with visiting intellectuals, whom, in his opinion, he leaves out of work, accusing them of ignorance folk life. “Alyosha Beskonvoyny” wins for himself on the collective farm the right to a non-working Saturday in order to devote this day entirely to a personal ritual - a bathhouse, when he belongs only to himself and can reflect on life and dream. Bronka Pupkov (the story “Mille pardon, madam!”) comes up with a fascinating plot about how during the war he carried out a special task to kill Hitler, and although the whole village laughs at Bronka, he himself tells this false story over and over again to various visitors from the city , because in this way he believes in his own world significance... But, one way or another, Shukshin’s heroes, even if they do not find an adequate language to express their own emotional experiences, but intuitively strive to overcome the world of primitive values, evoke in the reader a feeling of acceptance and even tenderness. It is not without reason that later criticism strengthened the opinion that it was the children of such “eccentrics” who perceived the end of Soviet power with deep satisfaction.
“And somehow it happened that when noble people came to the village on leave, when people crowded into a noble countryman’s hut in the evening - they listened to some wonderful stories or told stories about themselves, if the countryman was interested - then Gleb Kapustin came and cut off the noble guest. Many were unhappy with this, but many, especially men, were simply waiting for Gleb Kapustin to cut off the noble. They didn’t even just wait, but went first to Gleb, and then - together - to the guest. It was just like going to a performance. Last year, Gleb cut off the colonel - brilliantly, beautifully. They started talking about the War of 1812... It turned out that the colonel did not know who ordered Moscow to be set on fire. That is, he knew that it was some kind of count, but he mixed up the last name and said - Rasputin. Gleb Kapustin soared over the colonel like a kite... And cut him off. Everyone was worried then, the colonel was cursing...<…>For a long time later they talked in the village about Gleb, remembering how he just repeated: “Calm, calm, Comrade Colonel, we are not in Fili.”
Vasily Shukshin."Cut off"
Greetings, blog readers!
In addition to collecting anecdotes and all sorts of cool phrases, aphorisms and sayings, I have been collecting funny, amusing incidents from Life for a long time. Previously, I wrote them down on paper or kept them in memory, but now there is an opportunity to publish them for a wide range of blog readers.
I bring to your attention two stories from village life. In which village, in which region the events took place, I find it difficult to answer, they told me this myself, I only made a literary cut. The first story is about a strange, mysterious summer resident who started living near the village. The second humorous story is about the influence of unprintable words that are usually not spoken in front of women and children. So, read on!
Unrespectable deal
Our village is small. Previously, of course, there were more, until in the early nineties it democratically left the collective farm “Red Vegetable Grower”. And as soon as it came out, it fell into disrepair. The youth left, the men who were quicker moved to the city, only the old people and former collective farm drunkards remained.
It seemed that everything was kaput. But no. A circumstance happened that slightly extended the existence of the village. At the beginning of the same nineties, either a deputy, or a general, or a businessman, or a new Russian, or a bandit, or an aspiring oligarch drove past our place - in a word, a wealthy peasant in terms of money. He liked our place and decided to build himself a dacha.
Boiled construction works. First the soldiers built it, then they were replaced by representatives of the peoples of Central Asia. The village came to life: the old women sold moonshine to the shock builders, and the men carried it from the construction site various building materials. Building materials were drunk or used for repairs outbuildings. Life in the village was in full swing.
And so they built a dacha. Construction turned out well: three floors, two satellite dishes and a two-meter brick fence with iron gates. But the new building looked somehow unsightly and lonely among the blackened, rickety huts and dilapidated chicken coops. The builders left, the local men drank away the last of the cement, sand and pipe scraps. Life in the village came to a standstill again.
The owner of the mansion rarely appeared. Basically, he arrived on Friday evening, hid behind a red brick fence, behaved quietly and inconspicuously, did not communicate with anyone, and on Sunday evening he left for the city again. In the spring, he did not come to the flood at all, especially after the incident when his jeep-SUV sank in a puddle. All sorts of rumors circulated among the people about an unknown mysterious inhabitant.
One day, before May holidays, an incredible thing happened. The iron gates suddenly opened and the owner himself came out. And he came out not alone, but with a wheelbarrow loaded with brushwood and branches. The brushwood and branches were carefully brought to the forest, which was located about thirty steps from the dacha. Then, the situation repeated itself - apparently the mysterious inhabitant of his property was seriously engaged in pruning trees.
Local men realized: what if they help? Maybe a couple of bottles will drop for work? Once again, when the owner came out with a wheelbarrow, a simple village peasant named Afanasy approached him. Shy, Afanasy said that it was not good for such a respectable gentleman to do such an undignified task alone, and also hinted that for just four bubbles and half a loaf of sausage, a team of highly qualified specialists would do everything for him in the best possible way. The owner reacted with understanding, saying that he was pretty tired of driving the wheelbarrow to the forest, and there were still a lot of branches.
He disappeared behind the heavy iron gates. Half an hour later, the gates opened and a black jeep SUV drove out... At the back of the jeep was a well-known wheelbarrow loaded with brushwood and branches. The SUV accelerated and braked sharply near the forest...
The power of the unprintable word
Our village is located in a picturesque place middle zone countries. There is a forest, a river, a lake and clean air around. Old-timers remember how in the old days artists came to our region with the goal of capturing nature for subsequent generations, before they spoiled it with the benefits of civilization.
And now they come, but not from painters, but from city dwellers, ordinary city dwellers. They come not with the goal of creating a work of art, but with the goal, to put it mildly, to relax and unwind in the bosom of Nature, pour into themselves an excessive amount of all kinds of alcohol, eat it with something and fall to sleep on the mortal earth.
At first, the villagers were outraged by the indecent behavior of the townspeople. But then they began to take advantage of this situation. The benefits consisted of selling moonshine, lard, herbs, vegetables, fruits and other foods to vacationers that it was a pity to throw away, but the dogs did not eat. Grandfather Tromfimchuk even began to rent out his boat, asking for three packs of foreign cigarettes for the service. The village came to life a little...
But one circumstance greatly upset the local residents. The fact is that city residents have gotten into the habit of washing their cars right next to the lake. One could have ignored this, but oily spots began to float across the clear water surface, and the fish began to smell of gasoline. And we ourselves are not pleased when Nature is polluted.
At first, the city people were asked to be kind. They persuaded and explained. But persuasion and requests had no effect on them. Each of the vacationers considered it his duty to wash his car by the lake. Moreover, they washed in the same place, where there was a suitable access to the shore.
Locals began to use physical and forceful methods persuasion, but this did not live up to expectations; on the contrary, it attracted crowds of police officers and investigators to the village and increased the activity of the local district police officer. In addition, the law enforcement officers themselves began to wash away the city dirt in the village lake. The situation of the villagers seemed hopeless. But no, a humane way to save the environmental situation was soon found.
One fine day off, a smug and self-confident city resident drove up to the lake to wash his foreign car. He started washing, and out of the corner of his eye he saw several local residents coming down from the hill towards him. The residents do not scold or swear, as they did before, but laugh, smile and point their fingers at him. This greatly surprised and discouraged the townsman. He was even more surprised by the appearance of grandfather Tromfimchuk with a camera. The grandfather captured the process of washing a car, a smug and confident driver, and then took a close-up photo of a small sign that says fun near an improvised natural car wash. Having taken photographs, Trofimchuk laughed, followed by the rest of the village residents.
The sign appeared quite recently, but had a magical effect on the locals: it turned anger and indignation into laughter. Yes, instead of being indignant at the behavior of the townspeople, the villagers began to simply laugh at them. So, what was written on this sign? Let's come and read...
Oh! No! The author, knowing that his story is read by women, children, philologists, teachers of Russian language and literature, simply finds it difficult to convey literally the text written on the tablet, so he decided to publish his free translation, which only remotely conveys the meaning. This is what happens: “Here, people of non-traditional sexual orientation, immediately after they have been used in an unnatural form with the help of rotators, hammer drills, crankshafts, hard abrasives, other people of non-traditional sexual orientation, wash away their (adjectives, not translated) means of transportation . Note: the vehicles are made from fecal matter covered with other natural secretions, the presence of feces is directly proportional to the confident expression on the face of the deprived of intelligence.
The translation turned out to be large, although less was written on the tablet. But on the other hand, the city stopped washing cars by the lake. And they still don’t wash it. This is the power of the unprintable word!
Remembering my childhood, the first thing that comes to mind is summer in the village with my grandparents. They’ve been gone for five years now, and I’m already an adult madam, but I still remember those feelings and emotions from my grandmother’s noisy gatherings, with stories about mermaid witches and devils crawling out of swamps. Surely, many of you, dear forum members, have grandparents who lived and live in villages, some of whom are from the villages themselves, and most likely you have also heard a lot of interesting things. Each village has its own stories and legends. Let's share
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In village B, where my grandmother lived, there is old church. It is more than two centuries old, but it is very strong and practically undamaged. They say that the mortar for this church was mixed with eggs, which is why it has stood undamaged for so many years. They say about this church that it was built in a bad place, so evil spirits live there, and not a single priest takes root there (as long as I can remember, the church is almost always closed, sometimes priests from other parishes hold services there.)
... I remember this strange old woman well. She was not herself. Very old, some kind of red Panama hat, shaggy White hair... The old lady hardly spoke, but she always laughed. She also played with dolls, and drool was constantly flowing from her mouth. I was terribly afraid of this grandmother.
My granny told me that “Dasha went stupid” after one incident. When Dasha was still a child, she and the children climbed into that very church to play hide and seek. They played all day, in the end everyone found each other, and got ready to go home, realizing that Dasha was not there. They searched for a long time and did not find it. We trudged home and called the adults. They opened the church and searched it. We found Dasha under the floor. They opened the lid, looked - she was there: her head was half gray, her hands were shaking, and saliva was coming out of her mouth... Since then, she has gone crazy. It is still unclear WHAT she saw there; the old people whisper that “So-and-so” himself seemed to her
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My grandmother said that this happened when her mother was little. In some big religious holiday The father told his daughter to go to the field to work. The girl wanted to object, but the father was adamant, because he did not believe in the Lord, he was a communist. The girl got ready, grabbing her little son. It’s midday, it’s hot, a girl is mowing, there’s a river nearby, and my little son is playing in a boat tied to the shore. At this time, a tall man approached the girl:
- Are you working, girl?
- I’m working, father, I’m working
The stranger shook his head and left. By evening he came back:
- Are you working, girl?
- Working
“It’s a big holiday today, you know?”
“I know,” the girl answered.
“Well, woe will be for you,” said the stranger, and disappeared.
And at that moment, the boy who was playing in the boat slipped out of it and drowned
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Probably in every village there is a place about which they say “so-and-so leads,” that is, unclean places where something constantly happens to people or they walk in circles and cannot get out. There is such a place in village B - in the meadow, near the old well.
There was a man in the village - a reveler and a drunkard, just like him. Once upon a time in the winter I was walking, after dark, through that meadow, drunk and cheerful. He hears - the ringing of bells, laughter, the clatter of hooves, an accordion - a company of cheerful guys and girls, on a sleigh, with an accordion, caught up with him. Hey, they’re shouting, Lyonka, let’s go, we’ll take you there! Grandfather sat down, they poured him moonshine, he became even more drunk - he drank, had fun, bawled songs to the accordion.
When I came to my senses, I realized that they had been driving for a very long time, and the area was completely unfamiliar, and they were driving in circles. Grandfather began to read prayers, he was shaken, and he... woke up - at the well near which he was picked up, with frozen poop in his hand instead of a glass. It's dawn outside...
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In general, I know a great many such stories; if anyone is interested, I can write more. I can’t vouch for the authenticity - I’m writing everything about my grandmother’s words. So, if someone thinks this is implausible, don’t judge strictly, but rather share your tales and stories from the village
PS: The most terrible story, my favorite is the thriller Grandfather Walks at Night. The Kalyaso is rolling along the path, grandfather took the Kalyaso, took it home, and hung it on a nail.
In the morning I woke up - there was no stroller, and instead of it the neighbor’s grandmother was hanging on a nail, the nail was hooked on her underwear - she was a witch
Village story
Irka was raped at her school graduation.
The evening began, as usual, with drinking and dancing. Champagne, Solntsedar, then port. Ira Danilova turned seventeen. Vasily was twenty. Red devil. Tall, stately figure - everything is as it should be. The girls followed him in droves. He invited Danilova to dance. Closer to night, he suggested taking the girls home. Vasek worked as a driver on a “goat” and drove the chairman. After the army, people were valued on the collective farm, and he was immediately given a new “beauty” with a canvas top. The girls crowded into the car. They took their girlfriends away. Suddenly, he turns off the road, as if taking a detour. And the fellow travelers are no longer around, the two of them are left alone. Vaska stopped at the edge of the forest.
Irkin’s house was already not far away. The beauty here during the day is extraordinary. Pond, field, forest. She knew the places inside and out. She noticed every bush and remembered where it grew. I went for mushrooms and always came back with a full basket. It was in this forest that everything happened.
Night, clouds covered the moon. Vaska began to pester. Yes, so actively, in a businesslike manner. Ira carefully and quietly whispered to him:
- Wait, Vasya, I need to go to the toilet. Let me go out...
And run into the forest. Near the forest there are tall bushes, and animals have laid paths between them. Irka follows these paths, skips across the ravine, and towards the house. Darkness as far as the eye can see. I only heard heavy breathing from behind. I didn't have time to run. Red knocked her down. He pressed him to the ground, and Irka felt his weight on her. Kisses that no one needs, hugs. There was nowhere to go, and I drank too much. The slope of the ravine, Vaska’s sharp knee and the dirty grass after the rain, that’s all that remains in my memory. Yes, and a white dress made of expensive brocade; the entire family budget was spent on it. She probably should have screamed, called for help, but fear and resentment led her drunken thoughts in a completely different direction. Dress, dress... was pounding in my temples. Thoughts about the ruined outfit drove away all other feelings. What should I tell my mother? She sewed at night for two months.
It’s gentle in the morning, not at all yet bright sun looked into the hut and woke up Irochka. She didn’t remember the details of the previous night well, but the broken heel, bloody knees and torn dress reminded nightmare. The next day, to spite everyone, she went to the club to dance.
Vasily tried to approach Irka, but she turned away, clenched her fists and stepped aside. The resentment was stifling, but the girl did not show it and never spoke to him again.
- What kind of person? Well, what kind of relationship is this? On the first date, he already started something serious. What does he need? Only he knows what he needs. Yes? I needed love, and I got what I wanted. But I didn’t need to, it was still early. I thought he was courting me like all other people. But he didn’t care. Why bother looking after him? I wanted something new, and I got it, -
Irka muttered to herself
After graduation, Danilova decided to leave the village, and the sooner the better, and only to Moscow. She could no longer stay in the village, and she did not want to. There is a lot of chatter, and there is nowhere to study. The only problem was with the certificate. They were not handed over to the collective farm; the youth were protected so that they would not run away to the cities. Were needed in the field strong hands. The certificate had to be obtained by any means. Irka believed in success. The chairman of the collective farm used to run after her mother. He often visited her on distant mowings. And no, he didn’t come on foot, he went on dates in a service “goat”, and even with a driver. A bosom friend told Irka about this in confidence back in the ninth grade. There was all hope for this secret. If the chairman does not refuse her, he will release her.
Mom and dad had nothing against Moscow. Moscow is Moscow. She could have gone to Tambov, but in Moscow they immediately provided a hostel and a higher scholarship. Well, Moscow is Moscow, what can I say - a dream.
My mother saw me off, gave me some pocket money and left. There were no exams. Irka applied to a construction school and received a bed in three-room apartment on the ninth floor of the hostel. My roommate turned out to be a lovely Buryat woman, Faya, who, together with Irochka, was trying to master not the most romantic profession, but certainly the most long name: painter - plasterer, tiler - tiler.
There was a visitor to the girls' apartment. Yura's dorm roommate. He always showed up without knocking. When Danilova saw him for the first time, her eyes widened. Girls walk half naked in front of him. They try on clothes, dress, undress, put on makeup and communicate with Yurka. No reaction to male gender. The visitor spoke in a strange way, pronouncing his words in a drawling manner and smiling ingratiatingly. Ira asked the girls:
- What are you doing, friends? Are you undressing in front of a guy?
The girlfriends explained that this guy was not a guy at all, but their girlfriend - Yurka. It turned out that he had been friends with the girls for a long time. He goes to restaurants and dances with them, and there he looks for new friends for himself, from “those who don’t mind.” It happened, and I got it in the eye. Anything has happened. Yura was simply thrilled by his military uniform. I loved the military so much! I only talked about them. Sometimes he left the restaurant very happy with a new friend on his arm. Nobody knew how he looked for them. Often, after a drink, he complained to the girls that it was very difficult to find a partner, and his life was hard. He was always in men's clothes, had his hair cut short, clean-shaven, neat and smiling. Yura was married, but the marriage was arranged for the sake of Moscow registration. As soon as he received a room from the plant, he immediately divorced. After moving to the other end of Moscow, Yura came to the hostel less and less often. They were happy to see him, gave their “girlfriend” tea and listened to such interesting and strange stories about the unknown, forbidden “blue” life. About men, mainly:
- Girls, I’ll tell you what! The guys were so arrogant. I was riding on the bus one day, and someone was clinging to me, clinging to me... A handsome man, everything was with him, but he was impudent!...
Irka once before March 8th decided to joke with him. Bought beautiful postcard, I wrote him a poem, something like: “I’m waiting for an answer, like a nightingale of summer,” and at the end I signed “With love and respect – Volodya,” and the return address: N military unit. She didn’t make up the name Vladimir, she heard it in Yura’s endless stories. This Volodya once saw off Yura and gave him roses.
And a week later, Yura came to the plant, brought a postcard and told everyone that he was congratulated, and that he was loved and remembered. People giggled, but were not rude, and the guy was not offended. He was so happy at those moments, his eyes were burning! Danilova decided not to upset Yurka and not reveal the truth. Let the person rejoice a little.
Life in the hostel didn’t bother Irka much. There were nine people in the apartment. There were two people living in the room. There were queues to the kitchen and the restroom. But this is only in the morning and evening. Overall tolerable. Strangers in the hostel in for preventive purposes they didn't let me in.
- “God protects those who are careful...” -
The watchwoman wisely noted.
But the guests reached out and reached out to their friends, and it was impossible to stop this flow. The guys climbed through the roof to the ninth floor of the hostel. Then they scattered to their rooms. Sometimes they broke down, were injured, and ended up in the police, but the number of sufferers did not decrease. No one could control nature.
At the checkpoint everything was strict: they let you out from seven, they let you in until eleven. At night on the bolt. Don't knock, don't knock, even spend the night on the street - taboo!
On the weekends, Irka felt dreary in the dorm, so on Saturdays she went to cousin Masha, have an overnight stay. She lived in the same hostel, at the other end of Moscow. Masha was an old-timer - she had lived in Moscow for two years and had own room. On Saturday, my sister went for a walk with a guy, his name was Sergei - he was a bandit. Seryoga took Masha to restaurants and the cinema, and Irka lay on the couch and enjoyed the idleness, silence and free food in the refrigerator. My sister appeared only on Sunday evening. Masha often talked about her chosen one, always with humor and love.
Seryoga graduated from cook school with honors. And it’s not that he studied well, it’s just that there were only two guys on the course, and they were worth their weight in gold. In the gym of the same school, he studied karate in the evenings with a real Korean master. Sensei did not know Russian, so the only way to communicate with his students was with a thick bamboo stick. Seryoga understood and recognized this language immediately, and, gritting his teeth, tried to master the way of the samurai. The fighting technique went smoothly, nature provided stretching and elastic muscles. With huge, permanently broken fists, he began to look like the protagonist of Chinese action films, fashionable at that time.
Once in the ring, a sparring partner suggested a “hack job” - to protect a businessman during a trade deal. The money was good, and Seryoga gladly agreed. The job turned out to be a piece of cake - he hung around the door for half an hour, put the envelope in his back pocket and left. The client was pleased and looked at Seryoga with caution and respect. For that kind of money, the cook had to struggle for two months in the factory canteen. After this “hackwork” it all began. Orders for security poured in. Then they offered to work in the market, collecting rent from shopkeepers. He liked the work - it didn’t bother him too much, and he fresh air. I also managed to practice karate. As soon as Seryoga walked along the shopping aisle and rubbed his wrist, the sellers immediately reached into their pockets for money. Sometimes he went with the owner of the market to large debtors, but even there his presence was a guarantee of success - the money was given back immediately, and without further ado.
It was during this prosperous period of his life that Seryoga met the village girl Masha. Every weekend he picked her up in his not very new, but very cool Mercedes and they drove to the restaurant.
Irka even screamed with happiness when the door closed behind Masha and Seryoga:
- Gone! The room is mine!
Danilova had an internship at the Beskudnikovsky reinforced concrete structures plant. Panels were produced at the plant for residential buildings. Houses were being built, panels were being made, the conveyor belt was working. They began to teach Irka to work. This is not a woman’s business, of course, but only women worked with cement. They didn’t take men into the “heavy” workshops - they couldn’t stand it. Irochka was toiling on the slopes. The panels of the houses are huge, but fragile - there are many chips, so the girl’s hands straightened them out and smoothed them out. To begin with, Irka decided to stock up on solution. I filled the bucket full, pulled it, but it didn’t come off the ground. As it stood, it remained standing. I had to pour half and half, run more, but I could lift it. And then, as usual: a bucket of water to the left, with a solution and a trowel to the right and - forward with a song! My hands are wet, my fingers feel raw, my hands don’t work by lunchtime, my back doesn’t bend. The panels moved along the conveyor with the tenacity of a growling bulldozer. If you gape, the master will eat you alive. This is how Irkin’s factory ordeals began. She cried and complained and complained and cried. Limitchitsa - there was no way out, we had to endure. She vented all her troubles into her pillow at night: about the cold and the heavy bucket, about the difficult slopes and wet hands, about cement crusts on nails. Deep gray furrows appeared on Irka’s palms, like in fields after a rainstorm. Compresses and glycerin did not help. For all her moans, she heard the same thing:
- You’ll get used to it, you’re not the first...
Danilova fell off her feet. After your shift, go straight to bed. And there are three shifts. The lights were always on in the workshop, so the time of day was not determined, and the working day was endless.
Irka met Pasha at a bus stop. Pulling a knitted cap over her eyes and tapping her feet against the piercing cold, she suddenly noticed two brown eyes looking at her. Their gazes met. The man smiled.
- Will it fit or won't it fit?
- Irka wondered.
He was about forty, with a red, frosty nose and large brown eyes. Nothing else was visible. We got on the bus together. He came up, took off his hat, and asked something. Irka didn’t remember the question. All her attention was directed to the protruding bald head of the gentleman. He spoke to Irka, she answered, out of place, of course, blurting out some stupidity, but that was no longer important. They liked each other. Irka was ready to meet. The man had good manners, his speech was correct, Moscow, not a newcomer. This was important for Irka. And he had a name, something light, on the exhale - Pashka. This is not some Vaska or Victor, who were like “uncut dogs” in the village. He was 38, exactly 20 years older, and included a wife and two children. Pashka did not even think of hiding this fact, he was proud of having a family, and always said that he loved his wife. This is his problem, Irka decided. She is completely free, like the wind, and her conscience was absolutely clear, well, not a single cloud.
Pasha turned out to be a cozy, clean and educated man. He worked as a teacher at a military academy, lieutenant colonel. How is it at Griboedov's? “A colonel is aiming to become a general,” so Pavel was aiming to become a colonel, and in the near future.
Irka decided not to procrastinate and on the second date, with a happy smile and sparkling eyes, she gave herself up to him. Pashka was delighted with his young mistress, rented a one-room apartment in Medvedkovo, and transported the girl there. I immediately replaced the dirty toilet and greasy stove. I bought a new TV and an ottoman as wide as an airfield. This was her first victory in Moscow, and the hardships of life receded a little. The lover did not drink, did not smoke and did not beat. He was affectionate and caring. Pashka did not visit theaters or restaurants. He loved running. His wife did not go to the races with him. On the days of the races, Irka put herself in order, solemnly took Pashka by the arm and they went to the hippodrome. Irka has never been to the races before. Experience with horses was limited to his father's favorite, Baby. The horse was red, with gray spots, smart, cunning and lazy. Rest was his element. When he asked for food, he chattered his teeth. Then, for a long time, and with obvious pleasure, he chewed the oats. The Kid couldn’t stand men; they reeked of moonshine and tobacco. He let women come to him and obeyed. My father harnessed the horse for two hours and could not put on the collar and tugs. He called his wife:
- Ninka, come here, I can’t cope with the Kid!
The father took the horse by the reins and went with him to get hay or firewood. Before going up the hill, the Kid began to back away and sat backwards on the cart. Norov showed. He broke the shafts. My father, knowing the character of the horse, always took spare shafts with him. And if the Kid was not in the right spirit, then he refused to carry his father, and waited until he got off the cart. So they walked side by side: the horse and the father.
It was great at the racetrack. Beautiful, well-groomed horses. Bright riders, multi-colored carts. Music plays. The people are respectable, they smile at Irka, they place bets, they root for their horses. The buffets serve champagne and delicious sweets with rum. A large poster hangs above the window:
“From sweets with rum to rum without sweets!!!”
Races and betting fascinated her. Irka happily bet her ruble on the horse she liked. Pashka gave out money for bets, but he did not skimp and was always in a great mood. During the finishing races, Irka, like everyone around her, screamed loudly and frantically - she was rooting for her chosen one. Now, where she found an outlet for her suppressed emotions was at the hippodrome. There was no one to be embarrassed here, and all her tension and uncertainty dissolved somewhere.
Pashka turned out to be an excellent lover. Irka got dressed up and put on her shoes and already went to the girls’ dorms like a “Moscow peahen.” Although the apartment was rented, it was warm and quiet. This was Irka’s first home in her life, and she tried in every possible way to create comfort in it. I tore off the wallpaper on the first day. The walls were painted in warm colors. I placed vases, in a rustic style, and pots of flowers everywhere. Pashka praised her. The house was sterilely clean and tidy. They felt good together.
Irka graduated from college with honors and was assigned to the Reinforced Concrete Structures plant in Beskudnikovo. The holidays were approaching. She was going on a visit to her native village. Pashka offered to take her in his car, but Irka decided to go by train.
I stood in line for three hours to get tickets at the Paveletsky station. She could barely stand it, and the cashier looked at her, as if from a prompter’s booth, and said in a loud, broken voice:
- There are no seats. It’s easier to go to Africa on skis than to go to Tambov.
Irka remembered these words for the rest of her life. Pashka helped with the tickets; he wanted to take a compartment, but Irka balked and asked for a reserved seat. She was more used to it that way.
The vacationer settled down on the bottom bunk of the side reserved seat and decided to read. Suddenly there was a noise in the vestibule. A loud group of some ragged, suspicious guys appeared in the carriage. They caught up with Irka, began to flirt with her and call her into another carriage. Danilova was scared. But the boys didn’t even think about leaving, they sat down next to us and started talking about life and existence. Ira decided that they were runaway prisoners, and sat on her shelf with her eyes bulging with fear and the face of a pale spirochete. A neighbor, a fat woman with kind, plump hands and plump cheeks, came to the rescue.
- Honey, don’t be afraid, they are going to serve in the army. Conscripts. Let's have some tea, sit down with us. Calm down, who will let prisoners walk around the carriages?
The savior moved on the shelf and cleared a narrow strip for Irka.
When they figured out who was who, Danilova, sitting under the protection of her aunt, became bolder and spoke to the guys. They turned out to be good Moscow guys, and they put on tattered clothes so that they wouldn’t mind throwing them away at the military unit. The boys “went wild”, became flushed, and started asking for their address and phone number and inviting them to visit. Here Irkin’s defender could not stand it, stood up and drove them into another carriage. Irka has long forgotten what the guys were talking about, but it was nice to remember such increased attention to her person.
Father met Irka on a tractor. He worked as a tractor driver, and an iron horse, always ready for a ride, stood near the house. The train was a pass-through train and stopped at the Chakino station for only a minute. I had to hurry. Ira saw her father from afar, jumped into the cart and shook for a long time on the fresh, fragrant straw.
The village of Lukino is hidden in the very wilderness of the Rzhak region among fields and forests. There was a church in Lukino a long time ago, so it proudly calls itself a village. The church was demolished during the revolution, and in this place a huge hole. A cross was erected in memory of the temple. People come and bow, there are a lot of flowers. And on holidays they go to the forest, to the Holy Well. The water in the well is silver, even the sand glitters. People believe in her power. Father comes from afar, brings a large icon Mother of God and the Holy Cross. They invite him to big holidays. People gather for Trinity from all over the village. They pray. They break the bushes and splash each other with water, consecrating them. Then they bring the branches home and lay them on the floor. The well is located in a low area, the place is very beautiful. Oaks and rowan trees embrace, and silver willows surround them. Water comes from underground and never spoils. The villagers collect it for future use and take it home. Then the water flows into the pond, next to Irka’s house. From the pond, through two pipes into the stream, and into the river.
Behind the forest there was a football field. As soon as the snow melted and the first grass appeared, the whole village gathered on the field to play lapta. On Sunday they played from morning until late evening. The villagers loved lapta. Just everything: a ball and a stick. It grabs you quickly and you won't be able to put it down. Everyone is running, laughing, catching each other. After the game, they came home tired, their legs “fell off.”
Behind the farm, the field seemed like grandma’s...
The front did not reach Lukino. Grandma Stepanida told me that in this field, on the border with Zolotovka, there is a hollow. The gang was stationed there during the war. The village men were all fighting, there was no time for bandits. In the pack there were former prisoners and deserters, all locals from Tambov. During the day they lived in tents, slept, and at night they robbed, killed, and raped. The gang was large; they were called Semenovskys, after the leader Semyon. By the end of the war, the Tambov police gathered their strength and caught all this rabble. On this field they were shot in public. The order was announced in the village council: do not touch the corpses, let them lie there as a deterrent, and to discourage others. No one guarded the field at night. The wives and children of those shot arrived, the bodies were dismantled and buried nearby. In the morning, when the soldiers appeared, there was no one on the field. Stepanida told Irka that one of his own had turned in the bandits.
Fields, fields...
The road was always broken. On this broken road the villagers saw main reason their troubles. The cart with Irka was dragged from side to side, but the straw was clean and soft. She saw nothing more beautiful than the sown fields: rye, wheat, oats, barley, buckwheat. The coriander fields are as white and blue as the sky, you can’t take your eyes off them. Buckwheat cannot be compared with anything and cannot be confused with anything, the stems are burgundy, the leaves are gray, and the flowers are blue - unearthly beauty.
These fields, Irkino’s native, were natural. She hadn't noticed them before. There were and there were. And now I admired them for the first time and missed them.
Lukino appeared, we passed a village store and a hospital. Further beyond the ravine there was a vegetable garden that fed the Danilovs with potatoes and beets. A hair salon and a sewing workshop appeared around the corner. The old woman was in charge of the workshop, her name was Zherchikha, she never had a husband, she lived alone. She had golden hands, for this the people respected her. She called out to Irka:
- Honey, whose will you be?
- I am Irka, the daughter of Zhenka, Vasily Grigorich.
The beast nodded her head, meaning she admitted it.
In the morning, Irka was awakened by the blows of an ax, his mother was chopping wood, his father was making something in the woodshed. My friends came running, laid out all the news, and asked about Moscow. They reported who was fighting with whom in the village, and who had made peace a long time ago. Mom set the table for breakfast. Irka ate a tasty and satisfying meal, tied her scarf and got ready for work with her mother. I decided to help. There is always work in the village. The Danilovs had a hectare of beets. In winter, women did not work, and from April to November there was beet season. My mother was a beet maker. I worked from morning until night. Sow, weed three times, then hill up and remove on time. It seems like all wisdom.
They went outside the fence and climbed into the back of a truck that was delivering women across the fields. And forward to your plot across a huge beet field. And I couldn’t rest on the weekend, there was a lot of chaos at home: two cows, two heifers, three pigs, pigs and sheep. Mom got up at half past five and took the cattle to the shepherds. Each yard allocated shepherds in turn. My father went to his shift from the Danilovs.
At lunchtime, the women laid out the cooking in the field, told stories, laughed and shouted ditties at the top of their lungs:
“I fell in love with the general,
And then the political instructor,
And then higher and higher
And she reached the shepherd.”
It was picked up somewhere:
“Grandfather has seen enough porn,
Grandfather started fooling around
Village grannies
They hide in closets."
Lunch is only an hour. Eat, sing and sleep - you need to have time to do everything. We were happy about the rain, great happiness - we didn’t work in the rain. Back, they took us home. Irka prayed for it to rain!
It's dirty, the street is long, it zigzags through the whole village. The road is broken and there are no streetlights. It’s dark in the evening, even if you look at it. In the third house from the well lived a couple - Vanka and Manka. Vanka was a drunk. He had already drunk everything he could, there was no money for the store, and every morning he harnessed his horse and went for a walk until lunch. His dog was always nearby. The mongrel is small and unsightly. She barked forever and jumped on him. He was already riding back in a “pretty” cart, the horse was taking him home, and the dog was running behind him. One day, a drunken Vanka drove to the pond, the wheel fell into a hollow, and the cart fell on its side. Vanka fell out onto the green grass. The horse shook its head and went home. Ivan lay down to sleep right by the water and began to slide into the mud. A smart dog, she immediately sensed trouble - the owner might drown. She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and began to drag him away from the water. I didn't have enough strength. She started barking and squealing and calling for help. Irka heard a dog barking, called her mother, and they pulled Ivan out of the water. Then Manka took him. Since then, Manka, Vanka, and the Danilovs were friends and bowed from afar.
It was the weekend. Everyone weeded the garden together, and everyone went about their own business. The father decided to go fishing. Started in the morning. I dug up some worms and went to the pond. The water in it is running, clean, the stones are colorful, beauty, in a word. There were crucian carp in the pond. The father comes about fifteen minutes later and digs for worms again. The crucian carp, apparently, didn't catch well. He digs up and again sits on the slippery walkways. He holds the fishing rod with both hands. And when he digs up worms, for some reason he snacks. Chews all the time. Either he will eat an apple or go to the chicken coop and drink an egg. By evening he was completely drunk. Mom decided to follow her father unnoticed. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Hidden behind the barn. Instead of worms, my father took a three-liter jar from the manure heap. He took a sip of moonshine, ate an apple and buried her again. That's all the wisdom. In the morning, Nina hid the jar with the remains of the pervach in a distant barn with wheat.
Mommy was already telling the end of this story over the phone:
About a year later, she asked her father to feed the chickens. The feeders ran out of grain, and he went to the distant barn. When I poured the grain in, something jingled, I reached in with my hand, and there was a can. He immediately forgot about the chickens. I gulped down the pervach to my heart's content. His mother caught him. This is where the fishing ended. Irka laughed at this story for a long time.
Irka had an uncle, his father’s younger brother, they called him Vikotor. He lived in the same village with them. Tall, slender, with a military bearing. He served in the army on the border and was very proud of it; he always remembered those years. He did everything in the house himself, a thrifty man with good hands. He had two problems: he was afraid of women and he loved vodka. No one could understand why he shied away from women. When he was sober, he was shy with ladies, did not talk to anyone and did not court anyone. Everything was fine at work and with friends, but he couldn’t get married. Maybe he drank from this. Vikotor went to see an old friend who was not very intelligent. She lived alone. The old woman was looked after by her relatives from a neighboring village. He only went to see her when he was drunk. The old woman then came to Irka’s grandmother with gifts and wooed the guy. Her grandmother sent her away; she was thirty years older. Vikotor turned 35, and she has passed 60. And when the guy drank, he became violent. He could rush at anyone and start a fight. He sits at the table, resting. He drinks a glass and remains silent, the second he smiles, and after the third glass he grabs his victim by the breasts and yells:
- Do you respect me?
And it doesn’t matter who he pressed, a man or a woman, it’s all the same. People shouted at him and tried to rein him in:
- Vikotor, calm down!
They knitted their hands, whatever. Tough bear. He didn't care what would happen next. If the victims answered that they respected the guy, then he would step aside. If they were silent or stiff, they immediately hit them in the eye. A fight began. He was always the first to start fights. Well, who will tolerate this? And Vikotor got it, the men often beat him. And in the morning he didn’t remember anything. I came to my brother to get a hangover. And he says quietly:
- Well, where is your teapot? The teapot - where?
A teapot, this meant that he was looking for a first-aid. When there were a lot of guests, moonshine was poured into a three-liter teapot and passed around the table. It was convenient, everyone pours themselves, and the moonshine doesn’t run out for a long time.
Vikotor drank often and did not work without schnapps, but he worked well. All of Irka’s family were hard workers, but it was necessary to accept them. To be sure. And after work, not having a drink is generally a “sin.” In the evening, all tractor drivers handed over their equipment and were transported to their homes in trucks. Vikotor was brought in only lying down, sometimes tied up so that he wouldn’t fight. He was loaded into a dump truck and driven to the doorstep of the house. The body rose, and the guy flew into the grass. During the flight, Vikotor swore and yelled, and then lay face down in the grass. Later, Grandma Stepanida dragged him into the house, washed him, tried to feed him, and put him to bed. The monument to Stepanida Ivanovna should have been erected during her lifetime, she suffered enough from her sons.
Some stories always happened to Vikotor. In the spring, at the end of the working day, Vikotor was driving a tractor to put the equipment under a canopy. And he turned in the wrong direction. As they joked later - “To the wrong steppe.” He crossed the river, climbed a hillock that rose above a deep ravine... And fell asleep. He fell on the lever and the tractor began to turn in circles in one direction. The places are hilly and dangerous. There were only two meters left to the ravine, no more. The villagers saw him and ran to their brother, Father Irkin. Zhenya climbed onto the hill, jumped into the cabin, pulled the lever and stopped the tractor. Another couple of minutes and Vikotor would have flown from a height and died. He was drunk! His family rarely saw him sober, modest, reasonable, and intelligent. And if he makes a fool of himself, he is a fool. Two different people.
Vikotor never married. His grandmother tried to introduce him to women, even bringing them to the house. The ladies courted him, flirted with him, and he closed himself off more and more. I was afraid of them. He could only communicate when he was tipsy, and when he was intoxicated he went to see his old girlfriend, and loved him, probably. Little Irka went with her friends to the old lady’s house. They peeked. They put little knockers on the window. They pull a string from the bushes, knock, knock and run. The old woman ran out and cursed. Grandmother Stepanida died, and her relatives sent her old friend to a nursing home. Vikotor was left unattended and died on a drinking binge. I got drunk with my friends and choked. They found him only a week later. Found it by accident.
My mother had a special gift. She recognized by the sound of the tractor in what state her husband was driving - drunk or sober. Or she could easily guess who was driving the tractor Vikotor or Uncle Vanya or the mechanic Solnyshkin. No one knew how she managed it, and no one could repeat it. When my father was driving home, my mother heard the sound of a tractor a kilometer away and immediately shouted:
- Irka, Zhenya is drunk, he’s driving drunk!
After his payday, my father always drank with his friends. Then they went home drunk. Zhenya loved to gas. He lifted the small front wheels of the tractor and, like a real biker, rode around the village on the rear wheels alone. “Belarus” reared up like a horse. He couldn’t do this sober; he probably didn’t have the courage. And the sneaky one did miracles on the tractor. And I never tripped, rolled over, or fell into the water. Not a single incident. And when I was sober, different things happened. And he fell into a ravine and swam in the water and broke the wheels.
Irka had two girlfriends in the village - Oktyabrina and Galya. Galya studied in the same class with her. They sat at the same desk. Her family was poor, and Pebble was modest and good. She looked after her younger sister and looked after the household. Mother and father were almost never at home - they worked a lot. Mom is a milkmaid, and father is a shepherd on the farm. Nice family, friendly.
Two sisters lived in the old medical center building. One had a son and a daughter - Oktyabrinka, the other had two sons.
The sisters themselves were not on friendly terms. And the children were unkempt and abandoned. They grew on their own. Oktyabrinka stood out from them - a smart girl, neat, a good student. The boys stole. When we were still little, the villages turned a blind eye to this, but when they grew up, they began to call the police. The eldest, nicknamed Spy, sat down first, stole a couple of jars of jam and a chicken, they gave him a short sentence. He went out, walked for about two months and sat down again. So he lived in prison; they rarely saw him in the village. The spy was all painted like Khokhlama. There was no living space left on the body. And after ten years of colonies, he already wrote for centuries - “Don’t wake me up”, so that sleep would not be disturbed. Between terms, the Spy taught the younger ones wisdom. They had no choice. They stole everything.
The sisters tried to somehow feed the children, put them on shoes, and dress them. It was difficult for them. They were treated poorly on the collective farm, considered abnormal, and were given unprofitable work. And the boys were treated the same way.
The spy died in prison. The younger brother grew up and decided to get married. Mother was happy. There was hope. Bride, good girl was, but with a marriage. She was raped at age fourteen. The whole village was gossiping. It was difficult for her to get married. And the younger one took it, even though he knew everything. When the girl got married, she immediately gave birth. The younger one was also imprisoned a couple of times, but after the birth of his second daughter he stopped stealing and changed his mind.
The middle brother was called Goose for his waddling gait. After the first imprisonment, he came out and began to walk with a cute girl from Morozovka. She was special - downtrodden, somehow, she wouldn’t raise her eyes, she wouldn’t say a word. She became pregnant from him. The sisters found out, grabbed a bucket of apples (even though they all had piles of them) and went to Morozovka to woo this girl. Her mother refused. But the girl fell head over heels in love and didn’t want to listen to anything. She resisted and married Goose. I didn't listen to my parents. The collective farm gave them a good apartment immediately after the wedding. He became a cattle farmer, she worked as a milkmaid. They worked and furnished the apartment. We lived well. The baby was born. Sick. Her mother forced her to have an abortion done by the village midwives. In a handicraft way. The miscarriage did not work out, but something went wrong - the baby was born with a big head. They loved this child and did not abandon him. The whole village looked after him and everyone helped in any way they could. They took turns being on duty when he was sick, treating everyone’s favorite. The child died anyway. He lived to be ten years old. Five years later she again gave birth to a good, healthy girl. The goose stood firmly on his feet and stopped stealing.
In the village they showed movies on weekends, then there were dances. Dancing is a whole event in the village. Companies came from neighboring villages. The strangers were visiting, they could not share the girls with the Lukinskys. Fights began. Collective farm to collective farm, village to village. Sometimes fighters from the area came to show off their bravery. Somehow a company arrived from Zolotovka. Our girl was invited to dance. Well, I would have danced, and that’s fine, but then I went to see him off. Catastrophe. The next evening a whole gang of about fifty people gathered. We came to a dance in Zolotovka, found this boyfriend and began to bully. The soldiers were already waiting in Zolotovka. The Kulikovo Field has begun. The fellows fought with “valor and zeal.” There were flashes of fists and sticks, but even knives. There were even girls in the teams, they were like nurses, licking wounds and dragging away the beaten ones. A week passed. The Zolotovsky squad gathered and rushed to Lukino to take revenge. Sometimes they fought for months, but no one remembered how it started.
One autumn day after the harvest, there was a fight, a real war. The entire area came out onto the field. Some helped this village, others helped that village. The police called troops from the region. The investigation took a long time. Thanks to the prayers of the villagers, everyone remained alive, but the wounds were serious.
Irka was already getting ready to go to Moscow, and her father called her to go to the field to get some hay. Make preparations for the winter. We left the village. We got to the haystacks. Irka suggested that her father mold the hay harder so that more could fit into the cart. - Don’t ride again. Stacking hay is an art. My father served it, and Irka sculpted it in a circle on top. We collected a full cart, the stack turned out to be tall. We went to the barn. Irka sat high up. Her cart chattered and chattered and chattered. She fell asleep like the princess and the pea. Woke up from the cold. I opened my eyes - the hay was falling. I raked the stack, there was clay all around and icy puddles. Irka crawled out of the haystack, all dirty and wet, not touching one tooth at a time. It was getting dark. He can't understand anything. I went home. I told my mother everything. And look for my father together. And he has been sleeping for a long time, snoring. The next morning everything became clear. Father threw Irka out with the hay at the barn, and continued on his way. It’s a good thing I didn’t poke it with a pitchfork, otherwise there would have been holes left.
The village summer flew by quickly.
Father took Irka to the station on the same cart, only the bedding was different, autumn. The hay smelled of tart, withered grass, and the fresh straw, with the smell of bread, kept pricking her feet.
Irka climbed onto the top bunk of the side reserved seat and immediately fell asleep. Moscow awaited her: a tough break with her lover, matchmaking, marriage, the birth of a daughter, divorce, the appearance of a long-awaited granddaughter, late love...
But that's a completely different story.
The village story of a simple Russian woman
It's quiet in the hut. You can hear the coals crackling in the stove. Hot. It’s getting dark, and you’ll have to return at night, through a forest. I sat over tea at Shura's. Now what? The places here are remote, a village and a house on the outskirts. Along the way there are wolf and bear tracks. The animal here is not afraid and is a frequent visitor.
Once upon a time there was a village - a collective farm, a farm, equipment. Tractors and combines. There were almost forty villagers. And about twenty years ago, when the economy began to decline, the state farm collapsed, and residents began to leave for the city. And then the bridge that connected the river with the road to the regional center was demolished by the next flood. It was a pontoon. It was called “Lava” locally. “Lava” is welded from metal. They sawed it up and sold it for scrap. Who, and how? Now you won't know. Since then there has been no permanent bridge, no reliable connection with the regional center. It was still possible to reach the village by railway - on the other side. But who needs it - when the village is extinct.
Over time, the road has become overgrown, and the station is now abandoned. Trains pass by and don't stop. So it turns out that getting to the regional center or neighboring village is only across the river. The bridge is fragile - made of birch poles. They are renovating it - those who remained in the village, but the Ministry of Emergency Situations helped three years ago - when oil flowed from a burst oil pipeline, which was higher up the river. The Ministry of Emergency Situations tied up this bridge with ropes and iron cables. We strengthened the railings and knocked down new ones. So there is a bridge between the steep banks. There is a connection with the world. But flimsy. Once a house in the village was on fire - a fire truck couldn’t get through. It burned until it was completely burnt out.
There are four of those who stayed and live permanently in the village. In the summer, summer residents also come. But then, the residents are newcomers and not local.
This is how the village lives. In winter it is especially quiet...
I’m left here alone, a snake,” Shura blows on the tea in the saucer and speaks quietly, as if to himself.
Why one? Bab Shura? - I ask. We are having tea together at the table in the heated kitchen. - There is still someone in the village. You are not alone.
Why not alone? My father’s funeral came in 1942, they brought some land from the “fraternal” church where he was buried. Yes, he’s not the only one, you can’t read how much there is. And here, with my mother, three more sisters and a brother... remained. Yes, there is no one now. There are none left. I'm not going anywhere from here since the war. When the Germans left, they burned the entire village. We left for the regional center when we were under them. Then they returned. The police chief was one of his own. I volunteered myself. He was later convicted and sentenced after the war. When he was freed, we did not condemn him. They stood aside, but he did not go to the Germans out of self-interest, but so that they would not put their own
-Shura takes a circle of boiled sugar and breaks off a piece
- Do you want something sweet? I'm used to it. After the war we were hungry, only bread and bran were given on the collective farm. When there was sugar, we boiled it and made “sweets.” I've been preparing it this way ever since. — Shura hands me sugar, and hands the other pieces from her palm to the goats.
Behold, my snakes! Where would I be without them? - complains. - I can’t save you from them! They crawl into the house like dogs and cause mischief. Look, they've eaten all the wallpaper off the walls, and there's nothing left on the table. Everyone will come! Especially this... dirty trick! — Shura waves his hand at the healthy goat, laughing. -Oooh, Kotya! Snake! As they multiply, and when they are fully grown, they become impudent. I’ll go to the neighboring village and call a veterinarian...” Shura falls silent and looks at the goats.
The veterinarian takes the skins, so I give them to him...for his work. Do you want me to give you some meat? – he asks, pointing to the refrigerator, “I can’t eat meat.” How am I doing? They are my children...
Thank you... Baba Shura, I refuse, it’s not necessary.
I suffer with them, but how can I do without them? They live with me. When I go into the forest, I’ll cut down a Christmas tree... Do you know how much they love coniferous trees?
What, spruce needles?
Well, yes. Delicacy to them.
- And you’re probably cu-u-u-r-ing? - Shura smiles slyly and says, watching as Kotya reaches for the pocket of my jacket. - You should hide the cigarettes away, they will eat up all the “honeycombs” (cigarette butts). Everything will be fixed! Look, look what a snake Kotya is! All covered in soot! While I was going outside, he ate all the coals from the stove. Don't wash it off...Kitty! Kitty, snake! “Come to me,” Shura calls the goat and breaks off the bread and hands it to him. - He can eat a loaf in one go... male!
On the table at which we are having tea there is a samovar with dishes, a jar of medicine, and an icon. Next to the icon is a framed portrait. Seeing that I am looking at the photograph, Shura suggests
- This son is mine. Kolenka. Have you seen the bridge we have? And fifteen years ago, in winter, it was completely demolished. There was a thaw. The ice drifted away. Kolya was going to the regional center. He crossed the ice... They found him later... in an ice hole. - Shura falls silent and looks around the hut abstractly. — He played the harmonica for me. Sometimes I take it out, put it on the table and sit like that for a long time. It's like I'm listening. So I’m the only one left here... Snake!
We are silent. Shura pours tea into a saucer.
“This bridge,” Shura suddenly remembered something, “is a complete disaster.” In winter, when I need to go to the regional center (in the neighboring village the store has not been open for two years), it can be so difficult to cross the river. The banks are steep and slippery, I often get up on all fours and crawl. And Kotya and Virgo with Styopa are right behind me.
Virgo and Styopa?
Well, yes, they point to their dogs. I’m very worried about Kotya, I’m afraid that his legs will break. And I drive him away. And what is this? Dogs? And walking through a forest alone is not so scary. Summer residents will come in large numbers in the summer, and after them, you know, either a kitten or a puppy will remain. They'll take it from where and then throw it away. So I welcome them all here. I feel sorry for them. Let them live. And it’s more fun for me too...
It had long since gotten dark outside, we stayed too long, and I got ready to go home.
Maybe milk? Let me collect it? - Shura accompanied me.
I left my brother-in-law’s house, from the edge of the village, without looking back. The path went through the forest and my eyes had to get used to the darkness. In my hands I carried a can of milk. Still warm. Goat.
Such a village story is true.
P.S. A simple village story. Border of Leningrad and Novgorod regions. Village G. 2013 - 2017. At the end of 2015, after 15 years of appeals from local residents to the authorities, a bridge was finally built to the village. Concrete. Wide, “two cars”. Now Shura is worried that it might be in vain. According to her, as soon as the bridge was built, hunters began to frequent these places. First in cars, and after breaking the road near the village, already in tractors. In the surrounding fields, around the village, they planted grain crops to attract wild boars and bears, and they built “storage sheds” (hiding towers for ambushing animals). Now here they are shooting.
Village history. The end.
The video slide “Village Story” can be viewed below:
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