Oleg Zdrav - The collective farm is a voluntary business. The collective farm is a voluntary business (Oleg Zdrav) Oleg Zdrav the collective farm is a voluntary business part 2
The collective farm is voluntary
Oleg Zdrav
“And we are recreating a new world. If not the world that we have lost, then at least the world in which we would like to live.
Ch. Abdullaev, "Keepers of the Cold"
© Oleg Zdrav, 2015
© Alis Idrisovich Museybov, illustrations, 2015
Editor Alis Idrisovich Museybov
Created in the intellectual publishing system Ridero.ru
Do not pour to the brim - a strange and wild, in a different situation, wish, did not meet with objections from others. Once again, the “loaf” shook on the pothole, and, having caught a period of relative calm, until the next bump, the thirsty devoured the divine drink without even clinking glasses. - Sincerely!
They’ve come, bourgeois cognac, yes, hunting is bad manners even for a Tatar, definitely, - Rafik voiced the thought, as a representative of this very class of hunters of non-Slavic origin.
You might think that it was not you who grabbed the Metaxa, - Mikhas immediately counterfeited him, and mimicked him with a surprisingly similar intonation. - Ten bucks for a bottle - it's practically nothing!
So it really is very inexpensive - such a chance should not be missed. When else will we get to the action: "three for a thousand one hundred." It's cheaper than "Kizlyar", which is on oak sawdust and Ossetian chacha. And this is the most divine Greek cognac. Alexander will not let you lie.
A pebble in my address, but I am silent, pretending not to hear. I need it, for the third time to discuss the advantages and disadvantages of cognac instead of vodka on the hunt. Moreover, the "Meta" is clearly not real, although it was bought in a relatively decent "Metro", where a clear fake is still rare. If not for the action, I would never have agreed to this fake. But 360 rubles for five stars even convinced me. Although, of course, it cannot be compared with a normal Greek drink, and, as they say, it was not close. Even in "Masunis"1 or in Thessaloniki, the dutik is an order of magnitude better.
This is not cognac, and not even brandy, the original composition with the addition of wine, - I make it clear, because Rafik will not lag behind anyway, and the gap between the toasts must be stretched, otherwise some comrades will be “in zyuzyu”, even before we get to the place. - And the Greeks, they practically do not drink it. Three stars that adore ours for their cheapness are for culinary pastries, five stars and 38 degrees for women, and seven asters for a Russian-speaking tourist of both sexes.
What do they drink then? - drinking buddies are sincerely surprised, and even Bob, who is also Vovan, who is sitting at the steering wheel, looks inquiringly in my direction, reflected in the rear-view mirror.
Wine is drunk, usually dry. It is cheap and of high quality there, and in the heat with water it is the very thing. Men drink tsipouro or ouzo - aniseed vodka. Rare muck, tastes like cough medicine. It is diluted with ice water, almost one to ten - a cloudy white tincture is obtained. So they drink one glass of it for the whole evening, sitting in a cafe with a football broadcast - and so all their lives, day after day
Thank God we are not Greeks! - the unshakable Rafik issued the general opinion. - You have to drink to that.
Where to go from a submarine - you have to drink, diligently adjusting to the amplitude of UAZ jumps on the roads.
It’s good in Greece, probably, - again a subtle translation of the topic to me - entertain them, they say, it’s still boring on the road anyway.
Last year, at this time, a collapse occurred in the gorge, the only route connecting the two halves of the country was closed for six months. In general, it is better not to live there in the winter. And yes, it's hot in the summer. And nature and landscapes, you will laugh - exactly the same as we have in the Kalmyk steppe in the summer. The same scorched earth and garbage along the roads, except for the mountains on the horizon. At least where he lived permanently. On the coast, of course, more greenery.
To be honest, the city of Larisa2 is the worst hole in Europe that I have ever been to. Especially in the summer - when the heat is up to fifty in the shade. Greece is very different, and far from the tourist areas, it is not very beautiful and attractive. Probably, the crisis is affecting, but in the absence of the sea and tourists, it's just hell, white-hot and completely scorched by the sun. The only attraction is the headquarters of the first land army and the NATO air base - it is because of this that the locals did not call me anything other than “spy kejibi”. As a joke, of course, - only one name remained from the base - several links of the ancient "Iroquois", as if descended from the screens of the sixties from films about Vietnam.
A city of students and military men in the center of a peninsula scorched by the sun - what is a Russian tourist to do there if he is not a spy? Only engage in concluding a contract for the supply of drip irrigation systems and technologies for growing cotton. The Hellenes, and the Greeks categorically reject the European name given to them by the Romans, each province specializes in growing one major crop. This is done in order to avoid competition with each other. And it is necessary that our governor was impatient to grow cotton - that's why I ended up in Larisa, and not in the orange paradise in Corfu or Halkidiki.
As far as I am not an expert in agriculture, but even then I immediately realized that nothing good would come of this venture. Naturally, apart from the shock development of the next tranche under the Federal Program for the Development of Crop Production.
Until the crisis broke out, it was urgently necessary to master the next lard, and all the farms and factories for the production of milk from powder were already blessed to the very “I don’t want” and overwhelmed with help, so there’s nowhere else to go. Naturally, not all farmers, but only those who are “more equal than equals” and are close to the epicenter where the tranches fall, but it doesn’t matter. In any case, no one will give such money to ordinary peasants. Therefore, it is accepted solomonic solution develop cotton growing in the region. And what do I need, I need it - no worse than the tobacco growing project, which died safely a couple of years ago. I'm just a translator, plus a lawyer with an economic background - unofficially, of course. According to the staff, the son of the chairman of the regional Duma is listed as a legal adviser, but he prudently did not go further than the Olympic coast and the hotel in Katerini, and your obedient servant does all the work for him. However, it’s a sin to complain - the “son” never pinches the premium, and in general is a rather charming, simple and cheerful young man, not burdened with knowledge and worries. Each has its own shortcomings. He has a dad.
However, there is dignity in this godforsaken Hellenic hole. The famous monasteries on the rocks are Meteora.
Break off a piece of the relic and get a piece of your past. As a gift or as a punishment - go figure it out. A hit in himself and in the USSR-1984.
Meanwhile, the parental task has not yet been completed, and to be honest, I don’t need a supply of food, like for wintering on an ice floe, on the collective farm at all - as far as I remember, everything was wonderful with food, no one was starving, and not even malnourished. But arguing with Mommy in such a matter is more expensive for herself, and why wag the nerves of a loved one, she will probably have to work with papers until midnight, and tomorrow at seven in the morning, like a bayonet, to work.
And we must hurry, soon people will begin to return after a working day, and there will be a murder in the store. I suddenly realized why, remembering the Soviet era, the Internet “intelligentsia” often cannot agree on a common opinion, even seemingly obvious things. Were there queues, in particular, for bread, or were there none? If we do not take into account the huge variety of republics, territories and territories that differ in supplies due to purely geographical reasons, if we do not take into account earlier times, like Khrushchev’s, but take a specific period of time, then opinions here will be radically opposite. One will remember the store empty of visitors, the second about the endless, sometimes many hours, queues. And both will be right!
In fact, of course, no one thought so, especially the State Planning Commission, and shops, supermarkets, markets were built at an accelerated pace, in approximate accordance with the norms: one vegetable store per microdistrict, one culinary, two or three bread / food stores, general and household. It was they who were named simply and unpretentiously - by numbers. This abundance brightened up a large number of supermarkets, TSUMs, branded (with names) "markets" usually in the city center.
If we impose a unique indifferent attitude towards customers on this, then it is obvious that the queues could not be avoided.
However, during the day on a weekday, the shops were mostly empty, content with rare customers, and there were no queues.
All this will be explained in an elementary way - a Soviet person works during the day, and he has no time to run around the shops. It is worth noting another important and unpleasant feature - the lunch break in all stores, and the time is different for everyone. Approximately in the range from 12 to 15 hours of the day. And given the innate politeness of the sellers, the store closed for a snack a quarter of an hour earlier, and opened a quarter of an hour later than expected, that is, lunch lasted not an hour, as indicated on the sign next to the door, but almost an hour and a half. However, such a mess was not everywhere, but it happened quite often.
That is why we must hurry, in an hour people will be drawn from work, and we will have to stand in a long line, breathing into the back of the head of the same lucky person. And given that air conditioners are now very rare, the pleasure is below average - it is more than thirty degrees outside, despite the end of summer.
The store is like a store, that's how I remember it. To the right is the bread department, to the left is a self-service trading floor. Cash registers with brutal handles that need to be twisted to break through the check - I love the "steampunk", they belong there. Mechanical monster, it's a pity that they will soon be replaced by electric ones.
Frost, hi. Why are you so gloomy? - as always, cheerful and resilient Dimon, he will remain the same in forty years. Morozov is my last name, if anyone hasn't guessed.
I consider with interest, the first person I met here, with whom I often talked before hitting in that time (or in that life?). No, a clear association that this is one person is still perceived differently, although I understand with my mind that it is the same Dima Ptitsyn. A fourteen-year-old boy does not fit in any way with a well-fed man with a belly and an age of fifty dollars, rather an association with a father and son!
- Great, - I shake the outstretched hand, and pay attention to a strange three-liter jar in a grid, filled with some suspiciously familiar bubbling liquid of a thick "chefir" color.
Dimon leans closer and whispers confidentially:
- I want to make Braga. On "fast" neutrons.
Before moving to our city, the inventor of new varieties of home brew, lived for a short time in Shevchenko, where his parent worked at a nuclear desalination plant, and picked up there ... no, not radiation, but various clever words from this field of science, which he now used, to the point and out of place, usually to refer to different varieties of low-alcohol bourda.
“What are you going to make this time,” I was absolutely sincerely interested in the recipe, because most likely I will also have to drink.
Ptitsyn closes his eyes, draws air into his chest, and radiant with happiness, gives out:
- From Pepsi!
- It's like an alkali, it won't ferment in principle! - even my knowledge of chemistry is enough to understand the absurdity of the idea.
- You offend. I'm a specialist. I will add medical alcohol to the cola and roll up the jar so that the rods do not burn. And we will put real mash on tomatoes and rice, already in place. But at first, what are we going to do without fuel?
Do they sell Pepsi on tap? - maybe I'm in an alternate reality, but this definitely didn't happen in my childhood.
A classmate looks at me in bewilderment, then explains that Pepsi-Cola comes only in bottles, but they are not so easy to sell - you must definitely return an empty bottle for exchange, and it is a small "Pepsicol". But since no one has empty bottles - they are a terrible shortage, you can buy the contents of glass containers separately. This is what our innovator of the alcohol profile did.
- With a bottle 27 kopecks, without a bottle - 15 kopecks. Ruble fifty - a three-liter jar, alcohol was stolen from my mother for free, in her hospital this goodness is like dirt. Is it possible to compare with Moldovan ink or apple turpentine? It's almost like whiskey.
“More like rum,” I smile at the knowledge of my childhood friend. - Isn't it easier to pour alcohol into a heating pad?
- Ha, three times. Mother guards the heating pad more tightly than golden earrings, after the last trip to the collective farm, she seems to have guessed where they disappear, and dad will definitely cheat before leaving, - a school friend sadly shares the problem. And then, inspired, he adds. - The goods must be hidden so that no one guesses - in plain sight. No one will think that it is in a transparent glass jar!
I grin skeptically, anyway, there is nothing to do until the line to the bread department moves. It seems that there are not many people, but the seller dumped somewhere - they brought fresh bread, they probably accept it.
- Do you want some news? - and, without waiting for my consent, the irrepressible interlocutor immediately lays out, waving his arms, dangerously juggling a net with a can, threatening to be left without a wonderful equivalent of "whiskey". - Yesterday we dragged out my "Riga"!
And solemnly freezes, expecting enthusiastic applause, apparently!?
Who else would explain to me what it is about?
Seeing the misunderstanding, Dimych condescends and explains, again leaning closer and whispering directly into his ear:
“Remember, I was almost tied up with a moped. The device was taken away, and I leaked.
- I remember - in fact, I don’t remember a damn thing.
- Vovka Shamanov and I last night, they pulled him out, can you imagine!
- Who was pulled out, Vovka?
Five minutes later, finally, it turns out the essence. The confiscated vehicle was kept in the Leninsky District Department of Internal Affairs, right in the courtyard, leaning against the fence. Our friends found out about this while examining the disposition from the balcony of this same Vovka, who lives in a nine-story building next to the regional department.
Without thinking twice, a plan was hatched to rescue valuable property from the clutches of the invaders. From the concrete fence surrounding the regional department, in the middle of the night, a rope with a makeshift hook made of reinforcement was lowered, and the moped was pulled into two pairs of strong hands, like a harpooned whale.
- The tank is a little dented, and a bit shabby, - otherwise everything is hurt, it even starts, - the young adventurer shared the results of the expropriation, previously taken from him.
From such a fantastic, unsurpassed impudence, I felt a little uneasy - how bad we were after all, cheerful and daring, without a king in our heads! To think of enclosing, not something, but the regional police department - it costs a lot.
I finally remembered this story, oddly enough, everything ended happily - the kidnappers were not found.
The stout saleswoman returned, without any accompanying signs of fresh bread or pastries. Where she was and what she was doing - the jester knows her, but in twenty minutes a queue gathered out of the blue, that's it good example for enemy propaganda.
I took both gray and white halves, plus a couple of amazing fragrant buns for nine kopecks, with a dark baked crust and a fragrant smell of vanilla - that's the notorious state trade for you. Later it turned out that the taste of the muffin turned out to be no worse than in an elite confectionery.
I scored different, because I have no idea which one is needed - I made sure.
But in order to buy sunflower oil, you had to go through a whole ritual: first you weigh an empty bottle, you get a piece of paper with a number, you go to the next, graceful-looking, madam, a saleswoman of the sixtieth size, who with a mighty ladle through a funnel quite deftly, in one movement, and with jewelry accuracy fills your dishes to the very neck. The filled container is again carried to the scales, where it is weighed, and the arithmetic operation of subtracting the weight of the empty bottle is carried out. After that, they report the cost and hand over another ticket, which you pay already at the checkout. The ingenious embodiment of logistical absurdity does not bother anyone, me too.
Now it's time for the shopping list. I took a couple of packs of cookies, several cans of “Sprat in oil with vegetables”, unlike the “mass grave”, that is, sprat in a tomato, this one is quite edible, and costs almost the same.
If we compare the Soviet grocery store with a supermarket, then, oddly enough, he even wins something. It makes it easier to make a choice! Products mainly good quality, are cheap, and therefore it is pointless to choose which kind of pasta or butter is better. Come and take without much thought, if it is available, of course. With which, of course, there are problems.
In general, there have always been problems with perishable products in the Union, primarily due to the lack of modern preservatives. Plus, there was an acute shortage of automobile refrigerators. That is why the main range of local markets is long-term storage products: cookies, sweets, canned food, cereals, sugar, drinks, etc.
This goodness is in abundance, even too much. Perishable products, on the contrary, are of poor quality and are often not available for sale.
The question arose only with the mysterious soup bags, but, in the end, they were also found. It turned out that this is the prototype of "Doshirak", and the quality is much better. The Soviet dry concentrate will give a hundred points ahead of any business lunch in a thermobox, and you should not even compare it with beach packages.
But I didn’t take them - obviously superfluous, I’m not going to the island. I took a couple of bottles of Bulgarian juice for 0.5 each - according to my recollections, an incomparable drink, although it costs twice as much as regular lemonade - 40 kopecks.
A surprise awaited at home - my father was at home, and, fortunately for me, dragged Small from the garden. My brother met me frowningly, and without mood - he was offended by dad for taking him ahead of time from the garden.
Ruddy, plump and business like, exactly as he remembered. But the parent could not really perceive as real.
I understand with my mind, but I don't accept it with my heart. For me, real parents stayed there in my future, maybe more time is needed to get used to.
An hour later, Mommy appeared, charming, young and completely unlike herself, she has changed a lot in forty years.
As a result, the evening passed neither shaky nor rolls. I was silent, afraid to pierce and get off with an indistinct grumbling when they addressed me, trying to accumulate information, get used to the style and manner of communication.
- San, what kind of policeman came to us today? Petrovna said. District clerk, right? And for what reason - after all, the old hag, passed all the same.
- Yes, the lieutenant came in and asked about the car. On a nearby street at night, the battery was removed, so he asked if anyone suspicious was spinning next to ours.
- Well, what about you? - the father was clearly interested, he adored the car, cherished and cherished, and the threat of losing any part excited him.
– What about me? He gave tea to drink, talked about cars, he also wants to take a car, but he has not yet decided which one.
- From OBKhSS or what? Dad winced. - Didn't ask where the money came from for the purchase?
The department for combating the theft of socialist property aroused hostility even among those who had never carried anything. Their father did not particularly like them, after he was dragged for a long time and stubbornly for the construction of a “house” on a summer cottage. The shack, bought and taken out in its entirety, on occasion for a hundred rubles, which you can’t look at without tears, was added to a new car, and turned into almost a cottage. Naturally, such a “bourgeois” could not remain out of sight of the competent authorities, and although the absurdity of the accusation became clear almost immediately, the sediment remained. It is worth noting that the salary of the bus driver, who worked as dad, in those days was 300-350 rubles and it was quite possible to build a normal house in the country. But the dream of owning a family nest on six acres was shattered into a harsh reality - it was forbidden to build a two-story house in the country, and the size of the plot did not allow to blind a one-story normal area.
As best he could, he reassured his father, dispelling suspicions, and at the same time posted the “unique” information allegedly received from the cop:
- His brother-in-law in Volgograd took the same “five”, oh, and suffered with it. It turns out that the timing belt does not serve the full term, and instead of the prescribed 25 thousand, only 10-15 thousand are nursed. And there is no hole for a crooked starter - you are tormented by setting the ignition.
The information received puzzled the owner of the white five.
- You can turn the shaft from below with a head with a key, - dad suggested not very decisively.
- And where can you get a unique rare belt if it breaks on the track? Do you always have a set of heads in your car? I gloomily recall the future.
“You can buy a spare belt in advance,” the parent said without much enthusiasm.
Well, well, he completed the mission to prevent a three-day Robinsonade in the steppes near Rostov - it was not in vain that he failed into the past.
Nothing else interesting happened. The whole evening passed in my training camp, we didn’t even really watch the Vremya program. Batya is on the line at six in the morning, he goes to bed early, and mommy will make debits and credits until one in the morning, knocking on the keys of "Electronics", and not finding forty kopecks lost on sixty pages, counts them for the third time. Until recently, you had to count on accounts, but now there is a calculator, and this is real happiness for an accountant of that time.
A fashionable Olympiad-80 bag on the shoulder, a Rechflot baseball cap, Yugoslav Tomis sneakers, a snow-white t-shirt for release, ironed pants - a handsome man, even now on the cover of Pionerskaya Pravda. If you think that I am the only one dressed up like that, then you are mistaken!
To the collective farm - like a holiday, even better. Since this holiday is a whole month long, and the people dress in all the best and most beautiful. Moreover, some have up to two or three changes of fashionable clothes, especially girls. Of the trump cards in my bag, I have a dazzlingly scarlet imported shirt with a turn-down collar. The bestseller of the disco, unfortunately it will not be possible to wear it often, the queue for it has already been formed in a week. But I will get jeans for the evening by barter. The collective farm is like that!
- Hello Frost, did you get there yesterday? - Andryukha appeared, in those same jeans that they will go for an exchange.
- Normul. All the way. Did you make your own pants? - I nod at the obvious self-propelled gun. If I didn’t know for sure, I still easily guessed that the “company” was sewn on the knee.
- What is so noticeable? - the forger is sincerely disappointed. – I even sewed on an import tag.
- "AT & T", - not holding back laughter, I read the "label" on my back pocket. Didn't know the American Telephone Company made jeans.
- Is it true? - only that a classmate does not scratch his head. - How do you know the name of this company?
Have to twist.
- I read it in the book “CIA against the USSR”, they made secret military equipment for the imperialists, so I remembered it.
You should be more careful, and watch your tongue more carefully, although Andryukha will never give up, but as they say, the convoy does not protect the safe.
“San, just don’t tell anyone, okay. After all, the bastards will laugh, but I have nothing more to wear on the disk.
- Smeared, - I easily agree, to wear them myself.
Meanwhile, the people arrive, and by the appointed time, a huge crowd gathers near the school, hung with backpacks, bags and trunks. If we take into account that, in addition to weekend outfits, we also need a work change of clothes, warm clothes and mandatory rubber boots, it is clear that one piece of luggage will not do. Therefore, in addition to a fashionable shoulder bag, I have an immense leatherette bag, and a bologna bag with groceries - no matter how I brushed it off, but I had to take it - it is useless to argue with a caring mother. However, unexpectedly, she turned out to be right - no one was going to feed on the road, so grubs came in handy, fraternally added to the common cauldron and divided among everyone.
After the obligatory roll call, loading onto buses is announced, but this is only an intermediate mode of transport for today. Puffing and waddling from side to side, the brand new "Liaz", nicknamed by the people "vacuum cleaner", crawls out with school yard and takes the path to the river station, followed by two more of the same, stuffed with schoolchildren, buses.
I wonder how we fit into one tram? Offhand, there are twice as many people as the old river "Moskvich" of post-war construction, on which we went to LTO in the summer, can accommodate.
The fears turned out to be in vain, at the landing stage, shining with fresh factory paint, there was a brand new Moskva-137, where almost three hundred future workers of the tray, bucket and hammer could easily fit.
- Morozov, why are you without a badge? – and how could I forget about this “curse of collective farms”. In front of me is Zhannka Limonova, a Komsomol organizer of the class - a bore and a bloodsucker of a rare force of obstinacy.
- It is not customary to wear signs of military prowess on a particular dress. Translated into Russian - the badge is put only on a school suit. If otherwise is specified in the Charter of the Komsomol, then please indicate this paragraph and the number of the article so that we can verify the legality of your demands, - under the cheerful neighing of the class, he put the activist in her place. With her it’s impossible otherwise, the whole brain will dry up. However, it will still dry, but at least in a general manner, as part of a class, and not individually.
The offended Komsomol organizer did not find what to object on the merits, only her ferocious look promised a wave of trouble in response.
- A Komsomol member wears a badge at the behest of his heart, and not according to instructions! And we'll figure it out with you, - and proudly raising her nose, she left, nothing else but to prepare another dirty trick.
“You shouldn’t have shaved Lemonka, now she’s tormenting everyone with her beard,” a brewing specialist drew near.
How did you go through customs? Smuggled rum across the home border?
- You offend me, my ideas always work in at its best. No one suspected anything, although dad walked around the can all evening, his instinct was healthy, but he was too lazy to open it - I rolled it up with a typewriter. And I don’t have rum at all, I drank Cuban - rare muck, my recipe is a hundred times better.
The badge could have been captured, it would suddenly come in handy - to receive an award or a diploma, or to stand in the front row at an official event without this attribute of belonging to the glorious tribe of Komsomol members is impossible. And after all, clues are on every corner, in the literal sense - the street on which we now live is called bizarrely and unpretentiously at the same time: “In the name of the 50th anniversary of the Komsomol”, as indicated by the sign on my house. Do not underestimate the creativity of the city planners of that time, there is also a street named after the 40th anniversary of the Komsomol in the city, and this is a historical fact. Unfortunately, the unusual number series ended there - the sixty-year anniversary of the Komsomol fell on other times.
It is worth noting that, contrary to popular belief, not all high school students were Komsomol members, and the process of joining the ranks is far from being as simple as it seems.
To join the Lenin Youth Union, recommendations of at least two Komsomol members with experience or a member of the CPSU are required. In addition, an “entrance” exam is taken in the district committee, where members of the selection committee ask tricky questions.
My cunning old man, who allegedly served in the First Cavalry Army with Commander Budyon himself, tortured me about how much the Komsomol Charter costs?
The answer that the charter costs five kopecks, according to the price indicated on the back cover of the booklet, was considered incorrect and led to a refusal to retake. To such a question it is necessary to answer that the Charter for a true Komsomol member is priceless! You can add a few pathos poetic sentences, expanding this thought. I blurted out that the charter to me dearer than the heart- rolled. The veteran of the first equestrian liked it, although I personally found it hard to believe that grandfather saw the mustachioed marshal differently than in the newsreel. The number of Budyonny's colleagues could only be compared with the number of carriers of the legendary log on a community work day with Lenin himself.
In the meantime, the ship set sail, giving a goodbye long whistle and turning on a peppy march through the loudspeaker.
“Bird, tell me, have you ever seen a concrete ship,” he suddenly puzzled a classmate with a question.
– Do they exist? He will drown!
“Theoretically, according to the law of Archimedes, this is possible,” a neighbor from a neighboring chair, an excellent student and activist Lyosha Kurinny, the future ataman of the city Cossack army, got into the discussion. However, atamans, of varying degrees of imposture, at one time only I personally knew at least a dozen.
- Why do we need a theory, if we now have the opportunity to observe this miracle of nature to the right of the side in the window. There are no portholes on our vessel - circular panoramic glazing, even the ceiling is partly made of tinted glass or plastic.
From neighboring seats, the people immediately turned en masse to the window to see the unusual vessel - it turns out that a lot of people were listening to our conversation. A simple trick clearly shows that in a large team every word must be filtered.
- And where is it?
– Yes, here it is. Right in front of us. Floating landing stage, also known as a marina. Made of ordinary concrete, reinforced with reinforcement. The service life is up to a hundred years, unlike ship hulls made of steel, which is known to rust in water.
Personally, I am surprised not by floating concrete houses on the water, but by the intensity of ship traffic on the river. It's just fantastic! Especially when compared with the number of cars in the city. It seems that all owners of personal cars know each other by sight, there are so few of them, and at intersections, drivers are guided not by traffic lights, but by friendly relations, passing especially close acquaintances, giving way with gestures and a horn. If it weren't for the trucks, the roads would have been completely empty. And the more surprising to observe such pandemonium on the river.
Who is not here: a passenger three-deck, returning from a cruise from somewhere in Gorky; barges, bulk carriers and tankers of Volgoneft, river buses and hydrofoils. The latter, so they will give a head start to the car, easily hovering over the water at speeds up to eighty kilometers per hour.
Even a small, obviously military boat caught on a meeting. It seems that the USSR is not a land power, but a river one. Fishing seiners and pushers puffing from exertion, boats and speakers, canoes and water cannons - traffic, like at rush hour on a busy street.
However, we did not manage to admire the river beauties and ships. The restless Zhanka returned from the upper deck from the authorities and triumphantly declared, squinting maliciously in my direction:
- An instruction was received not to waste time in vain, and to carry out political information. Responsible ninth "B" Chicken. Get newspapers, choose the most important news and events, cover them.
A sigh of doom swept through the ranks - worse than political information, only the appearance of the entire teacher's kahal on the lower deck. And since the culprit of the misfortune, albeit indirectly, is my person, it is urgently necessary to correct the situation, restoring the reputation. Yes, and Zhanna needs to be reined in, otherwise she will completely unbelt.
- Lyokha, let me conduct instead of you, and without waiting for consent, I select the newspapers and seat the failed lecturer back on the bench.
“If you so desire,” the future ataman agrees with visible relief, relieved of the need to tear his throat and load his listeners.
– Dear classmates! At that moment, when the entire Soviet people, including workers, peasants and the intelligentsia who joined them, as well as employees and other citizens of the USSR, rallied in a single impulse, demonstrating determination and unity. When the oppressed workers, the plantation peasants, the progressive intelligentsia, the members of the popular liberation movements and the Non-Aligned Movements of Africa, Asia and Latin America rose up as one...
“…Despite everything, thanks to the fact that we are all, and in spite of the imperialist pressure…”
- That is why, and in accordance with the foregoing, and as a result of clarification, taking into account and taking into account all the circumstances, arguments and facts ...
– Countries like Laos, Kampuchea, Nicaragua, … Lessoto and Namibia, …
- Under strict guidance, in accordance with the correct understanding and awareness of the correctness of the true state of affairs, taking into account the scientific approach to elucidating the problem in general, and in particular ...
If at first the class pretended to listen, then gradually the meaning, or rather its complete total absence, began to reach individual listeners. After about five minutes, someone first began to giggle, then the essence of what was happening reached the majority, laughter began at the address of Limonova, who did not understand anything, busy drawing up some kind of schedule, and at the end even the tenth graders pulled themselves up to the fun.
And only then the organizer and inspirer of the lecture suddenly realized that the people were somehow inadequately cheerfully reacting to such a serious event. After that, she tried to delve into the nonsense that the speaker is talking about, and was horrified to find the absence of the slightest meaningful content.
- Morozov! What kind of prank are you doing?! Stop immediately.
- With pleasure I fulfill your wish, - under the joyful approval and hooting of the team, I agreed to finish the circus.
By the way, we did not hear any more about political information until the end of the collective farm.
Zhannka, a girl, although inadequate in terms of social activity, but in principle, kind and sympathetic, sometimes too much. It was from her sincere and boundless desire to help the mythical starving blacks in Africa that her formation as a dictator-organizer began. But I don’t see any point in quarreling with her, so I myself go to the world, trying to make amends.
A convenient topic was found, thanks to which it was possible to melt her stone heart and restore relatively normal relations.
– Jean, I'm sorry, I overdid it a little. In fact, he tried for the good of the cause!
Seeing the incredulous expression on the offended physiognomy, he explained what he was talking about.
– I wanted to create a universal solemn speech for all occasions public life. Imagine how convenient it is - insert the desired date, the name of the event and do not have to suffer, waste precious time to write about the same thing every time. And the time saved can be spent on studying or social activities, patronage of the pioneers, for example.
The expression on her face softened, but the offended madam is not going to give up:
- Stupid idea, smacks of bureaucracy and bureaucracy. It would be better to do real business, like a real Komsomol member!
- This is what I came for! I want to pay membership dues for the month of June!
Mademoiselle Komsomol organizer snorts dismissively:
“Me too, the real deal. And why only for June? Didn't find six kopecks for the whole summer?
It should be clarified that a member of the Komsomol not only wears a red badge on the lapel of his jacket, but also pays monthly membership dues, and the Komsomol organizer of the organization, accordingly, collects this money for delivery to the district committee, and at the same time puts a mark in the Komsomol ticket on payment for each month.
For schoolchildren, contributions are purely symbolic, only two kopecks per month, for working members of a voluntary public organization the amount is more significant - something about two percent of wages. This is where I decided to play.
- You did not understand. In June I earned seventy-five rubles from weeding. This is the amount I want to pay the membership fee.
To say that the girl was amazed is an understatement. Zhanna almost shed a tear, shook her hand for a long time, expressing her gratitude and describing all the nobility of my act.
It turns out how little a person needs to be happy, moreover, I'm not going to pay anything. For the banal reason that Jeanne herself will refuse to take them, as soon as she realizes what a trap this initiative is driving her into.
It is only necessary to explain, sincerely mistaken, in what her expectations are unjustifiably optimistic.
- Can you imagine if everyone will hand over the increased contributions at the end of the collective farm! It will turn out a hundred rubles, no less! - hinted at the "joyful" prospects.
It seems that common sense yet not completely absent from the fiery Komsomol member, and the prospect of shaking her classmates about paying taxes does not make her very happy. There is no need to wait for volunteers, and the partially collected "increased" contributions directly hint at the dishonesty of the tax collector. It is impossible to imagine a statement where out of thirty students only a few paid two rubles each, the rest got off with two kopecks.
And so that there would be no doubt at all, he splashed gasoline into the flaring fire of doubt:
- And if we also collect contributions of two rubles from everyone for June ...
He left the girl to finish the joyful picture on her own, with which she coped brilliantly.
- Sash, let's wait until we return to the city, and there we will resolve this issue. Now I have nowhere to store the collected money, just don't be offended.
It's time to get some air, I'll go for a walk on our cruiser, I'll fill up with impressions. Having squeezed along the side, I got to the stern, where guys with a guitar from the tenth "A" were attached next to the flag. How they can enjoy music in the wild noise from running engines - I definitely don’t understand, but the place is considered a “trump card”, and you can’t drive them out of here with a cannon, if only the head teacher. We'll have to go up to the upper deck, it's too crowded and noisy here.
Nothing interesting could be found upstairs, the teaching staff almost in full strength celebrates the departure, pouring something on the sly under the table, but moderately, rather even symbolically, only ruddy faces and slightly more sweeping gestures betray the criminals. And in order not to arouse suspicion among the more sophisticated youth, only the youngest, “first-timers” of collective farms from the seventh grade were placed on the open deck. Somewhere around here, in theory, the future star of the series “My Fair Nanny” and “Gopak on Ice” is floating now, she has just moved into the seventh.
In order not to embarrass those celebrating the first day of freedom from family and school, and not to run into an extraordinary socially useful load, I return back to the salon.
Below, a feast is buzzing with might and main, we sail for a total of almost five hours, so the people took care of the stocks thoroughly. Putting my snack on the common table, but my appetite is zero so far, I sit down next to Vitok, who is torturing a guitar he brought from home, picking up chords for some terrible song about mountains and a climber who has broken loose. It seems that he composed it himself, now he will not give himself and us peace. I will have to call fire on myself and “re-sing Vysotsky”, according to the laws of the genre, although in my case this is impossible. It seems that I am the only one in the history of mankind who does not have such an opportunity, since the work of Vladimir Semenovich is well known here even without me - that's how unsuccessfully Chronos handed out cards to me. By the way, the people are older and play cards for matches in the corner until the Komsomol activists catch mice. Zhannka squints disapprovingly in their direction, but does not try to swing the rights - she did not come out of her age. To her credit, she didn’t run to complain - I say, a normal girl, although not without quirks.
The number with Vysotsky will not work, Viktor Robertovich will pass, the one who is Tsoi.
I'm a mediocre musician, I stumbled on my youth, I know three chords, but more is not required here.
I ask for a guitar, yeah, six-string.
He does not remember the word "yes" and the word "no",
He does not remember any ranks or names.
And able to reach for the stars
Except that this is a dream
And fall, scorched by the Star
Named Sun...
It turned out clumsily, by the end of the song, the pain in the fingertips became palpable - there were no trained calluses, the strings were cut, but the people approved and accepted, they asked for more.
I don’t feel sorry, everything is better than cracking pies with lemonade and looking out the window - you can’t imagine a more boring landscape outside the window. No cities, no settlements, the steppe, but sparse sparse willows along the banks, occasionally oak or poplar groves, and behind them the steppe scorched to whiteness over the summer. One name is Volga.
He gave out the "Blood Type" on the mountain, but he barely finished it to the end, it feels like he erased the pads of his fingers with sandpaper - you need to think with your head before doing stupid things. The carrier took the guitar in his hands only in the tenth grade for the first time he took it in his hands, and without training, this kind of garbage turns out.
There is reason to think about the physical abilities of the inherited body. If the general physics is quite good, then everything else is at an embryonic level. Two months in the boxing section, after which my mother's hysteria about a decrease in mental abilities in the future, six months in judo, without any special results, then rowing for two years - well, the result is appropriate. By boy's standards - normal, in reality - a strong, but poorly prepared bull. The experience of mass fights wall to wall - that's the whole real fighting experience. In a fight, he is only able to brush aside with an oar.
The success of two slammed compositions did not turn one's head, and as soon as individuals of the opposite sex appeared nearby with languid allusions to love lyrics, the concert of Soviet-Korean amateur performances was ended in a categorical form.
- Tears and romantic pink snot about lyuboff - this is not for me.
The girls snort in disappointment and retreat with a wave of contempt - which is what is required, only youngsters in love are not enough for me to be completely happy.
– Good songs, strong, but I hear them for the first time. Who is the author and performer? - the appearance of a new character missed, and completely in vain.
The chairman of the Komsomol committee of the school - I don’t remember the name and surname due to the prescription of years. The girl is serious and determined.
Works from the late Tsoi, it is not surprising that no one here has heard them yet, the singer's popularity is still in its infancy, but I see no reason to shine the name of a rock musician. I'm just refusing:
- This is a song from the movie "The Main Limit". There is also a story about volunteers who went to BAM, they built a bridge and cut a tunnel. In the title role, this one, like his fair-haired, well-known artist ... Damn, I forgot my last name.
Svetlana, nevertheless remembered the name, wrinkles her forehead, trying to remember a non-existent, just invented by me, film, and as expected, nothing happens.
“About blood type, what’s the song?” Also about construction? - Interested in obvious suspicion.
– No, this is from Roman-gazeta for the last year. One warrior-internationalist wrote poetry, picked up the music himself.
It did not work, apparently, the mention of international debt alerted.
- Let's go back to school, bring and show a magazine with poems, - after which, having cast a stern look at the salon, she went back upstairs. I completely lost sight of the fact that on the nose of the tram, behind my back, there is a descent from the upper deck, from there the difficult guest brought me.
“This one will not forget, she will call the parents to school,” Bird appeared nearby and sympathized.
- Bullshit question - reassured friend. - Not the thirty-seventh year in the yard.
What happened in thirty-seven? - a classmate immediately became interested in the "strange" date.
Damn, I completely lost sight of the fact that the vast majority of today's youth have no idea about the “terrible and bloody thirty-seventh” and “mass repressions”. By the way, the well-known thesis of the democrats that the repressions affected everyone and everyone crumbles to smithereens - there are not so many former Gulag prisoners among the ancestors, and there is no one to convey to grandchildren and great-grandchildren about the horrors, real or imaginary, of that time. There is practically nothing about this in the school history textbook, and young people are happily ignorant.
And the number 37 is usually associated only with the extreme age of Pushkin A.S.
Hmm, and what to say in response?
- In 1837, the tsar canceled the decree on pardoning the surviving Decembrists, and they were again driven into Siberia, - he gave out the first thing that came to mind. The version is never friends with logic, but it will do here.
It didn't work. The exception to the rule is the exception, which sometimes happens.
- Decembrists, you say? Exiled to Siberia? - catching me at the exit from the salon, Andryukha clung. - Are you in your mind to blurt out such a thing?
Yeah, one connoisseur of the real history of the USSR was still found.
– And how do you know so well-informed about the 37th? - immediately went on the attack, and, seeing how his comrade was confused in confusion, he added, immediately realizing where the legs were growing from. Do you listen to enemy voices at night?
It is more expensive to conduct such conversations in a busy public place, so he dragged the connoisseur of the past closer to the stern, where the roar of the engine would not allow outsiders to overhear anything.
If soviet schoolboy loves rock music, and Andryukha is simply obsessed with it, then, willy-nilly, such an amateur falls into the arms of the "State Department", as they used to say in our times. For there is practically no such music in the Soviet Union, and one has to listen to music on the BBC and the notorious Seva Novgorodtsev along with the news. And brainwashing if you are being listened to is a matter of technique and time. And no jammers will help, because for the sake of music, a fan will sit and catch an enemy voice for at least half the night.
- Can you imagine, they said that the ballerina Plesetskaya bought herself a second mink coat! - a voluntary victim of enemy propaganda shares with me a sensation.
Get killed up the wall! To what extent do you have to be a naive idealist to be sincerely indignant at such a “universe injustice”?! Fur coat! Bought! It wasn’t the factory that was squeezed out, it wasn’t the annual budget that was cut - the world star bought herself a fur outfit for the price of a used refrigerator.
Namely, from such insignificant garbage, later total hatred and contempt for their own country grew. And it did work.
Every journey comes to an end, and our cruise was no exception. At about one o'clock in the afternoon, the ship moored to the pier with the romantic name "Baranovka". Lined up in a marching column, our camp, hung with backpacks, trunks and guitars, advanced along a dusty country road along the coast under the scorching sun. Eight hundred meters and now we solemnly enter the camp.
A long, unsightly one-story building made of white gas-silicate bricks, stretching along the Volga - this is our collective home for the next month. In front of the barracks there is a huge paved square in full length, a flagpole, so far without a banner, from the end decorates the architectural composition of the dining room - the canteen.
The inscription above the entrance to the institution: “Clean not where they often clean, but where they don’t litter” strikes with its philosophical depth. Creative, but not convincing, because a couple of grimy piglets, unusually unique hairiness, are born from wild boars, hinting that life does not always fit into philosophical schemes.
Then it suddenly turns out that my memory failed me, completely erasing important component collective farm life. Our camp is not the only one! Directly adjacent to it is a similar barrack, intended for students of the local pedagogical institute.
Everything would be fine, pretty students - this is even good, given my real age, if not for one "but". Judging by the multi-colored, embroidered robes, which I can even see from here, our collective farm will be cheerful. Residents of fraternal Tajikistan - where would we be without them. No, these are not, familiar to us, guest workers, who did not exist then in the sense that we know. Before us are full-fledged students of the national department of the faculty of Russian language and literature of the Kirov State Pedagogical Institute.
How this mass of people, who do not speak and understand Russian well, studied in a charitable institution, and even at the literary faculty - a mystery that lies beyond comprehension. Ideally, comrades from the solar republic should become future teachers, carrying the word of god ... literary in their native villages and villages, introducing dekhans to world culture, but in practice, nothing good will come of it. Most of them will never return home after tasting another, by their standards, sweet life, having settled forever in the "Middle Empire", of course, no longer as teachers of Russian.
However, there are enough ordinary students, and given the profile of the institute, in the overwhelming majority, beautiful females. I need to go out tonight to explore.
Our room is number eight, the next room is the girls from our class. We have to carry from the warehouse and collect beds also for them.
To call our dwelling a barracks does not turn the tongue. Spacious, bright - with a huge window overlooking the Volga, however, the river is almost invisible from here - the rampart blocks it. In spring, during high water, water spills and it is impossible to do without bank protection - the future crop will simply die.
The walls and ceiling are in fresh whitewash, in the center of the room there is an incomprehensible bar in full length under the ceiling. Yeah, curtains are attached to it, in our climate without bloodsuckers the landscape is not considered complete, especially on the coast. In early September, it's not so scary, but in the summer it's just Armageddon. Mosquitoes during the day, mosquitoes at night. The standard uniform in the field is a panama hat, over which a fishing net soaked in diesel fuel is wound - only it saves from the ubiquitous fly. And half a day under the scorching sun to breathe a solarium is really happiness, in comparison with eating you alive by carnivorous flies.
However, I digress, I need to get mattresses, sheets, pillows and blankets - everything is like on a long-distance train, only tea is not served. Although, no - they are called for an afternoon snack. Usually there is no such thing in the schedule, but since we were late for lunch, as an exception, they will feed us so that we don’t stretch our legs until the evening.
The washbasin impresses with its functional simplicity and austerity. A long pipe with a dozen holes from which water flows in thin streams. No unnecessary personal belongings, such as faucets or soap holders - aesthetic perfection to the envy of Neanderthals. On the side there is one large valve that blocks the entire wash row at once.
Water, apparently, straight from the Volga, they don’t bother with cleaning here, even in our time, when fishing in the Lower Reaches, locals draw water directly from the river and drink it without boiling, making an exception to this rule only during floods, when dirt and turbidity can be seen with the naked eye. A plank structure a little further away hints at a complete set of sanitary pleasures, in a rustic style.
On the other hand, for all the years of collective farms, not a single (!) Case of mass poisoning or intestinal infections has happened here - maybe the natives of the tomato regions are not so wrong?
Boiled milk in a white enamel mug and four cookies - that's the whole snack. It is not surprising that such modesty - after all, the schoolchildren themselves should work in the kitchen, and two hired cooks for three hundred people will not be able to do anything themselves, they will not even have time to simply arrange the dishes and wash them.
Working in the kitchen is a joy. All day, you run like a horse - bring this, take it away. You clean the boilers, peel the potatoes, collect and arrange the dishes, and if you are not particularly lucky, then you will have to wash them, although this is usually thrown off on girls.
With all this, you are paid half the norm for this day - a ruble fifty-seven, as I remember now.
And only in the last year of my trips, someone guessed to restore justice: pay the full rate of 3.15 rubles. and immediately there was no end to those who wished. In the field, not everyone is happy with the girls - it’s hard to carry boxes and buckets, therefore, as an alternative, working in the kitchen is not bad, especially if normal money is guaranteed to be paid for it. It is necessary to approach the authorities with this idea, there will be obvious benefits to everyone.
Gradually, the labor barracks acquires a residential and cozy look, posters of dubious educational value appear on the walls, bought up in a bookstore and used as wallpaper.
The beds are made, the curtains are stretched, only two beds of "shell weaving" are empty.
- Are we waiting for someone else? - Interested in future neighbors.
It turns out that one empty place for the curator, teacher - educator.
“Beetle will be with us,” I understand from the explanation, we are talking about a mathematics teacher Rinat Yusupovich. Not the worst option, but far from the best either. The man is already aged, dreary, lethargic, always dissatisfied with those around him and with the whole world at the same time, concerned only with living peacefully until retirement. Brains endure moderately, but any initiative strangles in the bud - reinsured always and in everything. Which is not good for my plans.
As if in response to an unasked question, a beige Moskvich-412 stops right in front of the door on the asphalt in the middle of the parade ground, and immediately I remember who is still missing in our company. Olezhki Dyakov - it was he who was brought, and not alone, but with a valuable cargo.
And indeed, Peter Iosifovich Dyakov, a physics teacher, deputy head of the camp, is driving, and together with him in the car Oleg is our cool kulibin from electrical engineering, concurrently the son of the aforementioned dad.
We unload the car with all the kagal - it seems that there is no empty space left in it, packed to the eyeballs. Tape recorder "Jupiter-203-1-stereo", amplifier, huge speakers, coils of wire, home-made garlands of light bulbs, several boxes of reels of magnetic tape, judging by the inscriptions - a wide range of foreign stage.
If he doesn’t short-circuit the wiring, entrusting the soldering of wires to Andryukha, like last time, then we are provided with a chic disco, even with color music.
- Nothing today. I won’t have time to assemble and set up before the evening, - Diak breaks off the expectations.
- No dancing, today is the opening of the camp. Everyone who has already finished with the placement, goes out into the street, receives a tool, and into the forest - to collect firewood for a solemn fire, - Dyakov Sr. brings certainty. - And let anyone try to lose the ax - I will deduct it from the salary.
Proximity to the authorities has its drawbacks - caught my eye, immediately harnessed.
It is hard to imagine that a teacher can send students into the forest alone with an ax in their hands, but in those days, such things were treated much more simply. With an acute shortage of male contingent in the school, part of the authority is forced to be delegated to high school students, naturally verified, those whom you know well and completely trust.
Since there are only three axes, they are awarded to the most responsible and prepared, who have experience in circulation. Dyak Jr. and Vanka Golovin are especially trusted - he is a year older, and only recently transferred to our school, having moved from somewhere beyond Novosib. There was a hitch with the third owner of the ax - having examined our city company through and through, the deputy head of the camp did not find worthy applicants who were guaranteed to cut only wood, without damaging the limbs. I had to help out by volunteering.
- Morozov, do you even know which side to hold on to the butt? - a children's test, designed for complete incompetence.
“Over the summer, I chopped two cars of firewood at my grandfather’s in the village,” he embellished the actually obtained ten logs for the samovar.
- Allow me, - without waiting for an answer, I take the ax from the boss, and, moving a little to the side, I make several turns, drawing intricate figure eights, then toss it up, rotating it, and deftly catch it by the ax handle. You can't drink away mastery, at least not immediately, as the saying goes. Juggling with an instrument here prompted a sensible thought: nunchaku - that's what I really and urgently need to do. For there was not much calm life before, and now it is not worth waiting even more so.
“You should act as a clown in the circus,” the wise man skeptically assesses my skill. life experience teacher. But since there is still no alternative, my candidacy is approved, albeit without much approval, I apologize for the tautology. - I will send later, Rinat Yusupovich, let him look after you, in order to avoid adventures. We don’t go far, we collect right behind the camp, there is a lot of dead wood here. And not thinner than my hand, to be.
In my group, Ptitsyn, Andryukha and Vitalik Chernyaev are such a healthy, strong man, with a sad and unenviable fate. After the army, he returned as thin as a match, with a roof gone and his health completely ruined by some kind of chemistry. For a long time he turned around in hospitals, and in about 1993 he shot himself from his father's hunting rifle, unable to bear the pain and torment, pulling the trigger with his bare toes. Maybe the afterthought leaves an imprint on him in my perception, but he seems somehow gloomy and doomed even now. However, Vitek has always been unsociable and gloomy in life, he has never been interested in anything other than sports.
While Ptits and Cherny are dragging the first felled trunk to the camp, Andryukha and I are “smoking”, that is, resting.
- So you tell me why there is no mention of the thirty-seventh in the textbooks? Does this turn out to be true? - I knew that it would not go away. Apparently accumulated in the soul, the worm of doubt has grown to the size of a well-fed caterpillar. And there is no one to discuss with - at best they will not understand.
- As Mr. Goebbels said, good propaganda is 90% truth. And 10% of half-truths and lies. To deceive, it is not necessary to lie, it is enough to change the presentation of information and its interpretation.
– But after all mass repressions were? Can't this fact be denied?
- By itself, the fact does not really say anything, you always have to look in the context of the circumstances. Is there really not a word about repressions in textbooks? But what about dispossession? Fight against Trotskyists, opportunists? Kamenevs and Zinovievs? We all went through this in history lessons, have you forgotten? My great-grandfather, a Cossack, lived for a year and a half on an island in the delta with his wife and three-year-old child, hiding from Soviet power. Then he returned to the people, served two years. And he might not come back - there was such a time. So why is there such an emphasis on the 37th?
“I don’t know,” the homegrown opportunist mumbled somewhat bewilderedly.
– Because in 1937 the repressions affected not class enemies, but actually their own – those who made the revolution. We can say that Comrade Stalin put most of the comrades-in-arms with whom he seized power in 1917 against the wall. And now think for yourself, why are the imperialists so concerned about these repressed people, because they were overwhelmingly ardent supporters of the World Revolution?
– Never thought about it.
- It's simple. The children and grandchildren of these repressed survived, made a career under the Soviet regime, and are already climbing to the very top of the country's government. Can you imagine what will happen if they replace the current leaders? Now you understand why the West is interested in promoting this topic?
“But it's scary. Need to do something!
- Not everything is so bad, there is still time left.
In fact, I’m not risking anything now, I’ve known my friend for half a century - he won’t give up. But it is simply necessary to besiege his thirst for activity, to clear his brain a little, otherwise you won’t get any trouble with him - the truth-seeker, even that one.
- Pyotr Iosifovich, the task is completed, - by the way, Zhuk did not appear at the logging site, evading responsibility once again, however, it is quite expected. Let me ask you a question about work.
- I don’t take money for asking, tell me what you need?
- The people are asking for "rams".
Sheep washing is the most profitable job on the collective farm, and there are always plenty of people who want it, since only one team for eight people is required.
- Don't even ask, the tenth "A" has already scored a place. Where has it been seen that young people go ahead of old people. Next year in the summer it will be your turn, the tenth grade exams will be taken.
Expected bummer, but worth a try.
“And yet, if they refuse, we are the first in line?” - I reserve an opportunity in advance, sorting through the options in my mind, to create the prerequisites for such luck.
- Why would they refuse it? - the physics teacher is surprised, and one can understand him: double payment is not something that is voluntarily renounced.
“You never know what,” I evade specifics. – But if they go refusal, then we hope for your promise.
Having received a tortured promise, I proceed to the second stage of the insidious plan.
On the catcher and the beast runs!
- Hello Zhannochka, today you are charming like never before!
- Morozov, are you overheated in the sun? Or is it your stupid jokes again?
- So say compliments to the girls after that.
- First of all, I am a Komsomol organizer, and not ..., - realizing that she had drifted into the wrong steppe, she broke off, and finished fiercely touchingly. - Are you on business or just have no one to sharpen your flirts with?
- Of course on business. To atone for the failed political information. You, according to the plan, still need to hold some kind of event, so I'm eager to help. There is important and urgent information, it must be brought to high school students. Preferably in the form of a lecture, I already have the text ready.
Why only seniors? - the Komsomol diva is surprised.
- The topic is too serious, it is not necessary to injure the psyche of young children. Only ninth and tenth grades. After dinner, leave them in the dining room, ten minutes is enough.
- And what kind of terrible topic is this? Zhannka bats her eyelashes in bewilderment.
- Karakurt - or black widow. Methods of rescue and emergency care for a bite. Features of poison, reproduction and life of poisonous spiders. Recommendations for artificial respiration and so on and so forth.
“Oh, my God, we just didn’t have enough,” the pale-faced activist covered her mouth with her hand in fright.
- Here you see. And how do you tell the kids?
We finally have a proper dinner. Millet porridge in a huge pot for ten people, fragrant and even quite edible. A kettle, too, one for each table, a mountain of indispensable cookies, and a bowl apple jam. Of course, there is plenty of bread, without counting. Only modest aluminum dishes brighten up this splendor: bowls and spoons. Forks are not provided for by etiquette. Quite decent, there is something to compare. Somehow, before the entrance exams to KVVU, I had to live for three weeks in a field camp. So there it was much more modest with pickles. Instead of plates - a pot with the production date 1949 stamped on the bottom. The lower part is for hot, a lid for tea and coffee (just kidding). To wash the legendary bowler was impossible, it seems, in principle - if only with emery, such a powerful layer of oxide on the walls for forty years of operation. Tea was served with a chopped healthy piece of sugar, which did not melt at all in the coolest boiling water, apparently the same age as the kettle. Leaky tent and daily cross-country, plus high-quality food, or rather the lack of it, led to the fact that in three weeks I threw off eight kilograms - a personal record for all time. It was a fun time, but this path no longer appeals to me. By the way, the name of the military school named after General of the Army Shtemenko is now not recommended to be said aloud, because it is fraught. Since it is not in any reference book, and it is impossible to find out about it by chance. Therefore, it is worth asking at the military registration and enlistment office for admission, as serious uncles with a gloomy steely look will immediately appear and take the questioner for a khimki: “And let me, dear, how did you find out about the existence of this little-known institution? Who said, or, perhaps, suggested?
End of introductory segment.
- And what ... smart guy came up with the idea to turn on Sofia Rotaru early in the morning. Never really liked her, and then with a hangover.
I open my eyes, visual sensations gradually join the auditory sensations. The sun blinds the window, breaking through the poplar branches, the leaves sway in a light breeze, discarding bizarre patterns. Lepota.
- Stop! What leaves! It's winter now!
I slowly look around the room and realize with ecstatic horror that I have hit it. How many books I have read on this topic, which is not at all surprising - according to my estimates, there will soon be more hitmen in the past than generals in the Soviet army. It is surprising that this trouble happened to me, but on the other hand, why am I worse?
So we have:
Judging by the very familiar environment, getting into the late USSR, in his own apartment.
I will catch my breath, move away from the shock, and I will definitely get to the mirror, but even now I can assume with a high probability that I was inside my own body. The scar under the knee, received in early childhood when falling from the garage, was identified - you can’t confuse it in any way.
In the window, blocking the view, sticks out a miracle of domestic instrumentation - air conditioning BK-1500. This monster appeared in our country in 1982, from here you can build on, focusing on time - it cannot be earlier than this period now.
Air conditioning is such a hefty and unbearable thing, released by valiant Azerbaijani craftsmen in the sunny city of Baku, under a Japanese license, by the way. On the descendant of the gloomy samurai genius, purely visually, the brutal brown electric cooler pulled with a stretch. But cool generated regularly, whatever you say. This unit, in our two-hundred-apartment building, was in those days in a single copy - I remember the titanic battle between my parents when the issue of buying it was discussed. Batya, as a born innovator, was eager to be the first in the region (if not in the city!) To establish a symbol of scientific and technological progress in his house, to the envy of all neighbors. The female half of the family duumvirate categorically objected to an unknown unit that threatened to make a hole in the annual budget. As a result, the gap turned out to be even larger than the calculated one - for the sake of aesthetic balance, mom also had to buy a Montana denim skirt for 50 rubles.
I look around more closely, and I notice a Rubin TV in the corner, although this elephant is hard to miss. Yeah, judging by the brand, you can definitely say - now it's already 1983 or a little later. Previously, we had a black-and-white "Temp", later "Photon" appeared. The same long-suffering TV went through at least six repairs, and was sold to foreign distant hands, so as not to hear reproaches from friends for such happiness.
If it weren’t for the car, then we would have suffered to drag it to the workshop - a really heavy beast, you can’t drag it alone.
Apparently, the mechanism of protection of the psyche is working, switching attention to minor and insignificant details. That is why all thoughts are occupied with memories of fate household appliances, but adaptation cannot last forever - it's time to explore the new, or, if you like, the old world.
There was a microscopic hope that this was a hoax, and the usual cozy twenty-first century would be outside the walls, but one glance out the window was enough to understand: no, brother, you still got it.
There are no such decorations. Cutting down huge poplars and planting young trees in their place is, for example, possible. But to demolish a couple of elite new buildings, and in their place to build an exact copy of the reinforced security zone number 4 - this is already unlikely. And to rebuild half a quarter back "antique" is beyond the power of even aliens.
I leisurely examine my apartment, delaying the inevitable trip to the mirror. Recognition comes, a long-forgotten memory pops up - a strange feeling, unlike anything else.
Suddenly, in a panic, I rush to the window overlooking the avenue, the thought dawns that I am alone in this world. But, no - rare passers-by, exhausted by the heat, wander, brutal lawns and Zyls, who have long become a rarity on our streets, snort exhaust gases, here a trolleybus, of unusual rounded outlines, drove up to a stop, dropping off the people.
Judging by the temperature outside, it is now the end of summer, even from here you can see how the asphalt melted and went in waves.
– What do we have here? Definitely me, myself, at the age of fourteen. And this means that the eighth grade is over, and the summer of 1984 is logically arguing in the yard.
I turn on the TV, wait a long time until it heats up, the image twitches and clears up. M-yes, weaned from such quality, whatever you say.
Who do we have here? Ba, all familiar faces - Comrade Senkevich and the Film Travelers Club. I didn’t have time to understand what the program was about - it quickly ended, giving way to some kind of documentary epic about the war. The second channel does not work until lunchtime, and it makes no sense to torment the TV further.
Gotta look for the program guide! And starting from it, set today's date.
I strain my memory, and creaking with synapses and neural connections, I remember where it is usually stored - in the “wall”, in the middle section.
Our wall is special - it was brought from the GDR by a relative who worked there under a contract, and even in the mid-2000s she was still alive in her mother-in-law's dacha, retaining a completely decent appearance.
Here is the program, as expected, on last page, then I will definitely read the news in order to refresh the events of this period of time in my memory. At fifteen minutes to eleven, and Senkevich in the morning with us ... on Wednesdays. So today is August 31st.
Damn, I have school tomorrow! Here is the ambush.
It is unproductive to despair, so I continue to inspect my own property.
We have: a two-room Khrushchev with a column. Ceilings two twenty, living area 28 square meters. Five are registered, including my grandmother, who does not live with us, but since housing is given according to the number of registered, she is listed here. The little one, who is a brother, is now in kindergarten, and he will have to be picked up in the evening - I would not forget. As far as I remember, the duty was placed on me.
The kitchen is six squares - you can’t turn around, hot water only after you fire up the column. The system is unique in its kind: to add or subtract hot water, you have to run from the bathroom to the kitchen, turn the valve. And since the temperature does not change immediately, but gradually, the process is far from trivial. Soap up, and in the tap only boiling water or, conversely, ice water. Touching the valves in the bathroom is not recommended, otherwise the column may overheat and simply explode. This has happened three times as far as I can remember, usually when guests arrived who weren't smart enough to use this intelligent feedback system.
In more recent times, the steampunk system has been upgraded, for which a hole was punched out of the bathroom and two servos made by a neighbor from the purest bronze were run on an imported CNC lathe. Thanks to this worm-and-cardan mechanism, it became possible to turn the valve of the gas column without leaving the enameled vessel for washing the body.
However, he digressed again.
There is a note on the table more precisely the list, without specifying the addressee, but since there is no one here except me, the purpose is obvious.
“Cookies 5 packs.
Condensed milk 3 cans.
Soup in bags of 6 pieces
Canned 5 pieces.
Caramel 1 kg.
Lemonade 2 bottles
Home: sunflower oil 1 liter, don't forget bread
Kiss mom."
A strange set, are we going on a camping trip or what? Middle of the week?
In support of the letter, a blue five-ruble bill was found with the Spasskaya Tower and water stars in the light. For some reason, I thought that she was with a portrait of Lenin - it turns out that this is a quarter with the leader. Anti-counterfeit protection is at a primitive level - I can draw as many of these on a printer as I like in five minutes, but there is no printer here. Having descended from the photoshop skies, he returned to the objective socialist reality.
As far as I remember, sunflower oil in plastic containers does not exist here, as a type, only on tap, in your own dishes. Can or bottle? That is the question, and memory, unfortunately, does not give any exact answer. I’ll buy kvass in a can - I decided the issue radically, by the method of elimination. Now, whether you like it or not, the oil will be in a glass bottle.
I will go for reconnaissance, armed with a three-liter snow-white can, and a trifle found in my pants pocket. A total of fifty cents. It appears that all of my available financial resources are at this moment, except for the parent five - but it is accountable, you won’t make a fuss. Mommy works as an accountant, and according to her professional habit, she demands a report to the last penny, and not at all out of greed - for the sake of order.
It was not by chance that he specified that from “available resources”! In fact, I am fabulously rich, by average Soviet standards, for my age.
It’s just that my conscience and parents don’t allow me to spend money, I don’t know that there are more of them.
Sometimes a Soviet child is "insured", and upon reaching the age of 16 he can receive a round sum, for example, a small one with us will be "insured" for a thousand rubles. And it is not difficult to guess that nothing good will come of this venture - the money will simply burn out in 1991, and in our case, the documents will also be lost during the liquidation of the enterprise.
In fact, this is not insurance at all, but simply a savings account, where parents transfer a certain amount from their salary, but it is called that.
My situation is completely different. All the money that lies on my book is earned by me by honest conscientious work. And this is more than three hundred rubles! An incredible amount, equal to two mother's salaries.
Formally, child labor is not used in the Soviet Union, as it should be in an advanced and modern society. In practice, however, not quite so. Since the main core ideology of the Soviet system is respect for work, the upbringing of the younger generation by real work is not only not condemned, but is welcomed in every possible way. Suffice it to mention that one of the highest awards of the USSR is the Golden Star and the title of Hero socialist labor! Was there anything else similar in history, but a landmark phenomenon - the society of the cult of the working man. And this is not a joke - it is the "leaders", innovators and "Stakhanovites" who are the main characters in the media, on television and in books. And the title of Hero of Labor corresponds in status to the Hero of the USSR, and he is usually awarded for a real feat in the war.
But this lyrical digression, just to refresh the realities of the time.
The first time I went to the collective farm two years ago (relative to the point in time where I am now), in the month of June, on vacation. At that moment I was only 12 years old, and volunteered, of my own free will. And even earned 35 rubles net! Minus food - everything is honest, without deception. Two months later, in September, I had to go to the collective farm voluntarily-compulsorily, already with the whole class.
Surprisingly, there were practically no skewers. Perhaps, from the position of an enlightened liberal of the twenty-first century, this looks strange and wild, but no one perceived a trip “to the collective farm” as something difficult and burdensome. Vice versa! There were about twenty of us 12 and 13 year old volunteers from our parallel alone, and none of the parents objected to us resting and working under the supervision of teachers. And the event itself was called - LTO. That is, the camp of work and rest. Moreover, with a bias towards rest, and without the usual statutory routine of ordinary pioneer camps. That does not cancel the real work and earnings.
As we got older, we began to earn much more, and if my memory serves me right, then by the end of school, I already had a round sum of a thousand full-weight Soviet rubles on my book. In the tenth grade in the fall I brought 220 rubles for a month of work - which is noticeably higher than the average salary in the country!
But this is not the most important thing - money, when you do not spend it, by and large, generally ceases to play at least some role. There was an idea to save up for a moped, but my grandfather fulfilled the dream by simply giving me a brand new Karpaty. This will happen next summer, when I will be floated for two months to my great-ancestors in the village, and the intermediate link of the ancestors will go to Yerevan on a ticket.
- Here, I'm a brake! What a school - I have to go to the collective farm tomorrow! That's why the list of grocery stocks.
In fact, a trip to the “collective farm” is pure, refined happiness sparkling with joy! Especially if it is supposed to be instead of studying. And even a June trip to the village is also happiness. To all the pluses of freedom, you need to add a description of the alternative. In my case, this is a month of non-stop work in the country, an integral attribute of every Soviet family. The notorious "six acres" - in reality, that's exactly what it turns out. Three waterings a week at least, endless weeding, garter, breakage of "stepchildren" and so on, so on, so on. Moreover, all this is under the scorching sun and continuous parental supervision, well, except perhaps on weekdays, when you can swim in Akhtuba without permission. But this pleasure fades in my eyes, as soon as you imagine that you will have to get on a regular bus hanging on the bandwagon, where you manage to jump at the last moment by a miracle (the next one will be only in an hour), and walk half a kilometer to the stop. That is, the alternative to the collective farm "paradise", without any exaggeration, resembles a real "hell", in the direct sense of the term. The heat is plus forty, the ubiquitous indestructible midge and the complete absence of bonuses. Mezzanine with twists, as a result, I personally have never been very inspired. Bulgarian cucumbers and canned tomatoes in the store all year round, and the subtleties of salting and homemade taste were always on the drum for me as a young parasite, especially if my labor sweat is used for the salting process, in figuratively, Certainly.
Before you go outside, you should refresh yourself - it's already twelve o'clock, and there was no poppy dew in your mouth. What do we have in the fridge? We will conduct an audit, check the indestructible thesis of the liberals about the empty shelves of domestic cold cabinets.
You definitely can’t call it empty, but you won’t particularly eat pickles either. Jars of jam - yeah, it's freshly brewed fast food. Your own raspberries and grated currants with sugar are boiled for five minutes, but you also need to store them in the cold.
A large piece of butter, with a strange yellowish surface - I have already lost the habit that natural butter without preservatives quickly oxidizes on the outside, acquiring a rancid aftertaste. However, inside it is quite edible and even tasty, distinct notes of cream. Natural - it's all that, not stored without preservatives. Open kefir is not stored for more than a day - it turns sour.
There is no sausage or cheese available - we have always had problems with this. Unlike Ukraine and Belarus, where our relatives live, on the Lower Volga, meat and milk have always been tight. Sausages and wieners are not rare, but they are almost never on sale. But there are two cafes in the city center where you can always try them - very tasty, contagious, but categorically do not sell takeaway.
However, he has already given up on sausages for a long time, and there is no desire to get used to them again. Cheese can be bought in Volgograd, which is what we do when we pass by - the intercity highway stretches through the whole city, and if you know the places, you can buy a lot of tasty and scarce, and almost without queues.
Mayonnaise in a glass jar, tomato paste, some other containers with incomprehensible contents. In the freezer there is a lonely frozen frozen blue bird with paws. Judging by the beak, it is a chicken, although it looks more like a dystophy-dinosaur, judging by the color and build, which died of exhaustion. There is zero meat, but the broth and soup are fragrant and tasty - a natural product, fed with grain. However, one can doubt about feeding.
- What is it? I smirk at the non-existent liberals in response, anticipating the answer in advance.
A strange golden jar with the same lid, made of lacquered tin. To prevent the lid from flying off, it is tightly tightened with a wide pink rubber ring. With an effort I open it, pulling off the stubborn rubber, and my gaze appears ... that gray one itself, it is also black caviar.
I feel like a customs officer Vereshchagin:
- Again caviar, but there is nothing to eat.
Beluga, as far as I understand, is pressed - judging by the density. And it seems missing, the smell is still the same.
A standard "poaching" can, weighing 850 grams, sold to stray tourists as a "kilogram" fifteen rubles from under the floor. The found container is almost full - in our family no one really eats caviar, so this one disappeared, once again, by the way.
This is the life of an ordinary Soviet person. You can’t buy sausages, but you can even eat caviar with a spoon, but you don’t feel like it. In my time, a kilo of black granular was drawn for a thousand killed raccoons, but here no one needs it for nothing. For example, we get it as a gift, from relatives from the lower reaches, and against our will. In the fishing collective farm, this “grainy” good is sold at a bargain price - a liter of vodka per kilogram.
And since every third person in the city has such relatives, besides the first one, this product is much more common than the same servelat. And it costs for the indigenous people even cheaper, about as much as a kilogram butter- three rubles per can.
The obvious consequence of this is that sturgeon can be bought at a price of 2-2.50 per kilo, which is much cheaper than meat, with which, on the contrary, there are constant problems. In the market, and even then for a big "pull" - meat, and with a bone, is sold for 4-5 rubles. True, there is an alternative, in the form of Kalmyk satsygachatina, but it does not always happen, only on order and half carcasses right away, but the price is very pleasant - one and a half rubles. The taste is no worse than beef, but rather even better.
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
After graduating from Rulevkin High School
moved to the city to study on average
nautical school. Izgvazdil alone
inland waters, but, upon return,
just a few years ago,
periodically flooded the villagers about
unseen lands - true about cabotage
without even a peep. Greater awareness
about what is happening around than fellow villagers,
played into the hands of his election
chairman. Rulevkin accepted the post and,
imbued with the mood of the electorate,
the next day after entering
position organized a general assembly.
Comrades, he began to broadcast from
club scene - now we are not with you
comrades.
The people, frankly, were stunned by this
start. Rulevkin waited a pause, and
happily continued:
Yes, piss off! The end to you on the screw. -
Former skipper was a lot of speed,
which many also liked, for not
rassusolivaet, and the truth-womb cuts. -
We, comrades, are now gentlemen -
owners, but we live in a village under
the name "Proletarian". Worth thinking
about the self-guided course. And what is it
a ship without a worthy name and flag? How
you name it - and you will go to the sea. So here it is
gentlemen, Japan-mother, everything is necessary
rename. Why are we worse than others?
cities? We, comrades, also want
return the former name to our village. How
you my thought, gentlemen?
No one wanted to be worse than "some
there "cities (their village" like it or not, but
also "geographical unit! ..) and found
old-timers who remembered the original
The name of the village is Old Yabukhi.
The chairman grimaced, but the way back
did not have.
Okay, that's sorted out.
My throat is dry. Rulevkin took the decanter
from the presidium table, poured myself to the brim,
drank half and, recognizing what was in it
vodka, without showing any kind, finished off
remainder. He banged his glass loudly on the table and
looked defiantly at the presidium.
The agronomist looked at him ingratiatingly.
Chushyev Pal-Palych and chief accountant Kopeikin
Akaki Alexandrovich. They habitually
as required former head villages,
filled the decanter with vodka before the meeting.
In the past, the meetings dragged on for a long time.
Basically, they talked about nothing and
was usually collected
the public of the village during non-working hours.
Where more fun time flowed and gurgled
with a misted decanter!
Good, - Rulevkin repeated,
returning to the podium. -
Now, comrades, it is worth thinking about
engine compartment. So to speak, about driving
the strength of our village - the deck that us
feeds. Since we are no longer proletarians,
comrades, and - gentlemen, our collective farm
should be called differently.
This issue was also sorted out quickly.
The word "red" was changed to the word
flickering and resounding from everywhere. So
"Red Hammer" became "Hammer
perestroika".
In the heat of the first days, not even days -
months of enthusiasm (after all, affected
had their own interests) successes in
farm increased (they did not work for fear -
to myself).
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