In the village lives a long memory Bashny.Net

We stopped the car at the entrance to our street - towards the wedding sang and danced. Vaska, a farmer's daughter to marry. Pretty as a cherub, the bride Olga, who grew up in neighboring our eyes, waved a pen in lace gloves and walked arm in arm with a young her husband, followed by the whole company, to tёtishurinomu small house, bought by her father specially for the wedding, to settle at the time of the young. And in the spring at this place will be built a real two-story mansion. Vaska peasants and picture and plan, drunk, showed brick and have some special imported by plastic blocks. Maybe then we will stop calling this house "tёtishurinym" after the hostess, who was dead for thirty years.

In the village names long in the memory stick. I remember a long time ago, forty years ago or more, in a single village in the store was selling Aunt Tosia Zolotov. Since that time, and the village in a large village turned, and shop on the site a modern built, and new, in different parts of the village "shops" had built, and Aunt Tosia has long died (God rest her soul), but no, no, let him hear from the elderly:
 - Where herring this took?
 - Yes, Zolotova ...
And something else:
 - Run, there have Zolotova, fresh rolls brought, unloaded!

And there is no doubt - then you must run the shop №4, which sells luxury beauty Tatiana Chizhov. Really, no kidding!

So Aunt Shura. After the death of her son Sanya house (for a long time, Alexander S.) remained, which now lives in the city. One of his Russian immigrants from Uzbekistan sold. They skorenko his home somewhere on the other end of the village set and that sold by the name of the German Koch, who from Kazakhstan to Russia has moved. His name I do not remember, was called "Koch, who tёtishurinom home lives." Five years lived, the old house items, documents issued, and drove off to Germany. Military some lived while waiting for an apartment. And now Vaska farmer's daughter bought.

And we are all the same - who the owner is. For us it is worth the old, ever-eternal tёtishurinym will be called, because his father had punished - not to forget the human good.

Postwar 1947god was unusually hungry in our area. I was a year and a half.
Mama nursed the tiny, but my little brother was born. His father, then still an invalid with a stick, from morning till night working on farm fields, removing the bread. But here's the bread, then in the evening when it's too late, tired, I went back to dinner in the house was not a crumb. For two weeks, as the last meal was over, and it was not anything else to bake. But it did not have any signature or instruction from the local well-fed pettifoggers to issue machine-earned bread, and I screamed and demanded "the heat" (as I call "bread"), and flatly refused to accept the potatoes. The store bread in those years we did not sell. The poor mother ran on neighbors to take at least a piece for me, but it was, entirely, widows with children who did not have excess piece. In the evening take was nobody. And it was dark in the windows. The village went early. I screamed as if I was cut.

The father went out. Light only one window - Aunt Shura, in the house opposite. Sanka Her son has just returned from the change. He worked on the railroad coupler. They were given bread rationing. Half a loaf and lay before them on the table. Word did not say a single Aunt Shura. Section rations into three parts and one handed to his father: "Let them eat health."

After 60 years, Mom again recalled how eagerly I was holding a rye crust, and both wept with impotence father, a soldier, who won at the front, but not able to win collective bureaucrats.

Finally received and welcome is ground corn and flour fresh harvest case, the new mom a large white loaf, he carried her aunt Shura. And in our family as sacred of human kindness, that a piece of bread, passed on from father - me, me - children, from children - grandchildren. That's why - house masters me, and for us tёtishurinym remained.
In the village lives a long memory.

***
My mother was left orphaned early. She was already in his late thirties, when we appeared with her passing close to the places of her childhood and worrying, with some suspense meeting, we stopped at the distant village.

It zharko.S curiously looking around quite a deserted street with tatty some houses, bushes, stunted vegetation, where only crawling chickens were given the similarity of life, I went for my mother, somehow suddenly hesitant to walk on the grassy track village streets, trailing by slope straight to the river.

Suddenly think it froze skosobochennom barn with a funny rusty weather vane, rooster on the roof, on the rotten piles stuck in the grass near a large old house with a tin roof, bordered around the loop, like lace, wide carved pattern on wood, leaves an impression of rare beauty and grizzled nobility because it was long ago faded from long-predolgih winds, rain and bad weather.

Fences around the house was not. And in the shadow of the huge hollow tree, which can be difficult to identify the apple on old logs adapted instead of benches, sat three old women. We went and they eagerly looked around us, peasant-style appealed to my mother:

 - Whose you, my daughter, you will?
 - I Zemskova. Maybe you remember these?
We are, in my opinion, in this house lived. My mother's name was Tatiana.

 - How - and a rejuvenated, turning to the old woman, in a whisper, - is of the dispossessed.
With Tanya, we were the same age, with the school tutoshny ran three there, four years. And you're her daughter, then Zina? Why, I remember you a little. Tanya great person you resemble. And this is your daughter, granddaughter, then tannin? My father was still alive yours? Oh, tell the truth, I was the unlucky man, though handsome. Tanya, how many tears shed for him. Come to me - suddenly she began to fuss - we hives, tea and mёdkom'll buy. Do you picture a mother's even left? No? When you dekulakize, because everything cleaned pilfered remember. Come, I am now. In the house of a village council your first staged. Now, imagine to build a new boss. In your - now the warehouse. That garden is a pity. As some of your evicted, garden almost all cut down. Oh, what a garden was! Horses, you see, set near the village council prevented. Who manage that? Tea, you were small, Zinushka. Slacker Ulankina not remember? The poor - hence, the power! Yes, what to say. Living out here ... Nobody needs our village. Come in, do not hesitate!

The usual village hut. Pictures in frames on the walls. The icon in the corner with a bouquet of dried flowers. Bed with lots of pillows slide. Only a table covered with oilcloth newcomer.

Hostess soon returned with a kettle. She put a deep bowl with fresh amber honey. Brew tea, adding Bogorodskaya, smell, herbs and coarsely chopped fresh gray homemade bread. And while we, squinting pleasure, dipped in honey and bread washed down with fiery fragrant tea, Aunt Fields, so she called us, rummaged in a drawer, took out an old dilapidated, tied with a rubber band album and flipped opened before us:

 - Here I am, and that Tania - your mother. Remember? No ...
Tears rolled uncontrollably from my mother's eyes, in vain she wiped them with a towel. I glared at my grandmother's face, which is so often tried to imagine. Grandmothers, which secretly longed for all his life.

Tall, eighteen, in beret with carefully in the fashion, laid chёlochkoy on his forehead, bright blouse with an embroidered collar, jacket, short skirt, slender legs, shod in slippers with socks. Seriously, with a slightly upturned, like a mother's nose. It was very similar to my mother in her youth. My heart was not in place!

I looked plaintively at Aunt Pol, and she realized:
 - I'll give you. Zina-orphan give! This is Tanya and I once Meschanovku traveled to the area before her wedding, and then starred in the card. So, with a leaf from an album and take the old card will unstick - will tear. And its something I OFF from the back side. Also, for a long time no one alive.
And to you from my memory. Gostinchika would ... But I'll cut you a loaf, baked today, do not refuse. And Medco jar. Maybe more will happen when ...

In the village lives a long memory.

© Galina Alinina





Source: