Story
From the author.
“I could probably tell
Something close to the truth,
Tell it to be like But not the truth,
Even so, sees God ”
Evgeny Potorochin
Dedicate to my Friend, Brother and Commander, Ghera...
This work, dear reader, is entirely a product of my imagination. All the facts contained therein, the events, the names are fictitious and any coincidences are accidental. The story is not the truth of last resort, and only reflects alternative thoughts, attitudes and feelings. The speech in the story about the war, the people who survived and continue to live and believe in a brighter future, thousands of war-torn lives.
Every day since the advent of the Donbas, I did and continue to do personal records. Trying to capture the found images, sensations, thoughts and convey them to others who are interested. In this story includes only a small part of the scrapbook of a witness and observer. The main characters of the story, time and feelings. Passing through all the vicissitudes of warring Donbass, with the man who writes, we notice only what is seen and noticed it. The author is not the protagonist of the book, though, and wrote from his face. Naturally, the book lacks much of the bravado and pointed the Patriotic feelings that you are treated safely by other authors. My goal is to show a different reality of the events that maybe someone did not notice.
You will not find in this story is fantastic battle scenes. You will not find descriptions of the feats and deadly risks, here there is nothing of this. Here is a simple wanderings of a failed tourist in the warring Donbass. Tourist who five years pronomial craters from shells, afraid of their own shadow, and the responsibility for their fate and the fate of his people. The exploits will write to those who performed and got medals. Here's the other reality. This work will not attract the attention of those who would like to read about how rapidly Russian built peace in the Donbas, about how people went to enormous sacrifices, maintaining their glorious sons of the militia, about how he resurrected the dying city. This is not so. About it will write to those who were engaged in the resurrection of Donbas. Here is written about completely different people who were just trying to survive, no matter what. Here is written about those who, Well, read and you decide for yourself whom is the narrative.
Chapter one
February two thousand and fourteenth year in Moscow was humid and warm. In the sky, alternately one after another, appeared, the bright spring sun, giving all the joy and warmth that gray gloomy clouds, reminiscent of the snow that winter is not yet over. The situation was damp and shapeless, ubiquitous mud. At night, it still brought a slight frost, and by the afternoon it had spread its muck everywhere. It churned and splashed millions rushing through the roads of the capital of the car, its kneaded and millions hurrying about their business passers-by that rabid, cursing the careless drivers.
On the grey, have not seen the repair of the walls, stuffy and smelly room, workers hostel on the street Plekhanov, hung a dead silence. In the corner, standing in several rows of bunk beds, tucked haphazardly, worn and polistim linen, gathered a group of young guys. Young and beautiful Muscovite from the news talked about how in Ukraine begins another over the years, the Maidan.
- They've got their riots - said a tall, thin guy who came to the capital of Russia on earnings from Odessa. – Priuvate nowhere, pennies a lot, life is not nachto. And they are all bustout would be the sense of the Maidan.
On the main square of Kiev rode the frenzied crowd with pots on their heads and shouted:
- Hto not deflated, that Moskal! Poland, on gilyaks! Glory To Ukraine!
Odessa boy Daniel even more cursed and said:
-All right, now we have the work finished. Chase us out of Russia, home hunt. Because of these idiots here, and chase. Anyone here prove that?
In a room of twenty-six beds half was occupied by the immigrants from Ukraine. They are rotten to the construction of the capital, in the hope of earning at least some money on food and supporting their families. And news from the country perceived very painful.
-Ay, that they do encores children, groaned the elderly uncle Taras from Chernigov. – And here Muscovites, if themselves and their country brought to the handle? Blame someone else, but not us. Voted for Yanukovich? Hoped that better life will become. He and Golden bowls home puts it, when people have nothing. That stirred up the people.
The second half of the beds in the room occupied by the Uzbeks, Tajiks and we are Russian. One guy from Chelyabinsk, and I'm from Kazakhstan. We tried to stay apart, not really communicating with our brothers from Central Asia. Although, frankly, not much was different from them. In addition to the pronounced Slavic appearance. I purposely used the phrase "occupied beds", because here, in the hostel, we came only to sleep. The rest of the time, paying work. Plow had eighteen hours a day, in the most dirty work that wasn't getting the Muscovites. Worked as porters, security guards, construction workers, janitors. And if the Russians were still some opportunity to get a decent job, then the rest of it is completely absent.
Yes, Dan, campaign war will begin, but said the Chelyabinsk Igor. – For a long time now the stroller will be delayed. For a long time is leaving Moscow.
Odessa threw an angry stare openly sympathized with the Russians. But didn't answer. I also decided to remain silent, because to get involved in international relations is not wanted. Besides, to explain that any person, from birth, have a Russian passport and not living in the former Soviet republics, in the period of their independence was meaningless. This is to explain the theory of relativity, on the fingers of a blind person.
-Nothing, now the miners of Donbass will rise quickly all racers will explain how much in Odessa roofing material, - said from the far opposite corner a young, broad-shouldered guy. – I know what it means to touch the Donbass. Yanukovych also from our Works. And the people are wild, any ass put can.
Transmission of TV news ended. The guys began to get ready for work. The mood was depressed. We, the inhabitants of this squalid rooming house, was now in the same boat.All equally driven by fate, who came to the capital of our once common Motherland to earn money so as not to starve to death. Not from a good life, not from movie stars or popular music. We arrived because there was no work at home.
Enterprises built under Soviet rule were in ruins, or were bought out cheaply. Most often, foreigners who did not consider local residents as people. Those from the locals who managed to break through to the feeder regarded their unfortunate brothers with contempt, considering them to be third-rate cattle and disenfranchised slaves. But the slave must be paid so that he was able to go to work. Wolf laws of capitalism.
In Moscow, they treated us no better. Exploited ruthlessly. Often cheating without paying after work penniless. All of us: Russians, Uzbeks, Tajiks, Ukrainians - are simple Soviet people, defeated and torn to shreds of the country. The descendants of the victorious soldiers who made the whole world tremble, at the cost of millions of their lives defended their homeland from enslavement, defended, rebuilt the cities and villages of all of Russia. Just half a century after the Great Victory, their children and grandchildren became unnecessary foreigners on their own land. They became slaves, outcasts, called the dirty German word - migrant workers.
But all over the world with pride we continue to carry photographs of our warring ancestors during the passage of the Immortal regiment. And with a smart look, we talk about double standards in Western politics. And we continue to ruin those who are flesh from the flesh descendants of people, thanks to which everyone who lives in Russia today can call themselves Russians, and not slaves of the Third Reich.
Closely observing the news coming from Ukraine, I already guessed that this story was just beginning. I guessed, but was not going to intervene. I, too, have been infected with “self-determination” and “sovereignty,” or more precisely, they have infected me with “hatred”. The terrible one is actually a disease that is corroding, humanizing. Indifference is the same betrayal. They’ll figure it out, I thought. With a bitter smirk, I looked at the raging crowd of pan-and-horse horses, listened to their calls and slogans. I was waiting for events to develop as a continuation of some interesting political show.
Chapter two
I was born in the Soviet Union. And have always been proud and will be proud of it. And there would be no modern Russia, don't be in front of the USSR. No Russian Empire, failed to match the strength and power of the Soviet country, its cohesion and unity, equality and fraternity. Could the Russian Empire, based on the principles of exploitation of man by man, to defeat Hitler. And example of this fallen capitalist countries.
Never forget, in nineteen ninety-first year the majority of my fellow citizens voted for the preservation of the common state. It was the people's choice, which just about wiped his feet. No one wanted to hear. Thirty years of us trying to reforge, promises and threats, violence and bribery. And many succumbed to it, but not all. People saving his strength, patiently enduring all hardships and troubles, and there will come a time when continue to endure can not. Here today forget the new "masters of life". And that Donbass has shown this clearly.
The fate of the Russian people is very tragic. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, because of the betrayal of his leadership, millions of Russian people remained outside their own country and become foreigners. But who are these people? The descendants of those who built the city in the Sands and deserts, who tilled the fields and built spaceports, who developed, taught and educated millions of people of the country. It is the pride of the nation, those, thanks to whom Russia today is what it is. And what do we see? These people are abandoned to their fate. They were abandoned in the nineties, when the Russians drove from as occupiers. They abandoned and today, despite the loud statements and promote the program. But unlike the nineties, they learned to protect themselves. As it happened in the Donbass.
When Ukraine embarked on the path to peace and denial of the whole positivity of the Soviet system, Donbas as a region fully emerged and developed in the Soviet years, came to the defense of historical justice. Thousands of people laid down their lives defending the Donbass from Nazi invaders, thousands of people to restore and develop the Donbass after the war. They and their descendants never forgot that they are Russians! Their Motherland – Russia! But someone wanted it to be otherwise?! The story itself gives accurate answers. As if it wasn't trying to rewrite in favor of the new circumstances. The human memory is completely rewritten, is impossible. The war in the Donbass this war is not between Ukraine and Russia. The war in the Donbas is a war of two ideologies, two ideological systems. And it was not there.
The area of three stations in Moscow is always crowded. When the matter came to the capital, there is always chaos and excitement. I was sitting in a small station pub, sipping bright Czech and watched the bustle of people running around. Yellow cars taxi, behind the wheel of a native of Moscow Caucasians and Asians. In General, it is a familiar picture. But something all the same not so. Somehow markedly increased for young people in camouflage and with huge trunks. This is the third day in a row, after work, I spend a few hours in this place. From there you can see the area, and I watch, trying, in the prevailing chaos to reveal some kind of regularity. And some I even managed. Including the addition of camouflage boys on the platforms.
In the evening, already at work, carefully listening to news radio. Ukraine raged more and more. The riots in Kiev intensified, the President remained inactive. In principle, a familiar scenario. Something similar happened in Transnistria and Abkhazia, where so much happened. The script, though variable in detail, but ultimately the same. The fall of the "Eagle" was forced to start. Nulland predictable poisoned cookies. And then, like a bolt from the sky – escape of Yanukovych! And although to some extent it can be predicted, but sounded still like a shot. The case took on a tighter turn.
So, war is inevitable. Question about my part then, though moved, but still stood up. "Hataskraynost" held fast in his arms. And then came the Crimea.The unrest on the peninsula was already received with great excitement. So the resistance is coming. So they can handle it. So I thought at that moment.
I returned to the hostel, after a couple of hours. It was necessary to go to work again. The time that was intended for sleep was irretrievably lost and spent. But this is nothing, I don’t get used to it, do not sleep for several days in a row. I was wondering if the Russian equipment will go for loading? I returned, I saw Sasha, a guy from Lviv, walking towards me along the corridor.
- Sashko, what do you think about the Crimea?
- And sho here to think, **** and to him .... Right now, the guys from the "Right Sector" will come and explain everything popularly, who should go where.
- You think? But Russia will not help? I asked the guy who was clearly sympathetic to the Right Sector.
- What is Russia, the one that the Chechens cannot restrain for ten years? Ukraine is not Chechnya, the Russians will understand it, the lad said with a grin.
Let me remind you that this conversation took place in Moscow, on Plekhanov Street, in a working dormitory. I could not find what to answer him. Only a feeling of resentment and bitterness rolled up to the throat. How impudently, harshly and with what contempt, this Hutsul foster was talking about the country in which he was now located, worked and earned.
Time will tell, I thought. Meanwhile, he was considering a plan for a trip to the Crimea. I paid off my work, went to my favorite Kazan station and bought a ticket for the Moscow-Simferopol train. However, I didn’t get there, because when I reached the Crimea, our train was stopped and they said that “Russian Spring” had already passed in Crimea. I reached the peninsula only a few days later. I will not describe here the events that take place in Crimea in two thousand fourteen. At that time, I chose an observation position and did not intervene anywhere. Yes, it was interesting, it was scary and it was fun in the end. I will leave the right to talk about the “Russian spring” in Crimea to the inhabitants of the peninsula. I can only say that everything was swift and beautiful and caused me a wave of positive impressions.
Chapter three
And again, Moscow. From the Kazan station to the Volgograd highway. Hostel at affordable prices. Only four people in the room. The bed is clean, smells like laundry detergent. The room even has a hot shower, a clean towel and soft slippers. I can afford it. Four Russians from Stavropol are with me to share. We discuss everything Crimea. We drank a little for acquaintance and joining. Emotionally sharing everything with the guys. I slept on a long journey again.
Woke up at six in the morning. Suitcase, station, only now from Russia to Kazakhstan. I stopped watching the news for a short time. A day later, I sat in a small cozy kitchen, opposite my parents, and drank delicious tea with jam. I preferred not to tell my father and mother about my adventures. He told only about how affectionate Moscow is for guest workers, even if they are Russian and native Muscovites. What a pleasure, after long and difficult adventures to be back in the parental home, feel like a little boy and forget for a while about all the problems.
But I didn’t relax for long. In the evening, sitting by the TV, watching the news. Donbass rumbled Slavyansk and Kramatorsk. Surprised, of course. On the one hand, it’s like Crimea - time and it’s ready. And there, Donbass is already pouring blood and - nothing .... This is where the decision came, to join and help. I thought that since it doesn’t work like with Crimea, it means that the matter is much more serious and my help will be welcome. I announced to my parents that I urgently needed to return to work in Moscow. And he, meanwhile, was collecting the bag in the other direction, although also through the capital.
In the evening, about three hours before departure, Julia called me. She was ten years younger than me. Small, miniature, with a model appearance. We have known each other since childhood, but we came together for close communication not so long ago. She worked as a journalist in a local newspaper and looked for interesting topics for the article. I sometimes tossed them.
-Hi, are you in the town and don’t call me?-she asked.
- Hi sunshine. Yes, once, I arrived and I’m leaving right there, -I answered.
- What again to Moscow? Why can't you sit at home?
- No, I'm in the Donbass.
-Where? - the she has changed in a voice. - Are you crazy?
-Everything is serious there, help is needed, - I answered.
- Yes, I see what is there, but what have you got to do with it?
- I’m a Russian, understand?- I said. - Decided, I’ll go to fight for my own.
- And who do you have your friends in there?- Asked Julia evil.
I didn't even know what to answer her with. Questions could not even arise. Naturally, those who decided to join Russia and be Russian.
- For every Russian, in my opinion, now “their own” is Donbass, - I answered.
- Slavik, I have an idea,- said Yulka. - But you, as I understand it, do not plan to return here?
-I guessed,- I replied, already in anticipation of the interesting. -What is your idea?
- Give an interview to our newspaper?
Julia was a real journalist. She immediately appreciated the prospects of an interesting news item and grabbed the bull by the horns. I could not refuse her.
-An hour before departure at the bus station,- I answered clearly and turned off the phone.
One and a half hours before departure Oleg phoned me - another star of the local press. He apologized that he would come instead of Yulka, and asked to be interviewed. Having fumbled a little for a look, I agreed. About thirty minutes later, journalists arrived at the platform. The last bus to Chelyabinsk, which I was going to leave, left the city at twenty-three thirty. Exactly at eleven o'clock in the morning, while sitting in a car with journalists, we wrote an interview, which then thundered throughout Kazakhstan.
-Take care of yourself, in vain do not go under the bullets and give them all there for us,- the journalist told me. He hugged me in a friendly manner, and I got on a large comfortable bus. The road to Chelyabinsk took all night. Near me sat a grandfather, about seventy years old, who was constantly drawn to talk. I answered incoherently and he soon fell behind. Then he got out in front of the customs in the border village.
The border passed quickly. There were few passengers on the bus, so I managed to stretch my legs on the seat and sleep through the rest of the road. About six in the morning I was already standing at the railway ticket offices and taking a ticket to Moscow. The train was passing, so there were already a lot of people in the train. It was not without difficulty that I squeezed into my place, almost at the very edge of the carriage, and, settling down, I began to drink tea. Thus began my new life story.