Our mother is biography

I watch shots from the newsreel "Our Biography" and I think that this is a biography of every family, which was destined to live and work in fiery heroic years. I look and remember, I recall this word that involuntarily breaks out of the mouth, when the trouble is comprehended, the word that the mirrous soldier dying on the battlefield is last. I remember myself little.

I sit on a stool and chatting my legs missing to the floor. Mom sits by the window and knit the mittens to us, we then called them Voyenki. Fingers fingers, sorting out the knitting needles. She thinks something. The face is sad. She look at me with an incomprehensible look, and the fingers do not stop smearing and says: “I don’t understand.” She silently takes my palm, shows one finger and says: “If you cut off this finger, will it hurt?” So she sorts all the fingers on my both hands, reaches the last little finger and says: “You are my tenth and small, like this little finger.” If you cut it off, will it hurt?

There is the eleventh in the cradle sways, she points to a baby, sucking a nipple made of a rag with bread. Three of me died small. They are also sorry. Now I have eight of you - says my mother, wiping her tears. I'm silent. She is silent and she. Her head leans down. Tears cover their eyes, and then they are dripping from the eyelashes, flowing either with a stream, then several tears on the nose, cheeks.

My tears are rolled up, my lips tremble. I feel sorry for mom. Mom leans even lower, wipes her nose with an apron, then his eyes and quietly says: “Before the revolution, we lived poorly.” There was no land. Three of my brothers in the year left the village of Glebovo to the city of Tomsk, Siberia with my mother, your grandmother. They said that they give land there and can work on logging.

They dug a dugout in the forest, and drowned. And by the morning they rolled and all three died in one night. It was one for them - 22, the second 24 years old, and the third is 26 years old. Nobody has no one left but my mother. I returned to us. Something exploded from her from grief inside. For more than a year, it hake blood. For more than three years, eyes did not dry out of tears.

Everything was petrified and only you, my guys, probably warmed her. This is what children are for the mother. And then through tears, stroking my head, continued. Mom of all of you sorry for you, she will give everything so that you just do not hurt, nothing will regret it. He will not regret it and die for you. She thought again, sighed heavily and showed it out into the street: in that house, on the contrary, a boy Zhorzhik Yudin lived across the road.

Maybe you remember him? I vaguely recall Zhorzhik, adult stories about terrible executions, theft in soldiers, beatings. White entered our city. He was incomplete sixteen years old. He distributed leaflets, walked around the yards, persuaded not to give white cattle and bread, urged to hide from mobilization to the White Army, said that the Reds would return soon, they had retreated briefly and the whites would still break it.

Some of the whites was inquired about this. The White Guards came to the Yudin for Georges, and his mother under the stove, where the holes lie, hid it. They did not find. And when it got dark, I changed my dress in my female dress and sent it to a nearby village. The next day, an officer with soldiers came and warned Zorzhik to return until the evening, and if his mother would not find him, they would take her away and shoot her.

They came to the evening to Yudin again to demand a son. Mother repeats that he does not know where he is. They composed their whites, and on this terrible day on the outskirts under the mountain, they shot George’s mother and did not allow to remove the corpse of the murdered so that everyone could see. This is what children are for the mother, she repeated.

And again, the streams of tears run and run along my mother’s cheeks, and the knitting needles in the fingers of her hands all scurry and scurry. Having wiped her tears, sighing heavily, her mother continued to tell. He was dressed in a women's dress. He led him along our street past the house that was empty. The hollow eyes of Georges, the deadly pale face in the bruise of the bruise issued the bullying and the torment that he suffered.

Apparently he already knew about the fate of his mother, but he walked with a high head. Standing up with Boris, he asked: -Boris, was mom shot? Boris answered nothing, only cried. The escort rudely pushed the young man with the butt of the rifle in the back, saying: -Do, go, there is nothing to talk. The drooping he lay nearby, buried his head on the chest of the murdered mother.

And again, the tears of streams flew down his mother’s cheeks, Boris after that did not sleep for several nights, jumped and trembled, all the murdered Georges, whom he had the last to see alive. It was in the city of Fateja of the Kursk region in the year. This terrible story of my mother crashed in my children's memory for a lifetime. Later, celebrating the anniversary of October and May I, the demonstrators of the city of the Fattee went to the communist cemetery, where they made warm speeches in memory to the fallen heroes in the struggle for the great work of October.

The victory of the revolution caught up at this price. Almost 60 years have passed, but now participants in those unforgettable days live. True, there are already few of them. Lives among them in the cityVoronezh, a former Red Guard, a defender of the Soviet regime, when she was still in the cradle, a participant in the civil and World War II, the brother of Zhorzhik, his dear son of Elena Maksimovna, retired colonel Vyacheslav Vasilievich Yudin, who was shot by the White Guard.

If you meet him on the street, bow to him. Our family consisted of eleven souls, including grandmother, father, mother and eight children. One one less. We lived in terrible poverty. Everyone was placed in a dilapidated house. The children were sleeping all in the same room on the straw brought overnight, the straw was covered in in order, and all the children, instead of the blanket, were also hiding in one in -line.

In the morning, this "simple" bed was taken out. The Soviet government allocated us a cow. I endowed it with earth. If there were no revolution, children would go around the world with Suma. I would not feed such a horde. But parents did not consider themselves poor. They said that their largest, priceless wealth is children. In the year, during a hunger strike, the whole family suffered a great grief.

Almost everyone fell ill with typhoid. Only the older sister, the sixteen -year -old Tamara and the grandmother, who went out the whole family, did not hurt. Soviet power was growing. We grew up with her too. The country itself, half -starved, was announced by the cry: "On a trip for literacy! In the late twenties, the younger sister - sixteen -year -old Valentina, being a student of the pedagogical school, fulfilling the public order, was directed to the suburban village at Likbez.

This word is now forgotten, but very capacious means: it is much more powerful." The phrases "The elimination of illiteracy." In response, I heard: "Kochet."