Читать книгу 📗 "The memoirs of a Russian schoolboy (СИ) - Нигматулин Марат "Московский школьник""
On this I, perhaps, finish the description of our neighborhoods, because not for this you opened my book, but for the sake of any sharpness and piquancy of Russian life. I imagine a bored inhabitant of the country «first world» (England, France, or the United States) leafing through the English site to look n be an interesting, and catch my little book. For this reason I won't disappoint you, and I will pass to the description of how there was a disorder.
It all happened, as I said, November 25, 2013, and it all began as follows about 23:00 Moscow time to the building of our school began to approach the people in dark jackets, clutching in the hands of some convolution. It seemed very funny, because they were all dressed like typical drug dealers and drug addicts, and behaved accordingly: looked around, trying to hide the face behind a hood and so on in the same spirit. A little bit of it and reminded the meeting of the conspirators of the June days of the monarchy in France, when members of secret societies at night here as was going on the dark streets in order to do all sorts of bad things. Gradually the number of people grew, to twelve o'clock in the morning having passed for one hundred, but not going to stop on it.
That night I went to bed a little earlier than usual, than I had incurred all sorts of bad suspicions on the part of my parents, to whom such behavior seemed very strange. My heart was pounding with incredible strength, and therefore it was quite difficult for me to hide my excitement from my mother; in short, after a while I lay down in bed and began to wait. In the darkness of the night I caught every sound that came to me, but at the same time I was dominated by a terrible fear that I would miss everything, that the pogrom would pass without my participation. But I heard that the mother straightens a bed that her body down on the soft feather bed and finally she sleeps a deep sleep in the next room. I gently get up from the bed, but my body is shaking with horror and did not listen to me, although I still go to the closet, take out my clothes and start to dress. My heart shakes as if I'm running a marathon now, and I'm almost ready to fall to the floor in horror: I convulsively and awkwardly dress in total darkness (I'm afraid to turn on the light, because the father who reads in the living room can see), frightened to death of every rustle in which I can see my mother's steps. Terrified: it seems to me that in a second here, rush, angry mother and start a scandal, but nothing like this happens. All: I'm wearing a dark shirt, shoes and pants, which means that I have to go. God, if I was so scared before, what is now, my father likes to sit in the living room and read until five in the morning, constantly visiting the kitchen, and therefore to see his son, he is quite capable. I go out in my shoes in the hallway, trying not to hurt anything and not to make a sound: at this moment my father goes into the kitchen, scaring me to death. At this moment it seems to me that the heart will break from horror, but I still curb the fear and continue to stand in the corridor motionless. Five minutes it takes him to the kitchen and returning to the living room, but as far as de is long to me five minutes: I think that they last forever. But the father is gone, and therefore I continue my slow way to the door, pushing the bars and leaving the confines of their apartment. Incredible joy covers me: I headlong down the stone stairs, run out into the yard and inhale the frosty air of late Moscow autumn. The moist cold air saturated with aromas of lovely leaves strikes me in a nose: at this moment the little boy Marat Nigmatulin feels the most real man. I rush through the dark courtyards, each of which shines at best only one lamp, run across the empty streets and laugh: it's obvious – because now it's my time! I became an adult! After some five minutes I find myself in front of the native school, which was already a huge crowd of people with axes and pitchforks, a little drunk and configured explicitly non-peace: my friends are under fluttering in the North wind Nazi flags. Quickly I manage to find my classmates and Denis Kutuzov, who holds our banner-a red cloth with a stylized swastika applied to it. Then we talk about all sorts of nonsense, joking and trembling with excitement: I have, to be honest, as much as the knees are shaking from some strange combination of fear and impatience; on the one hand I'm just terrified of what I'm doing, but on the other – I so want to quickly start our little riot.
Denis dressed in a long coat, clearly too big for him and, moreover, incredibly old. We make fun of and let go of the taunts about his clothes, but he first smiles, and then opens the floors of his coat: as it turned out, there are fixed homemade and factory grenades, as well as hidden samopal. Denis laughs: of course, it's equipped better than all of us, being endowed with such rare pieces as the army hand grenades, while I have to do only one mount; some, in a word, no.
After a while, the workers of the Khrunichev plant, dressed in their blue overalls and orange construction helmets with lanterns attached to them, join our crowd. Now, when everything is gathered, you can start moving and to move the whole motley and no doubt colorful procession. And finally, the human sea roared, heard cheers, there was no less joyful firing in the air from firearms (including homemade), and then began to sing. God, what songs we sang that night: our group, for example, bawled a song by the Italian fascist song «Battaglioni della morte»; main leading was I, and all the others I just sang along. «Contro Giuda e contro l'oro...» – we pulled with all the strength of their children's voices, trying to drown out walking next to the pupils of the Cossack cadet corps, dressed in Russian military uniform of the early twentieth century and singing:
Victory day solemn will come,
Fly off the farm and Stalin with the GPU,
And the swastika over the Kremlin will shine brightly,
And black battalion goes through Moscow!
[Original text in Russian:
Победы день торжественный настанет,
Слетит колхоз и Сталин с ГПУ,
И свастика над Кремлем ярко засияет,
И чёрный строй пройдёт через Москву!]
The people in the crowd shouted slogans that could slay any Western left-liberal the first time; so, we shouted at the top of our lungs: «Kill the Jew!». Although to be honest, I must say that I shouted one, and my classmates were picked up: «The Jew...».
On the way to met the police station, which we shamelessly defeated, snatching out all found weapons and evidence, including missing two kilograms of cocaine. Having crushed the site brought by our actions to the real ruin, and at the same time having armed with the automatic factory weapon, – we went to the Bagrationovsky market. We walked and cried, cried and walked, and from the Windows of neighboring houses until we could hear the screams of angry townspeople: «Fascists! Nazis! Murderers!». Remember that one fat guy in his underwear went to the balcony and yelled at us mate wholeheartedly, promising «to hang the young morons». He actually shouted: «now come and hanged all young morons»! Sonia Barnash reacted the way she usually and react to such things: I got the gun and shot the man. At the same time she screamed: «Yes, I'll shoot your dick, asshole, fucking in your mouth!». She came the truth, that redneck is not in an intimate place, and in the leg, but this can be attributed to the darkness and the fact that his body was partially covered by a balcony: under other circumstances, Sonya would have killed him.
