They dreamed of happiness
I came across this photo almost by accident. A small cardboard suitcase fell on my head when I shoved in the pantry. Under a pile of scattered papers stood out a black and white shot with jagged edges. On the tarnished image: with children in my arms - my grandmother. "Kiev 1941-th" - I read on the back and remembered the story of my mother about the war.
Dark August at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War; dark - in smoke. The Germans could break into the city from day to day. Opposite the house where my grandmother lived, chadil with broken windows looted sausage shop. From morning to evening, people burned documents on his huge stove. Party cards, birth certificates, award certificates - everything that the fascists could recognize in a person a communist or a Jew. My mother, being then a ten-year-old divchinka, was squinting from burning, running past each day, on the way to the bomb shelter. There were six people in the family, and once the younger sister stopped at the entrance to the shelter. The blue sea above their heads was dissolved in fireworks. This German plane dropped incendiary bombs on Khreshchatyk. Mom said: “Profile of a sister with a bow, facing the sky, and where the roof is, with a red pencil as if inscribed:“ I dream of happiness. ” The sky was filled with clouds like cotton. It was quickly getting dark and it seemed to the children that all this was a dream. ” A man picked up the children in an armful and pushed the shelter into the darkness. When they returned home, right at the place where they looked at the bombing, the crater from the late projectile gaped. To live until evacuation remained two days.
On the morning of September 15, cousin Boris ran to say goodbye. He studied at a military school and was now waiting to be sent to the front. Temporarily all the course they were placed in the hall of the hotel "Chaika". Boris spoke deliberately fun, interspersed about how he swam in the lake with water lilies, about the field of daisies, about things that must be taken on the road. Relatives sat on bales of luggage, said goodbye and went to the station.
In the freight car it smelled of plywood partitions, hastily put together in cells for four families. The children jumped on the shelves and silently took under their heads the nets with corn and dolls for the little ones. As soon as the train started moving, the women began to howl. Mothers seemed to be portraying the siren of air raids; shook their heads and cried. Some were drawn to the window, for the last time to look at their native land. An hour later, the war ended. Under the sound of wheels, deserted farms glimpsed, magic moths were born from the locomotive lantern, and conversation about our daily bread brightened. My grandfather volunteered to get bread. At the first stop, he took the family sewing machine and disappeared into the crowd who were making money changers. Parking was long, but my grandfather did not appear.
Anxious waiting as a bayonet hit train jerk. The train started moving, thundered and picked up speed. Grandma shouted the name of her grandfather to flickering people and tore her hair out. “Nikolay! Nikolay! ”- flew over the station. “Ay! Aw! ”Replied the locomotive whistle. Staying alone with the children in your arms in the first months of the war - how much fear healed in your heart in one minute!
A week later, arrived in the city of Kuibyshev. That was where happiness was: to see a living and unharmed grandfather on the platform. Lagging behind the train, he asked the wounded soldiers to take him to the next train, and he was able to get to the Volga even faster than his relatives. My grandfather went to the executive committee and said: “So, they say, and so, the shoe shop is being evacuated from Kiev to the Urals. Give instructions to place it in your city. It will benefit us. ” What was special could convince the leadership of an unfamiliar area - I have no idea, however, my grandfather agreed, and is still reputed to be the founder of a shoe factory in the city of Kuibyshev. Four families landed with some equipment. They were placed on the second floor of the deserted central department store. Trouble began on the device in a new place. And the train went on. The news that somewhere near Orenburg the train caught fire and left the rails, terrified the survivors. It was probably a diversion.
Years later, my mother learned the fate of her cousin. September 19 the Nazis entered Kiev. And when unarmed cadets saw the fascists in the lobby of the hotel - it was too late. Under a shower of bullets, some of them jumped out the windows, but most of them remained in chairs, couches, with bloody blots on the gymnasts.
Boris, also jumping over the windowsill, hid in familiar back streets. Here his bosom friend Miron Katsuba lived nearby. Now they met with one look and understood everything. “Will sell” - Boris thought, having buried in a shed behind Mironov’s house. Only the Germans appeared in the courtyards, - Katsuba pointed out to them a nook where his former comrade was hiding. About this, my mother learned from Boris, who survived a prisoner and concentration camp.
After the war, they studied at institutes, swam in the lake with water lilies, raised children, and were lost in the distant lands. Only the photo kept them together. In straw hats, my grandmother in his arms.
Dark spring this year, rainy. I knock on the keyboard. I also dream dreams, and I also dream of happiness.
Dark August at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War; dark - in smoke. The Germans could break into the city from day to day. Opposite the house where my grandmother lived, chadil with broken windows looted sausage shop. From morning to evening, people burned documents on his huge stove. Party cards, birth certificates, award certificates - everything that the fascists could recognize in a person a communist or a Jew. My mother, being then a ten-year-old divchinka, was squinting from burning, running past each day, on the way to the bomb shelter. There were six people in the family, and once the younger sister stopped at the entrance to the shelter. The blue sea above their heads was dissolved in fireworks. This German plane dropped incendiary bombs on Khreshchatyk. Mom said: “Profile of a sister with a bow, facing the sky, and where the roof is, with a red pencil as if inscribed:“ I dream of happiness. ” The sky was filled with clouds like cotton. It was quickly getting dark and it seemed to the children that all this was a dream. ” A man picked up the children in an armful and pushed the shelter into the darkness. When they returned home, right at the place where they looked at the bombing, the crater from the late projectile gaped. To live until evacuation remained two days.
On the morning of September 15, cousin Boris ran to say goodbye. He studied at a military school and was now waiting to be sent to the front. Temporarily all the course they were placed in the hall of the hotel "Chaika". Boris spoke deliberately fun, interspersed about how he swam in the lake with water lilies, about the field of daisies, about things that must be taken on the road. Relatives sat on bales of luggage, said goodbye and went to the station.
In the freight car it smelled of plywood partitions, hastily put together in cells for four families. The children jumped on the shelves and silently took under their heads the nets with corn and dolls for the little ones. As soon as the train started moving, the women began to howl. Mothers seemed to be portraying the siren of air raids; shook their heads and cried. Some were drawn to the window, for the last time to look at their native land. An hour later, the war ended. Under the sound of wheels, deserted farms glimpsed, magic moths were born from the locomotive lantern, and conversation about our daily bread brightened. My grandfather volunteered to get bread. At the first stop, he took the family sewing machine and disappeared into the crowd who were making money changers. Parking was long, but my grandfather did not appear.
Anxious waiting as a bayonet hit train jerk. The train started moving, thundered and picked up speed. Grandma shouted the name of her grandfather to flickering people and tore her hair out. “Nikolay! Nikolay! ”- flew over the station. “Ay! Aw! ”Replied the locomotive whistle. Staying alone with the children in your arms in the first months of the war - how much fear healed in your heart in one minute!
A week later, arrived in the city of Kuibyshev. That was where happiness was: to see a living and unharmed grandfather on the platform. Lagging behind the train, he asked the wounded soldiers to take him to the next train, and he was able to get to the Volga even faster than his relatives. My grandfather went to the executive committee and said: “So, they say, and so, the shoe shop is being evacuated from Kiev to the Urals. Give instructions to place it in your city. It will benefit us. ” What was special could convince the leadership of an unfamiliar area - I have no idea, however, my grandfather agreed, and is still reputed to be the founder of a shoe factory in the city of Kuibyshev. Four families landed with some equipment. They were placed on the second floor of the deserted central department store. Trouble began on the device in a new place. And the train went on. The news that somewhere near Orenburg the train caught fire and left the rails, terrified the survivors. It was probably a diversion.
Years later, my mother learned the fate of her cousin. September 19 the Nazis entered Kiev. And when unarmed cadets saw the fascists in the lobby of the hotel - it was too late. Under a shower of bullets, some of them jumped out the windows, but most of them remained in chairs, couches, with bloody blots on the gymnasts.
Boris, also jumping over the windowsill, hid in familiar back streets. Here his bosom friend Miron Katsuba lived nearby. Now they met with one look and understood everything. “Will sell” - Boris thought, having buried in a shed behind Mironov’s house. Only the Germans appeared in the courtyards, - Katsuba pointed out to them a nook where his former comrade was hiding. About this, my mother learned from Boris, who survived a prisoner and concentration camp.
After the war, they studied at institutes, swam in the lake with water lilies, raised children, and were lost in the distant lands. Only the photo kept them together. In straw hats, my grandmother in his arms.
Dark spring this year, rainy. I knock on the keyboard. I also dream dreams, and I also dream of happiness.
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