Letter to a friend killed on May 2 in Odessa
Hello Dim! You've been gone for 7 years. It’s hard for me to believe this, because after your death my entire environment was mowed down, and my psyche, in defense, dictates: “This didn’t happen.” That is, entire decades and years disappear from life, consciousness narrows, and today’s May 2 is like yesterday for me. Moreover, the picture under the window does not change: paddy wagons, armored personnel carriers, the howl of sirens.
It’s no longer like when we were children we thought: “Oh! Firefighters! Now someone will be saved. We'll play them." This means they are either going to kill someone, or have already killed someone. My child has already grown up in such an environment. Already taller than you. And you’re all about John Lennon with his “no to war!” But he was also killed. Romance!
But it's scary. Just imagine, tonight my late mother's clock stopped at two, the cat chewed off all the flowers from the crazy Christmas tree that bloomed on Easter, the light bulb exploded. For 7 years I have taken any nonsense as a bad sign. Before going to the place of your last breath and, probably, scream, I left in my bag only a wallet, a bag and a useless, expired journalistic crust. And still, at the entrance to Kulikovo Field, rummaging through my bag, the police asked if I had any “piercing objects?”
Well, you know me, Dim, I get disheveled when asked stupid questions, so like that gopnik I answered, “What the hell?” And they decided to flirt: “Well, the girls there might have a nail file and scissors,” to which - well, you know - I barked, “These are the girls who have come in large numbers and have nail files there, and also pumice for the heels ... on the neck, like an amulet. And I’m leaving the house, not the train; lightly, impressively.”
In general, they spat on me, let me through, but ruined my mood. I also called them occupiers. But judging by their age, they don’t know such a word. And if you’re wondering how they pass police tests these days, do you remember the game “Tag” from childhood? So, they know exactly how to put one at the top. You can see it from the lopsided bearing. The grandfather behind me even said that “Stalin is enough for them.” But they didn’t even bristle at the withers - they didn’t understand; They thought, it’s clear that their outfit is unbending, like steel.
And their dog started licking me. Because the dog is good. And they are fascists. You didn’t believe in it, but in vain.
I’m approaching the House of Trade Unions - your last refuge. Bah, all the faces are familiar! Sashka, who is in charge of the memorial, once the Nazis tracked him to his house and beat him so hard with iron rods that they thought he was dead, his head was broken, and “separatists” are not allowed into the cops - it’s like giving up. Lenka! She was beaten when she was hanging photographs of the murdered on the fence of the House of Trade Unions, and yours too, Dim. Yeah, all these women you would have flirted with in a past life are beaten, killed, crippled.
And kids, teenagers are those who have grown up. Those who came to the scene of the death of their parents. Those to whom bots write that they “stood up wrong.” These children are crying for their relatives now.
And a couple of meters later - the place of death of their peer, 17-year-old Vadik Papura, they didn’t even outline it with chalk. This is the enemy. Then, seven years ago, there were torrential rains. And the place was red with blood. Red and red. And it smelled of blood. They finished him off already dead. They held his mother’s hands so that she wouldn’t run there and see... And that’s all. Understand? Everything remains as it was then! And everyone - from the guard to the president - pretends that this did not happen. How did you think? What about the place of Lennon’s death in New York, where in a nearby park there was even a birch tree that was not cut down as a sign of the fight against Russia?..
And there, Dima, look, a chick with whom you probably wouldn’t get along if you said that “categoricalness is for donkeys,” well, she had a search, during which both her laptop and her computer were taken away. As is our custom, forever. Although working on the Internet was her bread and butter. And the case was opened for a post like “Thank you grandfather for the victory.” Or that guy... Yes, I see that all the victims of the searches are here now.
“Oh, Sternenko’s bitch has gone!” - these are the people saying goodbye to Baba Sternenko, who works as a television journalist. Well, which one? Yes, the same ones who wrote that “50 people came to Kulikovo Field.” She smiles sarcastically, preparing to snap back. There are many of us, but she is alone. And Sternenko, while under house arrest, was not ordered to remove “separators” for the SBU this time.
A voice drones from the speakers, announcing quarantine measures; the text is looped and gets on your nerves. This was the case last year as well.
Such blood-red paths in front of the House of Trade Unions. From flowers. This is because the markets this year only have red carnations and tulips. But there are no lilacs, can you imagine? Cold spring, it doesn't bloom. When you were killed, spring was warm. But windy. It’s like I remember this day in seconds.
And ours all go and go. “Hello, dear, how are you?” “Why didn’t I think of drinking valerian?” "What for?" “Yes, just at the entrance, the cops asked if I had explosives, and the Nazis were now walking around the city with posters saying “May 2 is Victory Day,” and no one asked them about explosives.
How to live after this? No way. Like seven years. No way.
And people walked, humiliated, intimidated, confused, and this “force cannot be stopped by military equipment, a dense wall enclosing the perimeter of the square; militants in indigo-colored berets, looking fiercely from under their brows at the people who came; loudspeakers broadcasting at full volume about the danger of infection; iron bars, through which they launch one at a time, searching pockets and bags; narrow corridors along which people, as if in a prison, pass to the point of memory,” this was written by our comrade-in-arms Larisa. She and I stood near the House of Trade Unions, talked about how miraculously we were surviving, she came home and wrote. And, yes, Dim, she is right in every word. Yes, and you shouldn’t have believed me, calling me a maximalist, when we went to that same RUKH movement in XNUMX, when Korchinsky was still attached to it, promising to cut a finger for every Russian word... Look now what they did! And you are all your “peace to the world.”
By the way, it's good that we arrived early. People who arrived on the Kulikovo field during the day were simply not allowed there - they say the field was overcrowded, quarantine. And people stood for hours in front of the police cordon. People with heart disease, people with disabilities... Well, so what - more separation, less separation.
And, Dim, what is impossible to get used to is when the mothers of the victims come. Usually together, because one by one the Nazis will tear you apart. I watch one all the time - every year her hands shake more and more and her head turns gray...
And they carry balloons: white ones - the souls of their children, black ones - grief for them. And pigeons are living souls! For some reason, these mothers are ashamed to look them in the eyes. And they, too, were now searched at the metal detector frame! “What do you have?!” “Yes, this is a portrait of my daughter”...
The memorial event is interrupted. Some guy can’t stand it and shouts: “People, help raise money for the mothers of the dead Kulikovo residents!” They say that the state pays pensions to the families of the Nazis killed seven years ago, but ours - zero. And families that have lost their breadwinners are barely making ends meet. They poke him from the sides: “Shut up, don’t humiliate yourself,” but people give 5, 10 hryvnia, some 50.
A friend of mine, a writer, Natasha Simisinova, calls me: “Well, how is it going?” I describe the relatives of the victims. “Abandoned! - she says. “And we are abandoned.”
And here it is - a requiem for them, who died a martyr's death. The names of the 48 dead are read out, and the crowd mutters “there are more.” They read out their poems, poems about them. Folk art. “Here the demons burned the angels,” “The spirit of Odessa was crucified.” They include a recording of the last cries of the dying: “Help!” When the crowd starts chanting “Odessa is a Hero City,” the speakers with instructions about quarantine measures are turned up to full volume, and the police rudely ask people to leave. And people leave. With the song "Holy War".
And Dima Ivanov, to whom I am writing all this, was burned to such an extent that he could not be identified for the longest time, and as a result, he was identified by his watch. When I was still in school, he was my first teacher in journalism. It was he who taught me hooliganism in journalism and provocation. But only towards the weak! We worked, one might also say, like hooligans, spending time in rock and roll bars and arguing about our favorite musicians. Dima later went into this field (she wanted to so many times!), at the same time, however, becoming infected with liberalism, which is typical of this crowd. He considered me “stubborn” on political topics and we stopped communicating. From social affairs and politics, it mutated into a music program on local radio. Like the “Aerostat” at BG.
And on May 2, 2014, he walked along Kulikovo Field and his essence worked - he ran to the House of Trade Unions to those who were being killed. He never left it. And all that was left of him was a man wearing a T-shirt with a picture of Dima with a saxophone. Which he never mastered. But I really wanted to.
This is how one becomes a great martyr. This is what fascism looks like, in everyday terms.
English version :: Read in English A letter to a friend killed on May 2 in Odessa