Son of God Ra (part 1)

it happened this time. About 21 hours a group of Chechens on four buses arrived from the Old City to Karaganda. Having built himself in a harmonious column, a gloomy Kuklukkslanovskaya procession moved from Privokzalnaya Square to Lenin Avenue. The Chechens silently marched along the central street of the city, occasionally, in a Chechen guttural manner, shouting: "Zig hail!" - and throwing up his right hand. The cowardly Kazakh militia, as usual, hid in their homes along with the frightened residents. Then the column was divided into several groups, which flowed into the courtyards of urban courtyards and squares. And bloody fun came. Beat all the Russians indiscriminately, whether it was a guy with a girl, a disabled person or a teenager. If someone offered resistance to the Chechens, he was stabbed. The city hospitals were overcrowded by those who suffered from night skirmishes, but the authorities were still inactive, and the famous, best in the world special service of the KGB of the USSR kept a "proud" silence and pretended that nothing was happening. Having finished the intimidation action, "faithfully" having fulfilled their "political" mission, the Chechens, in the same organized order that they arrived, with a feeling of deep satisfaction, finally left Karaganda. This "epoch-making" event was overgrown with such speculation and fables in boyish folklore, according to which the Chechens did not roll out howitzers and volley-fire installations "Grad" to Lenin Square. For a long time word-of-mouth "deep traditions" were transmitted from mouth to mouth, where young homegrown "homers" did not spare colors for greater effect and forcing the horror, clearly maintaining the classic genre of thriller and horror film at the same time. The event described above physically passed me by, as in Karaganda I was absolutely a home child and in the evening on May 9, fortunately, was already at home. But, alas, I could not avoid the second, real meeting with the Chechens from the Old City. And it was so.

One day, on one of the sunny April days, Sergei Novikov, with whom we were already friends, periodically quarreling and enduring long artistic pauses in communication, invited me to go for a company with him to the Old Town. The fact is that in the only store of industrial goods of the Old City "thrown out" for sale very scarce at that time magnetic tape "TASMA" for reel tape recorders. "Sarafan radio" in Karaganda instantly reported that a large batch of this "sacral" for boys was brought to the Chechen department store from Kazan, and the most popular length of the magnetic tape is 480 meters. From the very beginning, we did not have a voyage - we arrived just in time for a lunch break at the department store. I did not have time to figure out how to approach Novikov, right at the bus stop, a sturdy Chechen of 25 years approached, who put his arm around his shoulders and passionately (at least that was the impression he had from the outside) whispering something in his ear, leading him aside One-story building of the district executive committee (above it the USSR national flag fluttered), separated from the stop by a tall wooden fence. I had no choice but to follow them - obediently, like a sheep to meet Fate. Vano (that's the name of a Chechen, judging by the tattoo on his right hand) had an expressive, shaved skull, deep-set brown eyes, a predatory cartilaginous nose and tightly compressed sad lips of a sadist. "Well, guys, get the small change out of your pockets, the" shmona "begins!" Vano solemnly proclaimed and, for the sake of convincing his intentions, took out a knife of zek work from the back pocket of his trousers. Sergei had a bill of 5 rubles (a huge amount for a boy of that time), I had a small change of 2 rubles 80 kopecks - all that I could scrape out of my mother's box for "working" trivia. All this "wealth" safely migrated to Vano's pocket. "And what's that you have," Piston "?" Asked the Chechen cheerfully, running two fingers into the secret pocket of my trousers. "No," I answered. "These are old grandfather trousers, sewn by my mother to me. And the pocket was intended for watches on a chain, which used to be worn either in a waistcoat or in trousers, just like in these same "pistons".

In this extremely dirty situation, I decided at full power, as they say, "to include a fool," and, I must admit, it turned out very well for me - my Chechen idiotic behavior was clearly to my liking. "Well done, you know!" - Vano praised me, who after a successful "hunt" wanted to talk culturally. "And who are your parents?" - He asked me with genuine interest. Apparently, I liked him, unlike Sergei. This is - a rare case in my life: usually in the face in unpleasant situations of childhood I always got it, and Novikov managed to safely avoid this fate. But here everything happened exactly the opposite. "Mom is a musician, and Dad ...," I hesitated a bit (try to say that Dad is a lieutenant colonel of the militia), is also a musician, a horn player. " "Look at you - the intelligentsia. And what is a horn player? "Asked the Chechen puzzled. "Well, you know, it's such a healthy curved pipe, it's necessary to blow there, that there are forces!" - I answered with some familiarity, as if we had been good friends with Vano. Sergei with envy looked at me - my inspired delirium clearly surprised and puzzled. "What a fine fellow you are, you understand everything in everything!" - Vano again praised me and smiled with a broad, radiant smile. "Well, and who are your parents?" - he turned to Novikov with a completely different face. "Dad and Mom are teachers," Sergei answered, and immediately received a sharp punch in the face. He cried out, and I burst out: "Do not beat him!"