I needed something the
other day at the bank, to withdraw some money. Getting a
receipt, I looked at a bank clerk, not a young, but not yet a
very old woman, in front of me behind the barrier. Giving me a
signature receipt, she, looking at me through large darkened
glasses, suddenly asked: "Do you remember me?"
I looked at her carefully.
I remembered everything at once, although more than fifty
years passed. “I'm sorry, but I don’t
know you,” I lied in confusion, and, taking the receipt, left the bank.
I left the bank. Thoughts
and memories overpowered me. Of course I know this woman. And
I remember everything, as if it happened yesterday.
... Somewhere in the
street, I found a piece of a cast-iron grate, which, it seemed
to me, I could turn into a kind of pistol. Having applied
imagination and effort, I worked pretty well with two files
(rectangular and round), and got something in shape vaguely
reminiscent of a Mauser. A heavy thing, just what the
commissars in leather jackets in films about the revolution
waved.
Bringing my product to
perfect condition with a file, I sat with the guys near our
house on the playground.
Volodka Manokhin came up,
a small one from the neighboring building. He is already big,
he not only smokes, but also has a passport, which he boasted and showed everyone.
Having finished a
cigarette, he attached it between his fingers and with a deft
click, and sent it on a long flight.
He sat down beside me on a
swing bench.
"Well, show me what you
have here!"
I handed him my dummy.
“Wow! Heavy bastard. If
you treat someone to it, that will be something,” he gladly
stroked each bend of the gun with his hand. “How finely
hand-crafted. Not the slightest burr. You, fellow, have done a
fine job! "
Without hiding his pleasure,
Volodka was pawing my product ...
“Here - it is necessary to
round it off a bit, so that the arm will fit better. But I will
do it. The work piece is good. ” Volodka put the gun in his
belt.
“Hey Volodya, bring the
gun back.”
"What?"
“Give the gun back.”
Volodka looked at me with
unseeing eyes.
“I'll make a holster for
it. Excellent brass knuckles. ”
“Give me the gun!” It’s
mine!"
"Was yours, became mine."
I did not like such a
conversation at all. I approached Volodka resolutely.
“Volodka, give me the gun!
I worked on it !! ”
“What are you? Don't you
understand Russian? ”
"Understand. Give me the
gun! ”
“I'll give it back now!”
Volodka grabbed my nose with smoked fingers, twisted my
nostrils and ordered: "Get out of here!" then he shoved me
away, like a bag of garbage.
The guys sitting nearby
laughed. Valerka Chernov, roared especially loudly,
who cut a
piece of wood with a knife.
I again approached
Volodka.
"Volodya, give me the gun.
I beg you. Please do!"
“Off with you!” With a
short jab to my jaw, he sent me to the ground.
I got up, and brush myself
off. Resentment, a feeling of indignation embraced me. Tears
welled up. But I tried not to cry.
And again, I am in front
of him.
“Volodya, give it back!”
“How stupid you are!”
He grabs me by the scruff
of the neck (after all, he’s six to seven years older, a very
large age difference in adolescence), turned around and
inflicted a weighty kick below the small of my back. I flew a
few meters away, all to the hooting of the surrounding guys.
Valerka laughs especially disgustingly.
“Volodya, give him some
more! He asked for it!” he screams.
Having risen from the
ground, I am heading to Volodka. There is a bell fry ring in
my head. The blow to the coccyx was so strong that my mind
became confused.
“Give me my gun!!!” Everything seems to be in a fog.
"What? Haven’t you had
enough? I'll add some more! ”
Manokhin grabbed my collar
to put me in a more convenient position for a subsequent kick.
But something happened to
me. I gripped the piece of cast iron from under his belt, and
struck, not understanding where. I don’t feel,
I don’t feel anything except the impact of something hard
against something soft ... at the same moment I rushed away,
without understanding anything, and ran for my dear life…
Where and why I run - I don’t know, I don’t understand
anything ...
Time passes. I'm somewhere
on a strange street, far from home. What should I do? Not to
go home is impossible. But I'm going ...
It gets dark late in the
summer ... I approach my house. Valerka Chernov sits near the
entrance, still poking around with the same piece of wood.
“What have you done?
You’ve killed him! ”
Everything inside me is
gets cold. I enter the apartment in an almost unconscious
state ...
That same evening, closer
to night, Volodka Manokhin’s parents came to our apartment.
With them was a girl of about eight or nine, with dark sad
eyes. His parents and mine spoke in elevated tones.
"What have you done to my
brother?" the girl kept asking, sobbing each time. The next day, my parents
went to his parents. And there I saw the same sad girl, and
she asked me the same question. "What have you done to my
brother?"
Then the parents of both
families went to the police together. I trailed behind like a
tail of a fat fat sheep. The policeman in uniform said that my
fate, as well as the fate of my parents, depended on results
of the treatment. In any case, the Criminal Code contained an
article for both a minor offender and parents who didn’t care
for his upbringing ...
Volodya Manokhin’s broken
jaw healed, grew together, recovered…
Never again did I see him.
But the younger sister (whom I never met again either) stuck
in my memory.
And so I remembered her
(and she me) now, more than half a century later ...
Things got into my head
... You mustn’t offend those who are weaker. Even a small
mouse driven to despair can turn into a dangerous beast.
That's what I thought
about, stepping off the doorstep of Sberbank and remembering
the sad eyes of a little girl ...