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Home » Chechen Culture, Chechen Fairy Tales, Fables and Stories

“Ragged Dreams” by Zura Itsmeolord

Submitted by on Saturday, 11 December 2010.    1,235 views No Comment
“Ragged Dreams” by Zura Itsmeolord

Dreams will stimulate my mind, and I’m trying to understand the state of internal and external peace, they find a direct reference to past and future. I do not have Present Time. I stayed there, on the the War.

I.Dream which I see very often

I am led to execution. I am not afraid of death. If only a fur coat is not dirty. I am keeping the edge of my mother’s coat. Cherry-coloured. Artificial beaver lamb. How many I can remember, it hung in the parents’ wardrobe. Over the wooden hangers with Jacquard bright green jacket and a gray pleated skirt from Boston. In the lower left corner of oak cabinet there were gray heeled shoes. Slightly rounded toe, and three amazing buttons that each time I stroked before wear these horribly naughty heels. And I know that there in a solid brown leather suitcase is yellow cashmere scarf, a dark green wool scarf in the color stripes and knitted gloves with embroidered silk satin Chinese characters.

It’s all my mother would give me when I grow up. The day of my decades she gave me her gold watch, which my dad bought for her when they got married. After twenty-five years I gave them to the armed men wearing masks when they broke into the house and tried to pick up my old father, because he had a stroke could not immediately answer why his daughter with the Ukrainian residence stay at his house.

– Why did you put on a coat without my permission? – Calls out my mom.

– Mom, do not scold me. I promise I did not get dirty. I’ll take it when they will shoot me.

The roar of airplanes. Tracer bullets whistle. A falling sky. And a crying mother on the ruins of our house. Before her, wrapped in a bloodstained cherry-coloured coat of artificial beaver lamb with a torn sleeve, panting sweating our Caucasian Sheepdog Dingo. Only in my dreams I am a little girl with tight braids, and I’m only 10 years old. And the footage with my mother pop up in my memory, not only in my dreams. All that I saw when I was 38. And my dream, after another ten years.

– Oh, God! Have mercy on us! I stayed in the war.

II. Sleep, after searching the house, in the basement of which I found new relatives.

-Dondo! Dondo! – I call a cat, what left the kids, and the second day does not appear in the house. A house is a basement of the former high-rises.

In a dark wet basement it is cold and quiet. I rub my eyes, not believing that there are no one else except me and the food cats. Where have the centenary grandmother Asma gone and her lame septuagenarian son Betar, who tries in vain to find a place of alive buried sons? And where are Armen and Arax? Maybe you met their mother, the beautiful Gayane on the roads of war? She went to Mozdok for survivor benefits, promising to return in two days. Gayane quietly gone mad, after she was been picked up along the road near the elevator, was taken in a dirty truck, and raped two weeks. And then barefoot with two tins of soldier’s porridge was thrown at the checkpoint on the Staropromyslovsky highway. Betar not once had seen a pregnant woman, similar to our Gayane. Only she avoids people and does not respond to her name. Happy. Gathers wildflowers and weaves garlands.

And Tamara? Her son sold the house, took his family and left, promising to neighbors that would return as soon find a new place. That address, which he left for his the mother does not exist and never was. But sixty years old woman doesn’t complain at fate, and endure all the hardships that fell to her share. Orphan’s home, where she had been brought one early summer morning, having found at the entrance of the plant, wrapped in a plaid blanket over, early – less than a happy marriage with a man who was 18 years her senior.

– Not fond of, but thanks for the bread. I put him in a wooden tub, filling it with warm water. Long labor on his back, counting the wounds from shrapnel, and then directly into the shirt itself climb in the tub and massage worship his feet. He stroked my little head, saying: “How are you going without me, Tomy?”. God spared me. A year after his death I married Mitrophan, father of Styopka. Mitrofan left to visit a brother-soldier and never returned. Sent a mean email:. “Sorry, I found my family.” I forgive him, thanking for Styopka. That Stepka left me, taking Vanka and Dasha away. Nights without sleeping, two working places, home of red brickt, butmyselfl living in the hut. Gave him education, and he brought an accursed girl. For ten years, Svetlana did not call me mom. Alwayscalled me Tamara Detdomovnoy. Childhood in an orphanage, and here I am with you, my dears. You really dig me under the lilac bush, if we all do not lay a concrete slab.

– Do not cry – cut her aunt Bell, whom everyone affectionately called Belka .- You’ve got us. All my life I could not go to bed, undressed. My father was lost in the dungeons of the NKVD, for the fact that teaching people the Word of God. In the snowy prairies of Kazakhstan, I, too, was in an orphanage, and married, the first night I learned that for my husband after walking vendetta for a crime committed by his grandfather through negligence. And not to be killed, but not given a chance to live. I calmed down, burying his son and his two kids in the early days of the war. But with Zarema live to my age – she nodded at the early widowed daughter, who lay at the wall itself, never regained consciousness after being wounded in Grozny’s central market.

– Oh, your chatterings – Kuzmich began to grumble .- All the bad, but about the past. And I have the spring crop of grapes do grafting in the garden. New julienne trying to withdraw. Yes, that’s bad luck. The third spring I can not get into your garden. They say that since the first war mined country site.

– Grandpa, and let me tell you the tale of Little Red Riding Hood – climbing to his knees, Zoska chattered.

She was found at the water tower. In the tattered jacket and rubber boots on bare feet. In the dream, she began to speak their own language:
-Anna geledzhen mi benim ichin?

– Blue-eyed tsyganochka Gypsy – Kuzmich said and gently uncovered her blanket, . Then the long arms was ground dry leaves, wrap them in a half-baked sheet of newspaper, and, clutching his kidneys, rose to leave, “a people” as he liked to say. And I did not admit that I know the Turkish language in which Zosia asked Mom, whether she will come after her.

We were there a lot. Different nationalities: Russian, Greek, and his wife Moldavian, Ukrainian, Ossetian, Armenians, Chechens, Ingush, a Pole, deaf and dumb Jew who would not agree to go to Israel, a blind Tartar with a parrot in a cage. The names of some have already forgotten. But I remember there eyes, in whichonly fear lived , shaking hands, coughing, snoring, pigeons, quiet whine instead Borzik fun barking, purring kittens and Dondo, which is placed to sleep on my shaking knees.

My sleep was filled with bright red fine sand, which turned into green balls, replaced by bright light. The basement was filled with laughter. The air smelled of lilac. And I stand, throwing up my hands, trying in vain to see the faces of the people with whom I was akin to war. Next to me there is a riddled with enamel bucket, which saved me. In the basement that I never returned. Here are today in a dream.

Ah, the smell of lilacs! Do not wake me up.

Give me those people with whom I am warming herself by the fire, hid burlap, drinking rainwater and shared churek, baked on the coals of fresh corn dough.

Oh Allah! Have mercy on us! I stayed in the war

III. In the train.

– Your documents! Have you the right to live on this earth? You have the right to remain silent! Take off everything. And the shoes too! “- Armed men in camouflage uniforms to urge on us automatons. In a pool of blood is my neighbor, Larissa. Fenya and Yazya – a sister and mother of the deceased are smiling and calling Laura to her. Frankly, I know nothing about the fate of Larissa. While Fenya and Yazya buried in our garden as early as the first war. Suddenly one of the villains grabbed me by the wrist, trying to break my mother’s watch …

– Passengers, we cross the border. Prepare your passport and luggage.

Oh Allah! Have mercy on us! I stayed in the war

IV. Dream, which I can not tell my mom.

– Mom, Mom. Darling. Do not leave me alone. No, mom did not waste. No need to turn on the lights. Mom, just do not let go my hand. Mama, I’m not going there anymore. I’ll never go to the cemetery. I just wanted to see how the coffin is lowered into the grave. And then I was frightened. It seemed to me that the dead man opened one eye and looked at the priest.

Mom, you are silent and do not listen to my excuses. And I know that got lost in the cemetery. Walk through the shadows of people trying to grab someone’s arm, he turns into a black crow. Then he flies up and sits on a high-voltage power line. Sparks fall down at me and I gadflies.

Mom! I do not see anything. But I sense the smell of fresh bread! Mom, give me one little woman. I promise not to swallow, but keep it under your tongue to satisfy his hunger.

Mom, this bread smells blood.

– It is human blood, my daughter. Zalpa was going with this loaf of bread for us. But the pilot, bombed school and decided to empty the machine-gun belts. And the eight bullets sent into the body of a young widow, would give him a hero. And maybe he’ll come home to cuddle his children, who have not seen him for several weeks. And children will wander Zalpa over the world, trying to find harmony of body and soul.

– Mom, are you hurt?

– No, daughter. It’s tears of blood. Go to sleep, it is said we grow in a dream.

– And shalll we live to see tomorrow?

– We are not so happy to die in our sleep.

– Then shall we die each day?

Oh! Allah! Have mercy on us! I stayed in the war

December 2010

Zura Itsmeolord

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