The beginning of November turned out to be unexpectedly warm, with a fine rain and a beautiful fall of leaves. It’s stupid to stay at home in this weather. Moreover, there is a place to go and a reason too. On November 7, I’m going to Lenin, where else?
In Victory Park, where it stands, it is beautiful, sparsely populated and quiet. Only the wipers clean the approaches to the monument. There are two elderly comrades on the bench. They are sitting, waiting for reinforcements from peers, maybe some manifestations of the holiday. It is immediately clear that these are comrades, gentlemen do not go to this monument. We met, got to talk. They discussed the presidential election and the problems of the country, the prospects of Leninism and the role of Stalin in the defeat of fascism.
Two more came up, stood at the monument, put flowers at the bronze feet. Vladimir Ilyich is democratic here, he does not look at the people from the pedestal, but goes in the general order. The woman seemed familiar to me, we met somewhere. And really, still unfamiliar. Lyudmila Gorbenko, a long time ago, when the world was different, handed me a Komsomol ticket. We also talked, but this time about the party and the split in its ranks. And they agreed that the ideas of communism are more important than the name of the party and all disagreements.
What is this day for me today, which I still remember as the main holiday of the country? With brass bands, red banners, a festive table. Yes, in general, nothing, for the last thirty years it has somehow gone out of use. But many still celebrate, remember this day with kindness, and these columns on the streets of the city. The holiday is gone, but the idea remains, a good idea of universal equality and fraternity. With all the kinks and distortions, no one will deny the beauty and attractiveness of the communist doctrine.
And the battle continues again! And the heart is anxious in the chest…
*A school friend who now lives in Moscow has just returned from Turkey. It’s not the first time he’s been there, he knows the hotels and the price of a holiday by the warm sea. “Well, your fellow countrymen are relaxing there,” he could not resist from impressions in the letter. “I haven’t seen such a scale, such a merchant’s revelry for a long time.” At these words, for some reason, I remembered our fairs, to which “socially vulnerable” old people come from all over the city. To buy something edible, cheaper and fresher, from “self-employed” sellers and manufacturers.
The villagers are as poor as the old people of the city, but they push, keep cattle, poultry. To feed themselves and pay for the education of children or grandchildren. Or, God forbid, treatment. The villagers consider them, if not rich, then certainly wealthy people. But I’ve seen how hard it is to keep at least one cow. Every day manure, milking, hay extraction, and always some kind of crushing. Feed is becoming more expensive, and there is no longer a state farm in which it was possible to earn waste for the burenka. Where and at what resorts do these people, who are so rarely found on both sides of the counter, rest? Urban old people who live with the expectation of an increase in pensions, and villagers, on whose labor resellers feed. In the best case, under the shade of our healing pines, if they suddenly get into some kind of action. Or the children will help with a trip to our favorite sanatorium.