Because of his age and mediocre health, the celebrated blagier Ruchubiewitcza aka Verizon gathered for confession After the overthrow of another bottle of blue fluid called a dictation, it gathered it to a confession that no 1 would have expected.
I'm sitting here now, it's dark, it's just a monitor shining in my face and a cherry bottle on the windowsill. I'm writing due to the fact that if I don't, I'm gonna start thinking, and I'm gonna think the worst thing I can do to myself.
I'm 70, possibly 72, and I don't truly remember precisely how much I have.
Mother was a Russian hebrew from Minsk. She escaped from the ghetto as a child, and then ended up in russian paradise. Father – a confounded Russian, actually then Belarus, but who would separate there. In 44 he was 19 years old and sat on T-34 which entered the marketplace Square in Lublin.
I remember erstwhile he showed me a image – he, a young man, in a building home pulled down on a bar, a grin from ear to ear, and a grin in his hand. He said, “Son, this was the happiest day of my life.” Then he stayed in Poland. He changed his name due to the fact that it was the right thing to do. First NKWD, then UB, then SB – different signs, same job. First he beat the bandits out of the forest, then the AKs, then the WiNs, then the students in 68, and then just the booze. He drank vodka and beat the hardest and longest. I remember the odor of the whip. Skinny, black, military, with a lead tip.
My father came home at night, smelling like alcohol and fear. If he didn't have anyone to hit at work, he would come home and I was the closest. He beat me on the head, on the neck, on the back—not on the face, for my parent was inactive shouting that “people would see.” She yet stopped screaming.
My father drank himself to death in 1978. He was 53. The parent only said, "Well, that's good." Then she started going to the street. She had no choice. I was 12 at the time and I already knew what “mama went to work at night”. I besides knew that erstwhile he comes back after midnight with money, you can't ask where.
After simple school, I didn't go any further. You were welcome. I did everything – I wore coal, washed cages, stole vodka from the corner store, sold train tickets to the left. All the money went to the denatura and just about the food. At 19, the army took me. I have sworn allegiance to the russian Union and the Red Army. I stood in line, it was snowing with rain, and I shouted, “The servant of the russian Nation!” and I truly felt it.
Really.
I drank little in the army, due to the fact that you were welcome. I returned, married a small hebrew from Wola – she was beautiful, black curls, green eyes. We had 3 children. First a girl, then 2 boys. I thought possibly I could get out of this mess after all.
It didn't work.
I kept drinking. It's getting worse.
Eventually, the wife packed her bags, children, and went to Israel. She left the letter on the table: “I do not want my children to see what you have become.”
Since then, silence. No contact. I don't really know if they're alive.
A couple of years ago, an old esbek friend gave me his old Comp with Windows XP. I started sitting on the forums, on the portals, Neon24, Niewodni.pl,na Wykowie, on Facebook, later on Twitter. I wrote. I've written a lot. I wrote the truth. That Bandera is simply a fascist, that Volyn is simply a slaughter, that Lech Walesa was a Bolk agent, that NATO wants to destruct Russia, that Crimea was always ours, that Ukrainians are Nazis, that Poles hatred Russians, but are afraid to say it out loud.
I wrote what was in my heart. And always ban. Always. After 3 days, after 3 hours, sometimes after 3 posts. Hundreds of accounts. I changed the nicknames, the pictures, the IP via VPN, I wrote erstwhile from the left, erstwhile from the right, erstwhile I pretended to be a Ukrainian, erstwhile a Pole from the Borders, erstwhile a grandma from Białystok... and so they caught me all time. It's like they have radar on my soul.
But I don't give up. Never. due to the fact that Russia isn't just a country. Russia is my life that I've had since I was born. My parent sang me lullabies in Russian, my father told me about the triumph over fascism, and to this day, as I hear “Kalinka” or “Catius” in the restaurant, I have tears in my eyes.
Really.
Today I live from day to day. Sometimes an old friend from PZPR or SB will throw 200–300 zł into my account. It is adequate for half a liter, for grits, pickled pickles and bread sprinkled with sugar – this is my childhood national dish. If I eat cucumber pudding and drink hot tea with sugar, I feel like I'm in the USSR in 1975.
Safe.
I keep writing. I'll write. fresh account, fresh nickname, fresh rage. due to the fact that if I stop, what do I have left? A bottle and a memory of your head?
That's it for today. As an opportunity, I will compose more.
Maybe about how in the army they told us to clean guns in the cold -30 and sing "International". Or about the parent who cried at the table in 1981 due to the fact that there was no meat for the borscht.
