Brest fortress: what with it became?
have the luck to get to me to business trip to the nice city of Brest A week ago that in present independent Belarus. To the city - history. Hero town. The city, whose Brest fortress of the first accepted perfidious blow of fascist hordes. The heroic, generously watered with blood citadel about which all heard, and about which all boys of my generation with a sinking heart read and also passionately dreamed to get at least there for hour or so.
As I remember now, in the childhood I had a thick book with photos which was solemnly presented to me by my grandfather, the veteran of the Great Patriotic War and which I knew almost by heart.
Majestic ruins of fortification, the inscription “We Die, but We Do Not Give Up“ on walls of casemates, the memorial Thirst complex - the soldier creeping through enemy bullets behind a water drink - all this was imprinted, imprinted in my memory forever.
And so, having appeared there, in one fine sunny day I found hour or so, and, despite fatigue from works production and some difficulties with orientation on the district unfamiliar to me, with pleasure turned under laconic and at the same time eloquent sign “Krepasts“.
It was necessary to go not close, but already from a distance I saw the star which is cut out in a huge stone - an entrance to a memorial complex and heard the anthem of a wartime “Get up the country huge“.
My heart was disturbingly clogged. Now I will see, I will feel as all the consciousness this heroic and distressful earth, red from blood of the fallen sons. I will see the Western Bug to which, as to the life, the fighters perishing from thirst one by one directed. I will touch the walls of a citadel so well familiar spoiled with bullets and shells from books and movies. I will greedy inhale air which is penetrated by pain and memory. Memory of that terrible war.
Having passed through a star, I involuntarily paid attention to uneven layers of gray paint by which over and over again, year after year, the stone became covered. Places where paint lagged behind, and also numerous roughnesses and pockmarks on a block were visible.
Before me the huge area on which other end the memorable stele went to a height opened. Even its “undressed“ lower part was from far away visible. Most likely, repair.
On both sides of a path accurate lawns with on - Belarusian pleasantly were pleasing in pedantically well-groomed flowers to the eye.
On the right there were hands - indexes “Toilet“, “Cafe - bar“, “A memorial complex“. Commerce got and here. On the road here, I was almost sure that I in such place will not see restaurants and pleasure institutions, but, most likely, was mistaken.
Towards to me young people who cheerfully over something rygotat got. Involuntarily I listened what there was a speech about. “There now, estimate, I speak to it “Give on a disco we descend“, and it “Otvyan, a gelding“ - joyfully told one of guys. Probably, children had more cheerful memoirs, than those which usually visit people of advanced age in such places.
At a monument “Thirst“, with the fighter creeping to the coast of the killing river walked young mother with the child. It as it seemed to me, somehow on special, carefully, stopped before the soldier, probably, trying to present what it, and all of them, could test and endure those terrible days. She looked at it, and I wanted to look at her, it was so touching.
Having curtailed to the left, I saw those half-ruined walls from is red - a bloody brick which saw so many time in books and on the TV. Here they spoiling scars from evil German bullets and splinters of shells. Here those cellars - casemates in which wounded defenders of fortress cartridges scratched the shrill last messages to grateful descendants. Everything, as then, without changes, without cosmetic face lifting.
I carefully touched fingers the shot walls. Ran a hand, trying to hear, read that they shouted … Also read: “Petya the sucker“, “Was here Sasha“, “Heavy metal“ and many other things. Walls were speckled by this thoughtless, brainless barbarity which, appear, spoiled these eternal walls even more than deadly bullets and shells of fascists.
At what many inscriptions were traced at the height of 2 - x, 3 - x and even more meters. In what supernatural way they got there? What such hand was raised, found forces and a justification to make this meanness? What was in the heads of these “writers“ while they committed this crime?
Slightly further me one more surprise which plunged me into a cold stupor waited. Two accurate doors with the inscription “Toilet“ and letters “M“ and. In the fortress. In those places where battled and died, protecting us, our grandfathers, a latrine. And near, the woman and the man, apparently, service personnel of a rest room, ardently and loudspoken polemized on a historical subject.
“Chapayev was any not the hero! The hero of him was made by Bolsheviks! What he for the people made that? It is a pity that before it did not finish off!“ - the woman talked profusely with a clever look and an angry face. The man only silently swung the head, in agreement.
“People went crazy“ - I thought and, without looking in their party, hasty passed by.
However, not so hasty not to notice near cheerful doors of a toilet some more modern doors with inscriptions “Militia“, “Warehouse“ and still something.
Near “Militia“ and “Warehouse“ there was a patch with artillery arms. Guns, howitzers and antiaircraft guns. I with interest examined them. I also glanced in muzzles of trunks to find out that they are up to the top killed by cigarette bull-calves, candy wrappers from candies, leftovers and other garbage. All that itself which the respectable inhabitant - the reverential visitor of the Brest fortress not to hurry to carry away with itself, and, having greedy tasted the narrow-minded snacks, he is grateful leaves everything that from them remained, here, in memorable objects, it is visible having decided that those, except as as wastebaskets, for anything do not suit any more.
Near a stele which really was on repair, was all the known monument - probably, it was called “Memory“ or somehow something like that - thoughtfully inclined head. And on its reverse side bas-reliefs of the running, shooting and dying soldiers and officers were cut.
It was noticeable, even to the person far from some was arts that they were located asymmetrically, executed somehow not up to the end - for example, the leg of one of fighters which is obviously acting from a stone at a foot smoothly and not really passed into a stone and was almost indistinguishable from the last though at the one who stood behind the fighter both legs were cut quite honestly, the commander of a platoon was as if it is not cut, and hasty drawn“ in a stone and it is hardly noticeable - as if at sculptors, creating a monument “burned“ the plan or for some reason the patience came to an end.
All block, as well as a star - an entrance, was covered with uncountable layers of mouse paint, with numerous pockmarks and roughnesses, smudges and traces of a brush. The head only inclined in a heavy thought was executed professionally, caused emotions and set thinking on those who died here.
Behind a monument, in fortress, there was “A museum of a mastatstv“ - “The art museum“, and in spite of the fact that at me legs fell off fatigue, I decided to glance there.
I was the only visitor whom the unsmiling woman and as soon as I left one of alkovchik of which all museum consisted followed, right there turned off in it the light.
Portraits and landscapes, still lifes and abstraction of the Belarusian artists hung on walls. Under glass wattled bull-calves, the embroidered ducks, the molded figures of peasants lay. And only right at the beginning a small sculpture of the nurse who is taking out from a battlefield of the soldier and one - two pictures, the devoted Great Patriotic War. And all …
Having left monastery of muses, I appeared on the square near a monument again “Memory“ beside which the guy and the girl passionately were engaged in a petting - in English, matsatsya - on - Belarusian, or gently touched to each other - in Russian. The best the place, besides, on which they appeared - probably is spontaneous, rash - it, seemingly, did not manage to be found. To me it was thought that else it is possible to make love on a cemetery, in a smelly toilet, or a morgue. Too it is extreme.
Having noticed me, they, without having been confused at all, ceased to touch gently each other, and lovingly cooing, started wandering away.
Slightly far away two little girls are noisy depicted each other on a film, accepting different effective and sexy poses then to prove to be to friends and girlfriends of darlings.
The group of people are more senior than well-fad build discussed where it is better for them to go to days off - in the wood to picnic or to go on a visit each other.
Concerned, people having got here, to this holy site thought and spoke about anything only not about about what followed. It seems “At work - about the house, houses - about work“.
The sky clouded clouds. To me it became sad. Legs hurt. Suddenly it there was a wish to have supper and be extended nourishingly before a box with some silly movie not to think.
And still, somewhere there, inside, probably, where heart, there was a memory and confidence that not everything is lost. And some elastic feeling of correctness is that man cannot live by bread alone.