A holiday with tears

Grandpa Slava died on May 9, Victory Day.

As a war veteran, he wanted to live to see the holiday, so he died on that day. As everyone in my family said: "He is no longer suffering".

No less than the holiday, my grandfather waited for the arrival of his middle daughter Nina, but the aunt flew from Shevchenko when her father was already dead - she was only half an hour late!

I was ten years old. Although I loved my grandfather very much, the news of his death did not make me sad at all. On the contrary, there were so many reasons to be happy.

First of all, my godfather came to pick us up in a Zaporozhets - he was the only one of our acquaintances who had a car. So my father and I went to my grandmother's house. Second, my grandma promised to give us a black and white television set "Sadko" as an inheritance from my grandfather, but for some reason my mother did not take it.

And thirdly, and most importantly, I had a chance to cut off my hated braid!

My grandfather liked my long hair, but it only got in the way, in my ears, mouth, and eyes.

In the summer it made my neck sweat, my braid came loose, and I couldn't braid it myself.

But my grandpa forbade me to have a boy's haircut, he used to say: "You can only do it after I die! So now I had every right to go to the barber. Which I did right away.

A photo for the memory

Shortly before my grandfather died, my grandmother asked my father to come to the house with a camera to take family pictures.

Everyone combed their hair, dressed up, and sat solemnly on the sofa.

Grandpa took the place of honor in the middle. Everyone's faces were solemn - we understood very well that this was the last time we would all be together in Grandpa's lifetime.

Grandmother hoped to send the photos to Tselinograd, to Grandpa's brother, Uncle Lenya, and to our distant relatives who lived far away from us. Although they had never seen us, and we had never seen them.

And whether it was a desire to show off in front of my unfamiliar relatives, or maybe just to relieve the tension, I started making faces. Before my father would say, "Watch the birdie," I would stick out my ears, make cross-eyes, and stick out my tongue.

My father shot two rolls of film, and when he developed and printed the pictures, it turned out that there was nothing to choose from the glossy pile. Looking through the pictures, Grandma shook her head:

- How can I send such pictures? They would think that Slava's granddaughter was stupid and had strabismus.

So she never sent them anything.

An empty coffin

Grandpa was gone. While my grandmother and mother were busy in the kitchen, I looked at the mummy he had recently been. A thin, yellow-skinned face with a sharp nose peered out from under the sheet. Where is Grandpa now?

Does he see me? Can he hear me?

When my grandfather's body was taken to the morgue, I told my grandmother my deepest wish.

It may seem crazy to some, but I really wondered what it would be like to lie in a coffin.

I thought that an empty coffin would be brought to our house, and when I had the chance, I could lie in it.

- Are you crazy? - Grandma rolled her eyes. - Don't even think about it!

I frowned - why does she mind?

It's just for a second. I'm just going to lie down for a while, that's all.

Looking at my unhappy face, my grandmother explained that it was bad luck to lie in someone else's coffin. Besides, you might accidentally scare someone.

And she told me how, during the war, a truck with a covered body passed through their village.

At the same time, an elderly Red Army man in a half-fur coat was standing on the side of the road, giving a thumbs-up.

"How far are you going?" - The driver leaned out of the cab. "Can you take me into town?" a hitchhiker asked him. "Get in!"

The soldier jumped into the back of the truck and saw an empty coffin. It was winter. The frost was bitterly cold. Chilled, he climbed inside, covered himself with a lid for warmth, and dozed off.

Meanwhile, the driver had picked up two more hitchhikers, village men in a hurry to get to the market in town. The truck shook violently over a bump in the road. The soldier in the coffin awoke, stirred, threw back the lid, and, seeing the men's pale faces, winked at them:

- Are you frozen, men? How about a cigarette?

The men were so frightened that they threw down their goods and jumped out of the truck at full speed.

One broke his arm, the other his leg.

The soldier was later tried and found not guilty because he hadn't intentionally frightened them.

Meeting my grandfather

Funeral, wake, quick arrival and just as quick departure of relatives.

All the time I spent the nights at Grandma Luda's house. I was not embarrassed by the recent presence of a dead man in the house, but I was afraid that I might accidentally see him in the mirror.

I had never liked mirrors. You never knew what you might accidentally see in them.

But on the ninth day, coming out of the bathroom in the evening, I saw a silhouette in the kitchen. The man was sitting at the table, half turned, smiling at me. It was dark, but I recognized him. It was my deceased grandfather Slava!

I screamed in fear.

My grandmother came running in and turned on the kitchen light.

- What's wrong?

The table was empty, but I could have sworn Grandpa had been there a minute ago.

Grandma patted my head:

- You silly girl! What are you afraid of? Did he scare you?

- N-no.

- Then why did you scream? You could have asked him how he was, if he needed anything.

And my grandmother remembered how she had met her dead mother Matrena in the same way one night in our apartment on Karl Marx Street.

- I heard a rustling sound, like a mouse. I went into the kitchen, and your great-grandmother was sitting there, scratching her fork on an empty plate, not looking me in the eye. "What are you doing, Mom?" I asked her. And she replied angrily: "You forgot me, Luda. Why don't you visit me at the cemetery? On the day of Ilya the Prophet, all the neighbors went home with gifts, and I was the only one who stayed hungry."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The next day my grandmother baked wattles and went to the cemetery to her mother.

She spent two hours looking for her grave, but it was as if it had disappeared into the ground.

To make amends, Grandma went to the cemetery all week. She remembered:

- I walk and walk around the circle, somewhere here should be the grave, next to the two spruces, under the birch. But no! Then I realized that my mother was confusing me on purpose, that she was angry with me.

- That night I lit a candle, prayed and asked my mother for forgiveness. And the next day, my feet took me to my mother's grave.

Later, I and all my relatives experienced this phenomenon more than once. It is not easy to find Matrena's grave indeed. There are no landmarks to help. If she wants to see you, you'll find her, but if she doesn't want to see you, you go away with nothing, wondering what you've done to get into my great-grandmother's bad graces.

Greetings from the other side

As it turned out, my late grandfather's visit to my grandmother's house was no coincidence.

A great beer lover, he came to dream of my mother that same night and asked:

- When you go to Trinity, don't forget to bring a bottle of Zhigulevskoe beer.

In other words, he'd really like to have a beer in the other world.

Such requests have always given me mixed feelings. How can the souls of the dead taste beer or fish pie? Why ask for food when you no longer need it? Or is life in the afterlife really no different from life on earth?

Anyway, in our region, it is not customary to go to the cemetery empty-handed. At least take some candy and bring it with you to treat the soul of the deceased.

After that incident in the kitchen, my grandfather's spirit never came to me again.

I mentally asked him about it. I told him, "If you want to see me, come to my dream, but not in real life, because I am a coward.

And soon one day I have a dream: I come to my grandmother's house, I ring the doorbell, and my grandfather opens the door, alive, ruddy, a little overweight, as he was before his illness.

- You?! - I threw myself on my grandfather's neck with joy. - I missed you so much!

Just as now I remember the reality of that dream - prickly gray stubble on his cheeks, sharp but so masculine smell of "Chypre" cologne. And my grandfather's words that he had too little time.

- They've only released me for today.

- Who was it? - I asked.

- It doesn't matter, my grandfather said. - Granddaughter, I'm so happy to see you!

A man in a hat

My mother used to recall that after my grandfather's death, she often met men on the street who looked like her father - in their clothes, walk, and their head posture.

But my mother saw them only in glimpses or from behind. She tried to call out, to catch up, to look the "double" in the face, but she never succeeded - the "ghost" disappeared without a trace into the crowd or managed to jump into the bus.

Once my mother and I were sitting at home looking out the window. Suddenly my mother stood up from her chair.

- Look, there he is again!

A fat man in a coat and fedora walked down the street. His build, his gait, his height - everything matched, only his face was hidden under the brim of the hat.

Suddenly, the stranger raised his head and looked directly at us. He smiled, nodded his head slightly, and walked on. I jumped up on the windowsill, threw open the window, and shouted at the top of my lungs: "Grandpa!

But the man in the hat had already gone around the corner.

Hot pepper

Once, when I was already in my thirties, my parents gave me a bush of hot pepper "ogonek" (flame) that they had dug up in the vegetable garden. The plant behaved normally - it blossomed in the spring, bore fruit in the summer, and went into hibernation in the fall - until spring. And suddenly the pepper began to wilt, to turn yellow.

In May, all the leaves fell off, and when it finally died, my mother was gone.

In my parents' apartment there was a twin brother of the pepper "Ogonek". It bloomed, bore fruit and was about to fall asleep, but in November it suddenly woke up and began to bloom vigorously - the whole thing was covered with white flowers. Outside the window a snowstorm was raging, and here on the windowsill it was spring.

A month after that bloom, my father died. Maybe it was a coincidence, but I was now suspicious of pepper. "Ogonek" was quiet, there were no more strange things about it. But when a year later it did not bear any fruit, and at the end of the summer it suddenly blossomed in rich colors, I was suspicious again. And, as it turned out, not for nothing. My sister Tanya died.

My first impulse was to get rid of the flower. Immediately! It was all because of it.

But something told me the pepper had nothing to do with it. Probably, in some unfathomable way, it felt the deaths of my relatives, but it wasn't the cause.

After my sister's death, "Ogonek" disappeared on his own. He went into hibernation, and in the spring he didn't wake up - he just dried up.

Pangolin

When my parents died, the question was what to do with their apartment.

Neither Tanya nor I wanted to live in it, but I couldn't sell it. There were too many memories associated with it, both good and bad, but the bad ones were more numerous.

The first year the apartment was empty, we only went there to water the flowers.

I couldn't stay there for long, to hear the familiar smell, to see the ruin and decay. I wanted to get out as soon as possible, but at the same time I was drawn there like a magnet.

A long time ago, when Mom and Dad were still alive, I dreamed that one morning I would wake up with the first rays of sunshine, open the tulle curtains, and sit on the balcony with a book - to sunbathe. No one will yell at me that the bread is not bought, that the floors are not washed, that I have not done my homework again. And I will not have to think about anyone or anything. Beautiful!

And what if I fix my parents' nest? - I thought. - I will throw out the garbage, make repairs, and spend, if not the rest of my life, then at least the summer here...

The apartment itself wasn't bad - bright, sunny, overlooking the green boulevard. A very nice apartment. It was not for nothing that Grandpa Slava did not want to leave it.

All we have to do is repair it and clean it up. So my husband and I went to work.

We bought paint, wallpaper, glue, hired a handymen, and within a month the apartment was unrecognizable.

Except that the first night in the new place, we realized: we are not alone here...

The apartment was unusually quiet during the day, but as night fell, the house came alive. From the sides and above us, someone was running, stomping, jumping, banging on the wall.

Door locks rattled, the TV blared, something fell with a clatter to the floor-so much so that the chandelier on the ceiling shook. Sometimes the noise didn't stop until morning.

We didn't get enough sleep, we were angry, irritable. We banged the ceiling with a mop for our restless tenants. The noise died down for a while, then came back with a vengeance: as if to say, "Ah, you don't like it - get some more!"

Our conscience did not allow us to call the police, they were our neighbors...

We naively believed that the conflict could still be resolved peacefully, without resorting to threats and physical violence. But no. It was as if the house was chasing us out.

After another sleepless night, my husband gritted his teeth and rushed upstairs.

The door was opened by an old man. We nicknamed him the Pangolin - at night it seemed as if a giant brontosaurus was prowling around the house, stomping and dragging its long tail. It clung to various objects with its tail, knocking over chairs, dropping cast-iron weights on the floor...

The pangolin was drunk. After listening to my husband, he told it to go to hell and slammed the door.

Crow's Nest

Whenever Andrei and I went to the neighbor's apartment, together or separately, the same thing always happened. The Pangolin would open the door and shout, spitting, that we were crazy, that no one called us here, and if we didn't like the noise at night, we should leave this house.

Every time, a little girl with the stamp of Downism on her face would look out from behind the old man.

Then Crow, Pangolin's wife, would appear, a scowling old woman with a perpetually disgruntled look on her face. She used to chase her relatives away, and with her hands at her sides, she pressed her lips together and listened in silence as to why the neighbors downstairs had come to see her. Although she knew very well why we had come.

The old woman got her nickname because of her hoarse bass of four hundred decibels, which she used as a former music teacher to instill a love of knowledge in her granddaughter.

- One! Two! Three! Four! - The Crow cawed every morning. - What's next?!

- Six? - asked the girl shyly (the audibility in the house was wonderful).

- Fool! - The grandmother attacked the poor girl. - Five! Five! How many times must I tell you, you fool! One! Two! Three! Four! What's next, huh?!

And so on ad infinitum.

When I asked the Crow to be quiet, at least at night, she pressed her lips together and said, "We live the way we want to live, no one can tell us what to do!

Then he grumbled:

- What can I do when he, - she nodded in the direction of the Pangolin, - always falls off the couch drunk. Your father was no angel either, remember? He kept us up at night too!

One spring day, the Pangolin came up to me on the street, grinned and said:

- If you had taken better care of your father, he wouldn't have become a parachutist, hehehe. Besides, he owed me, you know?

I didn't hear exactly what my father owed the Pangolin. A wave of blind rage washed over me. Crimson spots flashed before my eyes. I screamed with hatred:

- Does he owe you?! It's all right, you'll see him soon. Soon enough!

- What? - the old man shouted in indignation. - Make sure you don't die first!

At that moment, I felt my father's presence behind me. I thought I could even hear him grinding his teeth. Dad never forgave anyone for such behavior. The neighbor upstairs is dead.

But we won't have to live in that house either...

The Pangolin hanged himself in the summer. He waited until his wife and granddaughter had gone to bed, locked himself in the bathroom, and tied the noose around his neck. They found him half an hour later, when it was all over.

It's not good to say this, of course, but Andrei and I cheered up and decided that the house would finally be quiet. Unfortunately, our joy was premature and short-lived.

To ease the pain of loss, the inconsolable widow's house was flooded with Pangolin's heirs - grown children, nephews, grandchildren, sons-in-law. At night, they enthusiastically drilled and hammered nails into the walls, yelled at their children, played rock, and clicked their heels on the floor. It was clear that young people had settled in the "Crow's nest" for a long time.

My parents' apartment had to be sold.

To be continued