Where are my roots?

June 13, 2016 23:05 | Miscellaneous About Parenting

What remains in the memory of the country, where he had been for the first time?Her exotic, architectural masterpieces, quiet streets of big cities, people's habits ...

I went to Czechoslovakia.I fell in love with the country.But there are not only this in memory of her.

so happens that every morning and every evening in Prague I had to go past the cemetery.Holy MARKET call this place the people of Prague - on behalf of a frozen cathedral extraordinary beauty of the cemetery park.In the morning on weekdays are rarely seen people, and cool evenings cemetery revived.Almost every jut uncertain, but a small candle flame alive (rain cover their glass caps to not extinguished longer).It happened during the week.

And Saturdays and Sundays to the store continuously going people.They walked two by two, three, four ... There were families.With flowers, but the main thing - and it was amazing - almost all children.Children were, perhaps, more than the adults.And each of them also carried a flower and a small sh

ovel.

Is not it strange to talk about the cemetery: here part of our house?But the Czechs do not think so.They come to the cemetery with the whole family to the grandmother, grandfather, an old friend - remember the past, talk about the present, tell the children about what lived their ancestors as they should live.Before leaving, lit at the grave of a loved one candle - shine, light, gray, let the warmth of the soul of each of us is here.

I tried to find out from Prague residents what they think about this their tradition.I heard like this: there are training grief, but it means and life.I foresee dissatisfied Why is.child, why hurt a child's soul?And I remember I heard a story a long time ago.adult story about his childhood.

He was twelve years old when his father died.At the bitter moment of his son was not at home.And when he returned from school, my mother met him at the door and ... sent to the movies.Why would a child to see it all (probably because she reasoned), yet small.The boy learned about the death of his father only the next day.And to this day - a grown man, the same age as his father - he regrets most of all that is not allowed, do not let him be a mother by her side at a difficult moment able to take yourself by the hand and say a word of sympathy, to hug her ... Mother leftalone with their trouble, she is hiding from her son.Do not let him feel like a man, a man capable of suffering and compassion.

How many forgotten graves, abandoned cemeteries on our vast Russian expanses!Yes, the blame for that distance and the road.But also, our, alas, short memories.

No wonder today is talk in the press about the need for the Memorial Day family and friends.He just needs us.This was stated by one of the first Soviet Culture Fund.This convinced thousands of people whose continuous stream of letters and now go to the "truth" (published two years ago, the writer Alexander Kiknadze "Bequest descendants' notes) and" Soviet culture "and" Literary Gazette ".And now, to us, in the "family."By the way, for five years, there Memorial Day officially relatives in Georgia.There is not in words, it is entered in the national calendar.So why not make it a nationwide Soviet heritage?

is very necessary for all of us this day, who has not loudly and noisily celebrated and remembered the departed and came to them.With flowers and children.It is necessary for our moral health.

Indeed, we know of their great-grandparents at least by name, those who have not found alive?When was the last time they visited the graves were in general?Once, in one of the hotel's "New York Times" a decade ago, I met is interesting information.The newspaper reported: "Demonstrating the last copy of your family tree, President Carter told stories of their own kind:" We found a few komrometiruyuschih ancestors in the recent past.A couple of embezzlers, two or three of those killed on Saturday night.One of my relatives, to my deep regret, and even worked as a newspaper. "

Yes, he was president of ironic, is not impressed with their imperfect ancestors.But he knew them, remember!That became his weapon, is what could give a solid publicity.Propaganda trick designed exactly - it is based on the memory of the sacred traditions.And win-win.

there with us, but few of them so far, very few people whose family kept bending every branch of his family tree.But only if the branches and roots firmly keep us on the ground?"Ineffable light" flowing from the past, from the world of grandfathers and great grandfathers, warm, rich, colorful beam.Look - and you are sure to find - it and in your home.Probably because somewhere Dedov kept a wooden stick or a notebook grandparents, maybe we should return to the darkened mezzanine dust-box, an iron ashtray with hunting Sobko ...

However, some of this has come to our house, and notwhether only because "retro" now in vogue?A silt song "retro»? ..

... One of my grandmothers sang in the church choir.From it, and first heard the unique beauty of the ancient dew and Russian songs, learned melodic lines of Pushkin and Lermontov's poems - for thirty or forty pages by heart (and education at the grandmother was only a three-class parish school).Often, then, with a smile she recalled how I, a four-year, turned to her with her favorite lines, at your children's, way: "What are you, my old and sad and dark»

remember me and today, manyyears later, Grandma singing.Songs - this is also part of our national culture.They should sound today in our homes.Such as my grandmother's songs.What I sing of her daughter?"Tired toys are sleeping..."?In the best case, "Sleep, my darling, go to sleep," without remembering the end.

But maybe we do not remember, we do not know the songs of their grandfathers and great grandfathers, and even in other circumstances?

How many can remember, as a child always envied boys and girls, who excitedly told of grandparents, war heroes.All adults who survived the war, in the eyes of the children's heroes.I only occasionally inserts his own: "My uncle, too, was a pilot war.He burned down - the Germans shot down his plane.The grandmother calls him Zhorzhik ".The names of the uncle I do not know.My uncle was a cousin or second cousin.But the laughing eyes of twenty boys (both realize now) look at me with the military, faded photos every summer, every vacation with my grandmother's dresser.Was it another picture of the thirties;many, many relatives, among them a tall, above all, a man of thirty years bolsheloby.That's grandpa.

Why is so little time to talk to me about it, those who have not, I think today.Why do I, a girl could not be proud of his grandfather, who was so fond of?After all, I felt great - until his death - the love of his grandmother, repeating incessantly: "This is your grandfather Alyosha, it was not and never will be," and saw her tears: No, do not ask about it. "

are only now beginning to understand everything.My grandfather was a party worker at the Dnepropetrovsk plant named after Petrovsky.And as a young man, I learned recently, worked in the Donbass newspapers.Here it is - Alexey chemist c in the photograph in 1925 in his book "Journalists", a member of the editorial board of Luhansk railway vocational schools "Red Rairoad".In the same breath with his grandfather begins journalist, author of the book Yuri Zhukov.

So, there are still people who remember his grandfather?So, we must look for traces its roots more ...

No graves have died in the war uncle.Each mass grave - his.No graves of the deceased to his grandfather war.

to know the exact date when he was gone.It is said in the 33rd.maybe later?

Now this memory, the memory of the 30's, 40's, comes back to us again, after the 60s, free from slander and lies.We pull out the deeply hidden photos of those who were held captive in the military, find out from the newspapers of those who used to be called "enemies of the people."Not enough of the facts of their lives, do not have enough accuracy, to call this our recent past of its history, the truth to be completed.Let yourself admit - because sometimes by inertia we are afraid of the bitter past documents.A story without them - not a story.And it is true - not true.

No, not a real person can grow without such a way difficult, memory.Without pride and pain of the past, near and far.For dry up the roots, destroy the germ.He fails to become a tree.