Dasha NOVICHKOVA

Phrases and events that shaped me.

Dasha Novichkova

I came to visit my grandmother for the winter holidays. First of all, I began to dig into bookcases – I really wanted to take home the two-volume F.M. Dostoevsky "Brothers Karamazov." I tried to get two of my needs out of a bunch of books, and suddenly a letter fell out of the book "Name of the Rose." The letter which was very important to my grandmother.

My grandmother received the last letter from her grandfather, in which only a few lines were written: "Marinochka, I met one person here, he is very attentive, and he has kind, but very sad eyes. His eyes remind me of you and Nadia, as if you were holding hands in their reflection. How are you there? I really miss you. " Two weeks later, an official letter arrived he died of blood infection. The family did not believe it, but none of them dared to make a general judgment - it was too dangerous and suddenly they did not want to shake the tragic fate of the deceased.

That person with kind and sad eyes turned out to be the same man who survived 16 years of difficult trials, and now decided to write about it. And he also remembered Grandma's grandfather, but did not name the name in the story. But my grandmother found out from the description and cried. Or maybe she really wanted to find him in the book, understand what really happened to him.

This man did not like bright and magnificent speeches - his syllable was concise and brief. He was not shy about heavy details, prickly remarks and unsightly descriptions. And because of his honesty, he became the new mouthpiece of those who suffered at that time - whether they themselves were in this earthly hell or their loved ones, many of whom did not return.

Grandma keeps his book at home carefully. The story in which she saw the image of her grandfather was carefully cut out of the collection and stored in a frame - similar descriptions are emphasized by a simple pencil. Grandmother says that if he had not documented Kolyma and everything that he saw, she would have remembered her grandfather only as he left - uncomfortable, with a frozen promise on her lips that he would

definitely return soon. In a few letters, he never complained of animal cold and animal deeds of those who were stronger and more important. And by virtue of her young age, she did not fully understand what was really happening. And that writer, a man with kind and sad eyes, helped her restore the whole true picture of what was. To realize with great pain that grandfather felt terribly exhausted, but he did not want to talk about it and he was not allowed to.

And grandmother is still surprised how he had the strength to record everything that was. And he remains for her the main writer and mouthpiece, which appeals to the soul of man and compassion. This writer was Varlam Shalamov. And he was not the only writer who found himself in my life indirectly or directly, accidentally or intentionally.

For example, the famous writer (whose name I can’t actually say, but you totally know him) who I met twice in my life. For the first time - on the LIVE of the Dozhd TV channel, I came there to report on his lecture from one famous portal. He called it a dumb, trapped site, and then, incandescent and then, leaning towards my ear, whispered: "Your editor-in-chief is a fool and a snob." I was not offended, because this was not my permanent place of work. I was in the 1st year of university and constantly looking for a place for an internship, that's all. The second time I met him at the “Non/fiction” literature fair, which is held annually in Moscow. He immediately recognized me, remembered by name and signed two books with a smile, which he immediately handed me with the words: "You don't have to pay anything." He signed the book as follows: "Dasha, you have nothing to do at the HSE (approx. - Higher School of Economics, in which I then studied)." In addition, he left his mail. I wrote to him after 2 weeks. There was no response. But I didn’t care. At least, I met him and that was already good.

Grandmother has always been a well-read and especially writing person. She accustomed to this me since my childhood. She did not make me sit down and read Russian classics, but, one might say, she put various books next to me while I was playing horses. My gaze fell on them, and in the next moment I was already sitting and reading “Fourth Height” or the book “White Bim Black Ear”. My first books from 5 years old. It was no longer possible to tear me away from a wide variety of books, and it turned out that I spent almost my entire lyceum life behind books, and not on walks with friends. In student life, in fact, little has changed - I got drunk at the 1 course, realized that drinking for me is low and disgusting and especially to such an extent, and quickly evaporated from all student

parties. Only internships, orders of articles and books remained. At one point, my mother began to forbid me to bring more and more books home - they no longer had enough space in our small one-room apartment, and two cabinets with blue doors were already littered with books. And in the meantime, I filled them with a desktop, wardrobes with clothes and everything where you could find at least a free piece of suitable space. Book geek, no different. A book obsession that you can hardly be proud of in your right mind.

When she died under certain circumstances, a particle of my soul and identity was taken out of me. Grandma was a person I could call every day and easily tell how the school day went, training at an equestrian club, job interviews, reading a book and writing a story. Grandmother was an old woman of old hardening with monarchical inclinations, but she accepted everything in me, even sometimes with creaky teeth: both my piercing and hobby, first, the democratic party Yabloko, and then the skinhead movement. And when she died, and we went to bury her, it seemed to me that part of my personality had been torn away from me with deep and intimate experiences, and now she will be closed under the heavy lid of the coffin and buried in the damp earth. It was so hard to look at this procession that I could not stand it and just ran out of church like the last coward.

Sometimes I think whether it is possible to build your personality through love for another person. I think yes. I can name the sides of my personality that were purely instilled in me by my maternal grandmother. And love for her helped me become a journalist, because my grandmother herself was very fond of writing and reading, but, according to her, she could not do this at a professional level, since she was without higher education. But I always knew and know that for me she remains the most important inspirer and person who once told me: "Everything will be fine, because you try and strive.”