childhood, on earth, my university

Chapter 4 Childhood (3)
Once, Uncle Mihailo rushed from the yard into the passage with a thick sharpened stick and smashed at the door.The grandfather and two tenants also held sticks, and the hotel owner's wife waited behind the door with a rolling pin.Grandmother stamped her feet back and forth behind them, begging:
"Let me go find him, let me have a word with him..."

But the four of them stood there, silent, ready to kill.

Seeing that the uncle was about to smash the door down, the grandfather said to the other three people: "You hit him on the arms and legs, but not on the head..."

There was a small window on the wall next to the door, and the glass had been smashed. Grandma Xibu leaned in as much as she could, waved her hand at the uncle outside the door, and shouted:

"Misha, for God's sake, go away! They'll beat you to a cripple!" But the uncle hit her on the hand with a stick, and the grandmother fell back and fell to the ground, but she still shouted:

"Misha, run quickly..."

"Ah? Old lady!" Grandfather yelled horribly.

The door was smashed open, and my uncle jumped into the opening, but was immediately thrown out.

The hotel owner's wife helped the grandmother to the grandfather's room.Grandmother groaned, but she was still thinking about Uncle Mihailo:

"What's the matter with him? What's the matter with him?"

"Be quiet! We've tied him up," cried the grandfather.

Grandmother groaned.

"I've already sent for an orthopedic surgeon, please bear with me." My grandfather said while sitting by the bed.

I don't think things are going well with my grandmother.

7
I knew early on that my grandfather had one God and my grandmother had another.Every morning, my grandmother looked tenderly at the round face of Our Lady of Kazan, drew a large sign of the cross respectfully, and prayed loudly and fervently.She comes up with a few new words of praise almost every day, and I can't help but listen to her prayers every time.Her God was with her all day, and she even told the animals about her God.My grandmother's God is easy to understand for me and not terrible, but one cannot lie in front of him - that's shameful.I never lied to my grandmother.

Once, the hostess of the hotel had a quarrel with her grandfather. She yelled at the grandfather, even scolded the grandmother together, and threw carrots at the grandmother.I decided to take revenge on her.Once I took advantage of her to go down to the cellar, quickly locked the top of the cellar, and danced a revengeful dance on the top for a while, then threw the key to the roof, and quickly ran back to the kitchen to tell my grandmother.Unexpectedly, she was very angry and asked me to go to the roof to retrieve the key.Then she released the innkeeper from the cellar, and the two of them smiled affectionately and walked in the yard.All day, my grandmother didn't talk to me.Before praying at night, she sat by the bed and told me earnestly that God will always watch each of us in heaven and have mercy on everyone.Since then, her God has become closer and clearer to me.

Grandfather's God is omnipresent and omniscient, and he always blesses people with mercy.But when my grandfather talked about the boundless power of God, he always first emphasized God's ruthlessness.His God is forever a sword hanging high in the world, a whip for the guilty.I can't believe God's cruelty. I suspect that my grandfather made it up. He wanted me to be afraid of him, not God.

When my grandfather prayed, he was always fully dressed. He walked carefully and tiptoe to the icon, stood silently for a while, bowed his head, and then straightened up: "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!" After these words, there was a sudden silence in the room.He said his prayers as accurately as he answered his homework.

Once my grandmother jokingly said: "Grandpa, maybe God is tired of hearing your prayers, you always repeat the same old routine."

"What... what?" my grandfather said viciously in a drawn-out tone, "What are you talking about in a daze?"

"I said, no matter how many times I've heard it, I've never heard you tell God a single truth."

My grandfather blushed all of a sudden, trembled all over, jumped up from his chair, and threw a dish on my grandmother's head: "Go away, you old witch!" My grandfather often took me to church.I go to vespers every Saturday, and go to evening mass every holiday.In the church, I understood that everything the priest and deacon said was for the God of the grandfather, and the choir sang for the God of the grandmother.This distinction tore through my heart uncomfortably.My grandfather's God filled me with fear and loathing, and he loved no one.Grandma's God is the intimate friend of all living things.Of course, there is one question that can't help but make me terrified: Why can't my grandfather see a merciful God?In those days, thinking about God and being attached to God became the main nutrition for my spiritual growth. There were very few good things in life, and those cruel and filthy things could only make me feel sad and arouse my resentment and disgust.

Children on the street cruelly tortured cats, teased chickens and dogs to fight each other, insulted drunken beggars, teased idiot Igosha and so on. Begging in the street: a little gray-eyed old lady led him, who was completely blind, standing under someone's window begging:
"Give me a little charity, for God's sake, have pity on this blind and poor old man..."

And he didn't say a word, his black eyes looked straight at the walls and windows of the house, and at the faces of the people walking towards him.The hands soaked in dye gently stroked his beard, and his lips were tightly closed.

8
Grandfather suddenly sold the house to the hotel owner and bought another house on the Funeralstrasse.The new house is more beautiful and more intimate than the old one.The garden is very nice, not big, but full of flowers and plants, lush trees, and each other, it is pleasing to the eye.On the left side of the garden was the wall of the stables of Colonel Okasiannikov's house, on the right side was the kitchen of the Bethren's house, and in the depths of the garden was connected with the estate of the milk seller Petrovna.

There are several new tenants in the house: Uncle Peter and his dumb nephew Stepan, two coachmen who pull goods, a sullen orderly, Valei, and a man who loves to say "good thing" diners.

This "good thing" deeply attracted me.He is thin, a little hunchbacked, with a fair complexion, two black mustaches, and a pair of glasses on a pair of kind eyes.Whenever he was asked to eat and drink tea, his clumsy tongue always replied:
"Good thing."

So, whether in person or behind the scenes, my grandmother always called him "good thing".He rents a room adjoining the kitchen in the back half of the house.His whole room is full of boxes.Some were stuffed with thick volumes of secular publications.The floor was strewn with bottles of multicolored liquids, chunks of copper and iron, and strips of lead.He wore a brown-red leather jacket and a pair of checkered gray trousers all day long. He was covered in unidentifiable paint all over his body and exuded an unpleasant smell.With disheveled hair, he clumsily smelted lead, soldered a small thing made of copper, weighed something on a small balance, and stumbled from time to time to the drawings on the wall to wipe his glasses. , smell the drawings.Sometimes he stopped suddenly in the middle of the house or by the window, closed his eyes, raised his face, and stood there for a long time without saying a word.I used to climb to the top of the shed and look across the yard and watch his every move through the open window.His mysterious work kept me on the roof for hours, tickling my curiosity.

But none of us like "good things".Once, I summoned up the courage to go to his window, concealed my nervousness, and asked him:

"what are you doing?"

He shivered, stared at me for a long time over his spectacles, held out his burned hand to me, and said:

"Climb in."

He let me in through the window instead of the door, which made me feel even more mysterious about him.He said he would make me a lead-filled sheep snatcher toy, but told me not to come to him again.His words hurt me so badly that I told him I would never do it again.Later, my grandmother also warned me not to go to him again.

On rainy evenings in autumn, if my grandfather was not at home, my grandmother held a fun party in the kitchen and invited all the tenants to drink tea.Once, my grandmother talked about fairy tales at a party, and she was astonishingly better than the other.Later my grandmother told a beautiful and touching story about the warrior Ivan and the solitary monk Miron:
"Once upon a time there was a fierce military and political officer named Gordian,
Heart as hard as a stone,
He drives away the truth and tortures people cruelly,
Like a drug lord in a tree hole, living in viciousness.

What Gordian disliked the most was the hermit monk Miron, the peaceful protector of truth.
A fearless and good angel on earth.

The military governor called his faithful servant,
Ivanushko warrior,
'Ivanko, you go and kill the old man,
That arrogant old Miron thing!
to chop off his head,

Take his gray beard and feed it to the dog! Ivan walked out of the door obediently, Ivan walked, thinking painfully:

'It's not my will, it's the command that drives me!You know, this is what I was meant to do. '

He hid his sword under the floor,

He came to the old man Milong and bowed,
'Honest old man, have you always been in good health?God bless you old man, is everything going well? ’ laughed the old prophet,

A wise mouth said to him:

'Ivanushko, don't hide your truth!Almighty God knows everything, good and evil are in the palm of his hand!

I even know why you came to me! '

Ivanka was ashamed in front of this solitary monk, but Ivanka was afraid of disobeying orders.

He drew the sharp sword from its sheath,
Wipe the blade of the sword with the wide skirt, 'Miron, I wanted to kill you with one blow before you saw the sword,

Now please pray to God,
For you, for me, and for all mankind!

Then I'll cut off your head...'

Old Miron knelt down on his knees,

He knelt softly under a young oak tree, which bowed to him in salute.

The old man smiled and said:
'Why, Ivan, you may have to wait a long time!
Prayers for all mankind, that's a long story!
You'd better kill me right away, lest you suffer too much. '

Ivan immediately frowned,
foolishly boasted:

'No, since it's agreed, it's nailed!

You just do your prayers, even if it takes 100 years, I will wait! 'The solitary monk prayed till night, and from night till dawn,

And praying from morning glow to late night,
Pray from summer to spring again.

Miron prayed year after year,

The young oak has grown enough to touch the clouds,
The acorns grew into dense forests, but the holy prayers remained endless!They are still deadlocked to this day:

The old man was still crying to God quietly, asking God to help people,
May Our Lady give joy to the people.

And Ivan the brave stood by, his sword turned to dust,

The iron helmet and armor have been eaten away by rust,
A beautiful uniform in tatters,

One winter and one summer, Ivan stood there, scorched by the scorching heat. He didn't dry out, and the little flying insects sucked his blood—not exhausted, and the wolves and big bears didn't touch him.
Storms and bitter cold were nothing to him.

He didn't even have the energy to move himself:

I can't lift my hands, and I can't speak.

You see, this is his punishment,
He shouldn't obey vicious orders, and he shouldn't act violently for other people's conscience.

The old man's prayers for us sinners are still poured out to God to this beautiful day, like a clear river flowing into the sea and the ocean! "

When the grandmother's story was first told, I found that the "good thing" was very engrossed, and my hands moved rhythmically with the melodic sentences, nodding from time to time, and touching my eyes from time to time.When the grandmother stopped, he stood up suddenly, waving his hands, and muttered:

"You know, this is wonderful! This should be recorded, it must be recorded, our Russian..."

He cried, with tears in his eyes.This is so weird.

"Then you can write it down, what's the matter? There is no crime in it, I have many more stories like this..." Grandma said.

"No, that's the best, it's an out-and-out Russian story." He exclaimed excitedly.Then he stood there for a while in the middle of the kitchen, and repeated the line from the story:
"You can't live on the conscience of others, yes, yes!"

Then, for some reason, he fell silent, glanced at everyone, and walked away gently, with his head down as if he had made a mistake.

After lunch the next day, "Good Thing" went to his grandmother and apologized to her:

"Look, I'm terribly lonely. I don't have any relatives. When I heard your story last night, my heart suddenly boiled, and I couldn't control my tongue..."

I saw that when he said "I'm terribly lonely", his face changed, as if he was a completely different person.There is something in this sentence which I cannot understand but which touches my heart.So, despite my grandmother's warnings, I went to him again.

We became good friends.I can go to him whenever I want.Sit on crates full of tatters and watch him smelt and burn copper, weigh things on the scales, pour all kinds of liquids into all kinds of thick white cups.

Sometimes he stopped what he was doing and sat with me.We looked out the window for a long time, watched the rain fall on the roof and the grassy yard, and watched the apple trees shrinking and their leaves dying. "Good things" don't talk easily, but his words always hit the nail on the head.

I quickly attached myself to the "good stuff."He has become my indispensable person both in the days of pain and humiliation and in the moments of joy.He was taciturn, but did not forbid me to tell everything that crossed my mind.And my grandfather always stopped my chatter with severe reprimands.Grandma's mind is full of her own things, and she can no longer listen to other people's words, and can no longer accept other people's ideas. "Good things" always listened carefully to my nonsense, and said to me with a smile from time to time:
"Hey, little brother, this is not true, you made it up yourself..."

He seemed to have a trick, and he could see clearly what was going on in my heart and mind.

Once I told him about my enemy, Kryushnikov: a fat boy with a big head, a good fighter in our new streets.I can't beat him, and he can't beat me. After listening carefully to my disastrous experience, "Good Thing" said: "The real strength lies in the agility of the movements. The more agility, the greater the strength, understand?"

In the second week, I tried to punch fast and I beat Kryushnikov.I admire "good things" even more.

In this house, however, "good things" are becoming less and less popular.Every time he learned that I had gone to a "good thing", my grandfather would beat me up severely.

One day, after morning tea, I went to his place and saw him sitting on the floor, putting his things into boxes.He saw me and said:
"Hey, little brother, we're breaking up, I'm leaving."

"why?"

"Listen," he whispered, taking my hand and drawing me to him, "do you remember that I told you not to come to me?"

I nodded.

"Little brother, you were angry at the time, weren't you? But I didn't want to make you angry. I knew you were dating me, and your family would scold you, right?"

He talks like a kid my age, but I absolutely love what he says.I even think that I understood him a long time ago when I heard my grandmother tell the story of Miron.

"Why doesn't any of them like you?" I felt pain inside.

"I'm an outsider, you understand? Just because of this, I'm not the kind of..."

I grabbed his sleeve, not knowing what to say.

Afterwards, we sat in silence as usual, chatting occasionally.

At night, "good things" go.He said goodbye to everyone cordially and gave me a big hug.

Thus ended my friendship with the first.

9
After "The Good Thing" left, Uncle Peter and I became friends again.He is very similar to his grandfather: thin, stern, clean and tidy, but he is shorter than his grandfather, and his whole body is smaller than him, like a half-grown child who pretends to be an old man for fun.His face was like a woven sieve, all woven with fine wrinkles.Among the wrinkles, a pair of ridiculous eyes rolled around, and the eyeballs were yellow.His light gray hair was curly, and his beard was curled into circles.He was smoking a pipe whose smoke was the same color as his hair, rising in coils.He talked in circles, full of witty remarks.I think he's making fun of everyone.

Uncle Peter can also read.He started from the "Bible", read many books, and often argued with his grandfather who was the most holy among the saints.He is a neat and organized person.Every time he passed the yard, he always kicked the wood chips, tiles and bones aside with his feet, chasing and cursing while kicking: "Excess things, look at you in the way!" He is very talkative, looks very kind, very optimistic.But sometimes he would sit huddled in a dark corner, frowning, and not saying a word.

In a small house on our street, a new gentleman moved in. He had a strange personality. Every festival, he would sit by the window and shoot dogs, cats, crows, and even those he didn’t like. passers-by.Whenever Uncle Peter was at home, he would hastily put on his wide-brimmed holiday hat, and rush out the gate, walking with style along the pavement, up and down the shooter's window.Once, a shot shot hit him in the shoulder and neck, and my grandmother scolded him while picking out the shot with a needle:

"Why are you pampering that savage guy, be careful he will shoot your eyeballs out!"

"No, it won't," drawled Uncle Peter contemptuously. "He's a bad shot. I just wanted to tease him..."

(End of this chapter)