War united them..

 War united them... Second World War united people who would never met in the real life. And twisted their lives in some strange magnificent circle where everything gets connected by invisible special power. When millions of personal stories becomes one and stay one may be forever.

A woman is walking on the dark street. She is wearing long skirt, old fashioned shoes on a small hill, and covering her hair with a wide scarf or head cover like Middle Eastern women would cover themselves in public. This woman was hiding behind it, walking fast and looking infront of her, under her feet. May be she didn’t know this street or wanted to be invisible. Someone called her. Then the environment changes. The woman is sitting on a chair in some office. There's nothing much around her. Table, her sitting on the other side. An army officer is shaking her shoulders and talking loud, almost screaming. The woman is quiet, but she has tears, she is quietly crying. The officer shakes her again, walks to the table, fills glass with water from the glass jar standing on the table, turns back yo the woman and throws water from the glass on her face. The entrance door opens. Officer in dark, almost black military uniform enters the room. He nodds someone from outside of the room. Two soldiers enter the room, walk to the woman, grab her and leave the room. 

 Four shining lights.

Snow, snow, snow… little flakes are drifting down on the road outside my window.

It is January. Dreamy hour at work again. This is what snowstorms create, quiet, romantic, unreal time when you want to think about far away moments, smooth, warm and cold like the weather outside and endless with all the dreams still where they are.

In falling snow, I always think of him.

Although we met in summer, snowflakes remind me of him more than sunlight ever could. Cold, distant, yet caring and strangely happy.

Maybe he was my gift, the kind child finds under the Christmas tree. When I was six, I found a box of colorful markers. It was a big surprise, and I remember the thrill and excitement as clearly as if it was yesterday.

Each time he appeared, he felt like the same kind of gift: colorful, unexpected, and full of excitement.

He called me “Sunshine” the first time we met and always and charmed me in this unusual way right away.

I loved his endless history lessons, the way they tangled past and present together.

Something was bringing the two of us toward the same point without my noticing. Only later did I understand that he had led me directly to magic. And when you face magic alone, without protection by the older magicians, without their guidance. You become a magician yourself, and there is no way out or back.

At first, I didn’t know who he was or I didn’t understand or ignored.

Before we met, I felt like a few shadows were following me. From old days magicians use shadows as a way of some communication or reason to pay attention.

He was only a man, the customer at the place where I was working.

Good looking, successful, he was wearing a suit and was clean, smelled nice, was easy going. I would say, successful in the quiet way, showing up just enough to notice and understand.

And I was a student who moved to a big city, and choosing different path from what I supposed to be or who I supposed to become. Instead of medical university, becoming a doctor and white healing magician, I turned to a law university and civil ordinary life.

At the first day we met he started to talk about history. All started from a small question about one strange looking building on the way from my work to my home.

He always wanted to walk me home. And this all we used to do, walk together from my work to my home. About one and half hour walk. We didn’t hold hands, we didn’t talk about personal things. We were like coworkers going together from work, funny with some interest.

I told that I like to look at the buildings, open store windows or shining windows at night and see what kind of life was going on. Even on the window in my home I would put few interesting things, flowers, decorations.

Now we were walking near this really fancy, old style looking building and I said that must be aristocrats are used to live here before the 1917 Revolution.

He said, no, this is new style building and he gave me a lesson about old houses, designs and famous architects. It was first huge lecture as it seemed that I had ever heard.

Later on, I found out, he knew so much, the real things, not edited for any pleasure to have a different picture.

And he tried to bring me to the same knowledge.

I believed he was historian or archeologist. Every day we would walk like this, listening him talking, relaxing and thinking about us.

Egypt and Ancient Greece were his favorite subjects. I told him that some of my relatives came from Greece in the beginning on the 19 century. And my great grandmother had a family tree in the living room in her house, but that time I was a child and I didn’t think much about it

He smiled and nodded.

“What do you do?” - I asked.

He only looked at me, offering no answer. Then I tried something else: “What’s your favorite place?”

“Greece,”- he said. “Myths, legends, power”.

He spoke of Ancient Greece the way poets speak of lovers.

"Garments draped like quiet waterfalls—short for men with sun-carved shoulders, long for women whose hair curled and glittered with jewelry.
Their statues were not just stone. They were dreams of how human beauty should look, and time named them classical.
Then came Rome, strong and impossible to fight against.
The Roman Empire took Greece and then Egypt, and not even Cleopatra, brilliant as a star, could hold the Empire back.
“Bread and entertainment,” - he said came from Roman Empire.
Rome had Senate, fierce enough to challenge even an Emperor.
Egypt had priests with power hidden behind the temples.
The Pharaoh was both ruler and High Priest, the most powerful in Egypt.
In Greece, white color clothes belonged to aristocrats, shining like moonlight.
Farmers wore green, grey, and brown, the colors of earth and olives and quiet work.
Their nobles decorated clothing with golden pins and belts of gemstones, as if its beauty itself were armor and proof of power".
As he spoke, it felt as he was walking through the ancient world and showing students from the future all the beauty.

"Greece, Roman Empire, Egypt..."

As soon as he said it, I started to see green. It was in my vision. I was a magician looking somewhere else. A deep powdered green that wasn’t quite olive and not quite emerald. It something ancient, or had ancient feeling. “Green”, - I whispered without thinking.

“What else do you see?”- he asked me looking like it’s normal for him too.

Then I saw a short man in a white robe.

“White robe and short? Short man in the long white robe. His dark hair has a strange style.” - I said , almost laughing at the image.

“I see this man and two men, dressed the same, beside. Look like they are three judges sitting in front of auditorium”.

He smiled as if the whole thing amused him too.

“The ancient Greek statues”, - he explained - “were made from looking at the real people. “The real proportions, real bodies, real clothes. Only ancient Gods were sculpted from imagination”.

One time we were walking near the river that runs close to the city, and I noticed someone renting a boat.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Go where?” he asked.

“Let’s rent a boat and go for a swim, not far. I know a little about it.” I replied, and somehow, that led me to speak of my childhood. The city I grew up in, the two rivers that ran outside it, the people, the old women and a few men, each carrying their stories.

We didn’t use the boat that day, but as we talked, something shifted. He wanted to see home.

He listened differently, as if discovering something he had been searching for.

“I want to see those two rivers,” he said.

We bought tickets for the train and went to my city.

We walked along my familiar roads, from the station to my house. After being away for a while it felt different. Plus I was walking with a good looking man.

The weather was gentle, the air calm. And he suddenly stopped. He froze, his face paling until only his dark eyes seemed alive. They were black eyes or dark brown or on his white face the eyes started to look black.

He turned to me and said: “I have something important to do,” and then he left, walking back to the train station.

After that, I didn’t see him for a long time.

Then he came to my workplace again. He looked the same as before, yet different. Like a painting after varnish, the colors unchanged but somehow got sharper and more intense.

Something had changed in him. He walked me home, and this time we were quiet. He didn’t know what to say and I couldn’t ask anything.

“Can you do something for me?” - he looked at me finally. “Can you see the portals? Things people cannot see?”

“I used to. A little, a long time ago.”

His mood brightened instantly; it was impossible not to notice how fast his feelings changed, as if joy and seriousness were layered in him like thin sheets of glass. I could see through everything. Through his feelings, emotions and what’s might be under coolness and self control.

We began to talk again, but now words alone were not enough. We also began to see. And I started to wonder what had happened before we met, what roads or storms had shaped both of us from the very beginning.

“You know magic too?” - I asked.

“Sort of,” - he answered. “I do it”.

From now on, it magic it was mostly all we were talking about.

He invited me to his apartment. I really wanted see how he lives, what he reads, what he thinks about.

As soon as I stepped in the door, I knew, it was some one else apartment. It felt totally different from how he felt to me. Everything was very clean, still was the presence of different people living here.

Nice big room, table with dishes on it, closed blinds on the windows, bright light.

An old woman was serving us the food. Then she left somewhere.

He opened a bottle of wine.

From one glass of wine everything around started to change. I started to see different time, different era and different room. From many years ago. It looked like Egyptian house now. I saw an ancient Egyptian woman, lightly tanned, slim and creamy linen thin dress and short wig, with brigh eye make up, the black eyeliner. She walked in the room, beautifully and gracefully like a cat and sat on the chair.

Servants started to bring large plates with fruits, music started to play. I even felt tiny breeze of air, touched the back of the chair and felt the air mixed with soft perfume oils.

I was little bit drunk, and started to talk about what I see. About life thousands of years ago. Freely talking and a bit aggressive.

He started to talk about his life. Very loud and aggressive too. About his guilt, the feelings he doesn't want to feel any more, about nightmares he has, a mistake he made. He got hysterical first time and first time I have seen someone like this.

He took his wallet and started to push me money asking to help him. A lot of money. He threw them all over me.

I started to kiss him, promising to help.

All I could hear was "Give me light, save my soul!"

At night, I woke up and looked at the window. The window was wet, and those water drops made a figure. Dragon or dinosaur was standing between two thin triangles that also looked like two mountains.

In the morning I left very quick, hoping I wouldn’t see him again.

All next one or two weeks I didn’t see him. I tried to look inside of him, in case he would come and ask. The money were tricking too.

All I was allowed to see. Metal window, a bit round, like on a ship, closed in front of my eyes with a loud noise.

I couldn't see further than that.

We met again. He stopped by my workplace as usual in the evening. He was soft this time. He was in love. His eyes were watching me.

I told that I couldn't see anything inside of him and cannot help.

He got upset, but didn't show. Only give me ten dollars. I said ten dollars is okay.

We were walking on our usual way to my home and he turned to me.

He looked at my eyes with sympathy, hope, excitement. He would ask me to be his girlfriend may be or he loves me. His eyes were full of live.

Then he touched my hand, his hand was warm and strong. It squeezed my fingers and tried to move me close. I would have hugged him too.

In the same second four shining lights feel between him and me. Made light cover from all the four angles. I could see this yellow barrier and he could see it too.

He fast pushed his hand back and looked at me. Now he looked like someone else, it wasn’t him at all. I couldn’t see from the light, but it wasn’t him. A strange man was looking at me. I started to felt cold, almost freezing. He left, I didn’t see where he left.

Portals.

 Chapter 1

Chocolate People
The old women seemed deeply troubled. The older they were, the more grief was etched into their faces. The eldest bit her lips, frozen in place, one hand covering her mouth.
They stood together in a small circle around a rectangular stone monument. The inscription told everyone that a village had once stood there, until it was burned to the ground by the Nazis during the Second World War.
It was late autumn. Cold rain drifted through the wind, and the sky hung low and gray. The women, all in their sixties and seventies, wore similar coats and scarves. From a distance, they looked almost identical, as if they belonged to the same forgotten family.
"The house was here," one of them whispered.
The wind suddenly fell silent.
In that perfect stillness, a house appeared.
It was a wooden house with a terrace stretching across its front. A table and several chairs stood neatly arranged outside. Everything, the walls, the porch, the furniture, was the color of dark chocolate.
People moved across the terrace.
Women.
Children.
They, too, were made of chocolate. Thick chocolate dripped slowly from their bodies, as though they had just climbed from a pool of melted cocoa and had never bothered to dry themselves.
No one at the memorial spoke.
Then the women gasped together.
One of them whispered, her voice trembling,
"This is the least we can do."

 

 Chapter 10.

Echo across the river.

We spent every summer here before the Revolution.

We were standing on a small hill overlooking the river and a young pine forest that had been planted only a few years earlier. The tiny trees stretched across the blue sky like thin green lines.
Together with the other village children, all of us barefoot, we listened to two very old people who still remembered the years before the Revolution of 1917.

"Our cows used to graze where those trees are now," one of them said. "We came here, sat by the fire, cooked soup, and listened to stories—or told our own."
The voice continued without stopping.
Names of people.
Dates.
Stories.
Little by little, everything began to blend together—the old folk tales, the night sky, the stars, the food we had brought from home, the fresh milk we drank by the fire.
The river was beautiful.
Dark blue.
Light blue.
Lavender.
Gold.
It reflected the sky so perfectly that the water seemed to hold the same stars waiting to shine.
Then I heard a harp.
Out of the white evening mist, an ancient Slavic boat appeared below the hill.
I could see how it had been built from long wooden planks.
Its curved bow reminded me of a swan.
Several men were sitting on the sand beside it.
They looked like ancient warriors—tall, with blond, curly hair.
Some wore long red and white tunics.
Others carried round metal shields.
They were playing a game with carved wooden cubes, tossing them into the air.
A young boy was playing with them.
It looked as though the warriors were teaching him.
He was dressed differently from the others.
His clothes were clean and finely made, like those of a young prince.
His cheeks were flushed, and he wore a small decorated hat.
Then I noticed a young woman standing on the boat.
She was dressed in soft cream-colored clothing.
At first, she looked down at the warriors.
Then she slowly turned her gaze toward the river and the distant shore.
Behind her, several young girls laughed.
An older woman quietly told them to stop.
They laughed a little longer before falling silent.
The young woman continued looking into the distance.
She wore a beautiful old Slavic headdress, large earrings, and delicate embroidery across the front of her dress.
Then she began to sing.
Softly.
In a language I could not understand.
I leaned forward, trying to see more clearly.
As soon as I moved, the boat disappeared.
The voices of the old people returned.
They were speaking about the Revolution.
The Entente.
The North.
Children running barefoot seventy years before.
Old stories.
The river flowed on, carrying them all together.

Book

 Chapter 9. 

Different Eyes

It was summer when I began learning about herbs.
An elderly woman was teaching me and another student who was twice my age. We walked through fields and gardens, learning to recognize medicinal plants, when to gather them, and how to dry and store them.
I listened carefully.
At that time, I was planning to study medicine at university.
After one of our lessons, we visited an old man who was well known for his knowledge of herbs and healing. People came to him from nearby villages and even from distant cities. Some arrived quietly. Others came desperate, carrying hope with them.
His house was simple.
He looked at the older woman first.
Then he looked at me.
He stepped closer.
Pointing at me, he said,
"She has different eyes. I will teach her."
For a moment, everything became still.
I was supposed to feel honored.
I was supposed to feel that a new door had opened.
But at that very moment, I was in love.
The man I loved was a police officer.
Suddenly, herbs, medicine, and hidden knowledge seemed less important than my desire to be close to him.
I decided not to study medicine.
Instead, I chose law.
I wanted to work where he worked.
I wanted to stand where he stood.
So I said no to everything else.
Years later, I sometimes wondered what my life might have become if I had walked through that door of herbs and hopes of different people.

Book

 Chapter 5. 

Another Man

Another man came over and started talking.
He was more serious than the first one.
Shorter.
Dressed like anyone else.
Nothing unusual. Nothing luxurious.
Just ordinary.
He talked, but he rarely smiled.
His eyes kept moving.
They did not settle on one person for long. Instead, was wandering around the room, as though he was observing everything at once.
There was something about him that felt artificial.
As if he were pretending to be someone else.
He seemed too serious for a birthday party.
His energy felt sharp. Focused. Controlled.
He nodded from time to time and listened to the conversations, yet it never felt as though he truly cared.
Then, suddenly, he turned toward the hallway.
He became completely still.
It looked as though he were listening to something beyond the room.
Listening to the air itself.
A moment later, without saying much, he quietly walked away.

Chapter 6.

The Third Man
The third man was older and heavier.
He was trying very hard to look younger.
Very hard.
But I could still see his age.
His pale skin, hs face, his hands.
With him, I began to talk.
Unlike the others, he seemed genuinely interested in conversation.
At first, he asked simple questions.
Then deeper ones.
The longer we talked, the more confident I became.
Before that, I had been shy.
With him, speaking became easy.
He switched from one language to another and spoke about books and world literature.
I answered every question.
The conversation flowed naturally.
Meanwhile, the women were watching.
They did not appear relaxed.
They were not pretending to enjoy the party. To me, they were always old women, grandmas.
They watched the men carefully.
As though something might happen at any moment.
As though they were ready. Their eyes were sharp. They were on their own territory and controlled everything.

 Chapter 8. My Childhood Friend

One of the women at the party was my childhood friend.

Most afternoons after school, we played together outside.

We ran through abandoned houses, climbed unfinished construction sites, hid in quiet corners, or sat on the playground talking with our friends.

She was older than I was.

She always dressed like a tomboy.

After the party, we talked about what had happened. Quietly and mostly secretly.

At first, there seemed to be nothing unusual to say.

Everything had felt perfectly normal.

Only when I began asking questions, who those men were and what she thought of them, her answers surprise me.

She said they were not who they claimed to be.

Not really.

Her words stayed with me.

"I liked only one, the most friendly",- she whispered. I noticed his talks around everyone, people nodded listening to him. This man looked friendly, talking about life overall, news, history, books.

He wore a lilac jacket.

His nose reminded me of a bird's beak, and two thin lines framed his mouth. 

Soon afterward, my friend left the city.

For several years, I did not see her.

When she returned, she was different.

Not a little different. Completely different.

She looked different, she spoke differently.

Her clothes, her hair. Even her face.

She reminded me of a princess from an old Persian fairy tale. Black silk. Jewelry. Grace.

Distance. She still had the same name.

But she no longer felt like the same person. And she left the city again. 

Chapter 7.

"Rivers of Honey".

“Rivers of honey,” - a voice said dreamily.

“What?”- I asked, surprised that something was there, in this unknown portal where I was looking sometimes before playing the lottery at work.

“Rivers of honey,” - the voice repeated.

The voice felt happy.

Not just the sound. The feeling behind it. The spirit was happy, and that feeling reached me.

I wasn’t planning to talk.

Looking into portals was not new for me. I would look for a few minutes, just to see if something could be found, maybe numbers, something useful.

But this voice made me stop.

After a few minutes, I had to leave.

The next day, I came back.

Not for the lottery.

Only to see what the spirit wanted.

The happiness pulled me back.

The spirit didn’t ask again.

It showed me something small.

An oval shape, like a balloon, with a thin line coming from it.

Then I saw a woman.

She looked to be in her thirties. She was standing in a room with peeling walls. The wallpaper was falling off, showing smooth, light concrete.

Men in worn clothes were standing at the door, trying to close it.

In the middle of the room, there was a wooden table.

A child was sitting on it, a boy.

The woman was still smiling.

The room was broken, but it felt bright.

The child was smiling too.

Then I had to leave again.

The next day, I returned.

“I will help you,” - I said.

But I didn’t understand how.

And after that, I didn’t see the portal again.

Chapter 8. 

The Ring

The next day, toward evening, an idea came to me.

The small "Saturn" I had seen was not a planet.

It was a soul.

A dark sphere surrounded by something that looked like a shield.

Around it was a ring.

The ring was made of two souls holding each other, forming a perfect circle.

Bright. Shining.

They sent light into the space around them, like moving colors.

One of the souls wanted to leave.

I could feel it.

"Not like them," a voice seemed to whisper.

As soon as she had the chance, she let go.

Then her story began to unfold.

I saw a woman.

Beautiful and legant, rich.

She wore a fur poncho.

Her blond hair was carefully styled.

Her makeup was flawless.

Jewelry completed the picture.

Everything about her looked perfect.

She stood beside a man.

She looked at him with trust.

With admiration.

Together they walked downstairs.

The man hesitated.

He reached toward her shoulder.

But another hand stopped him.

They entered a room.

She slipped off her fur poncho.

Beneath it she wore a cream-colored blouse and a black skirt.

Then everything became unclear.

A figure appeared. Pale.

Wrapped, as though covered in strips of cloth.

It moved slowly.

The woman stood perfectly still.

The figure remained beside her.

Where one eye should have been, I saw a blue shape.

The woman's hands moved behind her back.

Something seemed to tie them.

Then the vision disappeared.

After that, I saw a man pouring alcohol into a glass. Again and again.

The second soul was also a woman.

She was younger, stronger. Different, curious, allive.

She stood smiling in front of a painting, pretending to be part of it.

Then she ran through a large house.

Moments later she stood quietly at a window.

A man was behind her.

Neither of them spoke.

Suddenly she began to cry, leaning toward him.

Gently, he pushed her away.

She stepped back.

White flowers rested in her hands.

He walked away.

She remained where she was.

Another man told her to go inside.

She nodded.

Her soul was part of the ring.

Whenever she tried to move closer to the dark sphere, something appeared.

Burned hands.

Reaching toward her. Voices.

Overlapping.

She became frightened.

She stepped back into the light.

The shield surrounding the dark sphere seemed to be something else entirely.

I saw an ancient king.

He appeared only for a moment before riding away.

A storm rose around him.

In the middle of winter.

He wore a crown.

Armor.

A sword hung in his hand.

Everything moved.

Everything became loud.

Everything felt powerful. And all disappeared under the thunderstorm. 

 1.

Она играла на пианино

Всегда задирая рукав.

И номер рыже синий 

Как будто с ней тоже играл.

Я папа первой не стала,

И даже не стала второй.

Я просто пришла с вокзала,

Я просто пришла домой.

Сижу шевелиться не смею,

Есть час еще про запас.

И час закружится в вальсе волшебном,

Напомнив нам что-то в тысячный раз.

Снег на березах, клуб у дороги,

Кружаться пары и папа играет нам вальс.

Мальчик красивый танцует со мною, но только несмотрит в глаза.

Весенней порою, военной тропою,

Уйдет он в болота, леса.

Хороших знакомых сын.

Папа смеется, играет,

Давно за нас все решил.

Зима пролетела и лето.

А осень в пожарах была.

Горел старый клуб,

Забывшийся вдруг старый рояль.

Война в город наш пришла.

И ночью холодной

И в серости дня.

В холодном бараке, всегда.

Закрою глаза и слышу я вальс,

С мальчишкой кружась до утра.

2.

На старых полках книг чужих страницы.

Сейчас начнется тихий пересказ.

Сияют снова радостные лица,

Как будто все читают в первый раз.

Вот путник у забытого колодца.

И видит вдруг он радости глаза.

И снова свет и снова льется солнце,

И сказка эта без начала и конца.

Глаза другие.

В них танцуют тучи, глаза сверкают звездами в ночи.

Ну что же ты!

Уставший путник.

Смотри на небо, правду там ищи.

Вот праздник где веселье бесконечно,

Но почему-то хочет остаться он один.

Пусть будет вечность,

Пусть будет вечность,

Для нас для всех.

Мой друг, мой господин.

Смотря на всех,

Одну лишь замечает.

Волшебны песни юности влюбленной.

И для нее ночами он не спал,

И для нее одной работал.

Потом снова праздник

И солнца рассвет.

Веселый и грустный.

Ну что же.

Ты просто был пьян.

Мила, не мила.

Что делать, законы такие.

Придут времена,

И скажут про нас,

Что вскормлены мы все хлебом единым.

Потом свет зажгут, 

В окошке луна.

Растянутся дни и годы.

И будут шуметь в дали поезда

И будут гудеть параходы.

Потом снова вечер, свеча на столе.

Вот книжка забытая мною.

И ты улыбнешься конечно же мне,

Бывает с учебой такое.

3.

Он был соседей наших сын.

Простой мальчишка,

Не высокий, не красивый.

Меня он даже не любил,

Но стал моей звездой счастливой.

Его в бараке тёмном я ждала,

Ему писала письма до рассвета.

Старик в лохмотьх мне сказал:

Любовь - мечта поэта.

Потом в вагоне воду приносил:

Мечтал я тоже о великом.

Сейчас одна мечта,

Пусть будет родина великой.

Туда где море, где рассвет

И чайки дремлют на прибое.

Тогда скажу своей семье,

Мы знали радости и в горе,

Когда земля остановилась,

И всё что было там, вчера,

Мне словно в будущем приснилось.

А я мечтала о любви.

Влюбилась в мальчика соседа.

Другая я, другая жизнь.

И я ждала его у входа,

Но притворялась как всегда,

Что с ним я даже не знакома.

Потом влюбился он в меня.

Мои стихи читал ночами.

Он утром уходил, а ночью сном мне возвращался.

Однажды утром будит он меня,

Уставший, грязный и седой,

По-русски тихо говорит:

Ну что ты спишь,

Вставай.

Победа.

4.

Где реки сливаются вместе 
И сказки столетья звучат,
На фронт провожала невеста,
Сама как те реки журча.
В тяжелую пору солдатом,
Я видел её как мечту.
Я видел её как колдунью,
Влюблённую в юность мою.
Меня она крепко держала.
Преграды ей не страшны.
И знала, всегда она знала,
Приду я домой с той войны.
Я видел дома наши, реки,
Леса у лугов заливных.
Сквозь огненный воздух, удар артиллерий,
Я слышал её громкий смех.
Она усмехалась снарядам,
Она усмехалась врагу.
Колдунья, пусть знает, колдунья,
Я душу твою заберу.
Ей ветер поддакивал только,
Врагов от меня отгонял.
Шумели снаряды, но были они не страшны.
Колдунья, пусть знают, колдунья,
Надёжные чары мои.
Никто на пути не посмеет 
Ни встать, не обидеть тебя.
И с этой далёкой мечтою,
Далёкой невестой моей.
Всегда беспощадно, с боем,
Я шёл до победы моей.
Четыре прошли долгих года.
Приехал в родные края.
Меня встречает невеста,
Сама как все реки журча.

5.
Лица простые, 
Улыбка судьба,
Готова сказать мне о многом.
Как шли поезда,
Как шли поезда,
Дорога сменялась дорогой.
Богатства здесь нет,
Рабочий уклад, стол, диван, телевизор.
Картинки красивые в книгах
В далеком году, в далекой стране,
Как будто сквозь годы я вижу.
Бежала всегда на третий этаж.
Дом слева, окно с ярким светом.
На кухне смеется цветной попугай, болтает про чьи-то секреты.
Хозяйке теперь не до меня,
Чай на столе и разговоры с соседкой.
А для меня смешной попугай с каким-то новым секретом.
Потом за столом простой разговор.
На все вопросы ответы.С<
Смешается все, это было всегда.
Года пролетевшие ветры.
И не понятно что было вчера,
А что за тысячным летом.
Потом мы молчим,
Просто так, хорошо.
Вот птица, которая знает.
Еще чашка чая, торт на столе.
Пластинка о чем-то играет.
Я засыпать начинаю, мечтаю о новом пальто и помаде.
Но разве я знаю, что этот вечер простой пойдет со мной через годы.

6.
Вечер весенний, праздник семейный, Торт на столе, фотографии в круг. Две старые женщины, дружно по кругу поют про войну. Я одета красиво, новое платье, вечер весенний духами пропах, Думали мы, будет много объятий, будет играть много ребят. Но только две старые женщины поют о войне. Комната чистая, торт на столе, фотографии в круг, две старые женщины поют и поют, Поезд военный медленно едет, В тёплых вагонах звенит чистота. Где медали, где ордена? Что жь вы девчата, куклы в шинелях, Ваши медали на ваших руках.

7.
Закаты сменяли рассветы.
Солдаты наши шли к тебе,
Хотела песней быть не спетой.
А я мечтала о родной земле,
Я видела огни пожаров, 
наш поезд улетавший в даль,
и руки теплые шептали: "Прости, нам ничего не жаль".
Мы поднимали наши пашни, плуга тащили за собой,
приснится день вчерашний как сыновья уходят в бой.
Прощались мы в прихожей светлой:
Своё ты имя не забудь,
Как папа рвал все документы,
Мы собирались в трудный путь.
Eду в мою столкали сумку,
Не слова лишнего, молчи,
А по путям за тем составом другие эшелоны шли.
А еcть ли вера, есть ли сила, а есть ли правда на земле!
Болтаешь что, солдат усталый, мне хлопнул громко по щеке.
И снова мы в плугага впрягались, девченок молодых жалев.
Пусть наша армия расскажет, какая правда на войне.
Шум сирен, бросает кто-то корку хлеба и голос где-то шепчет тихо:
Не бойся, ешь.
Весна пришла, вот заголовки из газет "ищу солдата, ищу солдата",
а в клубе танцы, сколько тут невест.

8.

... где слова далекие

и дороги длинные,
где поля зеленые,
песни соловьиные ...
Средняя школа, младшие классы,
Детства далекого голос прекрасный.
Доедаю еду стола царского, наливаю немного вина и пластинка играет усталая,
Я совсем не помню ее, странную женщину по имени Сарочка.
Разговор как всегда с Египта начав,
тысячи лет всегда были вчера.
Ну разве пришла бы я, разве пришла, но вместе когда-то нам звезды светили.
Потом эти звезды на платья надев, мы дни по рассветам измерили,я помню запела о доброй стране, которой ни разу не видела.
Я думаю вот сейчас, внуки и правнуки где-то, для этих людей, прошедших войну,
мы были последняя битва.
Мы были любимы , балованы все,
Одеты красиво и модно,
Росли мы свободно в великой стране,
И что говорить, на девушек тех мы были совсем не похожие.
Сидели вдвоем на старой скамейке, последняя наша встреча.
Дороги родные если надо найдут, а ты если надо ответишь.
Ну что, не скучай, вспоминай иногда.
Ребёнка зови нашим именем.
Простые слова, нам и много говорить было не о чем.
Потом вздох как упрёк для кого-то еще, и слова для кого-то чужие.
Помни всегда что вместе когда-то нам звезды светили.
Ну что же тебе подарить, чтоб знала, думали мы и любили,
А хочешь, тебе страну подарю, которой ты раньше не видела.

9.

У каждого в жизни бывает минута,
Когда почему-то так тянет назад,
И в эту минуту запретного круга
Я в книжке английской увидела вас.
Простых русских женщин,
Военное время...
В колхозах, землянках, окопах, снегах.
С заплатами платьях, военных шинелях,
Морщинках на лицах,
Но светом надежды в усталых глазах.

С улыбкой, насмешкой
В глаза мне взглянули:
Ну что ты ревёшь-то
Ведь нету войны!

Ну вот, наконец,
Вот истинно горе –
Не любит мужик!

А ну улыбнись 
А ну не печалься
По вольной дорожке
Пройдись походи.
Совет наш простой:
Мечтай и люби,
Работай старайся.
Да радуйся только
Живёшь без войны.

10.

Там где синеют поля в дали,
В холодной дымке нет заката,
Деревья, дом, не яркий свет в ночи,
И на крыльце сидит с котом пушистым старая солдатка.
Ее за чаем разговор:
Куда ты лезеш, глупая ты баба.
Мальчишка молой:
Не знаю как тебя назвать,
Сестра иль мама.
Мне все равно.
Иду с солдатами и думаю о чем-то о своем.
Себя я вижу, мамин дом, наш огородик небогатый.
А кто-то вдруг кричит:
Подъем, подъем!
Шагает в бой восьмая рота.

Book

Chapter 1.

Old House.

My old house stood outside a small city. Somewhere far away, between two train stations and two rivers. 

It stood among farmland, forests, and gardens that were together for hundreds of years, like invisible guards watching over the whole our region wich was older then thousand of years according to found historical objects. 

How many times did I come here?
And how many times I did not want to come here.

I was very young, almost a child, and those days felt as though they would last forever.

My grandmother is reading a book. My great-grandmother is sitting quietly, looking out the window. She was always at the window, it was her favorite place when she was at home. 

Their friends are visiting. Our living room. The wooden table. The benches. All near the window. The bed close to the door. Big mirror on the wall. One bed room. One small room. Traditional fireplace. The garden. The trees. The birds. Even the neighbour's cow.
Fresh smell of grass fills the air, while bright sunlight dances with the wind just outside the window.

"If it rains, we don't have to water the garden," - my grandmother says stretching from the reading book in the same pose...

Now I realize that I am older then some of the people who used to visit this house. People who were old through the eyes of a child. My mother is now almost the same age as my grandmother was at that time.

I never truly understood how precious those moments were. I never valued them as much as I should have.

Today, I would give a great deal to sit at that table one more time and listen to every conversation or ask for advice. 

Someone would always say: 
"Everything is all right. The most important thing is that there is no war."

Several women would quietly cross themselves and nod in agreement.

To me, the old people all seemed tall, strong, powerful, and just a little frightening.

Once a year they wore their jackets covered with medals. Even my grandmother wore a medal pinned to her blue blouse. The same blue blouse I secretly borrowed and wore to school, although never with the medal. She kept it together with my grandfather's medals.
He had gone to war as well.

The older women were always serious. They listened without interrupting, allowing everyone to finish every thought before speaking. Then they would remain silent for another minute or two before quietly sharing their opinion.

Near the house stood an old apple tree and a small traditional wooden sauna where ancient rituals of cleansing had once taken place.

A bright, breezy hallway welcomed every visitor. The wooden floor creaked with every step, as though announcing to everyone inside that someone had arrived.

Almost immediately, the living room door would open, and someone would invite you inside.
During the day, the front door was never locked.
It was always open. Always welcoming.

The old women sat around the table with a pot of boiled potatoes, fresh homemade bread, milk from the neighbour's cow, bread, and salt. 

They knitted while teaching me how to knit. The long knitting needles often poked my fingers, but that was all right. I was learning.

Even today, I still knit the same way they taught me, using techniques from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. I could learn newer methods, but I choose not to. I want to keep that connection with the old traditions.

"Our things are made for healing," - the women would say.
"Our food is made for healing too."
And I listened.

They told stories from long ago, especially about their youth, before the wars and before the revolution.
I listened, although I did not always understand or even try to remember.

I wanted to run outside. And I did.

With my friends, I ran across the enormous fields. Sometimes we crossed the nearby river in a small wooden boat to explore the land on the other side. We were never afraid. Often we wandered into the forest, played in the flooded meadows with their brilliant green grass, and returned home before evening.

The garden around the house overflowed with herbs and flowers. In summer it was filled with warm sunshine beneath a bright blue sky without a single cloud.

At night the sky was crowded with stars. The fresh scent of grass drifted through the darkness.
It seemed as though I could see the entire galaxy.
Thousands of stars. Soft pink and purple circles of light. Tiny white dots. Perhaps even Perseus' Arm stretching across the sky. Sometimes I noticed thin streaks of light disappearing into the darkness.

Summer evenings were spent cooking over an open fire, caring for the garden, dreaming, and talking about the future.

New visitors always stopped by.
I still remember one woman with long dark hair. She is so clear in my memory. She sits beside the fire, serving soup from a large metal pot. Her smile glows in the firelight. Her eyes shine as she talks about simple things, the market, neighbours, everyday life. Gypsy song.

Many years later, while I was at work, I suddenly began to see that old house differently.
Not through the eyes of the teenager who wanted to escape it.
But through the eyes of an adult who wanted to see, to hear, and finally to understand.

Chapter 2.

Wizard and Warlock

Wizard
We met on a former Soviet farm where I was working for a bank.

The farm had once been successful, full of life, hope, and opportunity. Now it was almost abandoned.
All the farms in our region had once been lively. My grandmother used to tell me stories about Friday and Saturday night dances. She and her friends would dress up, curl their hair using small strips of newspaper, and walk to the village club, to talk and dance, sing funny songs called "chastushki" infront of the club entrance. 
"It was a lot of fun", - she always said.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, everything changed.
Many farms closed. Others became much smaller or were sold in small pieces of land.
Farm clubs became close together with their different stuff inside, books, papers, benches, wall paintings of Soviet life and inspiring posters.

There were two kinds of people who stayed behind in the farm where I started to work twice a week.

The first fought against poverty. They started their own farms, bought land, opened small businesses, or simply  moved away.

The second accepted what had happened and continued living on the little the farm could still provide.

The Wizard belonged to the second group.
He accepted everything.
He lived with very little.
And he liked me a lot.

We mostly talked about all books in the world.  I have never seen this passion for literature in anyone else.  I had books at home, and every week I brought him another one to read. It became the reason for our friendship. 

There was something about his energy.
It was bright.
Every time I met him, I felt as if I am washing my face in cool, clean water. The water from a secret special place. Always fresh, splashy in sparkling clear pearls of glass crystals.

Wizard was calm and polite, shy. He wore old clothes, shirt,  sweater, pants  stretched on the knees and rubber boots, but the roads were always muddy, so they suited him perfectly. His hair were clean, but he didn't go to barber often.

We would talk for a while. Then he would return to his work, saying he was already looking forward to the next book, or promising to bring me one of his own.
One day I asked him: "Why do you want to live here? Why don't you move to a big city? Everything would be easier."

He smiled.
There was sadness in that smile.
"And do what?" - he asked.

For some reason, I understood.
He would never feel at home anywhere else.
Here, surrounded by fields and open sky, he looked different.
Tall.
Strong.
There was an unusual beauty about him, especially outdoors.

One afternoon we walked together across the farmland toward his house.
It felt as though the weather changed around him.
The sun came out.
The sky turned deep blue.
Birds began to sing.
Then he started singing.
His voice was beautiful, the song reminded old Slavic style songs from movies.

We went our separate ways, I moved to a big city, I remember thinking, I have met wizard. It gave something special to my life. Feeling of clean energy may be. May be one day I go to that farm to see how it was long time ago.

Warlock
One day I had to bring some documents for a client to sign. It was business deal in a company where I was a new lawyer. 

After walking for a while, I realized something felt strange.

The feeling was like walking inside of an invisible bubble, controlled by thicker air around. The air seemed different. A little darker.

The road led to the edge of the city, where new apartment complex stood unfinished, mixing left country houses and those new buildings.

He lived in a small house, a good one, really standing out around all the construction mess. It was one taken care house.

I rang the bell.
An old man opened the door.
He could barely see me.
Instead, he seemed to sniff the air before looking in my direction. Almost invisible inhale of the air.

Then something unusual happened.
It felt as something invisible stopped him.
Almost like an unseen hand had appeared between us, telling him to stop.

He stepped back with expression on his face that everything is fine, almost with smile.

For a moment he looked surprised too. I felt it. 

He finally looked at me, then he quietly invited inside.

The room was small. Clean. Almost empty, but rich in a way.
There was only expensive table, expensive television, and expensive bed. All looked like bedroom in the soap opera. 

The news channel was turned on.

Warlock disappeared behind a curtain into another room.
When the curtain opened, the scent of dry grass filled the house.

He returned carrying a magnifying glass.
Very slowly, he began reading the documents.
Every line. Every word.

It took him almost more then hour to read a single page. I was sitting on the fancy chair moved from the table, watching news programs changing each other. 

When he finally finished, he signed the papers and handed them back to me. 

.

I thanked him and left.

On the walk home, the strange feeling remained.
It was as though I were still inside that invisible bubble.

Only when I was far away from the house the air become ordinary again.
Warm. Light. Breezy.

Chapter 3.

The Dark Magician and The White Magician. 

People talked about her.

Some said she practiced the dark magic. Others believed it was only superstition because she always wore black clothes. And some didn't believe in anything except working and money.

No one really knew for sure,  but everyone was careful around her.

Only once did I look beyond her appearance. 

Only once did I try to see her energy. We were in the library where she was invited together with few more people 

She reminded me of a bird.

Focused.

Still.

Her eyes were sharp. Her face was serious in a quiet, powerful way. There was no laughter in her. No lightness. No easy emotion.

She was completely present.

It felt as though she were watching me from somewhere deep inside herself.

The energy I sensed looked like a circle of fire.

Dark at the center.

Glowing orange around it.

Almost golden at the edges.

Always moving and spinning. She noticed, not even her as a person, who she was inside, and I stopped watching her. 

The White Magician was different.

Like the Wizard, she still makes me smile whenever I think of her.

She was beautiful, even at eighty years old.

Bright.

Alive.

She wore colorful clothes, often the same ones. At that time, most women had very little choice in what they could wear, yet she always looked different.

Her hair was blond.

She wore perfume that smelled like fresh flowers.

When I looked deeper, trying to see her energy, I saw something unexpected.

Behind her was blue.

At first it looked like a clear summer sky.

Then I noticed the eyes.

Eyes in the sky.

Hundreds of them.

As she moved, more and more eyes appeared, quietly watching.

I never felt afraid.

Only amazed.

The Dark Magician and the White Magician were not friends.

They did not visit each other or spend time together.

Yet they had lived through the Second World War on the same side.

Perhaps that was enough.

Enough for them to belong to the same unspoken sisterhood.

Enough for their grandchildren to grow up walking the same road.

Chapter 4.

Party.

One time we were invited to a graduation party. Few girls graduated from medical school and invited all their relatives and friends. 

I went with group of older women thinking its going to be fun and I just wanted to see different people, especially from different cities. 

At the party, the women were sitting in groups, and really, not talking much or talking to each other.

There were few men, soon they started to talk, because it would look really unusual for the party when everyone is quiet. 

He was a tall, handsome man.

Fit, with a tan that spoke for itself. Not a pale brown, but the rich color of coffee touched with cream. The kind of color that made you think of sunshine, travel, and distant places.

He looked at me with curiosity, but also with suspicion.

Because he was much taller than I was, his gaze seemed to come from above. His Polo shirt fit him perfectly, revealing a man who looked completely at home in a life of comfort and luxury.

"Can you tell me how old I am?" - he asked.

"You look about ten," - I joked.

He didn't understand.

Instead, he walked to a nearby store and bought me a lottery ticket.

"I am seventy-nine," - he said.

I didn't believe him.

He simply didn't look that old.

Then, almost instantly, something changed in his face.

A man, the best in honey business, according to our friends, who was standing beside me, suddenly pulled me away.

"Don't talk to him," - he said.

He pulled me a little harder than necessary.

I noticed. It felt rude.

I stepped back, almost hiding in the room, suddenly feeling as though everyone were watching me.

There wasn't much to do at the party.

Most of the guests were much older than I was.

So I watched the tall, handsome man.

From a distance, or with only a quick glance, he looked no older than forty-three or forty-four. Tall. Slim. Athletic. His skin carried the warm color of someone who spent time in the sun. His clothes looked expensive, the kind you would find only in designer boutiques. He had no socks, or short socks. I could see a bit of his legs, nicely tan too.

Everything about him suggested that he still saw himself as a young, attractive man.

He laughed easily.

He smiled often.

He looked completely comfortable.

Then I moved a little closer.

The picture began to change.

The longer I looked, the older he seemed to become.

He wore a jacket that matched his shoes perfectly. Later he took it off, leaving only his jeans, his Polo shirt, and spotless unique white running shoes. 

Everything looked expensive.

Everything looked carefully chosen.

But then I noticed his hands.

They were covered with small bumps and fine lines. The skin was thin and delicate, like caramel stretched over a cheesecake.

For a moment, his fingers seemed unusually long.

Or perhaps they only moved that way.

His face changed too.

Wrinkles appeared.

Fine lines became deeper.

It almost seemed as though his face could not settle into a single expression.

At moments, it reminded me of a mask.

And behind that mask, I sensed something else.

His eyes changed.

Then I saw him clearly.

He was old.

Very old.

There was a heaviness around him.

A tiredness.

A slight trembling.

His gray hair suddenly seemed to belong perfectly with his grey eyes.

And in that moment, he became exactly what he had told me he was.

A seventy-nine-year-old man.

Then I noticed something else.

The old women were watching him too.

Quietly and patiently. I shoke a bit and left the room. 

Story

Я хорошо помню этот день, точнее вечер, а еще точнее почти ночь. 9 марта 2014 года, воскресенье. Если забежать вперед и сложить 9 + 3 + 2014 будет 2026, сегодня, но это длинная по времени и пространству история.

9 марта я и отец моего ребенка ехали в машине и ругались из-за денег.

Я поставила диск с военными песнями что бы не слушать его.
Иосиф Кобзон пел патриотические песни о Великой Отечественной войне.

На улице было темно, мы поехали по не незнакомой дороге, заблудились и вдруг свет словно зажегся на лобовом стекле. Громкий голос сказал: "Левиты мои!", по-английски и я увидела вывеску со Звездой Давида.
А потом что-то прооизошло. Мы по-прежнему ехали в машине, но для меня это уже была не машина, а кинотеатр, где я сидела на пассажирском сидении перед светящимся экраном и смотрела Библейские сюжеты.
Самый первый, кого я увидела был Царь Соломон. Я поняла кто это и что я вижу. Все было знакомым.
Молодой парень, красивый, со светлой чуть-чуть загоревшей кожей, гладкой, черными короткими волосами. Он сидел на каких-то бревнах и весело что-то рассказывал и смеялся. Во круг него было мужчины в коротких туниках, с поясами, серо, даже серо - серебристых оттенков, с чем - то красным и синим. Они все смеялись и громко говорили. Это была стройка, вокруг песок, бревна и белые неровные камни, больше похожие на белый песок в форме квадрата.
Потом все изменилось. Все стало темно фиолетовым. Маленькое окно немного выше, и фиолетово-розоватое небо. Каменные гладкие стены. Женщина сидит на полу тоже в фиолетово красной одежде и ее взгляд не отрывается от окна. Она смотрит снизу вверх и я вижу белизну в ее глазах. Волосы покрыты фиолетово красной накидкой, она красивая. С правго бока на ее колене спит девочка. Рука женщины на плече девочки и видно ткань обмотанную вокруг правой руки женщины, цвета как ее одежда и такая же ткань на руке девочки.
Отец на полу играет с двумя сыновьями. Мальчики, 4 - 5 лет стараются запрыгнуть ему на спину, а он их со смехом отталкивает. Женщина в лиловой одежде наблюдает за ними. Она сидит боком и я только вижу длинные светлые волосы и розово лиловую одежду и легкий длинный платок на голове. Наконец - то одному из мальчиков, с желтыми, напоминающими солому, шар из соломы, волосами удается забраться отцу на спину и обхватить его шею руками. Мужчина перетягивает ребенка к себе руками, поднимае вверх, мальчит расправляет руки и выглядит как птица в полете.
После этого все начинает быстро сменяться, как быстрая перемотка фильма.
Высокий мужчина в длинном красивом халате читающий что-то на длинном листе перед женщиной покрытой немнго прозрачной тканью, видно свет и небольшое сияние. Худощавый, гордый мужчина в белой одежде, синем поясе, со свитком в руке быстро спускается по лестнице и идет по залу. И фараон, я вижу его головной убор, серьезное спокойное лицо и сильный оттенок кожи, холодный коричневый. Он смотрит в даль.
Потом начинаются голоса, но эти голоса в машине вокруг меня. Голоса людей, пожилых, кто-то говрит про меня, и мою работу.

И не просто говорят, они знают о чем говорят. Про мою работу, конфликты. Про личные отношния. Голос пожилой женщины, даже старухи, особенно выделялся, он был скрипучий и грозный. Он оправдывал меня, называл имена, объяснял, в это время другие голоса замолкали.

Так я приехала домой, я уже не видела картину из Библейского фильма, только голоса, резво болтающие направо и налево.

Понедельник прошел как обычно. Во вторник на обеде я сидела расстроенная и смотрела в окно. Был ветер и я наблюдала за тучами. Облака были бело серые, и потихоньку, очень медленно они стали складывать вместе улыбающееся лицо с рожками.

Потом чья-то мысль, по-английски, я ее услышала. "Займись наконец-то чем-нибудь еще на работе." Так она прозвучала. Я сфотографировала это облако. А в среду, дома, написала небольшой детский рассказ для детей и опубликовала на своем сайте и в Facebook и пофотографировала природу и себя с сыном.

В пятницу, 14 марта, 2014, мне пришло небольшое письмо со словами из моего детского рассказа, и фотографией, похожей на мою. На фотографии был мужчина, которому понравились мои фотографии и рассказ. Так началась наша своеобразная переписка, которая растянулась на несколько лет.

Мы делились историями, фотографиями, я начала как-бы другую жизнь, не только с дом и работа. Что - то еще пришло, то что я уже почти забыла и сначала не заметила.

Я фотогрфировала, что-то говорила, по - тихоньку занялась спортом, и самое главное стало меняться мое отношение к работе. Я начала работать по графику, рабочий день закончен, я иду домой. Конечно, это не понравилось, и все, что было, продолжалось. Однажды вечером, в ванной комнате, где я жаловалась себе, так можно сказать, снова появились эти же голоса, которые я слышала в машине уже несколько месяцев назад. И я увидела пожилую женщину, стоящую около меня и поглаживающую меня по голове, я сидела на краю ванной. Она была одета в кофту, прямую юбку немного ниже колен, платок на голове.

Она кому - то объясняла почему я сдесь сижу. Появилась другая пожилая женщина, это была бабушка моей прабабушки, я видела ее на старой фотографии и старики, один курил трубку, в старинных одеждах, или по-деревенски одетых, они просто слушали. Говорили только женщины, они защищали меня, жалели, называли матушкой. Был старинный русский говор, только видно было силуэты в длинных сарафанах, по бокам ванной комнаты. Потом все развеялось как золотистое облако.

На следующий день я подала жалобу о дискриминации на работе, всего было две, и от меня отстали.
Все продолжалось очень хорошо. Каждый день я фотографировала, о чем - то рассказывала, что - то писала, получала восхищенный ответ и так все это продолжалось. У нас не было личных сегодняшних вопросов, личных встреч, звонков, был просто разговор на духовные темы. Я стала рассказывать о своем детстве, юности, вспоминать людей которых знала и знаю. Это все приходило снова, в минутных картинах и знала как их видеть. И я написала небольшую книгу по - английски "With my Friend G-d". И отправила в христианское религиозное издательство. Там прочитали мою книгу, и сказали, что нужно редактировать и оплатить около пяти тысяч канадских долларов за эту редакцию и печать. Я отказалась, просто отложила эту книгу в сторону. Через месяц издательство снова позвонило и предложила все сделать бесплатно, но я отказалась.
Я поняла с кем я разговариваю, кто это за человек. Как только я стала искать, вспоминать светлые силы, я увидела его темноту. Это был, за закрытыми дверями, черный маг высокого уровня. Снала было не приятно, я видела, не много, силы, связанные с черной магией. Он ничего не говорил, не настаивал, не заставлял, он ждал мое решение. И я осталась. Мы так же делились всем интересным, но много стало на религиозную тему, она стала главной темой.

Началась магическая учеба. Он объяснял, я отвечала, я спрашивала, он отвечал. Кто - то оставил книгу с письмом у моей квартиры. Это была Библия Сатаниста. А письмо говорило, что мой уровень 92 и все личные встречи между черными и светлыми магами запрещены без соответствующего разрешения. Мы знали, что если я не перейду на темную сторону, такого разрешения не будет.

Потом начался Covid. По закону общение разрешено и закон меняется с началом глобальной пандемии и войны. Темным и светлым магам разрешено общаться и морально поддерживать друг друга.

Несколько человек пришли ко мне за помощью. Я боялась, что не помогу, и все будет смешно, и видела, что это, но все прошло хорошо.

Наши пути с тем мужчиной разошлись, я познакомилась с другими людьми, понимающими магию, и интересующимися нашим миром. И появился человек, просивший меня, и рассказывающий, что я не понимала или не могла объяснить. У него я стала спрашивать советы.

Общение продолжалось всю пандемию, и уже не было важно чья это сторона. Мы были людьми в трудной мировой ситуации.

Когда начался вооруженный конфликт между Украиной и Россией, Канада сразу стала поддерживать Украину. И тот конфликт занял главное место в новостях по радио и по телевидению. Все были против России и в магазтнах даже казалось, что все на тебя смотрят.

Я конечно посмотрела в чем дело, раньше я не интересовалась Украиной, хотя, брат моей бабушки жил на Украине в Черкассах. Его вторая жена была Украинка, яркая, колоритная женщина, говорившая только по - украински, что всех смешило во время их приездов. После войны, он прошел всю войну, он возвращался из Западной Европы и украинские женщины дарили солдатам вышитые рубашки. Он подарил ей эти вышитые рубашки, она их надевала, а потом подарила мне, они у меня дома.

Он был офицер, вышел в отставку и уехал на Украину.

Я стала читать Российские интернет издания. Очень было всего много, волна новостей, можно сказать История Украины за один день. Великая Отечественная война была самой обсуждаемой во всем этом. И все говорили о бандеровцах. Я знала кто был Степан Бандера, из школьной программы и слышала разговоры о этих людях уже во время независимой Украины, а не республики Советского Союза.

У меня был интерес к военной теме, особенно женщины на войне. Это была эпоха моих бабушек, прабабушек, и пра пра бабушек, которые прошли через это время. Была и другая причина, по которой я заинтересовалась военной темой. В 16 лет я учавствовала в религиозном ритуале, по собственному желанию и доброй воле, заменяя Белого Мага.

Мысли о тех людях в чем - то меня сформировали, у меня есть несколько стихов на эту тему.

И конечно, я сразу посмотрела на YouTube о вооруженном конфликте, в Канаде это называли войной между Украиной и Россией.

Мы очень много говорили о войне, личных воспоминаниях, магии, я уже что - то понимала, что - то знала и могла видеть немного не так как люди не интересующиеся этими темами.

И первое видео которое я посмотрела, это видео назавалось "Парад бандеровцев". Видео было черным, с точки зрения энергии. Не было абсольтно никакой живой частинки, просто сплошной черный, не такой как в акварельных красках например, экран. Я видела уже разных людей и всегда была энергия, при любых обстоятельствах, особенно на видео, человек "сияет" разными красками. Потом я посмотрела видео этих парадов в ночное время, и на черном фоне были только видны факелы, яркие точки огня. От людей не было энергии и я немного испугалась, потому что раньше я никогда такого не видела.

Я написала небольшое письмо, но эта тема не заинтересовала и мы просто стали за всем наблюдать.

А потом было выступление

"Во время визита президента Украины Владимира Зеленского в Палату общин Канады спикер Энтони Рота пригласил 98-летнего Ярослава Хуньку, представив его как ветерана Второй мировой войны".

И я хорошо посмотрела этого бывшего солдата, а теперь уже очень пожилого человека. Я вспомнила прабабушку, прадедушку, их братьев, отдавших жизни в этой войне.

Это я увидела как маг.

"Ранняя весна, светло и свежо вокруг, еще лежит снег, но вокруг маленькая зеленая трава. Лесная местность, но не много деревьев, они где - то на заднем плане. Поляна, на поляне стол и таз с водой. Молодые парни, в военных брюках, сапогах, без верхней одежды умываются в этом тазу, они берут из него воду и обтираются. Они о чем - то весело говорят, говорят о девушках, кто - то будет хорошей женой. Их кожа светлая и красноватая от холодной воды. Я смотрю и говорю себе "светлая кожа", действительно чистая юношеская кожа. Чавкающий голос прямо из того времени говорит "святая кожа". Я опять повторяю "светлая кожа" и чавкающий голос снова говорит "святая кожа". Я вижу немецкого солдата с винтовкой, он сидит на камне. Его лицо неестественно синеватого цвета, вокруг него белое небо, свет. Он напуган, смотрит в сторону, на что-то. Черное облако, со острыми как иголки щупальцами, которые шевелятся в разные стороны, ползет прямо на него, и белый цвет наполняется чернотой.

Потом опять молодые мужчины, я не вижу их лица, они одеты в военную форму. Они спешат за немецкими овчарками на поводках. Собаки бегут слишком быстро, в слюнях, тянут поводки. Солдаты не успевают за ними. Они бегут сквозь кусты и отодвигают ветки. Я вижу мужчин в белых пижамах, сидящи на земле в промежутке между двумя светлыми глыбами или в воротах, которые были убраны. Мужчины вскакивают и оборачиваются. Один из мужчин, молодой, похож на Румына или цыгана. У него черные прямые волосы до плеч и не светлая русская внешность. Мужчины подпрыгиваюит и бегут вперед. А потом раздаются автоматные очереди и крики людей, сплошной громкий крик. Потом, кто - то стоит у окна, мужчина, он смотрит на оранжевый пожар в далеке, закрывает занавеску и идет спать в чистую белую постель".

И я написала письмо от имени Белого Мага 92 уровня, с просьбой разрешить проверить были ли проведены ритуалы черной магии во время Великой Отечественной войны.

Ритуалы военного времени самые жестокие. Их нельзя отменить или исправить. В любом случае светлые и темные силы, и люди за ними стоящие, находятся на стороне своей страны и должны сделать все возможное и невозможное для победы, и жестокого возмездия по закону военного времени.

Было разрешено это проверить, только потому что это было связано с войной.

Я смотрю в окно. Два облака, светлое и темное соединяются друг с другом. Чувство, что кто - то протягивает мне руку. Я протягиваю свою руку. Женщина в военной форме, с короткой стрижкой, каштановые кудри чуть чуть ниже ушей, держит на своей ладони хлеб. Она глядит на меня и улыбается. И это чувство радости. Наши солдаты! Она с улыбкой разламывает этот кусочек хлеба пополам и протягивает половину мне. Кто - то зовет ее, справа группа наших солдат сидящих на скамейке. Женщина смеётся и машет им рукой, словно говорит подождите. Одну половинку хлеба она кладет на мою ладонь и убегает к солдатам.

Я вижу вижу идущую по небольшому холму дорогу. Это какое - то селение. Дорога песчаная, перед ней небольшие горы с деревьями. Лето. Эта местность не знала войны, чистый воздух. По дороге идет мужчина, что - то с его рукой, я ее не вижу, рукав загнут в брюки. Он разговаривает с почтальеном, берет газету и идет домой. Белый дом в саду, дальше от небольшого забора, в тени. Я вижу печку и стол. На столе книга, открытая посередине. На листе, рядом с книгой два маленьких желтых мутных шарика. Я вижу женщину в фиолетовой юбке, моющую пол. Мужчина садится за стол и читает книгу. Потом темно, два мужских голоса. Который по - старше и грубее что - то советует, они говорят, я понимаю, что надо сделать правильно. Потом день, старик и старуха, едут на повозке с одной лошадью. У старика длиная ветка в руке. Старуха двумя руками держит узелок. Они останавливаются на чистом светлом пространстве, слезают с повозки. Старик высокий, худой, в длиной светлой рубахе и вытянутых на коленях брюках. На старухе пиджак на несколько размеров больше, платье и косынка на голове. В их образе сухость, гореч, сила, их нельзя назвать старик и старушка. Эта пожилая женщина протягивает узелок мужчине без руки и начинает протирать глаза уголком платка, который на ее голове.

Я вижу дверь, в небольшую комнату, стены из дерева, открыто небольшое окно и видно зеленые листья деревьев. У стены люди, я вижу длинного старико, он у самой стены. Вижу женщину в двух рядах от него, она одета как казачка, длинная юбка и короткий пиджак.

Звонким голосом, подросток, очень звонкий голос, начинает говорить имена, я слышу шум падающих на пол листов.

Женщина в фиолетовой юбке капает воду на деревянный пол. Красные пятна на полу, немного подальше белые. Атмосфера в комнате совсем пустая, холодная. Мужчина в темной, бархатной мантии с вишневым подкладом стоит перед столом на котором лежит газетный лист. На листе фотография улыбающегося мужчины, сидящего немого повернуто, а не прямо. Мужчина в мантии говорит громче и громче. Женщина в комнате прикусывает губу что бы не заплакать. Она видит беленького ребенка, сидящего на веранде. Вижу девочек с косичками, бегущих с портфелями, мужчин, косящих траву.

Мужчина в мантии почти кричит: "Ты их убил!" и плюет на фотографию.

Он начинает бежать как черное животное, похожее на гладкую собаку в темноте. И на него начинают сыпатися огненные золотистые стрелы. Он уворачивается, но стрелы обигают его кожу. Вдруг за ним возникают светлые как облака фигуры, которые повторяют только слово "Видишь!" и огненные стрелы соединяются с ними. Впереди круг, он сияет, в нем фигура мужчины, она начинает растягиваться. Черная собака прыгает на него и возникает темнота.

Люди выходят из этого помещения. Один из мужчин идет домой. Он открывает дверь, в комнате чисто, на кровати девушка, она рыдает навзрыд. На ней сапоги, белая блузка, юбка и передник. Мужчина садится на табуретку рядом с кроватью и смотрит на свои руки".

Потом я посмотрела, что еще можно увидеть, связанное с этим ритуалом. Я увидела женщину, партизанку, 30 - 35 лет, рожавшую, она перебегала с небольшим автоматом от дерева к дереву, одета в коричневу юбку, сапоги и фуфайку. Через много лет о ней рассказывала пожилая женщина, у которой был выколот глаз, которая возможно ее знала. Та партизанка не вернулась из боя, она занималась магией и ее сила перешла в дерево под которм она лежала. Из дерева была сделана маленькая серовато коричневая шкатулка, которая была открыта.