She is your mother, or How to Love

My history teacher at school was Mikhail Rybakov. You can find it on Wikipedia.

To say that he was a Jew is to say nothing.

He was neither a Jew nor a Jew, but a Jew. As in the images of the Goebbels News, with the size of the nose, a gray-plugged and carded sho French musketeer. The warts are where they are. The lesson was called “History”.

Then he left the classroom, wearing a crazy suit and a hat, in the sight of which he wanted to sing "seven or forty." There were no pearls in it. Thank God there were no smartphones and no Instagram.

He led our class by the hand to the place where Askold and Deer were killed. It was a five-minute walk from school. He showed us where they were killed and told us why, then we went to the tomb, then we went to see the Golden Gate and the underground museum. There under the glass lay the rusted weapons of our Aryan ancestors.

The place where the friends of the deceased conung Rurik jumped out of the drakkars on the Dnieper sand, and Oleg the Witcher brought out the young Ingvar, the future husband of Helga the Holy, the father of Svyatoslav the Brave and the grandfather of Vladimir the Red Sunnychko, wrapped in the prince's coat.

This is the place! A Jew cried and cried. It was all here! Why don’t you want to know this?

We were fucking.

Then we went to Illinois, the place of the very first church of Russia. We were bored, the girls went to smoke around the corner, and he ticked his finger into the building and said, “You don’t see! Two martyrs were killed here. Not mine, but yours! Peggy Russian Pgavoslav Hystyans!”

We were all fucking.

He brought to the lessons some rare foilings of the history of Ukraine, grims in a cover of the skin of virgins, and was angry when we didn’t want to teach our history. He called us “Phidugi” and “Degenegadi”. We were only looking for naked women.

Our people survived because they remembered their history. Why don’t you want to know yours?

He sat on a chair and something exploded underneath him. A simple system of head of light bulbs and scissors.

We are rugged. We were fucking.

Of course, it was sent by kebenimathers from all schools. Because it was impossible to teach Ukrainian history so clearly in the USSR. The latter, it seems, was a school in Rusanovka, where a Jew who was stunned by the history of Ukraine was killed.

Here is.

I was taught the history of my country by a funny and ridiculous Jew. A district laugh. A clown in a wet coat and a covered hat. But now I know – how the warriors were planted, how the Golden and Lyd Gate were standing, why the Lutezh and Bukrinsk plateau, I know the history of Magdeburg law and where the tomb of Ilya Muromz.

Three colonels came out of my class, one of the General Staff. Children's famous illustrator, European swimming champion, and I, not the god of the sho, but I also try.

You understand why I, a Ukrainian, consider any anti-Semitic as a personal enemy.

And I remember, Mikhail Alexandrovich, by the nickname “Gus”, as you sadly said with your hose burned on your ass, looking out the class window.

Ukraine is your mother. You don’t love your mother at all?

Behind the window was rain, the corner of 310 cabinets, the third floor of school No. 30. We were fucking. We were all Komsomolers.

Your people have walked in the wilderness for forty years. We only travel thirty.

I will not forget, Mikhail Alexandrovich, how a Jew taught me to love Ukraine. I would like to say thank you and honestly whisper for all the bad - but... you will not hear me anymore.