“The harm of language.”

In the 1950s, we had little fun. Only what the garden and house could offer. The courtyard was much richer and more interesting at home. You could play football at the garages (up to the first glass), in the "sweepstakes", it wasn't without games for money (if you had them), a barbecue, a chira, an eagle, etc. At home what? Go there, bring it, don’t bother, and you did the lessons? Televisions were rare, turned on only in the evening with parents, in a word - thirst. Of course, somewhere there were "pioneer palaces" as mirages, but more they existed in the inflamed imagination and reports of pioneer leaders. The only thing that saved me from this boredom at home were books. Anyway, who is how.

By the first grade I had already read boyfriendly, and when others learned that “mama washed the frame,” I learned about “Treasure Island”, “Three Musketeers”, “Robinson Crusoe” and I don’t remember what else. Of course, for my immature mind, the "forbidden" literature was marked by the parents, which was cautiously hidden on the upper shelves of the closet, and also pushed into the corner. For her reading, it was easy to lose access to the book closet: "Decameron" Bocacho, "Goya" Fechtwanger, where the text was not important, and there were inexpressively interesting illustrations, some prohibited poets I do not need, but, as you know, the main thing is not to get caught. And so, took out a laundry on the street, chased for bread, scratched something in the notebook for tomorrow to school and you can hide in a remote corner with a book, so that you would not be touched.

The above is nothing more than an introduction to the situation.

So, I got to the book “The Cursed Kings” by Druon. Not very interesting, where they go to "Three Musketeers", but still - kings, conspiracies, poisoning. I carried a gallop on the story until I found out for some crazy word: ROGONOSEC. It seems offensive, but not mat and for the story matters. In a word, I found nothing wiser than to ask my father about it. His reaction surprised me, no, rather scared me!
Instead of answering or turning away from me, I can’t say, my father became stressed and began to ask me questions: “From whom you heard, when, where, etc.” I realized that I went somewhere wrong, read something wrong, and I am now deprived of access to the library. I remember the fate of the heroic pioneers-partizans, with whom we were haunted in school, I went unconscious. I heard it in the yard from the boys, I don't remember who, I don't remember when and so on.

Revenge was weak, I can say nothing at all. Bring a three-storey mat from the yard, the most relevant fancy, muddled proverbs - it's as much as you want. Constant rotation of the courtyard spana and mud (in the true meaning of the word!They came from somewhere from the zones and camps, then went there, supporting the language slang on which we all in the courtyard and communicated. At home, in no case. It could be taken seriously enough. And a rookie! This is also the same thing to ask, now, the second-classes about ambivalence or discourse. As it became clear, it did not run.

I was hidden. And not in vain. The next day, the mother asked with an olive voice, saying, where did the son hear this word and, most importantly, from whom? I realized that it was big, I closed up and stopped responding.

Of course, it could be heard in our communal apartment, where nine families lived. The composition was varied: a sanitary from a clinic, a professor of ancient literature with her husband, a large working family, a widow of a colonel with two sons, a district deputy with a quiet, invisible wife, my parents who both worked in the ministry and I with my older brother and grandfather. Everyone could be suspicious. We could add more friends of parents who often gathered with us or we with them. There could be springs, but not a garden.

Meanwhile, the clouds were thickening at home, no - the storm was unremittingly moving, which was the cause of me. In the communication there were purely intelligent expressions such as: "Wouldn't you be kind to pour me a plate of soup," "You will not be burdened to go, please, to the store for potatoes," and so on. Nothing supernatural sounded. Here, for example, when the professor was called to the phone in the hallway, the beginning was this: "Be kind, please do not refuse a service, if you do not find it difficult to call N.A. by phone.” This is another Old Testament professor of ancient literature called our for the subject of writing a general textbook. But at home? In the housing? The brother stopped checking the diary daily for records of his current hooliganism, which threatened to call his parents to school, and, worse still, to clausure from school in his father’s partner (I’m not a joke). The brother, looking at me, triumphed, really did not understand the reason and gave himself to the card game in the yard. My attempts to find out from the boys who is the "Rogue" gave me only a decision of the type - "dumb as a lamb." But it wasn’t in context.

In principle, the court knew everything. I remember, somehow to the reasonable observation of a girl of almost my age, I replied to her, "Remove, and then I will give the eggs," received a ten-minute humiliating lecture about the impossibility of this event due to the different arrangement of these organs in us, with details and functions. I had to shamefully retreat and climb to the closet to clarify the nuances of the illustrations to Goya.

I stumbled into the corner like a mouse. Nevertheless, it turns out I didn’t close the door tightly into the hallway, and because of me, the common kitchen smelled of roasted acid cabbage and roasted on petroleum frozen bell. The courtyard fell off by itself, and life went under the mountain.

So the working week passed, and on Sunday morning I was put in front of my father. What this trial could lead to, I guessed. It’s called “pulling out like a goat”. My father was pale (well, maybe it was an artistic exaggeration) and relentless. It was necessary to crawl, otherwise my filamentary part could get acquainted with the soldier's belt, on which my father had a dangerous German shave.
The young pioneers partisans looked at me with regret from the sky.

With tears in my eyes, realizing that I am deprived of the unread "Decameron" and a number of other treasures of world literature, I admitted where this damned word - ROGONOSEC. As a confirmation, I had to get this book, find these quotes and almost get rid of it. and... Nothing! In other words nothing at all! The closet was not closed, it was released into the yard. From the kitchen began to smell snow from Elena Molochovets. In the house again began to live “cat” and “music”. Even my brother did not deserve it.

By the evening, the parents did not go to the restaurant, and my brother and I left the TV on.

However, the word remains unexplained. To my timid question, my father replied, that the word is not good and climbing where I should not, he does not recommend, and when I grow up, I will find out myself. When I grew up, I learned the true meaning of this word.