The small northern village in which I partially grew up combined several expeditions – oil and gas, geological exploration and geophysical. Two main attractions were located on its central square - the cafe "Metelica" and the House of Culture (DC). On the square there was a monument to Lenin. Here all the main events occurred – cultural in the D.C. and less cultural – in the “Metelice”. The first often flowed smoothly into the second. As schoolchildren, we usually attended DC as movie viewers, which were filmed there 2-3 times a week, but sometimes we had to fill the scene.
In April of 1988, we were expecting the birthday of V.I. Lenin, which our school management decided to celebrate with a large concert in the D.C. There were songs, dances, mini-spectacles, a victory on the facts of Lenin’s life, a competition for the quick collection of shalash, etc. I was ordered to find, learn and qualitatively tell from the stage some little-known poem about Lenin, because the usual set of them all got a little tired. I approached this case responsibly, took in the school library a collection of poems about Lenin and at home in the evenings read it out loud to my mother, trying to understand from her reaction which of them she knows the least. As the chief doctor of the village hospital, my mother usually did not come in the evenings, but barely came home, we ate dinner and under my reading of poems she quickly fell asleep, so the task of choosing a poem was solved with great difficulty. A few days later, when the collection was read, I decided. It was a short, but vivid and emotional poem by Turkmen writer Berda Kerbabaeva, who wanted not just to read, but to declare, with expression and revolutionary force.
On the day of the performance behind the scenes was full of schoolchildren, who learned something, dressed up in costumes for the performance, pulled the grasp of the branches for the contest on the fastest shallash and all kinds of trouble. According to the plans of the teachers in the role of the conference was a small four-year-old girl with cushions. To avoid confusion, she had a leaflet with the names of the performances. We had a large DC, there were 150-200 people in the hall, from the leadership of expeditions to drillers, drivers, saleswomen and all-all. Many of them were the parents of the speakers. Everyone calmed down, the representative head of the geological and exploration expedition spoke about Lenin and his role in our lives – and the schoolchildren’s program went on. The girl-conference successfully overcame the first page of the list of performances, dances and other moving performances passed, the time for poems began. There were three or four, I was the second (the names of the children changed slightly).
The conference, in a subtle voice: "Student of the 7th grade Olya Pechenkin with the poem of Alexander Twardovsky "Lenin and the oven!"
Olya boldly and quickly scratched out a rather long verse about Lenin and the liver.
Conference: “Student of 6th grade Petya Sidorov with a poem...”. A long pause, during which the girl quietly stared into her paper. The room was frozen in expectation. Then more quietly and somewhat uncertainly questioning from the scene was heard: “Berdy Kerdimbaev... no...Berdy Kerda... no, no...Kerdy Bermamaev... no! Ber-dy Ker-ba-ma... no no no! Ber-ker-man-dy is not and pause. There is silence in the hall. The teacher quickly approached the girl and gently said, “Nothing terrible, don’t worry! Let’s read together.” Almost in a choir, they began to read on paper: “A pupil of the 6th grade, Petya Sidorov, speaks with a poem... Berda Kermambayev (the voice of the teacher) Kerda Berdambayev (the voice of the girl)”.
Standing near the edge of the scene behind the scenes and preparing to go out as soon as I was announced, I saw the faces of people in the hall. They were tense and barely restrained, so as not to crawl, cries and cries were already heard, although the people were still holding. At the same time, probably from the whole room, only my mother, who sat in the second row, knew how correct the author's name could sound, although this is not a fact. The teacher said, “No, let’s try again.” Here the conference girl couldn’t stand and cried, “I won’t try! I already had the sculls to pronounce this string, I bite my tongue because of it!” after which she dropped the leaflet and fled the stage. The tension in the hall reached a thickening density, red bodies of the leadership in the first rows illuminated the scene. Our teacher turned out to be a good guy: "I'm sorry for a little delay, Petya will announce his poem himself!" I approached the microphone and with a parade voice began: “Poem of Turkmen poet Berda Kardybayev “On Lenin!” I was terrified to find out that I had broken my name. He dared to say, “Sorry! The poem of Turkmen poet Kerda Bekdambayev "On Lenin" Fuck, again wrong... I was silent trying to remember the name. And then from somewhere from the gallery there was a scream: "Well, you guys, tell me, no one knows his right name!" Then the hall exploded. The first rows with the chief were still somehow restrained, lowering their heads and shaking, but the rest of the hall was out in the voice! I looked at my mother who wiped her tears of laughter, and I was ashamed that I was so dumb and I couldn’t remember the name of a person. A teacher approached me and, wishing to correct the situation, leaned and said to the microphone: “Friends! Petya Sidorov will read the poem “On Lenin” of one of our little-known Turkmen poets, whose name is known to the whole country!” The room with this logic did not agree and cried louder. I started reading expressively:
- The leaders from the Bronze Age are counted to our days!
But no man was born to descendants closer and closer to his family.
But no one heard me. The first rows finally broke and they whispered in the voice. From the rear rows were heard screams of “Berds!”, “Kerds!”, “Kerdik berdyk...” and other possible combinations. I raised my voice and almost spoke to the microphone to convey the poet’s poems to these insane people:
He who, despite racial differences and distances,
From mouth to mouth, a working click connected the continents!
The microphone was good, people started listening.
And so great is Vladimir Lenin, that how not to exalt him,
He is simple and truthless, and he is always with people.
Here the voice from the scream in me broke, but the hall suddenly the choir supported me: "ILIC!" and issued such a whirlwind of applause that I almost swallowed the microphone from surprise. After that, a break was announced to calm down the people. Everyone, on the contrary, jumped up, laughed, shouted “Illitch!” Someone ran to the stage, picked up the program sheet rolled there and screamed in the microphone: “Comrades! These were the poems of Berda Kerbaev! “Remember Berdy Kerbayev!” After that, the hall was covered with a new wave of choking and the screams were heard “Illitch! “Kerbaev!” The organizers overturned the further program and all of the friendly crowd fell into the "Float" opposite.
I returned home, where late in the evening I was found by a joyful mom who returned from the holiday. Instead of blaming me for ignoring simple Turkmen surnames, she hugged me and said, “Everyone says this was Lenin’s best birthday in years! In "The Butterfly", everyone tried to remember the author's name until night and almost fought! I’ll go to work because the holiday isn’t over yet and I’m sure someone will bring us and you go to bed.” At the threshold, she turned around and asked, “Say slowly, what is his name? I will have to cure them all, they will ask.”