The sun poured down from above the room. Over the head dance group worked and that's why the ceiling and break down too dancing motes in a sunbeam. Mysteriously smells books. Their around tens, hundreds. Sun, books and motes dancing in a sunbeam.
"Choose," said the librarian Galina old my mother's friend.
How can you choose? Uncharted worlds-the world are on the shelves. In leaky string bag dragged Yana home city and country, mountains, rivers and forests. She dragged the good and evil characters, and all there magic lamp, magic tablecloth and flying carpet.
And then she sat with her legs in his father's chair, close to the stove, in his free hand grated salt bread crust.
She swallowed page by page, seizing the wonders of bread crust.
And it is warm from the oven - if you put log, fun will dance on the wall waiting to see red-cocks. Silver is blue painted with frost window buzzing oven, and before the arrival of the mother ought to have time with Dorothy and her friends to get to the Emerald City.
Yana chose the book.
Dancing on the ceiling boards, swirling dust particles, the page names of the characters, pictures - one other tempting, and already my head spin.
"Want Poems?"
Yana shook his head. Poems she does not recognize.
"Have you read a minute:
Before him living head,
Huge eyes bedtime hugs,
Snoring, shaking feathered hat,
And feathers in dark adjustment,
As shadows go, fluttering,
In its terrible beauty
Over dismal wilderness rising.
Lyrics are to sing, to memorize because poetry easier to memorize.
But books in poetry was nonsense for her; all these things are adult.
Kind of like the whole class took them to the theater - so there on the scene did not speak like humans, but they sang to each other generally do not understand.
No one liked it, just waiting for when you can be in the buffet.
But here...
Yana read and saw a sleeping head fluttering in the dark sky feathers hat, desert steppe.
And crawling on the head goose, though seemingly long terrible there.
And wrinkled head, yawning,
Opened his eyes and sneezed...
Whirlwind rose, steppe wavered
Hoisted dust, eyelids, with a mustache,
With eyebrows flew a flock of owls.
Yana saw everything as if watching a movie: unnerved steppe and birds taking wings from her eyebrows. She heard sneezer after head echo neighing frightened horse...
"Pushkin," Poems. "Okay, I will take it."
"But you do not love poems" Galina smiled."
"This is not a short poem, but a long one."
"And his head like a crazy is laughing,
Thunders: "Ai Knight! Ai hero Where are you? Hush, hush, stop!
Hey, Knight, neck break the gift; do not be afraid of me, the rider.
Gladden me least one stroke until starved horse."
"Is that the way to talk about?" teased Galina, would they write just like that 'And she said, The Knight's head: where you say, stupid, are you going? Did you break your neck.' This would be simple and clear."
My mother was an early riser, Yana was a late riser.
She realized this only later, and then could not comprehend why the mother was so easy to instantly jump into any early, even when the window darkness and cold, and the stove has cooled down for the night.
It was scary to stick his nose out of the blanket, it is impossible to unstick the eyelids, and the thought that we should get up, get dressed, wash with ice water and run to school, dreams of measles or whooping cough - here she slept!
Mother at the time swoop weightlessly to the furnace with an armful of wood and to the kitchen, from which appetizing smells of fried potatoes with onions.
And the time to do some gymnastic exercises on the radio, grind hot body woolen mitten floating in a bowl with the most ice water.
But in the evening...
"Yana, I extinguish the light."
"But it is still early"
"I'm tired."
That's all. Click and darkness. The most interesting place have to close the book, and sleep in either eye.
Her brain and imagination work at all.
And impotent anger at her mother, with beds that have puffing was already heard.
With all this anger and begin.
Oh, you're so? But I'll still outwit!
And the long winter nights Yana will invent something that does not have time to read it. And then compare it with the original.
That would be be a very exciting game.
Then the scope of the game began to constrain, its characters will increasingly boldly assert their independence.
Then it would be to write my own stories. At night, on the way to and from school, in the evening at the stove.
Long ones with a sequel and short ones in a few sentences.
Then she needed listeners.
She will walk, surrounded by malyshn�y and stuff their kings, princesses and witches.
While Andersen did not teach her that it is possible to write stories about the most common - about a sewing needle, matches and other utensils.
Will expand its audience, but no Yana did not recognize that she comes up with these stories.
Like, read in an old book without a cover sheet that was found in the attic.
That's all.
And the day will come when she decides to write.
No, of course not, these trifles about a homeless puppy Kuzya that falls into the realm of the Great Dog, and not about the adventures of a kite flown away.
No, she decided to write a serious story about the war.
She will take a pen, an inkwell, a blank sheet of paper and begin to think
Let her a hero be... well, for example, Captain.
It is necessary to come up with the name of this captain.
Yana looked around. Table, chair, window, wall.
Sticking out of the wall nail.
"Mom, can there be the name of Gvozdyov (nail)?"
"Yes, there can. A last name or a surname. "
"Captain Gvozdyov has heard an explosion," writes Yana and...
Thin rope-line, and then a void and an abyss.
A scary white sheet.
Void was in herself.
Yana shamefully run away, throwing unfortunate Gvozdyov into the furnace.
Fleeing in fear of cleanliness of the paper sheet printed in her in memory as a fragment of this same shell exploded near the ill-fated captain.
* * *
She also returned to the memorable day of the 47th, on the eve of May Day and was traveling together with other children in a small jolting bus.
That day everything was amazing and the fact that Yana has got a happy place at the window with broken windows.
And the wind out of the window smelling a forest, then gasoline. And a huge sacred area.
And kids, children, unusually serious and timid from the consciousness of the importance of what is happening.
"Dress left! Attention!"
Yana, as in a dream, sees a mirror, as if just washed paving, mausoleum with frozen hour, embellished with the holiday stands.
On the first and the second to calculate!
First numbers, a step forward! One, two!"
And do not see the mirror stone blocks; before her eyes was shorn head Pochivalov, darned collar of his white shirt.
Yana craned, but one after another, as if on the line, draws a square to the most seats rows of white shirts, short-haired necks and braids with red bows. Yana looks back and saw rear area also columns of people moving from Okhotny Ryad.
If someone writes a straight line on the sheet! Down, down up to the current GUM.