The funeral procession on the streets Zelva. Snapshot Zdislava Sitko
If a phenomenon can not be explained, they say, happened miracle. April 10, 1983, the day of the funeral of Larissa Heniyush, it took place in an unbending to the wonders Zelva. I interviewed dozens of witnesses, and no one I could not clearly explain how then, even with a strong Soviet power, the Soviet intimidated and completely controlled the town outside the Soviet attended by thousands of Soviet people, to spend his last journey non-Soviet citizen. No one is one of the house did not drive, work is organized not let go. On the contrary, they took on the account of those who signed up in Belarusian wreaths, who were going to attend the funeral service at the church. And all the people came. As for the silent demonstration, beating the outer and inner fears, his whole appearance as if confirming the words of Larissa Heniyush: "We're not a tribe of slaves, we — the people!"
The Nobel Prize in Literature Maris Meterlink, which was also a great naturalists, in his book "Smart flowers," described the behavior of plants in different conditions of existence. It turns out that a separate flower can be mistaken, wrong time and zatsvistsi die can cut down out of time in the land of the seed that will not allow procreation. But in general the kind of flower is never wrong, he's smart and knows how to act in emergency situations.
On the way to the cemetery. Picture of Nicholas Canas
Perhaps a similar system of behavior is typical of people. Taken separately resident Zelva could not read books Larissa Heniyush not know who lived nearby on the same street. But the moment of truth, and he joined the crowded funeral procession, which in that day and at that time it was a popular rushanne over which had no power then all-powerful Soviet regime.
In vain did the representatives of the authorities intimidated Zelva priest of Holy Trinity Church, and insisted that there was no funeral. Father Basil Chykida at full burial service of the church's servant Larissa four hours. And in his sermon called Larissa Heniyush man "with crystal clear soul, whose works will live forever."
In vain the official funeral directors authorized the same authority as a church customized truck with lowered sides. The coffin from the church to the cemetery, people carried on their shoulders.
In vain writers from Grodno and Minsk in turn summoned to the executive committee and warned that "no speeches" are not pronounced. At the cemetery were Adam Maldis and Vladimir Orlov, who read a poem by Sergei Sokolov-Voyusha written on the death of the poet.
In vain in Zelva come in large numbers "of officials in plain clothes" from Vawkavysk and Grodno, that have control the situation. Hardly any of them are extracted another star on the shoulder straps for a really popular burial.
Chin burial commits Father Basil Chykida. Snapshot Zdislava Sitko
"House of candles extinguished long ago, / and graves are sleeping under the snow. / So really me, unhappy, / under guard to be buried?" — Asked Larissa Heniyush in one of his last poems. Spastsyaroga poet did not come true. They buried her under guard in an atmosphere of genuine love of human misery.
When I look at the pictures from the funeral, I could not help to be compared with Larissa Heniyush farewell with last farewell Vasily Bykov. And April 10, 1983 in Zelva, and June 25, 2003 in Minsk, the coffin was the people for whom these creators lived and wrote.
prashchaetstsa dawn with long-Lucifer.
Quietly tightening their belts,
I take a hot hand gloves.
Syagonnya have to meet with snowstorm
the windows of the wind, well, we're ready.
Watch for somewhere waiting convoy
such as if the tundra, wild and harsh.
I do not atseplits into turmoil these days
monetary quiet candle flame.
Kindle breasts another fire
inspired affection — holidays and eternal!
Fight — so sincerely, for a full recovery.
Die — so proudly for freedom and glory.
If you fall in love, the feeling of such
to the gray earth melted on the bench!
In flights NOT chutsi borders, no fetters
Inspired by the power of the stormy gusts
of the cold sky pryklikatsi miracle
bring happiness to far left nivam.
Love — is to throw himself on the altar,
then — to forge the greatness of ideas in rank,
then — events raziskryts ashes into the fire,
to the impossible possible!
Love — is to feel sorrow million,
most do not cry of pain from the flames.
Love — is their goal to achieve,
in my life is: give free rein to the Fatherland!
In Grodno gray has a sunny corner
sort of a rye, a wide, normal,
nights incense as lilac bush
and dear to my heart to despair.
Spring is there another border blooms
there is wind in the crowd hugging.
Zachadil thought in this corner
Travneva in the evening, and I'm glad does not.
Born song of the mounds of old,
The wings were raised to clear take-off.
There were crying songs repeatedly until dawn
over the share of folk, heavy and scanty.
There, in the midday sun and the moon at night
Nemnovo and waves a magic force
granny old, flax purged,
poet learned to love so much.
In the blizzard, in bad weather, a burden these days,
When in captivity, my soul maimed,
Kindle Fire big breasts
inspired affection — holidays and eternal!