I am a man who has no homeland. Small Homeland, I mean... There is no place on earth where I was born white, where I made my first joyful cry, celebrating my birth, where I wrote in diapers and took my first steps on this sinful land. She's gone and probably never will be, and I miss her so much. There is not enough extensive spill of the Yenisei with the intricate labyrinths of the islands, there is not enough tramp steppes of Khakassia with their mysterious mounds. There is not enough of the Sayan Mountains and its pristine taiga, there is not enough pine forest that grew near our village, there are not enough of its mushrooms and berries, there are not enough people in my village – those who are far away, now dead, but living in my memory. I miss the world of my childhood, the world gone forever!
In general, my little homeland is my Atlantis and it rests at the bottom of the man-made sea - the Krasnoyarsk reservoir, and it is located in the very south of the Krasnoyarsk Territory - in the Minusinsk basin. This area is one of the most favorable places in terms of climate and diversity of nature in all Siberia. It has been inhabited by people since ancient times, and long before the arrival of Rusich there. Well, in 1950, in a village called Krasnoturansk, I settled. I lived there until the age of 7, but I went to school already in Krasnoyarsk, where my parents left – my father is a German teacher at the Pedagogical Institute, my mother is a Physician.
The whole school time was closely connected with the surroundings of the city. Endless hikes in the taiga, rafting on nearby rivers, and of course, hikes to the edge of bizarre rocks - the Pillars Reserve, took up all their free time, carefully protecting them from hooliganism on the streets. There, on the rocks, in the company of the same crazy, more than once climbed to all the important peaks. Often without any insurance, hoping only "... on the hands of a friend and strength of hands ..." (When many years later, fate brought me to the reserve, to our rocks, I almost fainted from belated fear, seeing where we went without any insurance.) In general, all this taiga-hiking romance was densely involved in the widely popular books of the then writer-geodesist G. Fedoseyev, and of course V. Arsenyev, so the question of where to go after school to study did not arise. Of course a geologist! Fortunately, the institute was a 5-minute walk from home. In general, romance and mysterious taiga expanses lured to the Institute of Non-Ferrous Metals - to study as a geologist! After studying for a year and a half, I clearly realized that this was not mine, and I told my parents. At first, they just told me not to fool around. Then, realizing the futility of diplomatic methods, the parents moved on to decisive, offensive actions, the main striking force of which became mother’s heart attacks and father’s officer belt. Trying to avoid the escalation of the conflict and dodging the blows of a punitive weapon, I unexpectedly found myself in the ranks of the valiant Soviet Army, where I served for two years in tank troops, as a mechanic-instructor in driving a medium tank. By the end of the service, I knew I had to learn! After a lot of thought, I realized that I was a surprise! Therefore, in 1971, after the "dembel", somehow easily entered the Krasnoyarsk medical school. By the 4th year I decided that I did not want to be a surgeon, or a therapist, or any other neurologist. He chose between psychiatry and forensic medicine. I chose a “date”, but at the last moment the internship broke down – someone’s son from Kraycom was taken instead of me. He became a psychiatrist and went to the district, because, as they said at that time, “Who did not work in the village, is not a doctor!” By the way, until now, the training of a psychiatrist helps and really helps in life and in work. I probably wouldn’t have left that job, I liked it. But drug addiction with its Soviet-Party ostentatiousness. B-r-r! In short, when the district forensic expert resigned, I was taken to the vacant place from December 1982 to this day, I work as the head of the district department of the Krasnoyarsk regional bureau of forensic medical examination. He studied in Kharkov, Barnaul (more than once), Moscow. In 2000 he participated in the Fifth All-Russian Congress of Forensic Doctors in Astrakhan. Preferences in work - the thanatology of violent death. Rapid and non-violent – I know worse and I don’t really like it, because I don’t understand what it has to do with forensic medicine. My wife is an endocrinologist. We have been with her since the first year of the institute and even a little earlier, with applicants. My son is a forensic expert. He entered medicine in general and our narrow specialty quite consciously, without any pressure from his father and mother, for as long as he remembered himself, there was always a hospital, and the first toys were empty bottles of medicine. In addition, our family has an optometrist, therapist, neurologist, sanitary doctor, phthisiatrician. Probably such an abundance of doctors, forced to take up the pen, at least in this way, but escape from the enchanted medical circle. As Someone Smart said, literature is the most humane way to get out of life. Answering the question of why I write is impossible. I can tell you exactly when and how I started on the morning of April 28, 2002.
That day I woke up in a very nasty state of mind and body. Lying down, blinking his eyes and holding his head, he remembered where I was yesterday. I remembered, remembered and remembered how the day before, at the end of the working day, I went with my friends to the well-known and often visited Russian village of Boduny. Well, there everything went along a long-rooted and painfully familiar path: first, the Boduns were Small, then just Boduns, but everything ended as usual, in those very Big Boduns. Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Yeah! I was so sick of these memories that I could not say a word or describe a pen, for there are no such words! Well, men will understand. I did not have time to think about it, as they transmit a message that our Governor-General Alexander Lebed crashed and died in a helicopter. And such a longing over me here captivated me: “Here, they say, what people are dying, and I am all according to Boduns, and according to Boduns!” In short, the result of these sorrowful reflections was the thought: if beauty will save the world – and with it and its small part, that is, me, a sinner, we must try to put a hand in it. After that, slightly lifted up in spirit, the traditional, grandfather’s method improved his health, took up a pen and began to write about love, and in general about life. What came out of this, I judge you, my strict and fair reader!
