Here’s the thing.
I wrote sometime ago that publishers are ready to publish my book about the Donbass titled “People Here” at their own expense, but without photos. They’d publish it with photos only if I covered the cost. Therefore I abandoned that idea, and wrote about it on the blog. On the same day, I received messages from several people asking how much it would cost to publish the book with photos, and offered their financial aid.
A year and a half ago I wrote a book which was nominated for the National Bestseller prize.
A book about the Donbass titled “People Here” turned out to be rather small–I wrote it in a hurry to make the award deadline. Only half the planned size. Whole chapters were cut and removed.
Then I put the book away and started to work with publishers.
Nearly all of them said: it’s small, write more.
I spent a year and a half wrestling with it, not knowing what to do. To write more, to self-publish, or I don’t know what.
A sensation at RIA: “German actress and singer of Hungarian extraction Marika Rekk turned out to be a Soviet intelligence agent.” One fact concerning my family drew attention in that story.
“The intelligence network included about 35 agents, including bankers, military, civil servants, and also the actress Olga Chekhova.”
In actuality, there were many discussions concerning the participation of Olga Chekhova–a famous actress and Hitler’s favorite, a nephew of Olga Knipper-Chekhova (the wife of the great writer)–in Soviet intelligence operations. There were TV shows, movies, books. But no actual documents confirming these stories. Sudoplatov’s famous book about Olga as intelligence agent had no references to actual documents. I was even contacted by intelligence historians in order to confirm these stories. Specialists thought this was simply a beautiful legend and fairy tale, pleasing the public and spread by the media.
The “actress-agent legend” also mentioned, among others, Olga’s brother, Lev Knipper, a famous Soviet composer, who was supposed to have participated in the mission to kill Hitler. Little is known about his role. But it is known that he went to Germany more than once to visit his sister, to deliver something, and have some meetings. But I know this only from generally available sources.
That was my grandfather.
Zhenya sent me a video about me.
You know, I subscribe to some pretty cool authors. They are insanely clever and I am madly jealous of them for being able to do so. I hate it when people write in all earnestness. I don’t like pathos. But it’s an irony of fate that my entire blog turned out like that. Stuffy and laden with pathos.
A veritable nightmare.
When, in Lugansk, I went down into my friends’ cellar to pick up a few bags of clothes for the orphans, it fell out and got lodged between the parcels. A shirt sky-blue in color. Very, very bright. For summer wear, with short sleeves. When Papa put it on, it really brought out the blue in his eyes. Once upon a time the went to talk with the bookkeepers, I don’t remember about what, but I remember he put on that dress shirt. The bookkeepers turned into rats who then lined up in front of Niels’ flute. Papa was already almost 60.
I was really afraid to see Papa in the coffin. I went to funerals before, more than once in fact, and they all horrified me. These embalmed bodies, completely devoid of life, with sunken cheeks. These death masks with a pile of artificial garlands.
Looking at a girlfriend’s LiveJournal blog, I was surprised by the number of locked posts. It turned out she acquired an “admirer” who began to harass and persecute her. Banning did not help. She kept seeking out my friend all over the internet, sent personal messages, opened new accounts and kept at it for a long time. The whole thing made no sense, my friend was running a site about kids which contained mainly funny sketches drawn from real life.
I get something similar in comments nearly every day.
This is the other side of humanitarian activity and of running a blog. Although, judging by my friend’s experience, the topic doesn’t matter.
It was already completely dark. We were racing down the road from Pervomaysk when we heard strange sounds.
The tire was cut to shreds. I am afraid to come out, besides it’s cold already. I sit it out in the cabin while the guys with telephones install the spare. We’re alone on the road–it’s past curfew.
“Evdokia, are you really a private individual who got up and went there? What made you do that? Everyone felt pity, so why did you shift from tear-wiping to action?”
This was immediately followed by:
“One more thing: do you have the capabilities to make full-scale video interviews? Quality is not that important.”
I answered almost immediately:
“Am I really a private person? That’s an existential question. Perhaps I am just an illusion, one can’t wholly rule that out.”
When I was 9, my brother brought me to Gurzuf’s Spasalka pier. When a steamer approached the shore, it was immediately mobbed by the locals. The captain was yelling from the bridge, the vacationers were muttering in awe on the pier, while the parents of younger “participants” were shaking their fists from the shore.
I couldn’t reach either the anchor or the ladder.
–Grab a leg.
The brother shouted when the propellers were already spinning, so I grabbed his leg. I was seriously frightened but I couldn’t let go.
Other kids have grabbed my legs, thus creating a long chain.
I love looking at things from a whole different life. The old life.
By the way, I wasn’t posing–I don’t remember why there’s so much pathos in my expression. But I like it. Yes.
Those who are wishing cancer and death on me–I hope you choke on those wishes.
I’ve had enough of your letters and comments.
Don’t forget–everything you wish on me, will come back to you. In the worst possible way.