A Ticket to Childhood. Joanna's Page 6. -- Izania-Forum

[ Show ]

Support VoyForums

[ Shrink ]

VoyForums Announcement: Programming and providing support for this service has been a labor of love since 1997. We are one of the few services online who values our users' privacy, and have never sold your information. We have even fought hard to defend your privacy in legal cases; however, we've done it with almost no financial support -- paying out of pocket to continue providing the service. Due to the issues imposed on us by advertisers, we also stopped hosting most ads on the forums many years ago. We hope you appreciate our efforts.

Show your support by donating any amount. (Note: We are still technically a for-profit company, so your contribution is not tax-deductible.) PayPal Acct: Feedback:

Donate to VoyForums (PayPal):

[ Login ] [ Contact Forum Admin ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: 1, 2, 3, [4] ]

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Date Posted: 09:04:53 08/04/09 Tue
Author: V.Glushchenko
Subject: A Ticket to Childhood. Joanna's Page 6.

Yulia Ivanova
A Ticket to Childhood. Joanna's Page 6. Door 1

They were coming back from the evacuation zone. Pictures from her memory put one over another in a chaotic way, perhaps, this "going home" was in a hurry since that sudden mum's decision when the access to Moscow was allowed, and mum immediately began to prepare for a journey, listening nobody's persuasions that it would be better to wait at least for the child's sake.
Reckless fanatic confidence: there in a near Moscow town, in our house, in our post-box on the second floor a father's letter is waiting for her.
Joanna will understand it later.
Mum's hands flying over suitcases and the belongings flying there anyway - she rams and presses them; something cracks and breaks. Yana with kindergarten's bag, packed with sweet wrappers, crocks and rags (granny Xenia's fortune), can see their corner emptying and depersonalizing. Behind the unusually bare window without curtains she can see Kolya with the landlady cutting woods and goes to the yard to boast that they are going home, that she will again see a blue embankment, their house and her father, and an ice-cream will be bought for her.
She goes out not to the yard but to the deck, where there are a lot of women with baskets and bags and their children holding their skirts because women's hands are engaged, and also holds mum's skirt while she moves to the exit carrying her suitcases.
The riverbank becomes closer and closer. A bank-hill, a bank-town, a town on a hill. Yana is going to ask mum why houses don't roll down the hill but she already sits on a suitcase on a platform. And again around her there are women with children holding their skirts, and mum left "on business". Mum is absent and absent, and it begins to rain. Maybe Yana sniffs or drops of rain are crawling down her cheeks.
Later they are in a heated goods carriage; the carriage creaks and swings. It's hot, stuffy, and there are the same women with children, and the rain beats against the window; there is nothing except the rain, no matter how Yana tries to discern something outside the window.
"What flowers can be now? It's autumn."
Mum speaks and also looks out of the window. She believes in a crumpled triangular letter in our post-box, like Yana believes in blue flowers, and then her look hastens and overtakes the train, or doesn't believe, and then her look in anguish stays somewhere on the moving away joint of rails but later, after reviving and recovering, flies after the train and overtakes it. It is again seeking for a miracle fold in triangle and sealed by a bread crumb.
The most amazing things are details: a subtle trait on mum's cheekbones from her nose to her ear as if somebody drew a line with his pencil and immediately erased it. She didn't have this trait when they left for an evacuation zone and saw a blue embankment. Later this trait will become deeper and deeper until it looks like a scar. And because of it there will be something of an old actress in her. But this will be later, and now there is only a subtle trait on mum's cheekbone, mum's smell and a smell of fried onion in the carriage. Yana can hear a frying pan sizzling on the cast-iron stove. And on the table there is a newspaper, a wartime one. But Yana can't read yet. Joanna can only repeat herself, that Yana. And no digressions are possible for an actress, not an actress but a puppet or marionette that is pulled by the past, and no freedom of will.
It's Moscow, oh Lord, Moscow in 1943. They seem to have arrived at the Kazansky railway station. Yes, it's really so. They are on the Komsomol square. There are very few cars, only old-fashioned models and most of them are black. They hardly crawl and honk as they can. There are girls in long narrow jackets; they are short-haired or with high forelocks and with locks falling on square shoulders of their jackets. Don't hurry, mum! We are going through a second-hand market - they are selling bread, American canned stewed meat, rags and sweets. A tram is coming. And Yana would like to hop its footboard and go through Moscow. She would like to walk around Moscow.
Mum carries a rucksack behind her back and suitcases in both of her hands. Yana is commanded to hold a half-belt of mum's coat. They are running through the square to another railway station. The train travels for half an hour to their station, and from there it takes them twenty minutes to reach their house with a post-box on its door. Yana whimpers demanding the promised ice-cream. Mum buys it. But she is completely disappointed. It's not an ice cream but a cold piece of chocolate on a stick. Yana can remember an ice-cream in a paper wide glass, a white one with vanilla taste, and even a small trowel.
Mum loses her nerves. After being punched and gulping back her tears, Yana sinks her teeth into a chocolate, applying a principle 'something is better than nothing'. And her heart joyfully sinks, when she feels with her tongue that prewar taste under the crisp chocolate crust.
Perhaps, all war children have so many fairy recollections about food.
Yana sits on the suitcases; she is sticky, melting, vanilla and sweet. She is all in the ice-cream, being one solid ice-cream. Mum has left for tickets. Their train is departing in twenty minutes. The train to childhood.

SCARLET PILLOWS ON THE SOFA
It is for the rest of her life. "Would you go for a newspaper," mum will be asking Yana several times a day in a year, in two and in five years. She will need no newspaper. The key of the post-box will be hanging on the small chain over her bed as a crucifix.
Later Yana found herself in a winter snowstorm day. Grown-ups sedately were going to the club. Nodding each other with an air of importance, they shook snow off their shoulders and went to the hall partitioned with a threadbare green plush. They took ballots at agitators sitting at the tables, went to the box, which looked like a post-box but was a bigger one with two palms on both of its sides and hurried to drop fold up sheets into the chink of the box. After that it was as if a knot were untied, which tightly bounded their movements, gestures, muscles of their faces, voices, and there outside the door everybody began to laugh, joke and speak in load voices swinging their arms.
Yana is in a labyrinth. Moments, minutes and hours are passing. Yana penetrates through its invisible walls from one moment to another, these moment are shuffled like a pack of cards.
While mum rummages something near the table. Yana hangs around a mysterious plush blind that looks like a curtain in the theatre where mum once took her to. 'The Blue Bird' by Maeterlinck. The curtain meant a fairy-tale or a miracle to Yana.
Holding her breath she looks over the green plush. In semidarkness she can see a tiny room, a polling booth. There is nothing special in it. There were a bare table, a chair and a sharp-cut pencil there
Yana sneaks by the curtain and finds one more booth.
"Mum, look, come here!"
Mum grasps her hand and pulls her away laughing intentionally loudly as if she invited everybody to laugh with her. As if she would like to say, 'Excuse me. What can you expect of her? She is still a child!" That's what her laugh means - Yana knows it very well. She always does so when she says something foolish, tactless and improper.
Mum brings Yana to the box and gives her a ballot.
"Drop it, drop it yourself."
By her voice and face Yana again can understand that although her previous act was a mistake of hers now she has an honest right to corrects it. And she standing on tip-toes puts the sheet into the chink, and at this moment something flashes like a lightning. The photographer Misha photographs her for a report showcase. The picture will hang on a wall in the club but Misha will never print its copy for them though he promised to.
But later he will grant the picture itself. Mum will hang it over father's desk, and Yana, doing her lessons, will invent all kinds of incredible stories about mysterious booth behind a plush curtain and about sharp-cut pencil on a table, which shouldn't be touched or else...
Those were her first writing works.
From the hall the mum and Yana go to the foyer. Here they dance. Coats, caps, kerchiefs and felt-boots are piled up on chairs. Women wear (mainly lades are present here) bright summer dresses with short sleeves. It's cold in the foyer, women have become numb, especially those who don't dance, but they stand firm, show off and stamp their feet in pumps. Only few of them wear stockings, there is no caprone yet, Persian-thread and even simple ones are hard-to-get. Therefore, they dance barefoot in their felt-boots. Mum isn't interested in dancing. She takes at her friend librarian a key to the reading hall and goes to the second floor to prepare for exams. Yana is told to go for a walk, return for dinner and by no means hang about the gramophone.
A gramophone is Yana's weakness because it's also a miracle.
Voices and music from a black loudspeaker are ordinary; sounds run through wires like electricity. Yana knows and understands it but as for a gramophone...
She is not so amazed by a gramophone itself but by records, fragile discs, in every of which a song or a dance entirely lives. With emotions of a singer, sounds of orchestra and even with cough in an invisible hall. Of course, it's impossible in reality, and so every record is a fairy one. And it's a miracle because it can be revived by putting a sound-receiver on a brim of a disc.
Yana was surprised at those boys who secretly knocked the box, scratched record by their fingernails or tried to somehow look into a gramophone. From her point of view it was as absurd as looking for a motor of a magic carpet.
Most of all she likes the record with following words:

"Let the deceived and indifferent husband
Wait for his humble wife in the dining-room..."

Yana imagines a large public dining hall and a hungry and deceived husband at a table who hasn't got his dinner because his wife keeps meal coupons and has given them to her lover, a strange uncle. And she feels sorry for the husband.
"Scarlet pillows on the sofa..."
When Yana will grow up she also will have scarlet pillows on her sofa.
The game director Tonya also would like to dance, and she entrusts changing records to Yana. Yana puts her best one - a tango. The tango is called 'slow dance'. Musya is dancing with a sailor who can hardly drag his feet squeezing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lazily looking over dancing women.
How young are all of them who before looked like old men! And she knows everything about them. She could foretell their future and prevent so many misfortunes! But the scene can only endlessly repeat itself, a play about herself.
Yana hastens to the pond squeezing her "sledge", a seat of a bent-wood chair, under her arm. The wind throws handfuls of biting white dust to her face and blows tears out of her eyes. Yana wraps herself into her kerchief up to her eyebrows and can feel around her lips on her chin prickly woollen cloth warmed by her breath.
Winter is a smell of wet woollen cloth and subtle footsteps of foot-belts on snow that were just bought to allow for growth; these are not sounds but an anticipation of them: somewhere at the pond behind grey thickness of the sky falling on the earth and behind the silence Yana can recognize her yelling, screeching, laughing and roaring friends. By some ecstatic feeling (perhaps children have such a feeling) she guesses the shortest way to her friends, hastens and runs faster and faster along a snowbound path and doesn't keep up with her heart, which rushes and longs to go ahead where an icy slide darkens being polished by planks, veneers, fur coats and trousers. A few seconds from the top to the downhill are a few seconds of a miracle, in which there are excitement and horror, pain of blown noses and burning snow behind collars.
Isn't there a great depth of meaning or symbolism in childish games?
Ice is also a miracle. Yana will soon learn to carve a rainbow of it and invent a story about rain and rainbow turning into ice.
It's very simple to carve a rainbow. You need to have only a small sharp stone or to heat ice by rear tip of your skate.

LUSKA
From the meadow behind the house a hot and fragrant steam is rising as if it were from just now made tea. It has rained for a long time, and now a June sun shines its brightest. Yana's socks and sandals have been soaked for a long time; the hem of her skirt is wringing wet; long stems of grass, camomiles, bluebells stick to her feet, interlace and prevent her from walking.
Yana goes to the fence; somebody grabbed a small kitchen garden from the meadow and fenced it, and green onion has already sprouted on the patch of land. In her hand Yana has a slice of bread moisten with sunflower oil and sprinkled with salt, and in addition some leaves of onion.
Yana goes towards her happiness, not towards onion, of course; onion is a trifle. Now she is going to meet Luska, and her rest is gone. Delightful and sad days will rush together with all kinds of worries and exciting experiences. Luska can be compared with onion, pepper, mustard and something else. She is sweet pasty with onion, cinnamon, pepper and mustard.
Such a girl Lyuska is. Now Yana is going to get her sweet pasty. She is in several steps distance to Luska. She is sitting on the fence and dangles one of her legs. Her feet are so dirty, that it first seems to Yana that Luska wears brown boots.
It's like sunstroke or knockout at the first sight. Can there be other such girl in the world? Luska's hair are entangled like hay in a haystack, and a fragment of comb sticks in it like pitchfork without a handle. Luska wears no dress, only lilac trousers, which are rolled up like shorts. Her thin and flexible body like a lizard's is shot with black, and you can't make out whether it is dirty or tanned. From her shoulder to her elbow Luska has a tattoo - mermaid with fish tail. But the most wonderful things Luska has are her eyes. A moment ago her eyes were closed: it seemed that Luska dozed, basking in the sun, then her eyes opened a little, and narrow chinks appeared in them: Luska felt approaching Yana. Luska's eyes fixed it and immediately closed, being dull and indifferent. Yana looks at them as if she looked into a window from outside. But here is a miracle. Her eyes flashed and shone with a tender look as if they were saying, "Come here quick, come to me, I'm very glad to see you, I love you very much."
Their feelings are mutual. Yana delights in happiness; she doesn't believe in it yet. Is it really that the miracle stretches its hand to her: can she really touch her ring weaved of many-coloured wires on the little finger of this wonderful girl?
Yana touches the ring, and Luska smiles. She has several teeth out single-space. They look black-and-white keys. Yana screwed up her eyes and reverently shook dry and hot Luska's fingers. The wire of the ring scratched Yana's palm.
"Let me bite some bread", Luska said.
Her teeth-keys stuck into the bread and moistly slid on Yana's skin; Yana hardly managed to snatch her hand away holding a bit of bread with marks of Luska's teeth.
"I know you," said Luska, hardly moving her full mouth. You are from a big house, your father was killed, and yesterday you swam on a pillowcase.
Yana happily nods, swallowing a bit of bread and not feeling it taste. What onion can be now?
"It's wonderful to swim on a pillowcase. But mine is hole-ridden."
"I have one more."
"Then bring it and let's go to the pond."
Yana runs home but she can't reach it. Colours glow dim and fog comes down. The page is going turn over and she will have no time to scratch a new starched pillowcase from a pillow - the first crime for Luska's case, and how many ones there will be!
Yana drew away the ticket collector aunt Klava, so that Luska could get to the film 'The Lady with Camellias', drew away a watchman, so that Luska could regale herself with kolkhoz currants and drew away a teacher, so that Luska could crib other pupil's works. Yana got caught but Luska never did. Yana was considered as a hooligan but Luska as a good child. Yana was scolded and punished but she was happy. It was a real passion, sacrificial and selfless one.
Once mum's downy beret was lost. In several days she ran into Luska outside the house. Luska showed of mum's beret. Yana cried and swore that she had presented the beret, gave it to her by force, not knowing why. Probably, she is so bad, and let mum not allow her to go to the cinema for a year but not complain to Luska's mother.
Them mum said that let Luska excuse her, as Yana is so mad, but she needs the beret herself, and as it is cold outside, let Luska wear her woollen kerchief with roses and keep it, and that she will talk to Yana about it at home.
Luska tenderly screwed up her eyes at Yana from the kerchief with roses; the kerchief fitted her very well. Yana dragged herself after mum and was ready to carry any punishment. Mum would silently enter the room, throw her coat on the sofa and ill-fatted beret and, drawing Yana to herself, ask her in bitter perplexity:
"Why do you love her so much?"
Yana didn't know that. For some reason this illness was also called love. Of course, she shouldn't have loved Luska. She should have loved her mum. And now after many years she doesn't love Luska at all and understands everything, but mum died long ago, and nothing can be corrected.

YANA-PARTISAN
A neighbourhood war-game between our people and the fritz. Girls were accepted only as fascists. As nobody of the children wanted to be fascists, they established an obligatory order of priority. Those who lost at the game sometimes became "the fritz" for several days and because of humiliation sometimes behaved ferociously like true fascists.
Once Yana were given an honour to be a partisan and explode a bridge crossing a ditch that was constructed by the enemies. The bridge was made of an old door and several rotten planks: it was guarded by Zuka (Zukin).
Yana used a stratagem. She stole up hiding herself behind a tree and cut adrift a ship of pine bark made for her by acquaintance uncle. It grieved her to lose a ship but the game was worth the candle. It goes without saying that Zuka ran after a snare; the stream after raining was intense, and Yana managed to tumble the bridge down the ditch and began to run away.
The deceived Zuka who in addition didn't catch the ship caught her without any difficulty, boxed her on the ear and took her captive. But to restore the bridge Zuka should release his captive because he had no rope to tie her up. After hesitating angry Zuka decided to ignore the bridge, and twisting her dirty fist under her nose he said that he wouldn't let her go until she said where their partisan headquarters were. The headquarters were nearby in Katya's shed but Yana in delightful horror said, "Never." And Zuka at the gunpoint of his wooden submachine gun led her though a neighbouring front door to the loft of their house. On their way they met familiar grown-ups, and both of them reverently greeted them as if nothing happened because it was strongly forbidden to involve grown-ups in their game under the threat of hard sanctions until the end of childhood.
"Spill your secrets, I ask you for the last time."
But Yana resolutely shook her head.
Zuka pushed her into the loft, shut a bar outside the door and growled through the door that if she changed her mind let her open the loft's window, it would be a conventional sign that she surrendered. Or else let her stay here for all her life.
Insidious Zuka invented this thing so that that she had no right to open the window and call for help, It grew dark; something crackled, rustled and cheeped - perhaps, rats. Below voices sounded; somebody stamped on the stairway, returning from work. Then her mother called her long and worriedly. Now she would get it hot if she ever go out of it. And only one thing did Yana know very well: she would never open the window even if she was eaten by rats.
It became completely dark. Being in a flood of tears Yana prayed granny Xenia's God and ask him to interfere and save her.
"Do something, dear God, mum is worrying about me. Please whisper her that I'm here.
And the miracle happened. A sound of footsteps on the stairway, laughter and the door opened. Pocket flashlights illuminated the walls and children burst into the loft. After them adults came and opened the lofts window. Zuka was here and didn't look at her as if they hadn't just fight to death. Everybody came to see a salute; it was just announced on the radio about seizure of some town by the Soviet army. And for this reason it was decided to fire a salute of twenty salvoes. The salute over Moscow could be seen only from here, from the loft, and Zuka was not at all an enemy now as well as other boys, and even mum, who threatened her,
"Tomorrow you won't be allowed to go to the cinema. Where are you gadding about?"
Mum embraced her and raised her a little, so that she could get a better view. The cinema is little nothings of life; she won't go to it if needed. And tomorrow mum may become kinder.
And suddenly fairy and many-coloured glow flashed behind the forest.
"Hurrah!" Everybody counts salvoes all together: and their heart beat all together: our army have seized one more town. She, Yana-partisan, has also won today, and God has heard her. We are all together and God is with us.

THIS VICTORY DAY
The May of 1945 and the festive salute after the parade of Victory. The sky again and again bursts out joyful colours, and a thong swims and rocks. You can raise your legs and swim together with it. Yana's cheek is wet of somebody's kisses, and everybody kisses each and all: there are no strange people here: everybody is our people. And you can't wipe your cheek and raise your arm - it's so crowded.
And everybody sings and sings, makes mistakes, confuses words and starts new songs, and mum seems to sing loader than everybody but she surveys the crowd with the same great attention. What if he appears? At six p.m. after the war?
(to be continued)

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Replies:

[> �� -��. �� . �� 6 ��1 -- ��, 12:50:49 08/06/09 Thu

�� . �� 6 ��1

�� (�� )

�� . �� , ��, �� , �� "��!" � �� , �� , � �� , �� , ��, ��, �� , �� -�� .

�� - ��, � �� , � �� , � �� .

�� .

�� , �� - �� , ��, ��-�� , ��. �� , �� , �� /�� /, ��, �� , �� . �� , �� , ��, �� , � �� , �� , �� , � �� , � ��, � �� ...

�� , � �� , �� , � �� , �� , � �� , �� .

�� . ��-��, ��-��. �� . �� , �� , �� . �� , � �� , �� "��". �� -�� . ��, ��, ��. � �� , �� . �� , �� .

�� , �� , ��. ��, ��, � �� , � �� , ��, �� , �� -�� .

- �� ? ��.

��, � �� . �� , �� , - �� , �� , - �� - � �� -�� , �� , �� , ��, �� , ��, ��... �� , �� , �� .

�� - ��. �� - �� , �� -�� . �� , �� . �� , ��, �� , �� . � ��-�� . �� , � �� , � �� , � �� - �� , �� . � �� - ��, ��. �� . �� , �� . �� , ��. ��, ��, ��, �� , �� .

��. ��, ��. 43-��. ��, �� . �� , �� . �� , �� , �� . �� . �� , �� , � ��, �� . �� , ��! �� , �� , �� , ��, �� . �� . �� : �� , � � ��, �� , � ��. �� !

�� , � �� . �� . � �� ; �� . �� , � �� . �� , �� . �� . �� . �� , � �� . �� , ��, � �� , �� .

��, ��, �� . �� , �� , �� , �� "�� -��, �� ". � �� , �� , �� "�� ", ��.

��, � �� .

�� . ��, ��, ��, ��. �� , �� - �� . �� . �� . �� .

� �� ...

�� . "�� " - �� . �� , ��, �� ... �� . �� , �� .

�� . �� . �� , �� , �� . �� , �� , �� , �� , � �� , � �� . � �� -�� , �� -�� , ��, �� , ��, � ��, �� , �� , ��, �� , �� .

��. ��, ��, ��. �� . ��, �� , ��, �� .

�� , �� , �� , �� . "�� " ��. �� , ��.

�� , �� . � �� - �� - ��. �� . �� , ��, �� - �� .

�� . �� .

- ��, ��, �� !

�� , �� , �� , �� . ��, �� , �� , ��! �� - �� . �� , �� , ��, ��.

�� , �� .

- ��. �� .

� �� , �� , �� , �� . � ��, �� , �� , � � �� -�� , �� . �� . �� , � �� , �� .

�� , �� , � ��, �� , �� . �� , � �� , �� ...

�� .

�� . �� . ��, ��, ��, �� , �� . �� /��, � ��, ��/ �� . � �� , �� , �� , �� , �� , ��, �� . �� , �� , �� - ��, � �� - ��, �� . �� . �� - �� . �� , �� .

�� - �� , �� - ��.

�� - �� , �� . �� . �� ...

�� , � ��, �� , � �� . � �� , �� , �� ... ��, ��, �� , �� - ��. � ��, �� , �� .

�� , �� , �� -�� . � � �� , �� , �� -��.

�� , � �� :

"��

�� ..."

�� , �� , �� , �� , � �� , �� . � �� .

" � �� ..."

�� , � � �� :

�� , � �� . �� - �� "��". �� "�� " � �� , �� "��" �� . �� , �� , �� "�� " ��.

�� - �� ! � �� . �� , �� ! �� . �� .

�� , �� "��" - �� . �� , �� . �� , �� .

�� - �� , �� , �� , �� , � �� - ��-�� , � ��, �� , �� , �� "��" - ��, ��, ��, ��. ��-�� /�� / - �� "��", ��, �� , ��, ��, � �� , �� , �� . ��, �� , �� , ��, ��, ��. �� , �� , � �� , � ��, � �� , ��, �� .

� ��, �� , � ��. � ��, �� "��".

�� -�� , ��?

˸� - �� . �� , �� .

�� . �� . �� .

* * *

��

�� , ��, ��, �� ' �� . �� - ��, � �� , � �� . �� , �� , �� , �� , ��, ��, ��, �� .

� �� - ��-�� , �� , � �� , � � �� , �� , �� , � �� ...

�� - �� , ��, �� - ��. �� - � �� . �� , ��, �� , ��, �� . �� , ��, �� - �� . ��. �� :

�� .

� �� ,

� �� .

�� . ��, �� . �� . �� - �� , �� - �� , � �� , �� , �� .

�� . �� . �� ? �� , �� , �� , �� . �� , �� , ��, �� . ��, ��, �� , �� , � �� , �� , �� . �� - �� - �� . �� - ��. �� - ��, ��, ��, �� , �� , �� - �� . �� , ��, ��. �� , �� . �� - �� , �� . �� , �� , � �� , � �� ...

��! �� , �� . �� , �� -��?

�� - �� . �� - ��, �� - �� . �� -�� . �� , �� . �� .

- �� , - �� .

��-�� . �� - �� ...

- � �� , - �� , � �� , - �� , � �� .

�� , �� , �� . �� !

- �� , - �� , - �� .

- � �� .

- �� .

�� , �� , �� , �� . �� , �� ...�� , � �� , - �� , � �� !

�� , �� "�� ", �� , �� , �� , �� ... �� . �� - ��. �� . �� - ��. �� , ��, �� . �� - ��, ��.

�� . �� - �� . �� , ��, �� , �� , � ��, �� . ��, �� , � �� , �� .

�� , �� , �� , �� , �� , �� , �� , � � �� .

�� -�� , �� . �� , �� . �� , �� , �� , �� , �� :

- �� ?

�� . �� -�� . ��, �� . �� , ��. � ��, �� , �� , � �� , �� -�� , � �� .

* * *

��-��

�� , � �� . �� , �� , �� , � �� . �� "�� " �� , �� .

�� , �� . �� , �� , - �� . �� - ��, �� . �� .

�� . �� , �� , �� , �� . �� , �� . ��, �� , �� , �� , � �� .

�� 3��, � �� , �� , �� . ��, �� , �� - �� . ��, �� , �� , ��, �� , �� , �� . �� , � �� , �� , ��, � �� "��!" � �� . �� , �� , �� - �� .

- ��, � �� .

�� .

�� , �� , ��, �� , �� - �� , �� . � �� .

�� , �� . � �� . ��, ��-�� , ��, �� - ��, ��. �� , �� , �� , �� . �� , �� -�� . �� - �� . �� .

�� . �� , �� , �� , ��:

- �� -��, ��, ��, �� . �� , �� ...

� �� . �� , ��, �� . �� , �� , �� , � �� , �� , �� . �� - �� , �� -�� . �� . �� , � ��, � �� , � �� , � �� , ��:

- �� , �� ?

�� , ��, �� . �� , �� , �� . � ��, �� ...

� �� , �� -�� .

- ��-�!.. � �� , � �� - �� . ��, �� , �� , � �� . �� , � �� .

��, ��...

�� .

�� , �� . �� , � ��-�� , ��. �� , � �� . �� -�� , ��, �� , �� , �� , �� "��". �� - �� , �� .

� �� , ��, ��, �� , �� , � �� , ��, �� , �� . � ��? � �� ?..

(�� )...

� Copyright: �� , 2009

[ Edit | View ]

[ Contact Forum Admin ]

Forum timezone: GMT-8
VF Version: 3.00b, ConfDB:
Before posting please read our privacy policy.
VoyForums^(tm) is a Free Service from Voyager Info-Systems.
Copyright © 1998-2019 Voyager Info-Systems. All Rights Reserved.