Йосси Верди -Выпускник Университета культуры и искусства по специальности «художественное творчество и экранная драматургия (сценарист)». Публикации в лит журналах России, США. Автор более 20 киносценариев, нескольких театральных пьес.
Драма «Последняя жертва войны»
Повесть «Последняя жертва войны» — о годах Великой Отечественной войны и женской доле тех тружениц, что остались в деревне.
Анна, главная героиня повести, сельская учительница, провожает своих сыновей на фронт. Но еще ранее она пережила революцию 1917 года и лишения, пришедшие вместе с новой властью. Казалось, ничего страшнее уже быть не может, но…
Оккупация нацистами приносит неведомые до того чувства страха и унижения. А тут еще бесконечные пересуды односельчан и сплетни об отношениях невестки Анны и местного фельдшера не дают покоя даже в собственном доме.
Как пережить потерю близких, испытание неизвестностью и остаться человеком с чистой душой и добрым взглядом?! Это — повесть о любви и большом жизненном пути настоящего человека.
В книгу молодого драматурга и сценариста Йосси Верди вошли роман и рассказы.
Spring of 1975 turned out to be especially warm and sunny. When April came, winter storm without complaint passed its scepter to spring drippings and fatefully left for its icy cave to wait for the next year. The world, going a little bit mad of such a gift, answered with luxuriant foliage and fussy birds’ twitter at once.
The noisy railway station was filled with the motley crowd when a deep whistle of the train informed about arrival of the passenger train from Minsk. Brakes rattled, and a line of the carriages smoothly stopped near the dirty platform. The welcomers at once stuck to the exits, looking for familiar faces in the windows. The people both with buckets and small trunks and someone with civil suitcases in their hands as well went down the carriages and at the same time disappeared in the happily raucous crowd.
An old woman of eighty went down the carriage. Tightly, as much as her strength allowed it, cuddling a sack with fried seeds and blinking her eyes at the spring sun, the old woman drumming the road with her walking sticktrotted towards the park. Having a rest each ten–fifteen steps, she made her way through the crowd, apologizing for her awkwardness and slowness every minute. The large passenger train, giving a signal of despair, jerked and retreated.
The lean crooked figure, wrapped in the faded shawl, appearing and disappearing here and there in the stormy sea of people, made her way towards a saving railroad park.
Having freed herself from clingy embrace of the crowd, the old woman crossed herself and went upwards a steep staircase, leading to a fountain. There having washed her face with cool water, she unconsciously admired the manmade fountain. It was a bronze postament in the form of a sitting among scattered musical instruments and covering his face with hands conductor. The water squirting out by a thin stream from a stuffed waterpot went down his hands and it seemed that the musician cried with an inexhaustible stream of tears. The old woman’s eyes rested on the sad conductor for a moment, and she limped to her place under a branchy lime tree where she had sold seeds for ten years already.
Having reached a sacred bench, she habitually opened her sack and, having shaken it twice, put it in front of her on the land. Large tight seeds sparkled in the sun with dull luster at the same time. The old woman smiling with thin lips looked at this twinkling, which moved her far in the past, the last happy remembrance – summer of 1941.
On that day Anna, sitting in a small room, scrutinized old pictures.Striking from opened windows light of the bright June sun shone her wrinkled hands, tenderly compressing a pre-revolutionary picture, having captured her as a young girl. Against the Smolny School for Noble Maidens where she studied, a photographer shot a picture of a gay covey of senior girls. The yellowed with age picture with a thin inscription in the corner “SAINT PETERSBURG PICTURE. Davingoff. 1917” moved Anna in a whirl of the past. Cultivated as far back as from her student years bearing and noble manners even at that time, in her seventies revealed an aristocrat of blue blood in her.
Sitting in the empty room Anna remembered the years of her studies with tenderness. Images of the past ran through her mind like a kaleidoscope. Here is a covey of the joyfully twittering co-students in coffee-coloured dresses with white calico aprons sitting in the room, waiting for a sad and strict school dame.Pleasant reminiscences are suddenly interrupted by a piercing all her being thought about a hateful corset of whalebone, which mercilessly pressed the ribs, not allowing her to breathe freely. She is circled in a whirl of waltz by her first shy love for a corporal, whom she saw just twice in her life at the dress-up balls.
In the next picture there is a medical check at the school – care of health of future old women. A meeting with Emperor Nickolay at the final exam at the Smolny School was shot in the next picture. Anna remembered how the emperor sat with an air of detachment and, buried in burdensome thoughts, did not pay attention to deep reverences of the white of fear boarding-school girls. It was 1917 then, but the memory stubbornly produced only pleasant moments from the unconscious, shading all the bad that happened later. Just imagine: then an old teacher could unknowingly make the girls blush, only reading “Onegin”. Pushkin’s lines:
But pantaloons, a tail-coat, waistcoat,
The Russian language does not include these words –
were at the same time accompanied by sighing and giggling in a thin voice.
Anna put the pictures away and took from a standing near her jewel-box her special pride – a lady-in-waiting’s sign. It was a dark-green satin bow – a carefully kept part of the former greatness. According to the tradition, the code was granted to the best graduates of the Smolny School and later gave hope to become one of ladies-in-waiting in the retinue of the empress herself.
Once the empress’s monogram of gold and diamonds shone on the ribbon, but the young Bolshevik regime needed money. Then during a search a gloomy commander of the bolshevik detachment yielded to entreaties of the tearful girl and, going away, threw the torn off bow on the floor.
After the revolution and shooting of her parents Anna, having wandered through towns and villages, found herself in the depth of the country, in one of many collective farms, which sprouted like mushrooms after the summer rains on the patrimonies’ ruins.
All the guys of the village paid attention to the pretty girl, but Anna gave her inexperienced heart to a young teacher from a local school, where she taught in the primary classes. In the happy marriage with him she bore two twin sons: Yakov and Mikhail. Ten years ago Anna became a widow and she had to grow and bring up the sons alone.
Pictures of the past smoothly changed each other, and Anna unconsciously smiled with corners of the white lips. A lonely tear, having suddenly rolled down the well-cared-for but withering face, dropped on the picture.
Anna shivered and, having dried the eyes with a handkerchief, deeply sighed. Today in her life only tears of happiness are welcome. In fact this evening she has a great holiday: her sons have a double wedding.
Anna put her treasures in the jewel-box and hid it. Having smoothened with her careful hand pleats on the dress, bought by the sons for her fortieth birthday, Anna looked out in the street. There in the bright light of the middle of the summer life moved in due course.