Our family came to the Caucasus in 1958, and we lived in the Kirghiz SSR, Frunze region, in the village of Django-Jer.We already were not the first, many families have left home before - in 1956 and 1957. Already had information about developing are so there. Council of Elders of Karachi in 1957 agreed on the need all people to return home. On everyone's lips was the old catch phrase "Toygan Jerdan - tuugan Jere bagaly" (Homeland, where born, not where enriched). Some feared once again embark on a long journey, a way that conjures up terrible memories of the 1943 year, on the road of death. Others said that it is better to stay here, where already obzhilis, settled. Space here anymore, why then go to the mountain gorges in landlessness, where hard-mined daily bread. "We will be better than licking stones native mountains and drink water Kuban, than to live in exile and longing for homeland," - said the elders. And no they are not contradicted. Because we all lived in the soul of deep longing for his native land, the mountain is steeper in the fresh mountain air, the noise of mountain rivers, the high Caucasian sky with bright stars.
I was already 12 years old and I remember the way home. When we delved into the car to go to the station Pishpek in Frunze, all for a moment, looking back, it seemed, froze, seeing the remaining dogs. Many plunged not only domestic belongings, and took away with them and their cattle, but remained a dog. They barked, ran around the car, screaming, or a plaintive whine. And are ready to pull in immigrants looked at them with eyes full of tears. Take with them the dogs were not allowed. "Here and in the Caucasus remained our dogs" - sadly sighed the grandmother.Convoy moved off, the dog ran after a long time, causing pain in our hearts.
And the station Pishpek in Frunze. Was going to rain, the composition has not yet filed. Unloaded, people tried to immediately build on their belongings and children some semblance of shelter. Uncle Nazby his powerful hands, all so quickly and deftly settle, that even before the first drops of rain, we were in the shelter. And I have my grandmother told me that when I grow up and start working, then on the first paycheck will buy a suit beloved uncle. Heavy downpour began. He was short, but something had to wet. In my mother's hope chest for me and the sisters entered the water (Karachay then began to collect a dowry almost from the birth of a girl). After the rain we are all dried out, however, the Chinese white tablecloths with beautiful patterns were yellow spots. These spots I did not delete today, keep this tablecloth to sire then, as evidence of the complicated fate of the people.
Finally filed cars. Again, loading, again working.
We rode home in the freight cars, but it was a warm spring, in May 1958, to rehabilitate them within their household goods. In the last car we took with them and their cattle. Each car drove through the four families, seated in two tiers. We all have been arranged bed. Mom nasushila still at home from muffins crackers on the road. At bus stops, which were frequent and long-term, mother and other women ran to milk cows. And then we drank warm milk with sweet crackers. The road was long - we rode day 15. Sometimes during the long stops could make a fire and something to cook. And then my mother was happy and smiling his inimitable smile. Her seven children were well fed.
Mama, Mama - I do not remember her idly resting, she was always busy: sewing, Lata, knitting, masters we rag summer shoes and slippers. Women karachaevki his handiwork saved people from starving to death, all-embracing.Weaving, knitting, spinning, felting catalyst. I also learned very early needlework, even before school.
Every time the train touched after the next stop at the junction, where we flew past the passenger train, the young guys suited jumping, jumping on the move in the open vestibules cars at a decent speed. One day, I think it was in New Orleans, I was late to sit down time in the car, because I saw a beautiful tile habitats. I really wanted to otkovyrnut even a piece of the picture, but I did not succeed. Suddenly I heard a locomotive whistle and ran to the train, but he has picked up speed. Guys, as always dzhigitovali. Among them was my youngest uncle strongman - Nazby. He raised me like a feather and threw in the vestibule. The head wind blew my hair, Daddy wrapped me in his jacket. In the doorway of our car flashed an anxious mother's face. We waved to her from the vestibule of our hands. Mommy's face disappeared. The car doors closed. At the next stop I got back into the car, in the bosom of the family. Mom scolded me harshly, and his grandmother hugged her and once again told us how to stay in the mountains of Karachay her youngest son, 9 years old - Nazby, then, in 1943.
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