My Family Story

My mom’s family is a combination of the Zak and Melamed families. Her father was Gregory Zak, formerly known as Hirsh before the communist revolution. His parents were Gabriel Zak and Khasya-Itke Kevilevich. Now, let me share the Zak family story from Lev Kokin (he went to the war at the age of 18 and got wounded in the leg near Kenigsberg), who was my mother’s cousin. He has a diverse repertoire of written works, including scripts for several films and a poignant story centered around his mother — an inspiring revolutionary figure who was put in prison under Stalin’s depression in 1937. Among his notable achievements (together with his sister Galina Kokin) is the screenplay for the film "Yasha Toporkov’s Easy Life” skillfully directed by E. Karelov and brilliantly portrayed by the talented E. Evstigneev.

Here and here you can find more information about the movie.

Here is the translation of the first letter:

On May 2nd, 1998, I visited the former Jewish cemetery on Collectornaya Street in Minsk, where our grandmother Khasya rests. However, it was not exactly at the grave, as the cemetery had been demolished in the 60s by bulldozers and covered with black soil. I recall seeing the dump trucks transporting the debris. Khasya-Itke, whose premarital surname was Kivelevich, had an impressive education, being fluent in Russian, Polish, German, Yiddish, and Hebrew. She possessed a range of skills, including midwifery and nursing, which made her highly respected among the Belarusian community.
Khasya got married relatively late for those times, at 27 years old, to our grandfather Gabriel, who was younger than her. Our great-grandfather remains somewhat of a mystery, as his name was unknown, but he was a cantonist, one of the Jewish boys conscripted into the Russian Tzar’s army. He survived and received land, nobility, and awards for his service. Aunt Rosa, who showed interest in our family history, shared stories of his strong character and physical prowess.
After retiring from the army, our great-grandfather supported Gabriel’s marriage with a substantial sum of money. With this, they leased land from a Polish countess, bought cows, and produced butter to make a living. Life was prosperous until 1908, when a law prohibiting Jews from renting land caused their downfall. This law, along with other discriminatory measures, drove thousands of Jews into poverty and confined them to ghettos, giving rise to Russian anti-Semitism.
The impact of this law was profound, forcing Jews into certain professions, which perpetuated stereotypes and prejudice within the broader society. It was a tragic and brutal turn of events that significantly affected the lives of many Jewish families.

Due to the oppressive circumstances, the Zak family fell into poverty. Grandmother Khasya worked as a floor washer in affluent houses in Volozhin, earning two kopecks, which was equivalent to one white bun at the time. In an attempt to escape poverty, grandfather Gabriel sought a better life in the United States with the help of Zionists. However, his dreams were shattered as he fell ill with Parkinson’s disease and struggled to find employment. He returned to Minsk in 1920, after a seven-year absence, penniless and in a single suit, as evidenced by a photograph with my mother. Surprisingly, the outbreak of the 1914 war saved the Zak from extinction, as they were granted refugee status, which provided them with free meals and housing. They were relocated to Minsk in 1915, settling in a house near the former Red Barracks, now at the corner of Kuibyshev and Varvashenka streets.
Despite the challenging conditions with no heating, indoor latrine, and scarce food supplies like bread, meat, butter, and sugar, the family managed to survive and even pursue higher education. The available information is limited, but the Zak family undoubtedly has an ancient history, with their surname possibly having German origins. “Sak” meaning a bag suggests that their ancestors might have lived in Germany and were either very wealthy (having a bag of money) or extremely poor. The exact truth behind their origins remains uncertain.

Translation of another letter of Lev Kokin that he address to us (me and Danny):

Actually, this letter is not addressed to you and Volodya but to your lovely sons. I've been meaning to write this for a long time, and I'm doing it now. It will be about our family and Zak's tradition. Let's be realistic: I don't have much time left to live, most likely, and as the eldest in the family, I feel obliged to pass on the legend like a baton. So, I'm addressing Sasha and Dima. Dear boys, thank God, you are still young and full of hopes. But you are also obliged to know everything (or almost everything) about your relatives from your father's and mother's side, about the Zak family. This includes how they lived, and when they have passed on to eternity, what they left for you, what you can be proud of, and what you should pass on to your descendants.

So, with joy and sincerity, I want to inform both of you that they were highly decent, moral people. Their names, according to their age, were Sonele, Girsh, Sheel, Rivekka, Sholom, and Roza. None of them engaged in bad deeds, cheated anyone, or profited at the expense of others. I will touch little upon women, [start of the second page] as they are more complex creatures, and it would be immeasurably more difficult and voluminous to write about them. Therefore, I will focus more on our men, the warriors, so to speak, not figuratively but literally. That's the main purpose of our story. Your mother must have already told you that our most distant ancestor was a man named Zak, a native of Belorussia, Volozhin County. Although no one remembered his first name, my dear aunt Roza, who was caring and devoted, told me that he was a cantonist. Allow me to briefly describe what that means, and I encourage you to read more about cantonists in some Jewish dictionary. They were the most unfortunate and exhausted children aged 10-12 years, forcibly taken from their mothers and conscripted into the Russian army around 1826-30. The Emperor Nicholas 1 decided to "make happy" Jews and replenish his army with powerless and obedient recruits. These children, who had previously lived in savage poverty, were brought to soldiers' barracks, where they were mistreated, spanked, and subjected to Spießruten (birching) in exchange for coarse, inadequate food. As I have gathered from many literary sources, thousands of cantonists died, and only a few survived (1 out of 10). Our great-grandfather was one of the survivors. He fought bravely, mainly with Poles and Hungarians, and earned numerous tsar [start of the third page] awards. In the end, he attained the highest soldier's rank, Feldwebel, which granted personal (not hereditary) Russian nobility and an allotment of land, approximately equal to that of a Polish nobleman. Aunt Roza recounted how some people described his appearance as intimidating: a throat-grabber, a tyrant, and a tireless workaholic. Despite this, the children loved and cared for him very much. His voice was hoarse and soporific, and he always sought obedience and hard work from the family starting at a young age. We do not know where he lived or where he was buried. He gave his son Gabriel, our grandfather, an inheritance in money, bought him a house, and ten or twelve cows. He also provided rent from a Polish landlord. But then, the military governor Muravyev, nicknamed Hanger, deprived the Jews of the right to rent land, plunging all Jews into poverty and universal contempt, labeling them as alleged idlers. This marked the creation of antisemitism in Russia, directed against traders, speculators, and moneylenders, essentially targeting the poorest people who had nothing else to do. That's how the Zaks ended up as beggars. My grandfather was forced to go to the USA, where he developed Parkinson's disease, preventing him from working anywhere, and he later returned to the USSR in 1921 with just one suit. To tell the truth, a three-piece suit.

I might have already written to you about all of this, so I apologize [start of the fourth page] for the repetition. The purpose of my letter is different. I want you to honor and remember the participants of the last world war: Sholom (Alexander) Zak and Sheel Zak (also Alexander, as they replaced their Jewish names with Russian ones when receiving their first Russian (Soviet) passports, living in different cities).

So we, in the family, called them: Sholom — Shura, and Sheel — Sasha. When the war started, Shura worked in Professor Vologdin's firm, where they specialized in surface hardening of steel using high-frequency currents. He was successful in his work and had plans to become a graduate student after graduating from the renowned Bauman College (Institute).





As you may have heard, in 1941, the Germans advanced rapidly into the interior of the country, posing a serious threat to the Motherland. Moscow urgently announced the recruitment of volunteers for the People's Militia, and about ten divisions were formed from them. All the fighters in these divisions were Communists. Without consulting his son or wife, Shura dropped everything and signed up as a volunteer, being a member of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks. Until that moment, he had never held a rifle or undergone military training. He concealed his higher education and enlisted as a loader. I saw him for the last time on Ogorodnaya Street. We met, and he put his hand on my shoulder, saying, "Remember, Levochka, the proverb. Don't go to your death until you are called." I promised him that, and it seems that on the same day, he went to the army, to the front, even though no one [start of the fifth page] had officially called him. His division was sent to the Leningrad front, where the Germans were pressing hard towards Leningrad, aiming for the closest proximity to the city. It was a critical situation, almost leading to the surrender of Leningrad. The defenders of the city formed walls of living bodies, heroically choosing to die rather than let the enemy pass.

If you look at a geographical map and trace the Neva River flowing out of Lake Ladoga, you'll see how it turns sharply from west to north near the great city. That was the exact spot where the Germans planned to force the Neva and break through to the northern capital. Under the station Sapernaya, they deployed a division of Moscow volunteers. The ferocity of the fighting on both sides was unimaginable. I vividly recall a letter, perhaps the last one, that our Shura sent. He wrote that their division (regiment, battalion) launched seven (!!!) attacks on the positions of the Germans, who had breached the left bank of the Neva, where the road to Leningrad began.

What is seven times in the attack? Personally, I have only experienced one such attack and was wounded, forcing me to leave the frontlines. Usually, according to the accounts of soldiers, an infantryman can endure a maximum of three attacks before facing certain death. Shura withstood seven. In the eighth attack, he fell, making him an undoubted Hero of the USSR.

Galya (Shura's wife, daughter of the same defender of the city) and I went to Sapernaya station twice to search for his grave, an obelisk, or any remnants of the past. Unfortunately, we found nothing. It was later explained to me that the remains of soldiers from 1941 were not preserved because this territory was still under German occupation, and they did not provide proper burials. Instead, they either dumped the fallen soldiers into the river or discarded them into ditches and funnels, barely covering them with earth.

I loved Shura dearly, especially for his talkativeness, insatiable thirst for knowledge, and desire for education. He even went to his death fighting for the Soviet power, as he saw it as the realization of the dream of all Russian Jews to become educated individuals with higher education—an aspiration that seemed unattainable under the tsar's rule. He was a cheerful and optimistic man. After our parents' arrest in 1937, my sister and I were left orphaned. Shura actively participated in supporting us through that difficult time. Despite having only one winter coat, he selflessly gave it to me, enduring the harsh winter of 1939-1940 with just a demi-season coat. The kindness of my uncles Grisha (your grandfather), Shura, Sasha, and Aunt Roza, who filled the void of our mother's absence, is worthy of poetry. I have never encountered kinder individuals in my life, including your grandmother, Elena Israelivna.

Now, a little about Sasha. He was a somewhat different kind of person. He told me in quite a detailed manner about his participation in the war. When he was drafted into the army, he did not join the infantry but waited for a commission for an officer's position in his civilian specialty as an electrician. In 1942, his division got surrounded by the Germans near Kharkiv, along with others, totaling one million (!) fighters. But he did not lose his courage. Near the town of Balakleya, there are huge fields known as flood meadows, enclosed by a high dam. Thousands of soldiers, wounded and civilians, were pinned to this dike. To get over the dam was impossible due to a barrage of German machine-gun fire. Behind the dam flowed the river Vorskla, narrow but extremely deep, which was also under machine-gun fire. For twenty-four hours, he lay on the bank, waiting for the Germans to run out of ammunition. In one trench with him was a general. In the evening, the general shot himself, offering Sasha, as a Jew, to do the same. However, Sasha refused, stating that he still wanted to kill the German. As night fell, Sasha managed to escape over the dam and then swim across the river, which was swarming with our soldiers, girls, and boys trying to reach the opposite bank. Unfortunately, most of them died because they did not know how to swim. Sasha, however, had been taught to swim by my father, Grigory Nikolaevich, and he struggled not only with the turbulent current but also with the abundance of corpses, yet he managed to swim across and reach the opposite shore, wet and exhausted. Crawling across the field, he somehow made it to the edge of the forest, where he was safe from being captured. Otherwise, he would have been shot on the spot.



At first glance, his actions might not seem extraordinary, but steadfastness, courage, and perseverance are evident in his story. Later, he was assigned to General Batov's army staff and was rewarded multiple times for his knowledge and dedication. One day, the army commander visited the headquarters power plant, managed by Sasha, and asked him, "Tell me, Zak, why was there no light in the headquarters before you arrived? We worked by candlelight. But here, everything is working and shining." Sasha thought for a moment and replied, "That's because, Comrade Colonel-General, I don't sleep every night. I start the dynamo and sit listening to the engine and the dynamo. As soon as I detect any failure, I immediately switch to the reserve group (which, by the way, he collected from home)." Impressed by Sasha's dedication, the General ordered the adjutant to award Sasha the Order of the Red Star, pinning it on his chest.

They say that in Israel, there are lists of all the Jews who fought on the fronts of the last war. It would be appreciated if you could take the time to find and check these lists to find the surnames and names of Shura and Sasha. Perhaps it is our duty to honor their memory.

Regarding myself and my relatives, we are healthy. I have already turned 75 years old, but I hope to live long enough to witness and experience what life has in store for us. I hold on to the hope that it will lead to happiness and peace.

Sending hugs to you boys and to you, Isanna and Volodya. May you have health and contentment in your home.

With love, your L. Kokin

P.S. The letter was delayed and sent only on 21st November 99

[start of the ninth page]

I also decided to add a story about the eldest of the Zak, Grigory Gavrilovich, your direct grandfather. He did not fight in the war but worked in the military factories in the rear, supporting the front.

Let me tell you briefly: I have never encountered a more knowledgeable engineer-steel builder. He knew everything about mechanical engineering and how to carry out any heat treatment of a part. He could set up any metal-cutting machine, including the most complicated one, a gear grinding machine. He provided me with invaluable help when I came to Minsk and started working at a machine-tool enterprise. His advice was always infallible.

Upon my return to Minsk from evacuation, the director of the tool factory immediately provided me with an apartment. Others had to wait for many, many years to get one. I believe this was due to the fact that Grigory Gavrilovich distinguished himself when he was instrumental in restoring the production of children's factory toys, as decided by the Central Committee of the Party and the government. At that time, non-compliance with such decisions would be severely penalized.

He began his working life at the age of 10 as an apprentice watchmaker in a workshop located opposite the "red" hostel in Minsk.

Please honor the memory and never forget your ancestors; they are more than worthy of it.

Be happy, your uncle L.

01 October 1999

Here is the translation of part of the letter where he described his visit in Lubcha:

Last month, I embarked on a meaningful journey to the urban settlement of Lubcha, a place with significant family ties as it was once the home of our great-grandfather, the esteemed rabbi and father of our grandmother, Khasi. I was determined to locate the synagogue where he served, and after some searching, I finally found the building. However, to my surprise, it now houses a settlement house of culture, a fact that left me pondering the changes that have occurred over the years.

The sight that greeted me inside was quite disheartening. Instead of the solemn atmosphere one would expect in a former synagogue, the walls now resonated with lively dance music and the presence of "non-Jewish" drinks being consumed near the entrance. The building itself, though, is still an impressive structure, boasting a tall, well-built form with five huge windows on the side facade. Its entrance is adorned with a pediment and four pilasters, showcasing a neoclassical style that exudes a sense of grandeur. The synagogue stands proudly on the banks of the Neman River, which used to accommodate steamboats during the era when Rabbi Kivelevich lived here, around the 1840s and 1850s.

Our great-grandfather's legacy was one of intelligence, talent, and intellectuality. His reputation as an intellectual and accomplished individual has clearly had an enduring impact on our family. As I stood before the building, a mix of emotions overwhelmed me, and my heart ached with the weight of the past. I felt a strong desire to kneel down and touch the stones and earth in reverence, but I held back in the presence of my companions, factory workers who had joined me on this journey.

Unfortunately, my inquiries with the locals yielded no information about the synagogue, and I discovered that there are no longer any Jews living in Lubcha. In the pre-war years, the town boasted 3,260 inhabitants, with 1,500 of them being Jews, making up nearly half of the town's population. I pay my respects to all those who once lived here, especially the Jewish community, who are now laid to rest in the mass grave memorialized by a monument to the Holocaust victims. The fact that the cemetery is still well-kept brings some solace amidst the sorrow of the town's losses.

The remnants of pre-war Lubcha stand as a reminder of the past, with its wooden buildings that have now dulled and aged. Although my time there was brief, the experience weighed heavily on my heart. As I departed, my companions hastened our departure, and I carried with me a mix of emotions, grateful for the opportunity to connect with our family's history, yet deeply moved by the poignant changes and losses that have occurred over the years.

Here is the translation of part of the letter where he described our great-grandfather Gabriel Zak:

I am delighted with the photograph of my grandfather, and I spent a considerable amount of time studying it. Upon closer observation, I noticed a striking resemblance between his facial features and those of Leonid Zak's father - Shura or Sholom. The expression in the eyes is remarkably similar to both Leonid and Shura. It makes me wonder why my grandfather didn't achieve great wealth or become a millionaire in the USA, which could have led our entire family to embrace American life and potentially be happier.

During my stay in Minsk, I have been on a quest to find the location of the pre-war synagogue. According to the prevailing legend, the synagogue met a tragic fate and was consumed by fire, together with our grandfather Gabriel. My memories of him are vivid. Like many in the Zak family, he was not particularly talkative, and details about his family history and personal life remained elusive. Rumors suggest that his time in the USA was fraught with challenges due to his bouts of Parkinson's disease, leading to frequent job dismissals.

One specific memory I cherish is our journey from Stalingrad to Minsk in 1938. During a transfer in Orel, he would frequently doze off while waiting at the station. As a mischievous 14-year-old, I found amusement in playfully tickling his nose with a straw. Surprisingly, he never grew angry and never scolded me, despite my playful antics.

I am still exploring Minsk, reflecting on these memories, and contemplating the untold stories of my grandfather's life and the legacy of the Zak family.

I also found records of the Zak family in Voloshin:

ZAK Abel Nokhim Head of Household 35
ZAK Sheyna Rubin Wife 34
ZAK Rivka Abel Daughter 16
ZAK Peska Abel Daughter 14
ZAK Girsh Abel Son 11 missing

Maybe the missing Girsh in the one who was taken by force to the Russian Tzar army as cantonist. And maybe my grandfather was named after him as Girsh.

Memories of my grandfather Gregory (Hirsh) Zak:

I was born in 1905 in the town of Volozhin. Until 1913, my father, Gabriel, worked as a farmer on rented land. In that year, he decided to immigrate to USA and found employment in various factories. However, due to his medical condition, he had to return to Minsk in 1922 and rely on the care of his children. Tragically, he passed away in the Minsk ghetto in 1942.

My mother was a devoted housewife and unfortunately, she passed away in 1941. My own educational journey involved schooling until 1916, after which I started working as an employee. From 1924 to 1927, I pursued further studies at the Vitebsk Polytechnic. Subsequently, I was assigned to work at the Kirov machine factory in Gomel until the outbreak of the war. Then, I was sent to Sverdlovsk and became a senior technologist at the Kalinin factory from 1941 to 1948.

Gregory was part of the team that developed Katusha, which was a game changer weapon during the Second World war.

In 1948, I began working at the Chakalov tool factory. As for my relatives, I must convey the heartbreaking news that my brother lost his life in the war in 1942. My surviving brother, Alexander, works as an electrical engineer at Belpromproject in Minsk. My sisters, Riva and Rosa, are both housewives. Riva’s husband is an economist, and they reside in Cheboksary. Rosa’s husband holds the position of director in the party department of the Red Star newspaper in Moscow.

Regrettably, we have no remaining relatives in the world.

Mom told me that grandfather Gregory was Zionist and was listening to Israeli radio - Kol Israel, specially during the Six day war.
He also wrote two books that were guides to the mechanical engineers. First was written in 1963 and was called "Constructor's Guide":
The second book was written in 1965 and was called "Guide for normalized parts and machine assembly". Here is the book cover:
He also got few thank you letters from readers:

Here is a translation of the first letter (from Dulova L.I, Nevyansk city, Sverdlovsk region, Uritskogo street 10):

I am employed as a tool designer within the Chief Technologist department.
Just recently, I acquired a copy of the Designer-Machinist Handbook published by the Academy of Sciences of the BSSR in Minsk, 1963.
This handbook proves to be exceptionally useful in my daily work. The inclusion of all thread specifications and tolerances according to the latest GOST standards is particularly advantageous. Moreover, the incorporation of comprehensive five-digit trigonometric tables, along with clear illustrations of shaded fits and their convenient placement within the handbook, greatly enhances its practicality.
The Metalworker's Handbook, a set of five volumes, has seen limited utilization in our department. We solely referred to volumes 1, 5, and 3 (pertaining to channels and hard alloy plates). I have since contributed these volumes to our library, retaining only your handbook and the fifth volume of the Metalworker's Handbook. The latter remains indispensable due to its inclusion of machine passport details, necessary for determining cutter height from the base to the center of the workpiece.
In my perspective, the Designer-Machinist Handbook allocates a substantial portion of its content to the diverse array of materials. It would be beneficial to extend its coverage to encompass the chemical compositions of carbon steels and their potential substitutes. Overall, I find this handbook to be remarkably user-friendly and practical in my professional endeavors.
I am curious to inquire about additional resources for acquiring reference books on measuring and cutting tools, apart from the Designer-Machinist Handbook.

Here is a translation of the second letter (from Nevesenko Vas. Iv., Sverdlovsk city 10, Griboedova 28, apartment 39):

Dear comrades!
I wish to express my sincere gratitude to your esteemed publishing house, as well as to Comrades G. G. Zakh and L. I. Rubinstein, for producing the highly valuable book titled "The Designer's Handbook." This exceptional publication stands out in comparison to all previously released handbooks of its kind. The content within it, the method of presentation, and the meticulous arrangement of its contents all deserve the highest commendation.
Without a doubt, this handbook will undoubtedly become an indispensable reference for designers and machine builders alike. It is, however, regrettable that the book has been released in a limited edition.
I kindly request that you convey my sentiments to the authors of this remarkable book. Such a comprehensive handbook could only have been crafted by true designers, a fact that, in my view (coming from a designer who has dedicated over 15 years to practical production), is the utmost praise.
I extend my heartfelt wishes for your publishing house to consider producing an expanded edition of this invaluable resource. To the authors, I wish continued success in their creative endeavors and in their efforts towards preparing a second edition of this exceptional handbook.
Design engineer at Uralhimmash 30 December 1963

Here is his handwriting letter and pictures:

Here is an article about Gregory Zak:

Two-three quotas per shift
The Chkalov tool factory personnel are committed to complete the year plan by December 15 and lower the product net cost by 12%. Each factory worker strives to contribute to the successful early completion of this goal.
The leaders of this competition are stamp and press mould and circular cutting tools workshops. These workshops workers have significantly outstripped the May plan. Their Stakhanovites (top performers) – Sornov, Mumay, Savitski, Miskevich, Gorohovik, Dolgolevich and others – make two-three quotas per shift.
The commodities workshop work eagerly to complete the year plan early. They have greatly outstripped the May plan within the whole range. Their Stakhanovites - service engineer Trushkevich, press operator Buslova, assembly fitters Borovets and Korpeyko, and others - complete their shift goals at 180-220% rate and make high-quality products.
Many of the factory Stakhanovites have achieved their professional progress utilizing progressive working methods. Stakhanovite Shachak, the stamp and press mould workshop mechanic, completed fifteen monthly quotas in five months, the circular cutting tools workshop machinists Morozova and Sergeeva have already completed the year plan using the Vasiliy Kolesov method, and the drill workshop's model Stakhanovite Hosin is already working towards the 1954 plan.
The factory efficiency experts also make a significant contribution to the early completion of the year production plan. They have introduced 35 efficiency suggestions over the past 5 months, eleven of which are already being used and will help save tens of thousands of rubles. Engineer Zak proposed an original device for preparing metal rods. His proposition increased the operational productivity by over 50%. The mechanical-repair workshop machinist and Stakhanovite Kristofuk also introduced valuable efficiency suggestions.
In their efforts to outstrip the third year's part of the five-year plan, the workers are trying their best to utilize the internal productive resources.

Here are Gregory Zak pictures:

Here are Gregory Zak awards:

Memories of my grandmother Elena Zak (Melamed) 24.4.1966:

I was born on May 7, 1912, into the family of an official in the city of Gomel. My educational journey began in 1919 when I enrolled in school, and I successfully graduated in 1928. Following that, I started my career at a bread factory in Gomel and worked there until 1931.

In 1931, I was accepted into the prestigious Plytechnic University of Minsk, where I pursued my studies until 1936. However, due to my family situation and health issues, I had to leave the university before completing my degree. From 1936 to 1939, I worked at the Kirov factory in Gomel as a mechanical technician in the technical department.

In 1939, another change in my family situation prompted me to leave my job. Subsequently, in 1941, we were relocated to the city of Sverdlovsk, where we resided until 1948. At that time, the local Ministry of Industry invited my husband to work in Minsk, and our entire family moved there.

In 1962, I found employment at the Opera Theater as a ticket seller (cashier). Later that year, I transitioned to work at the central theater box office, where I have remained employed to this day. The theater has become a significant part of my life, and I cherish the memories I’ve made throughout my career.

Here is her handwriting letter:

Here is a first article about her:

Elena Izrailevna Melamed and Anna Semenovna Talapila are cashiers at the Central theatre office ticket. Selling tickets is not as easy as it seems and, in any case, the success doesn’t depend on the cashier. Although, apart from the local theater admirers, who know their theatres well, hundreds and thousands of guests visit Minsk every day. And they can always rely on a good recommendation from Elena Izrailevna. She will recommend a play worth watching. Regular theatre-goers also know and appreciate her, because Alena is always very considerate with their every request. That’s why ticket office #5, the one next to the “Stolichny” grocery store, is always busy.
When we see kolkhoz buses and trucks arriving at the theaters, the philharmonic hall or the circus every night, we should also give a word of appreciation to A. Talapila, cashier, specializing in working with rural population. Anna Semenovna is always eager to reach the farthest kolkhoz or the smallest farm. She is well-known in the Stolbtsovsky, Dzerzhinsky, Kopylsky and Volozhinsky districts. More than 70 thousand people attend theaters every year thanks to the tickets bought by Anna Semenovna Talapila.

Here is a second article about her:

[MINSK REPORT]
Rush hour at the theatre entrance
On one of the first days of March, half an hour before the play starts, the newspaper correspondent took up a position at the entrance of the Gorky Drama Theatre to interview several “extra-ticket seekers”. Basically, he had only one question to ask: “why are you so eager to get to the theatre tonight?” And there was quite a decent reward for this sudden interview – the theatre management kindly agreed to provide those being interviewed (sadly, no more than five of them) with a seat in the stalls.
All five of them turned out to be young people – seniors are, of course, not that risky to seek a chance to “possibly get in…” Overall, by the most conservative estimates, three quarters of the audience that day were young people.
The poll results were as follows. All five of them (four Minsk residents and one Kaliningrad resident on a business trip) expressed their passion for theatre.
Four of them (without the one on a business trip) said that they specifically wanted to spend this evening at the Gorky theatre. Their reasoning: the play (“Rush hour” by Jerzy Stawinski) was highly praised by someone they know; they really liked several previous plays at this theatre; “overall” – the theatre has significantly improved lately, so there are high expectations for every play.
So, the five selected entered the hall, but it was only the beginning of our conversation. There is a saying – “event in the theatrical life”. It’s usually used when talking about a particularly interesting play or an actor breakthrough. I would take liberty to say that for our capital, this year’s theatrical event was the Gorky Drama Theatre rapid growth in popularity. Sold-out shows, that, until recently, were a rarity, became a usual thing.
It’s up to art experts to explain what exactly the theatre’s new director, Belarusian Theatre and Art University graduate Boris Lutsenko, managed to bring into its life. Whatever it was, the Minsk audience were responsive to the result – brand new repertoire, refusal to make “mediocre”, patched up plays, interest in the details – production, art and musical arrangement. The audience appreciate the actors’ involvement, who, in their turn, are interested in communicating with the audience and, overall, in living on stage.
As I already mentioned, sold-out tickets for the theatre plays is a regular occurrence. Not every day, though.
“Echo of the premieres usually comes with a delay or sometimes doesn’t even reach the general public” – that’s how we can summarize the reply of four cashiers to our question of why it takes so long for the audience sometimes to “get going” after another theatre premiere.
Suddenly, I heard the unfortunate words “package deal” from the ticket office #5 (ironically, the closest one to the theatre building).
“Excuse me,” – I objected, - “Macbeth” as a package deal? Isn’t it sold out?
E. I. Melamed, cashier at the ticket office near the philharmonic concert hall, helped me solve this mystery.
- You see, each cashier has their own regular clients. And if I give a ticket to the Gorky theatre as a “package deal” to some of my regulars today, I know for sure they will never return there. It will be a lost viewer for the theatre. You have to sell a play right…
After getting a chance to observe the cashier work for some time, I had to agree with her. Many of her regular clients asked for a ticket to a Gorky play (including “Macbeth”) as a favor. No mentioning of “package deals.”
How many new admirers could the theatre get if its potential audience got the chance to receive a timely recommendation from a respectable theatre expert! You can’t help but feel sad about the fact that our mass audience and theatre admirers don’t yet have systematic and prompt (right after the premiere day!) theatrical reviews in daily newspapers.
***
Interesting fact: before the “Rush hour” started, Boris Lutsenko rushed into the theatre lobby in an open coat:
- Tamara Alexandrovna, are there any tickets left? – he asked into the ticket office window.
- Not a single one, Boris Ivanovich, - cheerfully replied Tamara Alexandrovna Eliseeva. As he was running away, she added: It’s the first time I’m seeing anyone like this in my 19 years of working here. He always drops by or calls from home to check about the audience before the show…
It was probably the only man that night happy about the absence of spare tickets.
- B. Pasternak

More pictures of Elena Melamed:

Here are Elena Melamed awards:

Dear mother,

You were born in Yekaterinburg, on the western outskirts of Siberia, in 1942. Your father, a talented engineer, played a key role in the relocation of Russian military production capabilities during World War II to the Ural Mountains, and you often spoke of him with admiration and great respect. Your mother also contributed to the war effort by hosting Red Army soldiers on their way to the front at your home. She gave them her bed and what little food you had in the house, while she slept on the floor. You told us about your struggles to be accepted to university to study engineering as a Jew, in the face of a numerical limitation that was applied to Jews. And yet, you succeeded. Later on, you taught yourself programming and wrote code in COBOL on punch card machines. I remember that once you took me to your work to run a game of tic-tac-toe on the hulking computer.. It took at least half an hour of preparation and as far as I remember I wasn’t very impressed by the experience 😊

Later, in the 90’s after our family trip in Moscow, you made the decision with Dad to immigrate to Israel. You were already in your forties and were not afraid to make such a dramatic change at a not-so-young age. The personal implication of this move was a decline in economic and social status, but you were willing to pay the price because you were convinced it was the right thing for me and Alex. You made a personal sacrifice for those you loved most and experienced the difficult implications without complaining or asking for anything in return.

Thank you for the good years, the potent lessons, the tremendous patience, the great stubbornness, and the infinite love. The impermanence of life sometimes hits you out of nowhere, whether you're trying to be mindful of its existence at every moment or not. In another generation or two, it will be hard to remember the experiences we had, the challenges we overcame, and the failures we could not overcome. But it doesn't matter, because you mattered! Not only to me but to countless people who, when we informed them of your passing away, were quick to tell us how they saw you. A righteous woman, compassionate, always ready to help, and full of love. You were significant in your giving, in your broad human heart, in life's lessons, in perseverance, in a strong spirit, and in the immense devotion to your children and grandchildren. Your life, although sometimes not easy, was filled with openness, curiosity, and the aspiration to give us... your children and grandchildren the best possible.

There are many good moments of us that I will always remember… some of them very personal and some less so. One of the best moments happened just last Monday when I came to visit you after a trip abroad. You smiled at me the moment you saw me, it was a radiant smile, full of happiness and filled with the purest love you can imagine. Despite the pain, discomfort, and physical deterioration, you said a few words that a mother says to her son, which mean the world to me. That's how I'll remember you - radiantly happy and loving.

May you no longer know suffering and pain, may you know only peace, tranquillity, and harmony in the place you're heading now. Enjoy the best the universe has to offer. My love will always accompany you.

Mom and Dad:

Vladimir and Isanna Glushenkov (Zak) - dad died in 2018 from COPD, and mom died from Colon and Anal cancer in 2023. They are buried in Lod new cemetery in Israel

Mom's side:

Gabriel Zak - stayed in Minsk when the war started as he wanted to protect the synagogue (he was very religious) and according to the rumors was burned together with the synagogue. Here is the evidence from Yad Vashem written by my mother:

Khasiya Itke Zak (Kivelevich) - died before the second world war in 1921 (the year not confirmed) and was buried in Minsk former Jewish cemetery on Collectornaya Street in Minsk

Israel Melamed - died before the second world war in 1939 apparently from tuberculosis and was buried in Gomel

Chaya Melamed (Radashkovich) - died in 1971. Apparently from Stroke and was buried in Leningrad (today Saint Petersburg)

Gregory (Hirsh) Zak and Elena Melamed - Elena died from Leukemia in 1976 and Gregory from stroke in 1977. They are buried in Northern cemetery in Minsk

The entrance is from the main (first) gate:

Boris Zak (mother's brother) - died in 2019 and was buried in Cologne in Germany - Jewish Cemetery Cologne-Bocklemünd, Venloerstrasse 1152:

Alex (Sasha) Zak (mother's uncle) - died in 1985 and was buried in the Northern cemetery in Minsk. His grave is near second gate, near green bus

Dad's side:

Simcha Evdasin (dad's great-grandfather) - died in Leningrad during the Nazi blockade. Here is the evidence from Yad Vashem:

Here and here you can find Simcha Evdasin death records details

Pesach Evdasin (dad's grandmother brother) - died in camps during the Second world war. Here is the evidence from Yad Vashem written by my father:

Tzila Borisenko (Evdsin) - died in 1988 and was buried in the Northern cemetery in Minsk. Her grave in the corner of sections 82 and 62. Down on 62 section

Vladimir Borisenko - died in 1991 and was buried in the Northern cemetery in Minsk. His grave near the sign of 75a, on the left side

Andrey and Alexander Glushenkov - Andrey died in 1986 and Alexander in 2008. They are buried in the same grave in the Northern cemetery in Minsk. Their grave near the section 79, under big tree

Maya and Olga Glushenkov - Maya died in 2013 and Olga in 2021 (from Covid 19). They are buried in the same grave in Western cemetery in Minsk. Their grave 200 meters from the entrance, on the main road

More details about Zak family :

Gabriel Zak and Khasya Zak were married and had six children: Sonya, Rosa, Riva, Sasha (Shaul) , Shalom (also known as Sasha), and Gregory (Girsh). Tragically, Gabriel Zak passed away in Minsk during the invasion of the Nazis. As for the grandmother, it is believed that she passed away before the war’s onset.

Sonia Zak married Kokin Grigori, and they had two children: Galia and Lev. Galia is a mother to a daughter named Masha, while Lev has two children of his own: Sasha and Lena Kokin.

Rosa, unfortunately, did not have any children.

Riva has been blessed with two daughters: Asia and Tamara.

Sasha Zak faced heartbreaking tragedy when the Nazis took the lives of his wife Luba and their two children. After the war, he married to Rosa. They have a daughter named Natasha, who now has a son called Maksim

Here are his medals and records from second world war:

Shalom (Sasha) married Mania and has a son named Leonid Zak. Shalom was killed during the Second world war. Here are his records from the war.
Leonid Zak was a founding father of the Soviet computers. He is buried in Dolgoprudnenskoye Kladbishche in Moscow.

Here is the translation of a paragraph where he is mentioned:

Our group became part of the team working on the BESM-1 computer, which included notable figures like Andrey Andreevich Sokolov, Valery Nazarovich Laut, Mark Valeriyanovich Tyapkin, and Leonid Aleksandrovich Zak. Meeting Leonid Zak in the computer room was a delightful surprise for me, considering we both graduated from Moscow’s School No. 370 in Sokolniki in 1950. I was in grade 10B, while Lenya was in grade 10A, where he earned a gold medal and later joined MPEI, and I went to the Naval Engineering School in Leningrad.

Leonid Alexandrovich Zak proved to be an incredibly talented engineer, always modest, hardworking, and compassionate. He was ever-ready to assist his colleagues, and his dedication led him to receive the State Prize of the USSR twice, rightfully earning his place among the “luminaries.” Throughout his career, he devoted himself to ITM and VT.

A school friend, Sergey Sergeevich Karinsky, a doctor of technical sciences and a leading specialist in fiber-optic information transmission systems at RTI im. Mints, once made a remark about our school days, saying: “In our school, two people were developing computers: Lenya Zak, a genius, and Dod Feinberg, a lazy person.”

Here is another paragraph where he is mentioned:

The last time I had the chance to see Lenya Zak was in 2008. Leonid Aleksandrovich worked tirelessly in a small room on the top floor of the main building of ITM and VT. It was a windowless space, previously used as a utility room, but he had transformed it into his workspace. There, he took care of debugging the TEZs himself to fulfill various orders. Work was an integral part of Leonid’s life; he couldn’t imagine a life without it. May he rest in blessed memory.
Here is another article where he mentioned.

More details about Melamed family :

Israel (played the violin in Warsaw and became an accountant) and Chaya Radashkovich had three daughters:
1. Sarah and her husband Geller. Sara had one son - Boris Rubenstein
2. Elena is my grandmother. Elena had two sons, Anatoly and Dmitri, but they died young from illness. Then Boris was born (my mother's brother) and then my mother.
3.Rima is married to Roman and has a son, Arseny. Arseny have 2 daughters: Anna (second marriage) and Meela (first marriage)

Israel died before the war

My great grandmother Chaya’s parents were Israel and Batia (Basia) Radashkovich, and they resided in Dolgovino, Belarus.
Chaya had a brother named Mordechay, who was married to Dvora. Mordechay had three children:

1. Israel, who married Vicktoria and had two children named Dora and Itzik. Itzik is now married to Shuli Rotenberg, and they have two sons named Mody (Mordechay) and Yonathan (Yoni).
2. Fira, who had two daughters named Inna and Lena.
3. Lena, who was married to David Rosinov and had one daughter named Berta.
Here is the picture of Basya/Batya Radashkovich in Dolginovo, Belarus ( Chaya Melamed’s mother):

Here is the picture of Israel and Chaya Melamed:

Here is the picture of Israel Melamed:

Here is the pictures of Chaya Melamed:

My grandfather Andrey Glushenkov was a KGB officer that fought and was wounded in the Finland war in 1939. He was born in Smolensk, Russia. He married my grandmother Maya when she was 18 as she was a very beautiful woman. Here my grandmother with my father Vladimir (Vova)

Here are my grandfather Andrey's pictures:

Here are my grandfather Andrey's medal:

Beside my father Andrey and Maya had twins : Olga and Alexander (Sasha). Here is a picture of my father with his sister Olga:

Olga has one son - Evgeniy. Here is the picture of Evgeniy and us on Grandmother Maya dacha:

My great-grandmother, Tzila Evdasin, was married to Josef Sazar, who happened to be my grandmother’s father. However, Josef left the family when Tzila was pregnant with my grandmother Maya, leading my grandmother to marry Vladimir Borisenko, a colonel in the Soviet Air Force. When Maya was born they sent her to a Jewish village near Crimea, where she learned Yiddish. Tzila and Vladimir later welcomed two more children, Valia and Peter.

Originating from the Evdasin family in Gomel, Tzila’s father was Simcha, the son of Pesach, and her mother’s name was Rivka (with her father’s name being Zalman). Simcha had a successful tea factory, and during the time of the communist revolution, he possibly invested his money in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Tzila had three siblings: Evgeniya, Pesach, and Berta (also known as Bubenia). Bubenia had a son named Anatoly (Tolik). Tragically, Pesach lost his life during the Second World War in a Soviet prison camp after someone betrayed him to the Nazis, revealing that he was Jewish.

Here are the documents we found regarding Evdsin family:

Pesach (Peter) was a surgeon who got captured during the Second World War. He attempted to escape from the Porkhov camp, but tragically, the Nazis killed him while he was trying to flee. This devastating event occurred after he had bravely saved someone, only to be betrayed by that very person.



The following are letters of correspondence between my great-grandmother, Tzila, and a researcher, shedding light on the story of Pesach and the events surrounding his capture and untimely demise during the war. First letter:

Here is the translation:

19 March 1965

Dear Tsilya (Tzila) Semyonovna!

Nineteen years ago (yes, nineteen years!), you asked me to provide all the information I knew about your brother, Peter Semyonovich, and his time in Porkhov, as well as his letter. I cannot recall precisely what I informed you back then, but I shared everything I knew at the time

In light of the recent anniversary of the victory over fascism, I have been requested to recollect my experiences during the years of the Patriotic War. While doing so, memories of Evdasin resurfaced. I am currently searching for individuals who might have more detailed information about his stay in Porkhov. It is possible to find such people, and to aid in my search for them, I would appreciate your assistance with the following

How did you come to know that your brother was held at the Porkhov prisoner-of-war camp? Please share the circumstances under which you received this information
Do you already possess detailed information about his passing while he was there?
On whose recommendation did you meet with the Kiselev sisters, and what did they reveal about your brother? How did they come to know about his fate?
Are there any residents of Porkhov city who might be aware of the location of your brother's grave?

Your responses will be valuable in helping me identify individuals who knew your brother in Porkhov, especially during his last days.

I will gladly share any new information I obtain regarding Peter Semyonovich with you.

Additionally, I kindly request you to provide me with the contact details of the Kiselevs.

If my memory serves me correctly, Evdasin worked and lived in Leningrad before the war. Could you provide more specific information about his exact location?

Regards,
19 March 1965
Dm. Batenin

City Kostroma
Dzerzhinsky st.
b. 21, app. 13

Batenin
Dmitry Ignatyevich

Here is the second letter:

Here is the translation:
Kostroma
2 April 1965

Dear Tsilya (Tzila) Semyonovna,

I have received your letter, and I apologize for any inconvenience caused by my inquiries. Your responses have been intriguing and have raised new questions that require further clarification. While it is known that an anti-fascist resistance group existed in the Porkhov prisoner-of-war camp, it is the first time I am learning about traitors within it. Perhaps you could assist me in locating Major Lukashenko, who was acquainted with your brother, as well as Bogdanov, who escaped captivity alongside Lukashenko. Bogdanov is the individual who fled the camp with your brother and later met Lukashenko, sharing crucial details about your brother's escape and subsequent demise.

Regarding Brukman, Filimonenko, and Trachuk, who were also imprisoned alongside your brother, and about whom I previously inquired, have you managed to ascertain their current whereabouts? What information did they provide to you?

I kindly request that you respond promptly, as I intend to compose an article about the partisan struggle and underground resistance in the Porkhov prisoner-of-war camp, in commemoration of the victory over Nazi Germany. Your answers will greatly aid me in clarifying certain data.

Additionally, I anticipate visiting Porkhov soon. If you have any specific requests or tasks for me, please do not hesitate to let me know.

Regards,
Dm. Batenin

2 April 1965

My father, Vladimir Glushenkov, was born in 1946 in Minsk to parents Maya and Andrey Glushenkov. Two years later, his twin siblings, Olga and Alexander (Sashka), were born. Due to his mother’s young age and inability to care for him, she entrusted him to her mother, Tzila, who lovingly raised him alongside his cousin Toma.

Growing up with his grandmother, my father often spoke fondly of her and the valuable life lessons she instilled in him. At the age of 14, he left school and began working as an optical expert at Vovilov military factory, where he built lenses for Katuasha missiles.

In 1975, he married a Russian woman and had a daughter named Yulia. However, the marriage ended in divorce a year later. In 1977, he met my mother, Isanna, and they got married in November of the same year. Together, they had two children, me in 1978 and my brother Danny (Dimitriy) in 1981.

In the summer of 1989, during a family trip to Moscow, my father applied for an Israeli visa and received it in January 1990. Due to the rising antisemitism in the USSR, my parents decided to emigrate to Israel with us on July 17, 1990.

Shortly after arriving in Israel, the Gulf War began, but my father remained fearless, not even bothering to wear a gas protection mask during sirens.

In 1996, he was diagnosed with CPOD illness, which was attributed to excessive smoking. He underwent experimental surgery, where half of his lungs were removed on each side. Although he stopped working after the surgery, he remained functional and even traveled abroad several times.

However, in January 2018, his lungs collapsed, and he spent almost a month in the ER in a sedated condition. Subsequently, he underwent a tracheotomy and was transferred to a special hospital for weaning. Despite the efforts, he couldn’t recover and passed away in November 2018.

Here are pictures of Vladimir Glushenkov:

Here are Vladimir Glushenkov's awards and diplomas:

Her life journey began in January 1942, during the tumultuous times of World War II. Prior to her birth, the Nazis had a strong presence in the USSR, and our late grandmother even contemplated aborting her due to concerns about her survival. However, she defied the odds and survived, with her name Isanna chosen as a tribute to her father Israel.

Throughout her life, she excelled in various endeavors. She was an exceptional student, demonstrating remarkable penmanship and achieving top-notch grades, all while maintaining a warm and compassionate heart. Despite the restrictive policies allowing only 5% of Jews in higher education, her outstanding academic performance enabled her to pursue an engineering major at the university.

After graduating, she embarked on a career as a mechanical engineer at Lenin's factory in Minsk. Later on, she transitioned to becoming a software engineer at Kirov's factory, where she worked with the programming language Cobol.

Tragedy struck when both our grandmother (in 1976) and grandfather (in 1977) passed away within a year of each other, when she was just 34-35 years old. Following these losses, she met our late father and started a family. I was born in 1978, and Danny followed in 1981.

As a mother, she provided us with a wonderful and joyous childhood. She imparted practical skills to us, such as riding bikes, swimming, cooking, and fixing things. We relished her cooking, eagerly awaiting the arrival of guests so she could prepare dishes we loved, like Gefilte fish, Borscht, holodez, potato with meat and mushrooms, eclairs, and many more.

She was a pragmatic and realistic person. In 1990, she made the life-changing decision to emigrate with us to Israel, leaving the USSR behind. This move was driven by her desire to provide us with a better life and future. In Israel, she worked at an Oranges factory for many years and supported our father during his illness. Together, they embarked on journeys to Turkey, Greece, France, Germany, and England.

In March 2018, she discovered she had cancer. Despite the challenges, she courageously battled the illness with various treatments and underwent five surgeries until July 2023.

Here is an article about Isanna Glushenkov:

Pioneer group gives a report
A group of young Leninists from form 3 “A” lined up for the celebratory school assembly. All pioneers dressed in full uniforms. With red ties shining on their chests. The girls’ faces glow with excitement. It’s time for the report. The clear voice of Svetlana Ostapova, head of the group council, broke the silence.
- There are 32 pioneers in the group. All of them have successfully completed the second quarter of the school year. The group has 17 honors students. Isanna Zak, Svetlana Alekseeva and Svetlana Astapova have the highest scores in all subjects.
The report is given clearly and confidently. The students proved with their actions that they can be true to their word, like proper pioneers.
The girls remember quite well the day of their first group assembly. It took place in the historical house-museum of the 1st Congress of the RSDLP. The pioneer girls were in high spirits. They were quiet and serious, while listening, with fascination, to the tour guide telling them the stories of the great lives of their beloved leaders – V. I. Lenin and I. V. Stalin. They learned a lot of interesting facts about Volodya Ulyanov – the best gymnasium student, about Soso Dzhugashvili, who remained the best student year after year at school.
Right there, in the museum, under the pioneer flag, the pioneers said: “We will be studying the same way Lenin and Stalin studied!” Young Lenin always matched his words with actions. The girls always remembered the promise given at that official meeting and did their best to proudly keep their promise.
From the very first days of school, the pioneers began working together. The group established their daily routine. During the leads and group meetings, teacher I. S. Prokopina, the group leader Galina Lepeshkova and their parents gave them advice on time management.
The pioneers love books. They always read with enthusiasm and then discuss what they read and learn to recite. All girls have a special notebook to write down everything they liked about a book. They have their own small library in the group, with over 200 books.
The life of the pioneer group is exciting and meaningful. Every day brings something new and interesting. At the meetings dedicated to Lenin and Stalin, the pioneer flag, the red tie and so on, the pioneers deepen their knowledge and broaden their horizons. And their best friend is always there to support them – Galina Lepeshkova, the 9th grade Komsomol member and the group leader.
…The joyful time of holidays has passed. The girls are at their desks again. From the very first days of the second half of the year, they started learning enthusiastically – their goal is to meet the 7th congress of the Belarusian Komsomol with only good and excellent grades. It will be a gift from the young Leninists to their great leader – Lenin-Stalin Komsomol.
In the photo: the group of the young Leninists from form 3 “A” of Minsk secondary school #21 at the celebratory school assembly. Galina Lepeshkova, the group leader, is giving a report.

Watch 1-year-old me with Mom and Dad:

If I had to describe my mom in one word, she was a warrior - a fearless woman who fearlessly confronted any challenge with a big heart and a vast soul. These qualities aren’t something taught in any school or university.

Her life journey commenced in January 1942, amidst the turmoil of World War II. Before her birth, the Nazis were deeply entrenched inside the USSR, and our late grandmother considered aborting her out of fear for her survival. However, despite several attempts, she survived, and grandma chose the name Isanna to honor her father Israel.

Throughout her life, she excelled in all aspects. She was an exceptional student with beautiful penmanship, top-notch grades, and a warm heart. Despite the 5% restriction on Jews in higher education, she managed to pursue an engineering major at the university due to her outstanding grades.

Sadly, our grandmother and grandfather passed away within a year of each other while she was 34-35 years old. Subsequently, she met our late father and started a family. From the moment we were born, she enveloped us with love and warmth, taking care of our every need. She taught us practical skills like riding bikes, swimming, and fixing things, but more importantly, she instilled the value of respecting people, no matter where they came from. Her demeanor was gentle, never raising her voice or shouting, always giving her best to ensure our well-being.

Throughout her life, she had no enemies. Even in the face of illness, she remained humane, spreading love, respect, and care to everyone around her.

During her medical journey, she displayed remarkable strength and consideration for others. After surgery, her first concern was whether we had eaten. Even in her last days, she prioritized the well-being of her relatives and friends. The medical teams were captivated by her resilience, as she never complained or cried, always showing respect and a smile despite the intense pain.

In her final moments, she waited for me to finish breakfast before passing away. Her enduring lesson to us was to love and never give up, no matter the challenges we face, for it’s not the length of life that matters, but how we live it.

We hope that we, Danny, and the grandchildren brought her peace and happiness as bright spots in her life.

Mom, we will always cherish your memory, and may you rest in peace alongside dad. As we continue our journey, we know you’ll watch over us from above until we meet again. Your love will forever remain in our hearts, and we’ll remember you until our last breath.

Sofia Gavrilovna Zak was born in 1903 in Belarus, into a poor Jewish family. Due to financial constraints, she had to start working at an early age. She joined the Minsk Brewery as a worker and became involved in meetings of working youth, where she was inspired by the idea of creating a united youth organization to fight for workers’ interests.

In December 1918, during a meeting at a youth club, she became one of the first members of the Komsomol (Communist Youth League). Later, during the Belopolskaya occupation, she actively participated in underground activities alongside fellow Komsomol members. Unfortunately, she was arrested by Polish counterintelligence and spent several months in prison in Vilna until she was exchanged for other underground workers.

After Belarus was liberated, Sofia G. Zak was sent by the Central Bureau of the Communist Bolshevik Party to study at the Sverdlov University in Moscow from 1921 to 1924. Upon graduation, she and her husband, who was also a university graduate, were assigned to party work. Sofia wanted to pursue higher education and attended the chemical faculty of a technical university in Samara, but her studies were cut short when her husband was transferred to a new location.

She became a mother to a son in 1924 and a daughter in 1926. However, in 1937, she faced repression. Prior to her arrest, she worked as the head of the Cult Propaganda Department at the Michurinsky city committee of the CPSU (b). Sofia G. Zak, a member of the CPSU (b) since 1919, was expelled in 1937 and subsequently arrested on October 15, 1937.

She was sentenced to ten years in labor camps and five years of disqualification, with her property confiscated. During her sentence in Norilsk, she worked in a mine at the Norilsk Mining and Metallurgical Combine. In 1942, she was involved in organizing a bacteriological laboratory, where she and other imprisoned specialists created bacteriophages that saved the lives of thousands of prisoners and civilian workers at the plant, fighting against serious diseases such as dysentery, tuberculosis, and syphilis.

On February 22, 1947, she was released after serving her sentence and having it reduced by 8 months. Sofia continued to work as the head of the bacteriological department at the sanitary and epidemiological station. In September 1952, she was transferred to a children’s place of residence in Kazakhstan by the special commandant’s office.

Finally, on October 5, 1955, she was half-rehabilitated by the decision of the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the USSR. She later lived with her daughter in the Moscow region and her son in Minsk until her passing in 1981.

A famous Belarusian writer Piatrus Broyka included Sonia in his poem called "This is how youth began"

Here is the poem translated to English:

THIS IS HOW YOUTH BEGAN (poem)

I. Zaidenwar’s night:

A fire raged over the land one night,
Invaders came, like savage beasts in sight,
The country groaned, in agony, it wept,
Gendarmes roamed in Minsk, the city crept.

In the depths below, the Komsomol’s heart burned bright,
Their fiery spirit, a beacon in the darkest night,
Amidst confusion, ’twas hard to know ‘us’ from ’them, you see,
On street corners, guards stood still, like stone, silently.

Minsk now hushed, though tremors still remained,
Only the angry night, in streets, its wings unfurled, untamed,
Guard on the corner, like a cramp, stood firm,
As Minsk quivered, its destiny in night’s stern term.

A defensive hum from garages nearby,
Canaries’ spurs clanked, under the starry sky,
Minsk now hushed, though tremors still remained,
In Zaidenwar’s heart, a restless fire, unchained.

How could Zaidenwar sleep amidst such plight?
Better to face the noose, in the pale moonlight,
That night he saw, three souls marched brave and strong,
Through bayonets, to Komarovka, they journeyed along.

In their eyes, a fire burned, both painful and warm,
Marching to their death, yet calm, no fear to alarm,
Like heroes, they strode, their fate embraced,
As if to a Party meeting, they were gracefully graced.

They walked side by side, a memory etched in time,
“Goodbye, comrade,” they said, their spirits in their prime,
How could Zaidenwar sleep in such a night’s deep sweep?
How could Zaidenwar sleep, with these memories so steep?

His room, it squeezed him, walls closing in,
Ceiling crashing down, heart pounding in the din,
It begged for release, to escape from this plight,
The room shook, stifling, in the dim gaslight.

“What are you doing, Zaidenwar?” he heard, a voice unknown,
Yelled and whispered, in this room, all alone,
He whispered back, an inner turmoil and strife,
Mind clearing, identity questioning, a new life.

Then he recalled a day, the Party’s secret lair,
Worries and heat vanished into thin air,
A passport with a name, “Zucker,” circled with care,
“You’re Zucker now, comrade,” a new life to bear.

Behind the wall, commotion, voices barely heard,
Eternal debates, money and bread, the constant word,
A funny notion crossed his mind, a daring jest,
“Anyone need sugar?” he quipped, feeling blessed.

Sugar, sweet but not for all, he realized then,
Winged canaries, epaulets, a world of men,
“I’ll be your bullet, for suffering and strife,
For you play the fiddle in front of the gallows, your life.”

Determination surged, pushing fear aside,
Thoughts broke down walls, like a rising tide,
Zucker listened, his heart, a blazing fire,
Hot blood coursed, fueled by a burning desire.

He longed to rise, confront each agent there,
But the secretary’s words echoed, “Zucker, beware,
No room for jesters, in our underground fight,”
A seal of caution, a shroud of wisdom, the night.

Tomorrow, a meeting, Komsomol’s youthful glow,
Savchyk, Sonia, Prashchytsky, in the dim light they’d show,
Igniting the youth, with the fire of their cause,
Teaching them stubbornness, guiding with unwavering laws.

Countless dreams danced on his bedroom ceiling,
Zucker, restless, in his bed, still revealing,
The night passed in tumult, as a Bolshevik he’d hide,
A young revolutionary, in the shadows, he’d bide.

II. Meeting on a river:

The tempestuous wind, in autumn's icy grasp,
The waves crash and roar, a turbulent rasp,
Perfect weather for a boat ride they say,
Though a chill creeps inside, in this wild display.

What to do now, with such weather outside,
Shall they retire, and sleep, to darkness bide?
No, curse the wind, take it to heart's deep core,
Young souls embark, to brave the storm they swore.

Let the splashes fly, in a rapid ascent,
Dizziness from songs, as if through hops, they're sent,
Let the bourgeois girls mop behind drawn drapes,
They long for this boat ride, despite weather's capes.

Where's the best place for counsel, for a meet,
Now's the time, with the storm, their hearts to beat,
The boat glides upon the winding river's grace,
Five strong hearts gather, for a secret chase.

Waves in frenzy, with a foamy snow,
Oars cut through, as they row and go,
The city cloaked in autumn's hazy veil,
Orphaned pipes stand, in winter's icy trail.

And it's fiercely windy out in the fields,
Nasty weather, to which their courage yields,
Zucker's voice breaks the silence, he stands,
"We may laugh, but our hearts hold somber brands.

We've strayed far from disaster's deadly art,
Cease the laughter, let's have a serious heart,
A secret I'll share, so guard it well,
A part of a team, in the shadows we'll dwell.

Good that you've gathered on this stormy night,
To reveal, the Party's hidden light,
We must assist, this cause to defend,
Summoning young workers, the oppressors to amend.

Against the occupiers, we'll take a stand,
Against lords, the tyrants of the land,"
Eyes shining bright, youth's blood boiling high,
In the face of adversity, together they'd vie.

"A conspiracy you must know, but silence hold,
Keep your lips sealed, if caught in the cold,"
Svisloch River seemed to follow the gale,
Rushing to the fields, in a wild, torrential trail.

"We'll meet again if there's a need, rest assured,
Now let's act swiftly, our mission's secured,
To the people we'll go, in groups of three,
My flat, our safehouse, where we shall be."

"Victory is near," he assured with pride,
"The world will gleam, beneath our star's guide,"
The First Minsk Committee, in secrecy's guise,
Gathering on a boat, 'neath turbulent skies.

One by one, their voices rose with might,
Shoulders squared, in starched shirts, their fight,
As if shores had risen from the sea,
And the rocks echoed their thunderous decree.

The storm intensified, in the boat's confines,
Faces flushed, like poppies in rowed lines,
Sonia Zak spoke, her feelings couldn't hide,
"Let's sing a song, at least on this turbulent ride."

Savchik led the song, as if he'd foreseen,
The river fell silent, the storm grew serene,
A sunny morning seemed to awaken the land,
Their spirits surged, united they'd stand.

"Stand up, those cursed by society's hate,
The world's starving, in chains it waits,"
Flushed faces, like red poppies they'd appear,
Under clear skies, their resolve held dear.

They soared like falcons, in a world united,
Heralds of freedom, their message ignited,
It reached the city, flew to villages afar,
Where whips of gendarmes and cruelty did mar.

They sang on the boat, Komsomol hearts ablaze,
The First Minsk Committee, in those stormy days,
Komsomol knows not sadness or sorrow's call,
Their hearts, in the cold, will never fall.

Zucker sang with his comrades, in song they were bound,
Their thoughts soared far, across Minsk's ground,
Where the Red Army stood, proud and tall,
Fighting for freedom, at victory's call.

In endless forests, Siberian and grand,
Komsomol members, against Kolchak did stand,
Colonels demanded power, like a stormy cloud,
Millions of proletarians, with voices loud.

The Republic aflame, with a fire so bright,
Fighting for justice, against endless night,
By God's grace, the land had been torn asunder,
By lords, gallows creaked, a grim portent's thunder.

In secrecy, they'd gather, their strength they'd find,
To vanquish their foes, and leave none behind,
Enemies celebrated, in this place so bleak,
Claws at throats, cruelty they'd speak.

Zucker sang with his comrades, their hearts in tune,
Thoughts crossed the land, under the autumn moon,
The boat sailed to the city, as the bells did chime,
Quarters emerged through the misty brine.

Sonia Zak spoke, a change of tone she'd fain,
"Sing 'Karobachka,' it'll soothe the storm's disdain,"
The boat, sharp-nosed, cut through the waves so deep,
Balalaikas played, lulling winds to sleep.

They reached the garden, the canaries were amazed,
Games on the river, in such weather, left them dazed,
A colonel strolled, arm in arm with a lover's grace,
Unaware, from their secret meeting, they'd just embraced.

III. In an underground printing house:

The azure dawn quells starry gleams,
Beating like a bird at dawn’s first beams,
Komsomol recruits, in covert grace,
Behind dusty cash registers they embrace.

No matter how small the typeface be,
Or worn, its letters not new to see,
Words upon pages, like lightning they dart,
When printing speaks, it’s a work of art.

In their recruiting, one dream they share,
Fiery proclamations, bold and rare,
Sweat streams, faces bear the strain,
Toes grow numb, yet they persist, no pain in vain.

Let it be, for joy awaits at morn’s blue light,
Live galleys gleam with their rebellious might,
When the press begins, ‘Bastonka’s’ call,
Gallop like orators, in a passionate thrall.

Unwearying, late into the night’s cold,
In dim light, their mission unfolds,
Komsomol members toil, hidden away,
Behind dusty cash registers, they pledge and sway.

Their dream turns real, that unsettling morn,
Youth newspaper’s pages, to the world reborn,
Hearts confessed, as night returns in flight,
‘Torch of Communism’ will summon with its might.

Behind the wall, a printing house does dwell,
Concealing Komsomol thoughts they’re ready to tell,
They forge words for battle, in every living letter,
Their purpose clear, to print literature better.

But where is Petya, did he take the sheets,
Proofs in hand, to make the task complete?
The dawn approaches, what’s to be done,
Anxiety grows, the wait for Petya’s begun.

Opinions, thoughts, a multitude of views,
Yashka the provocateur, frosty streets he’d cruise,
Listening closely to each whispered sound,
Seeking where Komsomol members are bound.

If he knew the path, they’d be led astray,
Yashka’s tricks would cause them a darker day,
Yashka Rosenshein walks with purpose so keen,
A provocateur lurking, unseen and mean.

Yet sadness fills him, he can’t find his way,
Many fighters’ deaths on his conscience lay,
He walks, he and his rotten core of sin,
But Petya knows, and hides the proof-sheets within.

Yashka sports new attire, he roams with zeal,
Poking in neighborhoods, a menace to reveal,
Anger suffocates Petya, his chest aches with rage,
Yashka’s betrayal, a personal vendetta’s wage.

Familiar with this trickster’s cunning act,
This flattering enemy, with motives abstract,
Yashka, it seems, serves the defensive side,
Lured by zlotys, deceit cannot hide.

He was bought, his loyalty sold,
Once an activist, or so he’d been told,
Petya recalls Yashka’s chest-thumping vow,
“To die as a Komsomol member,” then, but now…

Now he walks silently, seeking his prize,
Petya’s desire burns, a storm in his eyes,
But the proof-sheets tucked within his attire,
Restraint is his ally, to unleash his ire.

Not the time, it’s too early by far,
To reveal their mission, and its radar,
Yashka’s obsession, many days passed in vain,
The colonel awaits, the risk is too great a pain.

How can he face the colonel today, with a report to bear,
Such visitors are not welcome, they’ll be in despair,
It’s not easy to discern, what Yashka will bring,
The colonel’s figure looms, a daunting, powerful thing.

Anger ignites in the colonel’s fiery eyes,
Drunken rage and a cigar’s smoke rise,
Yashka feels sick, his heart begins to thaw,
“Where are your Bolsheviks?” the colonel will draw.

Worries abound for Yashka, he spent the night in vain,
How can he approach the girls, without money’s gain?
Why is this night so troubled, he swears from despair,
Not a single trace, not a hint in the air.

They wait and wonder, their fate’s on the line,
Yashka Rosenshine threatens, his actions malign,
Meanwhile, Vorabiov hurries to the scene,
Like fire from the cold, in the night’s serene.

A conversation begins, a circle takes form,
Petka teaches them, like a brewing storm,
“Be ready, my friends, for whatever transpires,
Disassemble in haste, scatter, as chaos inspires.

Leave no trace beneath the printing press’s might,
Like hell, canaries won’t find a thing tonight,
Yashka’s a danger, he mustn’t get wind,
Print quickly, my comrades, our secret’s confined.”

Silence prevails, not a sound does disturb,
The day of labor approaches, their spirits perturb,
Hands raised in agreement, they make their decree,
Death to Yashka Rosenshein, they shout in unity.

He’ll expose our secret, make no mistake,
He’ll earn his reward, deceit in his wake,
Meanwhile, the printing house lies in calm reprieve,
Ready for their task, in the cause they believe.

IV. Proclamations:

Autumn storms with furious might,
Trees in the park tremble, a wild sight,
Branches rattle and leaves take flight,
Wind swirls with yellow, a wild dance of light.

Underfoot, walkways whisper in alarm,
As night strolls along, causing no harm,
Canaries whistle from time to time,
In darkness deep, a meeting’s prime.

In such obscurity, recognition is lost,
Occupiers lurk in the park, the cost,
Prostitutes pass by, one by one,
A playground near, the night has begun.

Midnight chimes, Zucker’s eyes in the dark,
Searching for a girl, a face to mark,
Where could she be, a promise to meet,
Why isn’t she there, in this street?

Vorobyov sits in secret, literature in hand,
Yov peers through dirty windows, none in the land,
It’s late, so late, no footsteps near,
Proclamations explode, the message they bear.

Why isn’t she there today, his concern,
Through the dark square, Zucker’s return,
Anxiety grows, suspicion starts to creep,
Could Sonia be with Rosenshein, a secret so deep?

He timidly guesses, in this blizzard’s squall,
Difficult to think thoughtfully, to know it all,
“Zucker!” he hears from behind, a voice so bright,
Painfully embarrassing, an unjust oversight.

“I’m late, sorry!” she says, her voice so warm,
Shakes his hand, a friendly form,
“My mother delayed me,” her words in the night,
Together with Zucker, through crooked alleys, they’ll take flight.

“It’s not new for us to be late,” they know,
Many difficult paths a member must undergo,
Underground life is full of strife,
They walk to Vorobyov, sharing their life.

Sonya, in a whisper, tells of her escape,
Hiding from Yashka, an anxious shape,
What could have happened, a shadow of fear,
Windows filled with darkness, not yet clear.

Vorobyov’s nerves at home, time crawls by,
Like oxen on a broken path, they sigh,
Concerns about proclamations fill his heart,
Sonia Zak opens the door, a welcoming start.

Warmly shaking hands, smiles on their face,
The room lit up with a friendly grace,
Zucker tells Petya of his park’s winding ways,
Adventurous paths in the night’s maze.

Forward they go, a celebration’s delight,
A Komsomol night, stars shining bright,
Quarters will echo with leaflets so bold,
Against White Poles’ torture, a story to be told.

Materials spread out, in quarters and factories,
Districts divided, with fervent strategies,
People in groups, with proclamations in hand,
For a rebellious campaign, they’ll take a stand.

****

The moon, in its first coinage, gleams so bright,
A brilliant helmet in the tranquil night,
Like a fireman on a mission’s quest,
It walks, spinning between wires, in its nightly rest.

The barracks slumber, soldiers within are young,
Dreams of home within their hearts have sprung,
Dreams that rush like a flowing stream,
While guards patrol with carbines, their eyes gleam.

Thoughts fill the barracks, from dusk till dawn,
Many soldiers bear thoughts, obsessive and drawn,
Feelings hurt, minds twisted by lessons learned,
They stay awake, not a moment’s rest they’ve earned.

Who can fathom the depths of the human soul,
When minds are troubled, taking their toll,
These soldiers don’t sleep, throughout the day,
Not a single minute, their worries won’t sway.

The Red Front rises with workers and peasants strong,
Defending the homeland, where they all belong,
Their chests burn with reproachful doubt,
Whom should they fight, what’s it all about?

Officers, like beasts, walk with resolve,
They must fight, for the homeland they’ll involve,
Yet the soldiers can’t sleep, throughout the day,
Not a single minute, their vigil they’ll obey.

The wind howls beyond the wall, in the cold,
My heart burns fiercely, a tale untold,
Nausea grips me, in the still of night,
While guards march with carbines, their presence a fright.

Komsomol members, around the corner, they tread,
Every guard’s step, they can hear with dread,
As the guards vanish behind another wall’s facade,
Komsomol members swiftly deliver what’s been had.

Let the spies rage, this night won’t be in vain,
Proclamations scattered like snow, without restrain,
In the morning, they’ll be picked up from the ground,
Read maybe three times, their message profound.

Guards draw near, their watchful eyes scan,
But Komsomol members have vanished, their plan ran,
They’ve left their mark, their message clear,
In this clandestine night, they have no fear.

****

They ventured onto the street, Trinity Hill’s embrace,
Night’s shutters rattling in the chilling space,
Lanterns, like cripples, trembling in the wind’s might,
On this formidable march, they set forth in the night.

Proclamations, like bombs, hidden ‘neath their chest,
They trod this bitter path, they knew it best,
Onto the square, without any fear to fret,
Leaflets, like grenades, through coats’ pockets they’d let.

Snow of proclamations swirls in the frosty air,
Savchik and Sonka, bold in their affair,
A solitary pillar stands still on the square,
Windward, as if chained, it seems to glare.

They walk past the pillar, without a pause,
Suddenly, it moves, it gives them cause,
The pole comes to life, it lets out a hiss,
A bayonet gleams, under the moon’s bliss.

To the police station, their path now does steer,
Trouble, they know, might soon be near,
‘Policeman,’ flashed their thoughts, with care,
So they left the square, in the frigid air.

Joy fills their hearts, their plan fulfilled,
Underground mission, with courage instilled,
Tomorrow, soldiers from the barracks will roam,
Peasants in the market, thoughts will comb.

There, they’ll ponder a thousand times,
Are they cowards, with rifles in their climes?
Tomorrow, leaflets will be read with delight,
Friends will unite, in the revolutionary fight.

Komsomol members walk all night long,
Between bayonets, in danger, they throng,
Through squares and corners, unsafe they tread,
Sowing the fiery seeds of their thoughts, widespread.

Though Savchik and Sonka fled the bayonet’s threat,
To interrupt their work, it hadn’t met,
Together they stroll, in the new quarter’s embrace,
Like an autumn night’s stroll, a peaceful chase.

They seem as if they’re on an evening’s roam,
To spend an autumn night, together, at home,
And the last sealed envelope, not to be lost,
Flies through a pocket, in the night, accost.

“Now, we can rest, tomorrow, we’ll meet anew,”
A voice from behind, cold, their hearts anew,
Anxiety rises, someone following their cue,
The heart aches, is it real, is it true?

Quickly, the ice of anxiety begins to melt,
A commoner appears, like a fox, he’s dealt,
Calmly handing an envelope, their fate knelt,
Savchik, with gratitude, the letter he’s held.

Handshakes exchanged, deep thanks they utter,
And a few steps later, the envelope they flutter,
The cold asphalt beneath, their mission’s fate,
Completed, unnoticed, by the guards, so great.

Nothing can hinder these young Komsomol hearts,
Savchik and Sonka, playing their vital parts,
Rest they seek, with underground thoughts they start,
Tomorrow’s rebellion, an ideal to impart.

****

You arrived at that hour, serene and true,
When evening turned blue, and the saws withdrew,
Their shrill sounds silenced in the factory’s halls,
A break in the labor, the workshop’s grand walls.

Young heads inclined behind iron’s embrace,
Gathered in secret, in a hidden place,
A young man, solemn, with words of import,
Said, “Here, comrades, a message of the sort,

The regiment’s communists call us to defend,
To fight against occupiers, our stand to extend.
I found it on the square, in the depths of night,
Let’s keep it concise, let’s read, let’s unite.”

Old workers came, with their wisdom and might,
Gathering to join the youth’s vital fight,
Every word kindled their fiery devotion,
To face death, if needed, with fierce emotion.

They read of a beast that had brought devastation,
Ruining their homeland, a dire situation,
Proletarians, they cried, let’s stand and unite,
For the Commune, for October, in the dark night.

Strong handshakes passed, their resolve took flight,
Blood raced through their veins, fierce and bright,
Their forces grew in the shadows, with zeal to vie,
To face the enemy, beneath the underground sky.

They read in haste, with a covert plan in mind,
Deadwood shielded them, a secret they’d find,
A horn rang again, as they left the place,
Carrying thoughts of freedom, in a shared embrace.

The reckoning drew near, plans formed discreetly,
Fight for freedom once more, their hearts beat so freely,
A young man at his workbench, poverty recalled,
His bitter past, which made his resolve stand tall.

The pain of endless grief, as forces departed,
Met with the master, as if life had thwarted,
No bread in the house, his mother in despair,
The house in disarray, life so unfair.

The gendarme’s list of victims, endless, like hell,
The boy’s desire grew to fight and to quell,
Under the Bolshevik flag, he’d stand without dread,
Together in the struggle, where comrades led.

V. Before October:

Every corner met them with danger to bear,
Spies lurking, defensive forces aware,
Thus passed the days of Komsomol’s might,
Harsh nights of struggle, filled with fight.

In unity, they marched, a rebellious crew,
Through icy weather, frosty nights they’d brew,
Komsomol grew stronger, their flames burned bright,
Deep underground, they toiled day and night.

Each morning, leaflets read, with secrecy their shield,
In spite of fear, their resolve unconcealed,
The “pans” numb with despair, defensives enraged,
Like a wounded beast, their plans they engaged.

The “Minsk Courier” spread proclamations, vile and cruel,
Calling for the hangings of Komsomol and the school,
To destroy them swiftly, with a brutal hand,
To bring peace, they claimed, to the land.

Komsomol gathered, in meetings and the press,
Preparing for battle, to face the oppress,
Many young hotheads at Zucker’s convened,
As the third anniversary of October neared, it seemed.

October approached, battle-hardened and wise,
Ready to burn with victory in their eyes,
In a small room, hours they’d employ,
Planning how to celebrate, with hope and joy.

A fire in their hearts, a storm deep inside,
Oliker read aloud, their spirits couldn’t hide,
Bumpy whispered with friends, dreams they’d unfurl,
Visiting factories, talking to workers, their grand plan they’d twirl.

“We must visit all factories,” they declared,
With conversations of freedom, every worker paired,
Let every heart carry the Great Feast’s light,
Let red flags proudly wave, a powerful sight.

Let the Feast thunder, make hearts elevate,
Pour fiery leaflets down streets, like rain initiate,
In that evening’s whirl of dreams taking flight,
Thoughts poured in the room, sparkled so bright.

Oliker was lost for a while, in a daze,
Zucker, in charge, had to alter their ways,
Bumpy’s ecstasy needed a gentle restrain,
To keep the conversation flowing, to remain.

And so it continued, until late in the night,
In sparkling conversations, they burned so bright,
About factories, workers, and global October’s call,
Agreed to greet it with a stubborn fight, standing tall.

Talk of how to celebrate, Minsk’s underground affair,
The third October anniversary, in secrecy they’d prepare,
For freedom and justice, their cause ever sound,
In the harsh underground, where their hopes were bound.

****

To campaign they went, their duty to bear,
To the house on Koidanovskaya Street with care,
The House of Legal Trade Unions, a place of despair,
Where peace sheltered betrayal, a political affair.

In that harem of politics, Bundists and more,
Lived like lizards, their loyalty unsure,
They made nests with occupiers, it was clear,
Prepared lackeys for “pans,” fostering fear.

Nets of deception they wove with their grace,
But few followed their lead in that place,
The Communards grew, their numbers to embrace,
Knowing the cost of “pans,” they’d retrace.

Secret meetings, revolutionary work, they’d pursue,
The fires of struggle in those corridors grew,
People gathered together, hearts firm and true,
They knew a way out, their purpose in view.

Communists worked in secret, by laws they abide,
To meet brothers-in-thought, side by side,
Komsomol members called for a joyous ride,
On Koidanovskaya Street, their spirits allied.

They walked like fighters, eyes shining with hope,
Bumpy, ablaze, with a worker he’d cope,
Though nearly silent, their thoughts in the same scope,
Shaking hands, with blossoming dreams, they’d elope.

Olicker opened a book, standing with care,
Muttering words that hung in the air,
Young people gathered, their purpose to declare,
Reading notes inside, a sense of unity they’d share.

Sonia Zak and many girls, excitement in their gaze,
Jogging in dark rooms, their cheeks ablaze,
How to curb their enthusiasm in these days,
Komsomol members called for a feast, a spirited phrase.

People called to celebrate October with cheer,
Through sieges and outposts, they’d persevere,
But provocateurs were near, their intent clear,
Setting traps and sowing discord, it was clear.

Plotkin, the “Party member,” with dubious fame,
Organized a feast, a treacherous game,
In the gloomy defensive, he sought his claim,
Providing information, seduced by zlotys, his name.

Sliding like a fox in front of the colonel’s attire,
Selling addresses for a handful, his desire,
Colonel, content, dreaming higher and higher,
No regrets, just ambition, fueled like fire.

Dreaming of becoming a general, his one goal,
With one hand kissed, with the other, stole,
No remorse for his treacherous role,
Plotkin, the Judas, selling lives for gold.

****

Minsk in prison garb, a somber display,
Dressed in military uniform, come what may,
Autumn’s harsh, like a policeman on the way,
It spits in the face, a wild rage in the fray.

Autumn, be angry, move on in your might,
With a furious spat, continue the fight,
Wild rage walks, shakes Minsk at night,
Timid houses stand, ruthless winds take flight.

Gallows of “Cultural” rulers, a sinister sight,
Creak above Minsk, casting a dark blight,
Gendarmes, like stamps, rooted to streets so tight,
Autumn, let them go mad, your anger in sight.

New leaves will sprout above old bark’s decay,
Underground communists multiply, come what may,
Though winds freeze the valley, beasts at bay,
Autumn, Komsomol thrives under your sway.

Fighters, many, from houses and underground,
Zucker in ragged coat, garden’s peace he’s found,
Frost may bite, wind howl with a haunting sound,
He’s unafraid, joy in his heart, life’s resound.

Infinitely glad to live today, here and now,
He’s found his way, no worries, no “pans” to bow,
Calmly he measures the garden, furrows to plow,
Waiting for the guys, under autumn’s vow.

He knows suffering’s fire will pass like smoke,
Thoughts whirl, joy in his heart, no yoke,
Storms approaching soon, ready to invoke,
Komsomol against “pans,” their ranks to provoke.

Days of victory nearing, the last battle in sight,
The feast will meet the underground, hearts alight,
Days of liberation for Belarus, shining bright,
Zucker walks, garden’s path, awaiting the night.

Autumn leaves red as fire underfoot, they lay,
Rustling like silk as he walks, wind in fray,
Frost on his face, wind howling in dismay,
Vorobyov hurries to the garden, night turns gray.

Fire burning inside, anger sets hearts ablaze,
Hundreds of thoughts like clouds, a turbulent phase,
The secretary warns of Plotkin’s deceiving ways,
They make new plans, walking through the haze.

Dark garden waits, they meet like shadows there,
Zucker emerges from bushes, a ghostly pair,
Wind at their feet, trees humming in the air,
Walking like twins, hearts filled with dare.

Fists clenched in anger, threats in the night,
Wait, enemy, wait, masses’ will’s in our sight,
Scoundrel, villain, prankster, we’ll put things right,
October will be ours, a beacon of light!

VI. The Komsomol Guard:

They won’t waste time; the skunk must fall,
Komsomol’s on guard, hear their call.
Through the night, they march, no rest,
Cold revolvers in pockets, they’re blessed.

Revenge fuels their hearts, strong and bold,
Punishment for the enemy, fierce and cold.
Lamps shine bright outside the hotel’s door,
Inside, Plotkin dines, the enemy’s core.

Wine flows like a sea, eager to break glass,
Walls shake with laughter, the windows in mass.
The enemy thinks champagne will enthrall,
But Komsomol members stand firm in the squall.

Revolution’s fires, they won’t let them drown,
Walking down the street, faces wear a frown.
Time to wash away the shame of this sight,
Plotkin, former “Party member,” won’t see the light.

The wind howls wildly, a song of revenge,
Over Minsk’s restive streets, a moon on the fringe.
Time to act in Komsomol’s righteous style,
Confronting Plotkin, they’re set to beguile.

But too late it seems, not even a sound,
Their hands grip revolvers, tension all around.
Then, a shock – a twist of fate,
Oliker’s words bring anger, not elate.

A face like white birch, woven with linen threads,
Guys leave with despair, a mission that shreds.
The skunk still lives, a grievous affront,
And their comrades in prison, freedom they want.

Spies roam the streets, a dangerous dance,
Yet, Komsomol’s spirit, it won’t leave to chance.
They swear to fight, they swear to survive,
Dying for the Commune, their cause alive.

Anger fills their hearts, as they walk away,
Plotkin celebrates, their comrades in dismay.
More spies will they face, more treacherous game,
But young at heart, they’ll endure the flame.

They’ll clench their teeth, endure the pain,
For the Commune, they’ll strive, their spirit won’t wane.
In thought, they walked, lost in their might,
Minsk, frowning, worried, through the night.

VII. In prison:

You stood in prison, Comrade Abraham,
Your friends in the underground, steadfast and calm.
Chained by uncertainty, anger and grief,
When the world outside was gripped by upheaval’s brief.

They gathered you all on that frantic night,
Locked you in walls where the air was tight.
In the midst of your plans for the underground fight,
As the world crumbled ‘round you in battles’ light.

Comrade Abraham, you stood with your kin,
The entire Committee, locked deep within.
In the suffocating walls, pressed to despair,
Gendarmes with bayonets, a menacing glare.

The anger of those bayonets, a fiery gleam,
Seeking to conquer young fighters’ dream.
Behind the prison walls, the night screamed loud,
Its bloody fingers brushed past the bars, unbowed.

The gendarmes achieved their dark design,
The Committee silenced, now under their line.
A fire burned fierce in Abraham’s chest,
Hatred in his eyes, as they faced this test.

For the stern bayonet looming overhead,
Iron bars that held them, nothing but dread.
He cursed that damn student card, his bane,
Plotkin’s knowledge tormented him like a chain.

There’s a genuine schoolboy, Goldin’s his name,
In Klyuch-Puzyrev, he thrives in the same.
Unperturbed by gendarmes, like tigers they prowl,
He’s content with his life, in wealth’s flow so foul.

Goldin knows well, his fortune’s grand,
Behind store shelves, wealth at his hand.
Does he care that comrades, like Abraham, lie,
In prison cells, under a somber sky?

That behind black prison windows, hearts burn bright,
With Komsomol’s spirit, rebellious and light.
Does Goldin consider, as he enjoys his success,
That Abraham and friends face such duress?

Comrade Abraham, your spirit stays strong,
Though imprisoned in darkness, you still belong.
The fight for justice, your hearts hold dear,
Through adversity and struggle, the truth is clear.

****

Angry gendarme, cruel and vile,
Recalled dozens of punishments with a smile.
Within those harsh prison walls, a hum of pain,
As the suffering of victims echoed in disdain.

Sons of the revolution, in chains they stood,
Subjected to mockery, treated no good.
In a stuffy prison cell, behind bars concealed,
Lies the Underground Committee, their fate sealed.

Sleep eludes them in that cold, dark place,
Anxious thoughts burning, like fire they race.
Each day may bring news of torment anew,
Interrogation and whipping, the price they’ll accrue.

Many valiant canaries surround them there,
Threatening death, causing much despair.
Yet, these brave souls, in prison’s cruel might,
Refuse to yield, they continue to fight.

Despite the suffering, despite the dread,
The world has witnessed, their hearts unwavering, they tread.
The Committee won’t surrender its sacred trust,
It guards the secret, in which it firmly must.

It’s not the first time they’ve faced such pain,
Lying on the floor, their spirits remain.
Faithful to the end, Komsomol’s rebel call,
In prison’s darkness, they stand tall.

Once gathered in that corner so bleak,
Under the shroud of darkness, hope they seek.
The lantern’s dim glow, smoke swirling around,
Zaidenwar scribes a proclamation on the ground.

Komsomol shall not be chained, they proclaim,
By prison’s cruelty, by sorrow or shame.
Abraham keeps watch, a vigilant eye,
Through a peephole, their spirits held high.

No matter how ‘pans’ torture, their resolve remains,
They’ll never break, despite all the chains.
For freedom’s embrace, they all aspire,
In unity, they’ll rise, their spirits on fire.

VIII. Letter to Russian comrades:

At liberty, bearing the weight they’d borne,
They seized the bloody days, not worn.
Partkom, healed from the blow, emerged with might,
Gathering Komsomol, ready to fight.

The call resounded, across villages and towns,
A cohort of young fighters, breaking all bounds.
Hiding traces from the occupiers, they found a new path,
A new Committee was born, ready to face the wrath.

To toil with youthful passion, they yearned,
Proshchytsky, Bumpy, Olicker, undeterred.
Rebellious Komsomol, in hiding, grew strong,
Connecting hundreds of wills, where they belong.

Through war’s horrors, amidst the thunderous roar,
Across battle-torn fields, they implore,
Writing warm, rebellious letters to Russian kin,
From where prisons hum, in their underground inn.

“We write to you from this place of dread,
Where our nation’s body’s being bled.
Our underground comrades, far and near,
Send Komsomol greetings, loud and clear.

With Kimov’s flag, we stand so proud,
Though life’s tough in the underground shroud.
We vow to fight until the very end,
To protect our homeland, we’ll defend.

We’ll halt the enemy’s bayonets in their tracks,
Become moats on their paths, no turning back.
We’ll wait for you, our Russian kin,
With unity and courage, we’ll never give in.

We promise to disrupt their rear lines,
Through the darkest of nights, our star shines.
Destroy roads, bridges, block every escape,
Together, our strength, our freedom we reshape.

When you strike hard, the cannons will roar,
You’ll find a big family, waiting at our door.
United in the fight, we’ll stand side by side,
In this battle of our lives, we won’t hide.

We’ll fight, we’ll live, side by side,
With our Party, in unity, we’ll bide.
Comrades, we swear, you and we are one,
Until the final days, till the battle’s won.

To our Russian brothers, a warm embrace,
From our hard work, this message we trace.
Let Komsomol thrive on the front’s expanse,
For its members embark on their last dance.”

The letter was written with thought and care,
Joy sparked in eyes, a bond to share.
Bumpy concealed the letter close to his chest,
On a nighttime errand, through darkness he pressed.

He knew there was no time to delay,
Bumpy took a risk, come what may,
To send that letter, far and wide,
From underground Minsk to free Moscow’s side.

IX. Komsomol member from Bobruisk:

As days unfolded in fervent strife,
The underground waged a stubborn fight.
Till one spring’s day, midst hope and dread,
A Komsomol youth from Bobruisk had sped.

Draped in dust from the weary road,
Carried a grudge in his heart’s abode.
With grim tidings etched in his soul,
He unveiled the fate of comrades, whole.

Amidst this circle of steadfast kin,
He rekindled life from deep within.
Trembling, he shared his harrowing plight,
Eyes awash with pain, a woeful sight.

“Comrades! From anguish, I’m set free,
Before you now, I stand, you see.
Escaped the clutches of gendarmes’ hold,
Survived the gallows, as tales unfold.

Five nights of torment, relentless chase,
Gendarmes and their cruel embrace.
A hundred twenty versts I trod,
In the wilderness, a hunted god.

Into abyss, I’d often fall,
Yet rise again, answering the call.
Unwavering, I sought my way,
To honor my comrades, come what may.

Their memory burns, undimmed by years,
In my heart, it steadfastly appears.
I recall it now, as clear as morn,
Zolotin’s path to death, so forlorn.

With bayonets poised above his frame,
Not a tear in his eyes aflame.
His wife, in despair, ran and cried,
Tearing her hair, grief multiplied.

Pinya’s visage, youthful and fair,
No tears, his face did not wear.
As death loomed near, his final word,
Pinya Zolotin’s voice was heard.

“Don’t you weep, let me face my fate,
To death’s doorstep, I will not abate.
Raise our son as strong as can be,
In his veins, let my spirit run free.

Let the sun shine brighter, I pray,
In happiness, let him find his way.
Hear me, comrades, I implore,
As we march through ages evermore.

Forward, you youthful hearts, arise,
Long live the Bolsheviks, the Commune’s prize!”
But the hour struck, the end was near,
Zolotin Pinya, we held dear, disappeared.

Into abyss, I’d often fall,
Yet rise again, answering the call.
Unwavering, I sought my way,
To honor my comrades, come what may.

I came to tell you, bear the weight,
Our tracks uncovered by cruel fate.
A traitor’s venom poisoned our trust,
Our First Committee, turned to dust.

Gendarmes paid a hefty fee,
For each Committee member they did see.
Gershon donned women’s attire’s grace,
To shroud his face, a desperate chase.

The provocateur, a wolf in dread,
Hungry, ruthless, many feared he’d spread.
In the night, Gershon roamed the land,
Fleeing the front, his fate in hand.

Into abyss, I’d often fall,
Yet rise again, answering the call.
Unwavering, I sought my way,
To honor my comrades, come what may.

Now, comrades, I beseech your might,
Against executioners and their blight,
For the fallen Committee, we stand,
Together, united, we’ll make our stand.

Eager to settle the score so grand,
With gendarmes and ‘pans’ who rule the land.
Trembling, he spoke, his heart’s cry,
Pain streaming from his tearful eye.

X. The Red from is growing:

Once more, blood spilled on the front line’s crest,
Cannons roared, fury in their chest.
The world quivered, wires tore asunder,
Earth shook, as if nature’s voice did thunder.

It trembled ‘neath the dynamite’s embrace,
As if the world craved a shattered space.
Spring to Minsk did bring, untamed and bold,
News from the front, a story to be told.

To hidden Komsomol members’ ear it came,
The red banner burned with fiercer flame.
The enemy faltered ‘neath resolute might,
Occupiers’ formation torn in the fight.

The Red Army struck with thunderous roar,
Fearful waves pushing invaders ashore.
Party Committee, in Minsk’s hold,
Gathering comrades, the brave and bold.

Communists and Komsomol they’d unite,
Hidden squad summoned for the great fight.
Their mission clear, the invaders to shred,
In battle’s crucible, where heroes are bred.

Yet the foe, beaten, relentless still,
Inflicted endless terror, a grim chill.
They caged the Second Committee’s breath,
But Komsomol’s spirit defied their death.

Hidden, they grew into fiercer might,
Emerging as warriors, ready to fight.
Shoulder to shoulder, communists, they strode,
Together, they faced the treacherous road.

Strength was forged in the crucible of strife,
Time for retribution, the heart’s rife.
Closer the front, a relentless advance,
Cannons now thundered near Minsk, perchance.

XI. You arrived , that morning:

You arrived that morning’s light,
Resolute and bold, a striking sight.
Red flags danced, like velvet they flowed,
Morning rose, a turbulent river’s ode.

Foes raced madly through shattered lanes,
Komsomol, ablaze, their guns did gain.
Grenades and bayonets, fierce and keen,
Lancers charged, a frenzied scene.

Party Committee’s detachment’s fire,
Shot them down, as their hearts desired.
There, they paid for torment endured,
Mockery, suffering, their hearts secured.

Even children, small and brave,
Threw stones, our homeland to save.
Red Army soldiers, swift as the breeze,
Raced to Minsk through streets with ease.

Minsk, astonished, with jubilant cheer,
Welcomed these heroes, far and near.
Generations of valor embraced the land,
Liberation came, life’s cost well planned.

From lowlands, from underground’s abyss,
From torment’s grasp and relentless abyss.
Through prison walls, through terror untold,
You emerged, Komsomol, brave and bold.

Facing death, defiance in youthful eyes,
‘Bolshevik’s children,’ proud battle cries.
Never yielding to sorrow’s dark plight,
Through barricade lights, through the front’s fierce fight.

In battles, you stood as a mighty force,
Twice honored, your valor, of course.
On vast construction sites, in open fields wide,
Long live Komsomol members, side by side!

Here is the poem in Belarussin language:

ТАК ПАЧЫНАЛАСЯ МАЛАДОСЦЬ
(паэма)

I. Ноч Зайдэнвара

Над краінай заняўся пажар.
Акупанты прышлі, што звяры,
І краіна закутая стогне ад болю.
Ходзіць Менскам жандар.
І бунтоўна гарыць
Комсомольскае сэрца ў глыбокім падполлі.

Не спазнаеш, хто свой, хто чужы?
На рагу вартавы, быццам корч,
Да асфальта прырос нерухомаю глыбай.
Менск прыціх. Менск дрыжыць...
Толькі вуліцай злосная ноч
Б’е вар’яцкім крылом анямелыя шыбы.

На рагу вартавы, быццам корч.
Дэфензіва. Нязмоўчна гудуць гаражы,
Заліваюцца шпоры канаркаў ўсю ноч.
Менск прыціх. Менск дрыжыць...

Як-жа спаць Зайдэнвару, калі
Хоць жывому кідайся ў вяроўку —
Сёння вечарам бачыў: зноў трое ішлі
Між багнэтаў спакойна на Камароўку.
І ў вачах іхні воблік праходзіць цяпер,
Сэрца б’ецца ў агні, і балючым і палкім:
Яны йдуць, як героі, спакойна на смерць,
Быццам толькі ідуць на партыйную яўку.

Яны побліз ідуць. Не адходзяць ад воч.
Яны кажуць: “Бывай-жа, таварыш!”
Як-жа спаць Зайдэнвару ў гэткую ноч,
Як-жа спаць Зайдэнвару?

І пакойчык яго абціскае адно:
Сцены душаць бакі без ніякай патолі.
Сторчма рушыцца столь. Сэрца б’ецца ў акно,
Яно просіцца выйсці на волю.

Захістаўся пакой. І такая грызня —
Ад газоўкі нясцерпны кідаецца жар.
Цісне. Душыць кругом. І рукі не узняць.
Што-ж ты робіш цяпер, Зайдэнвар? —

Крыкнуў так. А потым збянтэжана змоўк.
— Што ты робіш, вар’ят? Свае зубы вазьмі на
замок... —
Зашаптаў ён сабе і пачуў: за сцяною гамонка,
Шуміць самавар. Стала ясна кругом.
Прасвятлела ў ваччу.
Я... які-ж я цяпер Зайдэнвар?

І успомніўся дзень. І падпольны партком.
І не стала трывог і ніякага жару.
Пашпарт выдалі там. Абвялі алуўком:
— “Ты ўжо Цукер, таварыш...”

За сцяною-ж гамонка ўжо ледзьве чуваць
Пра адвечную тэму: аб грашох і аб хлебе.
Стала смешна самому, хоць ідзі жартаваць:
“Можа цукер патрэбен?..”

Цукер... Цукер салодкая рэч, ды не ўсім,
Прад вачыма паўсталі канаркі крылатыя,
Замільгалі пагоны у злой мітусні...
— Вам я куляю буду, праклятыя!

Вам я куляю буду за пакуту і смерць,
Што на вісельнях граеце першую скрыпку...
Ноч гула за акном, як раз’юшаны звер,
То як злодзей хадзіла за сценкай на цыпках.

Нарастала рашучасць, выціскаючы жах,
Думкі рушылі сцены неўтаймованым гурмам...
Цукер слухаў, як сэрца гарэла ў грудзях,
Як гарачая кроў узнімалася бурна.

I хацелася зараз-жа выйсці, і стаць,
І падужацца сілай з дэфензіўшчыкам кожным.
А на памяць ўсплыло — загадаў сакратар:
“Цукер, будзь асцярожным...

У глыбокім падполлі не месца свавольцам!”
І пячатка задумы лягла на абліччы.
Заўтра сход... Комсомольцы...
Саўчык... Соня... Прашчыцкі...

Трэба моладзь агнём барацьбы запаліць,
Навучыць быць упартай і разам старожкай.
Мірыяды малюнкаў па столі плылі,
І ўсхвалёваны Цукер кідаўся на ложку.

Яны-ж лезлі бясконца, бунтоўныя мары,
І сціскалася моцна да болю рука.
Так праходзіла ноч Зайдэнвара —
Маладога падпольшчыка-большэвіка.

ІІ. Сходка на рэчцы

Вецер дзьме шалёны
Восеньскаю трасцай.
Хвалі узнімаюць
Свой вар’яцкі шум...
Самая пагодка —
Ў чоўне прагуляцца, —
Сцюжа чортам лезе
Проста у душу.

Дзе-ж такой часінай
Ім цяпер падзецца?
Хіба йсці на ложак
Заваліцца спаць?
Грай-жа, чортаў вецер!
Данімай да сэрца!
Маладыя хлопцы
Едуць пагуляць,

Каб ляцелі пырскі
У разгоне прыткім
І кружыла з песень
Хмелем галава.
Хай там за фіранкамі
Кіснуць гімназісткі.
Ім-жа ў буру злую
Човен падавай!

Дзе-ж вальней параіцца,
Дзе-ж вальней сустрэцца?
Самая часіна
З бурай ваяваць.
Адплывае човен
Па крутлявай рэчцы,
Іх пяцёх сабралася
Ў чоўне пагуляць.

І бунтуюць хвалі
Снегавою пенай...
Толькі хвалям вёсел
Хлопцаў не стрымаць.
Застаецца горад
У імжы асенняй,
Сіратліва трубы
Ў шэрані стаяць...

І ўжо полем ходзіць
Апантаны вецер...
Больш нясцерпна твары
Распякае золь.
Першы ўзняўся Цукер:
“Хлопцы, паглядзіце!
Быццам мы смяемся,
А на сэрцы боль.

Мы цяпер далёка
Адплылі ад згубы.
Хлопцы, досыць смеху,
Будзем гаварыць.
Толькі знайце тайну,
Каб знямелі губы.
Мы-ж для калектыва
З гэтае пары.

Добра, што паспелі
Сёння тут сабрацца.
Маю я на мэце
Вам паведаміць:
Партыя ў падполлі
Разгарнула працу.
Мы-ж павінны партыі
Працай пасабіць!

На змаганне клікаць
Маладых рабочых,
Супроць акупантаў,
Супроць ўсіх паноў...”
І гарэлі ў хлопцаў
Агнявыя вочы
І ўставала ў грудзях
Маладая кроў.

“Знайце-ж канспірацыю...
І працуйце сцісла...
Каб ні слова гадам,
Пападзеш калі...”
І здаецца з ветрам
Вылятала Свіслач,
Буйнаю паводкай
Мчала на палі.

“Будзе ў нас патрэба —
Мы збярэмся зноўку...
А цяпер за працу,
Як мага раней.
Трэба йсці у масы,
Працаваць па тройках...
Яўка на кватэры
Будзе у мяне.

Мы-ж павінны ведаць —
Перамога скора.
Хутка нашай зоркай
Запылае свет...”
Пасядаў на чоўні
Сярод хваль суровых
Першы у падполлі
Менскі камітэт.

Узнімаў гамонку,
Там адзін... другі...
Вырасталі плечы
Пад кашуляй мулкай
Быццам уставалі
Гнеўна берагі,
І грымелі скалы
У разгоне гулкім.

Нарастала бура,
Стала ў чоўне цесна.
Як стрымаць, не знаўшы,
Пачуццё сваё —
Соня Зак сказала:
“Хлопцы, дайце песню,
Хоць на ціхі голас
Песню запяём...”

Саўчык быццам толькі
Гэтага чакаў,
З ветрам усхапіўся
Песняй маладой.
І тады знямела
Гнеўная рака,
Песня паляцела,
Паплыла вадой.

Быццам абудзіўся
Сонцавейны ранак.
Сілы гаманілі.
Узнімаўся дух:
“Паўстань пракляццем
Катаваны...
Паўстань, хто з голаду...
...Век пух...”

Ружавелі твары,
Як чырвоны мак,
І яснела ў полі
Дзікая пагода.
Ён ўзляцеў, як сокал,
Наш сусветны марш,
На прасторы ўзвіўся,
Як вяшчун свабоды.

Ён на горад мчаўся.
Ён ляцеў на вёскі, —
Дзе бізун жандара,
Дзе расстрэл і здзек...
То спяваў на чоўні
Сэрцам комсомольскім
Першы у падполлі
Менскі камітэт.

Комсомол не знае
Ні тугі, ні суму,
Комсомольскім сэрцам
Ў сцюжу не астыць.
Цукер пеў з хлапцамі,
І ляцелі думы
Недзе там за Менскам,
Дзе стаяць франты,

Армія Чырвоная —
Першая у свеце
Вышла на рашучы
астатні бой.
Б’юцца комсомольцы —
Чырвонаармейцы,
Б’ецца ўся Рэспубліка
гарыць крывёй.

Яны знаюць добра —
Перамога блізка...
Яны йдуць наперад
З баявым штыхом...
У лясах бясконцых,
У тайзе сібірскай —
Б’юцца комсомольцы
З гадам Калчаком.

Розныя палкоўнікі
Наляцелі хмарай,
Кожнаму ўладання
Дай кавалак свой!

Б’юцца-ж міліёны
З імі пролетараў,
Б’ецца ўся Рэспубліка
I гарыць крывёй.

Тут-жа з ласкі божай
Край ўвесь разбурылі
І з-пад ласкі панскай
Вісельня рыпіць...
Трэба так ў падполлі
Рыхтаваць нам сілы
Потым, каб аднойчы
Ворага дабіць.

На касцях спраўляе
Вораг тут вяселле,
Кіпцюры да горла,
Да грудзей узнёс...
Цукер пеў з хлапцамі
Думы ўслед ляцелі
Па усёй краіне,
Змучанай да слёз.

Човен плыў на горад.
Ўжо касцёл затрынкаў...
Пачалі кварталы
З-за імжы яснець.

Соня Зак сказала:
“Замяняй пласцінку,
Пачынай “Каробачку”,
Будзе спакайней”.

Човен рэзаў хвалі
Вострым носам шпарка.
Гралі балалайкі
Як мага званчэй.
Пад’яжджалі к саду.
Дзівяцца канаркі —
Ў гэтую пагодку
Гульні на рацэ?..

Садам йшоў палкоўнік
Пад руку з какоткай...
Хіба-ж ім дазнацца
Хоць праз цэлы свет,
Што вярнуўся з першай
Патаемнай сходкі
Першы у падполлі
Менскі камітэт?

ІІІ. У падпольнай друкарні

Сіні золак зоры гасіць,
Б’ецца птушкай у аконцы.
За падпольнай пыльнай касай
Набіраюць комсомольцы.

Хай што шрыфту выбар малы,
Што ён збіты і няновы,
А кладуцца у рэалы,
Як маланкі, тыя словы!

Набіраючы, тут мараць
Пра агні іх пракламацый.
Хай, што пот цячэ па твары
І нямеюць ў стоме пальцы!

Хай! затое сінім ранкам
Будзе радасці ў іх поўна —
Заблішчаць жывыя гранкі
Сваёй сілаю бунтоўнай,

Як пачнуць жа друкавацца,
Вось тады ў імпэце гонкім,
Што аратары, заскачуць
Пракламацыі з “Бастонкі”.

Так без стомы, познім часам,
Без святла, амаль упоцем,
За падпольнай пыльнай касай
Набіраюць комсомольцы.

І жаданне іх збылося:
Вось, трывожным ранкам гэтым —
Ўжо гатовыя палосы
Маладзёжнае газеты.

Кожны з іх душою вызнаў,
Што, як ноч ізноў настане,
Пойдзе “Факел Комунізма”
Клікаць моладзь на змаганне.

А ў друкарні за сцяною
Комсомольскіх думак схова, —
Кожнай літарай жывою
Яны ў бой рыхтуюць словы.

І ў хлапцоў хутчэй на мэце
Друкаваць літаратуру.
Толькі дзе падзеўся Пеця,
Не прыносіць карэктуры?

Хутка дзень. Відно ўжо будзе,
Дзе тады з наборам дзецца?
І расце трывога ў грудзях:
Дзе той Пеця?

Меркаванняў, думак розных
Тут праносіцца багата...
А па вуліцы марознай
Ходзіць Яшка-правакатар.

Кожны гук бярэ на слух ён,
Правярае яго тройчы,
Ловіць ён сабачым нюхам,
Дзе працуюць комсомольцы.

Сцежку толькі ён спазнай —
І для хлопцаў будуць краты.
Ходзіць Яшка Розеншайн,
Ходзіць Яшка-правакатар.

І яму сягоння горна,
Што не можа ён дазнацца.
На яго-ж сумленні чорным
Шмат загінула змаганцаў.

Ходзіць ён. Яго-ж прымеціў
Ўсю сабачую натуру —
І за мост схаваўся Пеця
З комсомольскай карэктурай.

Яшка-ж ходзіць у абнове,
Па кварталах носам вудзіць.
Злосць у Пеці Вараб’ёва
Душыць грудзі.

Ён знаёмы з гэтым спрытам,
З гэтым ворагам ліслівым.
Яшка ўжо амаль адкрыта —
На рабоце ў дэфензіве.

Злотым там яго узялі,
Ён сваіх прадаў дачыста,
А раней, пакуль не зналі,
Прыкідаўся актывістам.

Помніць Пеця, як на тройцы,
Хіба хто гэта забудзе:
“Я загіну комсомольцам”, —
Кляўся Яшка, біў у грудзі.

І крычаў: “Мае ўсе мары —
За Комуну хоць памерці”, —
Маску ён насіў на твары
І вужаку ў сваім сэрцы.

А цяпер ён ціха крочыць
За сваім чарговым кладам.
І хацелася ускочыць,
Задушыць рукамі гада.

Так гарэў жаданнем Пеця,
І ў душы ўставалі буры.
Толькі муляла пад сэрцам
І трымала карэктура.

Тут цяпер не месца. Рана.
Ты загубіш ўсю друкарню.
Яшка-ж ходзіць апантаны,
Колькі дзён прайшло ўжо марна.

Як ён з’явіцца сягоння
Да палкоўніка з дакладам,
Там без вестак ў шыю гоняць
Госцям гэткім там не рады.
А даведацца няпроста,
Дык з’явіцца сёння з чым-жа?
І палкоўнікава постаць
У яго перад вачыма.

Гнеў з палкоўніка іскрыцца,
Ён плюецца злосцю п’янай,
І ў руках яго дыміцца
Саладкавая “гаванна”.

I ў грудзях у Яшкі прыкра,
Быццам лёд на сэрцы тае.
— Цо-ж, дзе вашы большэвікі?
Пан палкоўнік запытае.

Яшку-ж клопатаў багата,
Усю ноч дарэмна зблоціў.
Як-жа пойдзеш да дзяўчатак,
Калі грошы не заплоцяць?

Што за ноч ужо такая?
Яшка лаецца ад стомы...
Як на ліха не спаткаеш,
Хоць адзін-бы след знаёмы.

Ну, няхай-жа, пачакай,
Усе вы трапіце за краты...
Грозіць Яшка Розеншайн,
Грозіць Яшка-правакатар.

А тымчасам асцярожна,
Калі Яшка блыкаў марна,
Як клубок агню, з марозу
Вараб’ёў прымчаў ў друкарню.

I ў кружку ужо размова,
Як трымацца Пецька вучыць:
“Будзьце, хлопцы, нагатове,
Калі што — мяшайце ў кучу.

Разбірайце поўным ходам,
Ўсё рассыпце з-пад машыны.
Чорта з два канаркі знойдуць
У свінцовай мешаніне!

А там Яшка ходзіць франтам,
Будзе дрэнна, як пачуе.
Дык пакуль — пастаўце варту,
Як мага хутчэй друкуйце”.

Стала ціха. Ані гуку.
Дзень прыходзіў працы цяжкай,
І хлапцы узнялі рукі
І кляліся кончыць Яшку.

Ліха ён раскрые тайны,
Мы-ж яму дамо заробіць!
Смерць-жа Яшку Розеншайну!
А работу сваю зробім.

IV. Пракламацыі

Восень злосна дрэвы чысціць.
Сквер дрыжыць у дзікім гуле.
Дрэвы ляскаюць сукамі.
Вецер кружыць жоўтым лісцем.
I трывожна так шапочуць
Ўсе дарожкі пад нагамі.

Ноч праходзіцца па бруку.
Разам свісне дзе канарык.
Свіст закружыцца, растае...
На спатканне вышаў Цукер,
Але ў гэткую цямноту
Анікога не спазнаеш.

А на скверы акупанты.
Прастытуткі ходзяць гужам,
Каля іх вядуць ігрышча.
Б’юць дванаццаць ўжо куранты.
І шукае пільна ў ценях
Цукер дзеўчыны аблічча.

Дзе-ж магла яна падзецца?
Цукер помніць, як заўчора
Умаўляліся ўдвох самі.
Што-ж няма яе на месцы?
А на яўцы патаемнай
Вараб’ёў сядзіць з блінамі.

Ёв глядзіць праз плямы вокан
І нервуе, што няма іх.
Гэта-ж позна на двары ўжо. Гэта-ж позна!
Не чуваць ніякіх крокаў...
А пад світкай дынамітам
Узрываюцца адозвы.

Што-ж няма яе сягоння?
Цукер ходзіць цёмным скверам.
І расце трывог багата.
Узнялася падазронасць:
Можа Сонька з Розеншайнам,
Можа Сонька правакатар?

Так гадае ён нясмела,
Бо у гэтай завірусе
Цяжка ўдумліва разважыць.
— Цукер!.. — ззаду даляцела.
Стала сорамна да болю,
За дарэмную абразу.
“Я спазнілася, выбачце!..”
І яна падходзіць блізка,
Па-сяброўску цісне рукі:
“Затрымала мяне маці...”
I яны ўжо крочаць з Цукрам
Праз крывенькія завулкі.

Так!.. спазніцца ў нас нянова,
На падпольшчыка дарозе
Шмат заўсёды сцежак цяжкіх.
Яны йдуць да Вараб’ёва.
Сонька шопатам тлумачыць,
Як хавалася ад Яшкі.

Што-ж магло такое стацца?
І трывожная цямнота
Напаўняла вокны страхам...
Вараб’ёў нервуе ў хаце.
І паўзуць хвіліны нудна,
Як валы разбітым шляхам.

І калі клапот без меры
Праляцела ў сэрцы Пеці
За адозвы і газеты, —
Соня Зак адкрыла дзверы
І здалося — ўвесь пакойчык
Загарэўся цёплым светам.

Яна шчыра цісне рукі,
І на твар яе кладзецца
Прывітальная усмешка.
І ўжо шэпча Пецю Цукер
Пра свае блуканні ў скверы,
Пра прыгодлівыя сцежкі.

І хутчэй усе за справу.
Будзе сёння урачыстасць,
Будзе ночка комсомольскай,
Забушуюць ўсе кварталы
Бурнай сілаю лістовак
Супроць здзекаў белапольскіх.

А пакуль парадкам стройным
Раскладалі матар’ялы
Па кварталах і заводах,
І разбілі па раёнах
Там людзей і ўсе адозвы
Да бунтоўнага пахода.

* * *

Месяц першае чаканкі
Свеціць каскаю бліскучай,
Што пажарны.
Месяц вышаў на гулянку,
Закружыў між правадамі...
Спіць казарма.

Там жаўнеры маладыя
Сняць пра родную хаціну,
Мчацца крозы.
Толькі ходзяць вартавыя
З карабінамі ліхімі
Па марозе.

А ў казарме дум без меры
Ходзіць моракам трывожным
Да світання.
І да шмат якіх жаўнераў
Думы лезуць неадчэпна,
Сэрца раняць.

Хто-ж душу людскую змерыць,
Калі розум абкруцілі
Павучыннем.
І не спяць тыя жаўнеры
Праз увесь расклад казённы.
Ні хвіліны.

І асілкам усплывае
Фронт чырвоны,
Там рабочыя усталі
І сяляне бараніцца.
І ў грудзях пячэ дакорна,
Узнімаюцца сумненні:
З кім-жа біцца?

Афіцэры-ж ходзяць зверам,
Паміраць на фронце гоняць
За айчыну.
І не могуць спаць жаўнеры
Праз увесь расклад казённы,
Ні хвіліны.

За сцяною-ж вецер вые,
І на сэрцы так пякуча,
Так нягожа.
Толькі ходзяць вартавыя
З карабінамі ліхімі
Па марозе.

А за рогам вельмі проста
Комсомольцы шпацыруюць
Вартавога кожны поступ
Яны чуюць.

I як толькі вартавыя
За другой сцяной пачэзлі,
Комсомольцы вельмі жыва
Усе адозвы паразнеслі.

Хай лютуюць сабе шпегі,
Гэта ноч не пройдзе дарма.
І адозвы белым снегам
Забялелі ля казармаў.

Іх на раніцу падымуць,
Прачытаюць можа тройчы.
Падыходзяць вартавыя...
І няма ўжо комсомольцаў.

* * *

Яны вышлі па вуліцы гэтай,
Калі ноч на Траецкай гары,
Калі грукаюць стаўні ад ветру
І — калекі — дрыжаць ліхтары.

Яны вышлі у поступе грозным
Вось на гэты азлоблены шлях
І павешаны бомбы-адозвы
Пад кашулямі ў іх на грудзях.

Так ідуць яны пляцам ізноўку,
І, калі не трывожыць ніхто
Ў іх лятуць, як гранаты, лістоўкі
Праз кішэні ірваных пальто.

Кружыць снег, кружыць снег пракламацый,
Саўчык з Сонькай раскідалі іх...
Толькі слуп нерухомы на пляцы
На вятры, як скаваны, стаіць.

Саўчык з Сонькай ідуць ля слупа;
Потым раптам уразіла іх:
Слуп ажыў, захадзіў, засвістаў,
І пад месяцам выбліснуў штых.

Значыць трапілі да пастарунка,
Можна тут і бяды прычакаць.
“Паліцэйскі” — пранеслася ў думках.
Саўчык з Сонькай пакінулі пляц.

Але ў сэрцах іх радасць без меры,
Што падпольны свой здзейснілі план.
Заўтра выйдуць з казармаў жаўнеры,
Шмат наедзе на рынак сялян.

ЦІмат хто з іх, над сваёю вінтоўкай
Там падумаюць тысячы крат.
Заўтра будуць чытаць іх лістоўкі
І сяброў ў іх народзіцца шмат.

Між штыхоў ў небяспецы бясконцай
Па пляцах, па трывожных рагох
Ходзяць цэлую ноч комсомольцы,
Сеюць дум сваіх буйны агонь.

І няхай ад штыха уцякалі,
Каб ён працу сарваць іх не мог.
Саўчык з Сонькай на новым квартале
Шпацыруюць павольна удвох.

Быццам вышлі, каб ночкай асенняй
Прагуляцца і глянуць на свет,
І ляціць праз разрэз у кішэні
Ужо апошні закрыты канверт.

“Ну, цяпер можна нам адпачнуць!
Заўтра стрэнемся зноўку на яўцы”.
Раптам голас халодны ў спіну:
— Пачакайце!
І ўзняліся мільёны трывог:
— Хто там ззаду за імі ішоў?
Закалолі іголкі ў грудзёх
Няўжо?..

Лёд трывог хутка зноў растае.
Абываталь прышоў, як услужлівы ліс,
Ён спакойна канверт падае:
— Вы, напэўна, згубілі свой ліст.

Саўчык ліст той узяў у прызнанні глыбокім,
Саўчык цісне руку яму некалькі крат:
— Вельмі дзякую вам. — А праз некалькі крокаў
Зноў канверт паляцеў на халодны асфальт...

Праца скончана. Не дагледзела панская варта.
Маладых комсомольцаў нічым не стрымаць.
Саўчык з Сонькай ідуць адпачыць, каб назаўтра
Зноў падпольнымі думамі жыць, бунтаваць.

* * *

Ты прышла, тая гадзіна,
Калі біўся вечар сіні
І па цэхах змоўклі пілы.
На заводзе перапынак.
І ў кутку за розным ломам
Моладзь голавы схіліла.

Там юнак, на твар сур’ёзны,
Ўвесь у словах таямнічых,
Выняў ім з-пад сотні латак:
“Вось, таварышы, адозва,
Комуністы палка клічуць
Выйсці супраць акупантаў,

На пляцы знашоў я ноччу.
Дык давайце тут каротка,
Прачытаем, пагаворым...”
Шмат старых прышло рабочых
Там да моладзі на сходку.
Ўсе гарэлі з кожным словам...

Баявым ўзляталі духам
Выйсці, хоць насустрач смерці,
Біцца з ворагамі злымі...
А юнак чытаў і слухаў,
Як-жа моцна б’юцца сэрцы
Ў гэтым дружным калектыве.

Ён чытаў, што — звер крывавы
Зруйнаваў усю старонку
Дзікім шалам навальнічым,
Пролетарыі, за справу!
Пролетарыі, на бойку!
За Комуну, за Кастрычнік!

Ўсе сціскалі моцна рукі,
Кроў ўзнімалася па жылах,
Каб нарэшце расквітацца...
Так па цёмных заканурках
Нарасталі грозна сілы
Супроць ворага змагацца.

Так чыталі крадкам, спехам.
І ламачча цесным гурмам
Прыкрывала зборку вольных.
Зноў гудок, і ўсе па цэхах
Паняслі жывыя думы,
Думы партыі падпольнай.

Так прыходзіў час расплаты.
Рыхтаваўся ён употай.
Быць-жа бойцы зноў за волю!
І юнак каля варштата
Ўспомніў горкую бядоту.
Стала горача да болю.

Тут гаруй без перапынку,
Калі-ж сілы пакідаюць
Майстар зверам цябе стрэне.
Ў хаце-ж хлеба ні скарынкі,
Ў хаце-ж маці галадае,
А ўся хата — сутарэнне.
А жандар, як чорт паганы,
Ўжо ахвяр сваіх не злічыць,
Іх бясконца. І расло ў хлапца жаданне
Быць пад сцягам большэвіцкім
Разам ў бойцы.

V. Перад Кастрычнікам

Кожны рог іх страчаў
Небяспекай бясконцай,
Кожнай вуліцай
Шпег дэфензівы сцярог.
Так праходзілі дні
Комсомольцаў
І суровыя ночы
Барацьбы і трывог.

Яны йшлі у бунтоўнай
З’яднанай кагорце,
Яны йшлі непагодай
Праз сцюжу і золь.
Так мацнеў і гарэў
На партыйнай рабоце,
У глыбокім падполлі
Баявы комсомол.

Гэтай раніцай зноўку
Чыталі “бліны”.
Хай пакуль што употай,
Няхай палахліва!
І нямелі ў трывожным
Адчаі паны,
І дрыжэла ад злосці
Сваёй дэфензіва.

Ў дзікім шале круціўся
Паранены звер,
На людзей ён рабочых кідаўся
Зубамі бясконца.
І пляваўся адозвамі
“Минский Курьер”:
“Вешаць ўсіх комуністаў,
Вешаць ўсіх комсомольцаў.

Знішчыць іх неадкладна
Моцнай сілаю карнай,
Потым стане, нарэшце,
Ў краіне спакой”.
Комсомольцы-ж на яўцы,
Комсомольцы ў друкарні
Рыхтавалі ізноў
Супроць ворага бой.

І шмат маладых
І гарачых галоў
Сабралася ў Цукера
Зноўку на сходзе.
Бліжэла ўжо свята.
Праз грукат франтоў
Трэці Кастрычнік
Ў падполле прыходзіў.

Кастрычнік ішоў
Загартованы ў бойцы,
Ішоў перамогай
Над светам гарэць.
I доўга у цесным пакойчыку
Хлопцы
Сядзелі над планам,
Як свята сустрэць.

Здавалася, ў сэрцы
Ўздымаўся пажар.
Здавалася, бура
Ў грудзях занялася...
Там Олікер ўголас
Чытаў лемантар,
А Бампі павольна
З сябрамі шаптаўся:

“Мы мусім пайсці
Па заводах усіх,
З рабочымі гутаркі
Весці такія,
Каб кожны рабочы
У сэрцы насіў
Вялікага свята
Агні баявыя.

Таварышы, хутка
Кастрычнік ідзе.
Дык болей рашучасці,
Болей адвагі!
Каб сталі заводы
На гэты дзень
I горда гарэлі
Чырвоныя сцягі.

Каб горадам свята
Грымела, як гром,
Каб біліся сэрцы
Ў задорным уздыме,
Каб вуліцай сыпалі,
Быццам дажджом,
Сваімі лістоўкамі
Мы агнявымі”.

Той вечар кружыўся
Лятункамі мар,
І ў душным пакойчыку
Думы ліліся...
Там Олікер ўголас
Чытаў лемантар,
А Бампі праектамі
Там захапіўся,

Што Олікер з чыткай
Згубіўся на час,
І Цукер, адказны
За гэтую зборку,
Стрымаць мусіў Бампі
У самы экстаз,
Каб зноў паранейшаму
Весці гаворку.

І так без канца,
Аж да позняе ночы
Хлопцы гарэлі
Ў размовах іскрыстых.
Гаворка ішла
Пра заводы, рабочых,
Гаворка ішла
Пра сусветны Кастрычнік,
Гаворка ішла,
Што яго прывітаць
Трэба ўпартым
Змаганнем за волю,

Гаворка ішла,
Як у Менску спаткаць
Трэці Кастрычнік
Ў суровым падполлі.

* * *

I вось хлапцы агітаваць
Ішлі ў парадку тых нагрузак
На Койданаўскую дваццаць два,
У дом легальных прафсаюзаў.

Спакой там здраду прытуліў,
І ў палітычным тым гарэме
І бундаўцы сліўнём жылі
І беларускія нацдэмы.

І з акупанскай ласкі той
Сабе гняздо яны звівалі.
І там ачмутаю сваёй
Лакеяў панству рыхтавалі.

Якіх там сетак не плялі
Яны сваім прадажным тварам,
Але за імі мала ішлі
Раслі шарэнгі комунараў.

Цану спазнаўшы панскім хлусам
Яны збіраліся употай
Расла па шмат якіх саюзах
Рэволюцыйная работа.

Прадажных сук мінуўшы зборы,
Каб волю сілаю здабыць,
Там па тых душных карыдорах
Агні гарэлі барацьбы.

І зналі ўсе, што прыдзе выйсце,
Што час не пройдзе там дарэмна.
Там працавалі комуністы
Па ўсіх законах патаемных.

Сваіх ішлі там спазнаваць
I потым, стрэўшыся ў бакоўцы,
Па Койданаўскай дваццаць два,
На свята звалі комсомольцы.

Яны ішлі, як змагары,
Надзеяй іх пылалі вочы.
Вось Бампі ўвесь, як жар, гарыць
І нешта гутарыць з рабочым.

Хай ледзь праносяцца іх гукі,
А думкі ў іх суладна ідупь,
І ўжо відно, як ціснуць рукі
Яны абодвы і цвітуць.

Вось Олікер, раскрыўшы кніжку,
Стаіць, мармыча, абы як,
А ў ёй чытае ўжо запіску
Кружком сабраны маладняк.

Вось Соня Зак і шмат дзяўчат
Па цёмным сноўдаюць пакоі,
Іх шчокі чырванню гараць
І ўжо узбуджаным настроем.

Дык як-жа іх уздым стрымаць,
Калі бурліць ён ўдзень і ўночы?
Па Койданаўскай дваццаць два,
На свята клічуць комсомольцы.

Кастрычнік клічуць сустракаць
Праз усе аблогі і заставы.
І правакатары не спяць
Яны свае капканы ставяць.

Таксама ім клапот багата,
Каб мець з Кастрычніка спажыву
“Партыец” Плоткін ладзіць свята
У хмурых сценах дэфензівы.

Ён выкладае вестак безліч,
У злоты ён паверыў шчыра,
Ён лісам коўзае па крэсле
Перад палкоўніцкім мундзірам.

Ён знае — ў гэтыя часы
За комуністаў плоцяць шмат там
І прадае ўсе адрасы
За жменьку злотых акупантам.

Палкоўнік рад. Яму шанцуе.
Сябе ён марыць генералам.
Адну руку яму цалуюць,
З другой — дукаты забіраюць.

Ён не шкадуе нагарод,
Каб комсомольцаў толькі скончыць.
Іуда-Плоткін ліжа бот,
Прадаўшы катам комсомольцаў.

* * *

Прыбраўся Менск у гмахі крат,
Ў жаўнерскія страі.
І восень, што паліцыянт,
Суровая стаіць.

Яна плюецца злосна ў твар,
Ды злуйся, восень, кроч!..
Над Менскам ходзіць дзікі шал,
Дрыжаць кварталы ўноч.

Дамы пужлівыя стаяць
Ў абдымках злых вятроў.
Над Менскам вісельні рыпяць
“Культурных” ўладароў.

Да менскай вуліцы прырос
Жандар, нібыта корч.
Дык хай шалеюць! Хай! Дармо!
Дык злуйся, восень, кроч!

Тут забушуе новы ліст
Над стараю карой
Расце падпольны комуніст
І комсомольцаў строй.

Няхай вятры марозяць дол
І выюць, што звяры.
Дык злуйся, восень, — комсомол
Мацнее на вятры!

Іх шмат ідзе барацьбітоў
Ад сутарэнняў, хат
Вунь Цукер ў рваным паліто
Спакойна мерыць сад.

Хай зол пячэцца, быццам вар,
І вецер — у нагах,
Хай дождж сячэ яму у твар
Нішто яму не страх.

Ён сёння жыць бясконца рад,
Ён шлях свой тут знайшоў
Спакойна мерае ён сад,
Чакаючы хлапцоў.

Ён знае: пройдзе, быццам дым,
Усіх пакут агонь,
І думы кружаць перад ім,
І радасць у яго,

Што хутка будзе бурна зноў,
Што з працы будзе толк,
Што пачастунак для паноў
Рыхтуе комсомол,

Што дні прыходзяць перамог
І барацьбы нашчэнт,
Што свята стрэне у баёх
Падпольны камітэт.

Што вызвалення дні прыдуць
Для Беларусі зноў.
І Цукер ходзіць па саду,
Чакаючы хлапцоў.

Ідзе па восеньскіх лістох
Чырвоных, што пажар,
І вецер сцелецца ля ног,
І зол марозіць твар.

Лісты ляжаць, нібыта шоўк,
Пад ботамі шумяць...
А ў сад спяшае Вараб’ёў,
Каб Цукера спаткаць.

Пячэ ў сярэдзіне агонь
І паліць сэрца злосць,
І сотні думак у яго
Прарэзалі чало.

Яны ляглі навалай хмар,
Клапот няслі багата:
Сказаў ў парткоме сакратар,
Што Плоткін правакатар,

Што трэба ворага скасіць
Як наймага хутчэй,
Што трэба берагчыся ўсім
Ад Плоткіна вачэй.

Дарогай склаўшы новы план,
Ён ў цёмны сад прышоў.
Насустрач Цукер, быццам здань,
Выходзіць з-за кустоў.

І вецер б’ецца каля ног,
І дрэвы так гудуць...
І вось яны ужо удвох
Дарожкаю ідуць.

Ідуць, нібыта блізнюкі,
З агністай злосцю воч,
Яны сціскаюць кулакі
I грозяцца праз ноч:

— Пастой-жа, вораг, пачакай!..
За намі воля мас!..
Шалей, зладзюга, правака...
Кастрычнік будзе наш!

VI. Комсомольская варта

Яны час не хочуць траціць.
Трэба хутка знішчыць гада
Ходзяць хлопцы там на варце
З комсомольскага атрада.

Ходзяць ноч яны без змены,
У парадку тайнай змовы,
І халодныя ў кішэнях
Рэвальверы нагатове.

Хлопцы помстаю сагрэты
Будзе ворагу за ласку!..
А ў гатэлі вельмі светла
Ззяюць лямпы воўчым бляскам...

Там карнізамі чачоткай
Вецер кружыцца гуллівы...
А ў вакне балюе Плоткін
З афіцэрам дэфензівы.

Там віно, што мора, пеніць,
Быццам хоча вокны выбіць,
І дрыжаць ад смеху сцены,
І звіняць блудліва шыбы.

Вораг там сядзіць без маскі.
Ён святкуе, ён рагоча.
Вораг думае — шампанскім
Пахавае комсомольцаў,

І пагаснуць ў тым разводдзі
Рэволюцыі пажары.
Хлопцы-ж вуліцаю ходзяць
І трывога ў іх на твары.

Дзе-ж той час, што ганьбу змые?
Каб сканаў насмерць пракляты!
Вось дзе ён, былы “партыец”,
Першай маркі правакатар.

А над Менскам ў непакоі
Вецер вые дзікім спевам.
Месяц стомлены гульнёю,
Захістаўся ўжо на дрэве.

Помста-ж выканаць наспела
Свой прысуд па-комсомольску...
— Калі-ж выйдзеш ты з гатэлю?
Ты, прыслужнік белапольскі!

Хлопцам нельга часу траціць:
У падполлі час кароткі
Ужо вятох па стрэхах скача,
Не выходзіць, сволач, Плоткін.

Што за ліха, ані гуку...
Хоць-бы рыпнулі дзе дзверы.
І мацней сціскаюць рукі
Рукаяткі рэвальвераў.

Што-ж такое! Гэта-ж позна!..
І як бліснула ўжо сонца,
Прышоў Олікер трывожны
Клікаць варту комсомольцаў:

“Хлопцы! Пойдзем, не паспелі...
Тут не месца на размовы...”
Хлопцы здзіўлена глядзелі
На ягоны твар нервовы.

Твар, што з белае бяросты,
Быццам з кужалю сатканы...
Хлопцы йшлі, і ў сэрцы роспач,
Што не здзейснілі задання,

Кончыць гада-чалавека.
І бурліў ў іх гнеў гарачы,
Як, мінуўшы небяспеку,
Пачаў Олікер тлумачыць:

“Нам, таварышы, на дзіва
Ў гэту ноч не шанцавала,
Сёння ноччу дэфензівай
Камітэт арыштаваны.

Нам нанеслі зноўку раны
Іх канарыкі ліхія
Цукер там, “Абрам” забраны,
Танхілевіч і другія.

Перад святам шпегаў многа
Па усіх кварталах ходзіць,
З яшчэ большай асцярогай
Трэба працу нам праводзіць.

Ліха нас яны загубяць,
Не загінуць сэрцам юным.
Аж да болю сціснем зубы,
А памром мы за Комуну!”

Хлопцаў злосцю калаціла,
Сэрца крыўдаю смылела,
Што дарэмна смерць хадзіла
Каля Плоткіна ў гатэлі,

Што сяброў закрылі краты,
І адтуль не скора выйсці,
Што застаўся правакатар
На няшчасці весяліцца,

Што прадасць ён хлопцаў болей,
Каб ізноў напіцца п’яным,
Што Кастрычнік у падполлі
Будзе ворагам сарваны.

Хлопцы йшлі у задуменні
З невясёлага спаткання
Зноўку ў глыб, у сутарэнні,
Каб сабрацца на змаганне.

Яны йшлі, і ў сэрцы кожны
Правяраў сябе аж тройчы...
Менск нахмураны, трывожны
Слухаў думы комсомольцаў...

VII. У турме

Ты стаяў ў каземаце,
Таварыш Абрам,
І твае дружбакі па падполлю
Стаялі...
Ты стаяў, як скаваны,
Таварыш Абрам,
І не знаў, ці злаваць,
Ці заплакаць ад жалю,

Што сагналі сюды
У такія часы,
Калі працы ў падполлі
Надзвычай багата,
Што шалёная ноч
Пазбірала усіх
І замкнула у душных мурах
Казематаў,

Калі ў самым разгары
Падпольніцкі план,
Калі ў бойках на часткі
Рассыпаўся свет.

Ты стаяў з дружбакамі,
Таварыш Абрам,
І стаяў там з табою
Увесь камітэт.

Кожны з вас адчуваў
Зневальненне прышло.
Сцены душных муроў
Да адчаю сціскалі.
І над вашай юнацкай
Бунтоўнай душой
Рад багнэтаў
Жандары сурова трымалі.

Злосць ад гэтых штыхоў
Дзікім бляскам плыла,
Ёй скарыць захацелася
Юных змаганцаў.
А за сценамі ноч
Павар’яцку гула
І лажыла на краты
Крывавыя пальцы.

Так! Жандары дабіліся
Сёння свайго,
Камітэт пад багнэтамі
Іхнімі змоўчыў,
I ў Абрама грудзях
Загарэўся агонь,
I гарэлі у палкай
Нянавісці вочы,

Што сурова стаяў
Над галоўмі багнэт,
Што жалезныя моцна
Трымалі засовы...
Ён пракляў ў гэты час
І вучнёўскі білет,
І гімназію разам
У Ключ-Пузырове.

Гэты чортаў білет
Толькі болей назводзіў:
Плоткін знае усё,
І яму не зманіць,
Там у Ключ-Пузырове
Ў гімназіі Гольдзін,
Гольдзін самы сапраўдны
Жыве гімназіст.

Што яму, што жандары,
Як лютыя тыгры,
Комсомольцаў катуюць
За гмахамі крат.
Гольдзін ходзіць вясёлы
У чыстым мундзіры.
Гольдзін, пэўне,
Жыццю акупанцкаму рад.

Гольдзін знае,
Яго прытуліла багацце,
Што яго добрабыт
За паліцамі крам.
Што яму да таго,
Што гніе ў каземаце
Па ягоным білеце
Таварыш Абрам,

Што за кратамі чорных
Турэмных акон
Комсомольскія сэрцы
Бунтоўна гараць,
Што стаіць ў каземаце
Абрам Моўшэнзон
І яго дружбакі
Па падполлю стаяць!?

* * *

Там прыгадаў дзесяткі кар
Раз’юшаны жандар
Гудзіць суровая турма
Пакутамі ахвяр.

Там рэволюцыі сыны
Закутыя на здзек,
Там ў душнай камеры турмы
Падпольны камітэт.

Хлапцы пазбыліся там сну.
Ў агні трывожных дум:
Ім дзень прыносіць навіну
Ці допыт, ці бізун.

Там шал канарыкаў ліхіх
Ім суліць пэўна смеріць,
Але нішто не страшыць іх
Бунтуюць і ў турме.

Хай там пакуты! Хай жуда,
Якой не бачыў свет,
А толькі тайны не аддасць,
Што знае, Камітэт!

Не першы раз бяду страчаць
І класціся на дол.
Ён будзе верным да канца
Бунтоўны комсомол.

І вось, стаіўшыся пакуль,
Пад сховаю начы,
Ў смуродным камеры кутку
Сабраліся хлапцы.

Ледзь копціць ў камеры ліхтар
І кружыць чаду дым,
Адозву піша Зайдэнвар
Рабочым маладым,

Што комсомола не закуць
Турэмным тут звяром
(Абрам-жа ходзіць на чаку
І сочыць за ваўчком),

Што як ні катуюць паны
Хлапцоў ім не зламаць.
На волю рвуцца ўсе яны,
Каб разам бунтаваць.

VIII. Ліст расійскім таварышам

На волі-ж знёсшы ўвесь цяжар,
Крывавых дзён вязьмо,
Партком, залечыўшы ўдар,
Збірае комсомол.
І там праз сёлы й гарады
Змагання кліч ідзе.
І зноў кагорта маладых
Барацьбітоў расце.

Ад акупантаў скрыўшы след,
Свой новы шлях знайшоў
І хутка новы камітэт
На барацьбу прышоў.

Каб на рабоце зноў гарэць
З запалам маладым,
Прашчыцкі, Бампі, Олікер
У камітэце тым.

І вырас зноўку агнявы,
Злучыўшы сотні воль,
На працы моцны, баявы
Падпольны комсомол.

* * *

І праз жахі франтоў і праз грукат вайны,
Праз разбітыя бойкай палі
Расійскім таварышам пішуць яны
Бунтоўны гарачы свой ліст:

“Адсюль мы вам пішам, дзе турмы гудуць,
Дзе цела краіны рабуюць нашчэнт.
І ўсе нашы хлопцы з падполля вам шлюць
Свой комсомольскі прывет.

Мы горда трымаем свой Кімаўскі сцяг.
Хай цяжка ў падполлі тут нам,
Клянёмся змагацца усе да канца,
І мы абяцаем вам,

Што мы перашкодзім варожым штыхам
У самы адказны час
Равамі мы ляжам на іхных шляхах,
І мы прычакаем вас!

Клянёмся дашчэнту разбурыць іх тыл.
Мы пройдзем праз жудасць начы
Мы збурым дарогі, мы знішчым масты,
Каб вораг не мог уцячы.

Калі-ж вы ударыце сілай сваёй,
Гарматы пачнуць грукатаць,
Мы выйдзем насустрач вялікай сям’ёй,
Каб разам у бойках стаць.

Мы будзем змагацца, мы будзем жыць!
Мы з партыяй нашай ідзём,
Клянёмся — мы з вамі, таварышы,
Да самых апошніх дзён.

Мы шчыра вітаем расійскіх братоў
Упартай работай сваёй.
Дык хай-жа жыве комсомол на франтах,
Што вышаў ў апошні бой...”

* * *

Той ліст напісалі удумліва так.
І радасць пылае з узбуджаных воч,
I Бампі хавае той ліст на грудзях,
І Бампі ідзе з даручэннем праз ноч.

Ён знае, што некалі сёння чакаць,
І Бампі рашыў, хоць цаной галавы,
Той ліст комсомольцам Расіі паслаць
З падпольнага Менска да вольнай Масквы.

IX. Комсомолец з Бабруйска

Так дні ішлі за працай той,
І ўпарта білася падполле.
І вось аднойчы, ужо вясной,
Прышоў з Бабруйска комсомолец.

Дарожным пылам ён аброс,
Ён крыўду ў сэрцы затаіў.
Ён вестку страшную прынёс
Пра лёс таварышаў сваіх.

І тут ў кругу сяброў ажыў,
Сябе адчуў ён тут лягчэй.
Ён ўвесь дрыжэў. Ён гаварыў,
І боль струілася з вачэй:

“Таварышы! З-пад цяжкіх мук
Я перад вамі тут увесь.
Я вырваўся з жандарскіх рук,
Я проста з шыбеніцы злез.

Я пяць начэй пакуты знёс,
За мною кат, жандар гайсаў...
Я пешкам йшоў сто дваццаць вёрст,
Як звер, сланяўся па лясах.

Я падаў ў процьмы сотні раз,
Я падымаўся і ізноў,
Я не глядзеў, я йшоў да вас
З астатняй просьбаю хлапцоў.

Іх вобраз у мяне не змерк,
Іх вобраз будзе век гарэць.
Вось помню, быццам як цяпер,
Вядуць Залоціна на смерць.

Хай проста над душой багнэт,
Ні кроплі на вачах расы...
I жонка з дзіцем бяжыць ўслед
І рве з адчаю валасы.

А твар у Піні малады,
Н’ат не парушыла сляза,
І калі смерць была над ім,
Залоцін Піня так сказаў:

“Не плач!
Няхай мяне на смерць вядуць,
Мне будзе лёгка там стаяць.
Не плач! І сына так гадуй,
Каб вырас гэткім, як і я.

А сонца ўжо гарыць ясней,v Яму шчасліва будзе жыць!
А вы ці чуеце мяне,
Мае сябры-таварышы?!

Наперад крочце праз вякі
Вы сэрцам сваім юным! 
Няхай жывуць большэвікі!
Няхай жыве Комуна!”

Але прабіў апошні час
І смерць ляцела шпарка,
І змоўк Залоцін Піня наш
Пад кулямі канаркаў.

Я-ж падаў ў процьмы сотні раз,
Я падымаўся і ізноў,
Я не глядзеў, я йшоў да вас
З астатняй просьбаю хлапцоў.

Я йшоў да вас, каб перадаць
Аб тым, што наш адкрылі след,
Што правакатар нас прадаў,
І паў наш першы камітэт.

За камітэтчыкаў усіх,
Там плоціць шмат жандар.
Жаночы ўбор Гершон насіў,
Каб як схаваць свой твар.

А правакатар — проста жах,
Нібы галодны воўк.
Гершон туляўся па начах,
Пакуль за фронт не ўцёк.

Я-ж падаў ў процьмы сотні раз,
Я падымаўся і ізноў,
Я не гледзяў, я йшоў да вас
З астатняй просьбаю хлапцоў
Даць бой ўсім катам і панам
За паўшы камітэт,
Каб вы пасобілі там нам
Паноў разбіць як след.

Мы-ж разлічыцца ўсе гарым
З жандармамі хутчэй”...
Ён ўвесь дрыжэў. Ён гаварыў,
І боль струілася з вачэй.

Х. Расце чырвоны фронт

А на фронце ізноў разлівалася кроў,
І гарматы шалёна ізноў грукаталі...
Свет дрыжэў, разарваны дратамі наскрозь,
І зямля калацілася, і зямля уставала.

Дынамітнай трасучкай дрыжэла яна,
Быццам свет захацела на часткі растрэсці...
А да Менска прынесла з-пад фронта вясна
Комсомольцам ў падполле бунтоўныя весці,

Што чырвоны штандар загарэўся ярчэй,
Што вораг пад націскам дружным кладзецца,
Што строй акупантаў ірвецца нашчэнт.
Пад моцным ударам чырвонаармейцаў,

Што гоняць іх грозныя хвалі назад,
Што ім не устояць ў бязлітаснай бойцы...
І ў Менску партком сабірае атрад,
Атрад комуністаў і комсомольцаў.

Партком іх збірае для барацьбы,
Атраду ў падполлі задача свая
Каб тыл акупантаў да шчэнту разбіць,
Каб выйсці насустрач вялікім баям.

А вораг, няўдачамі збіты нашчэнт,
Узняўся з тэрорам бясконцым
За краты кідае другі камітэт,
Але не разбіць комсомольцаў,

Яны змагарамі ў падполлі растуць,
Выходзяць змагацца атрадам,
Яны з комуністамі побач ідуць
У бойку астатнюю з гадам.

Ім толькі у бойках дужэць і дужэць
Прышоў час суровай расплаты.
А фронт надыходзіць бліжэй і бліжэй,
Пад Менскам грымяць ўжо гарматы.

XI. Ты прышла, тая раніца

Ты прышла, тая раніца,
Дужай такой,
І чырвоныя сцягі
Плылі аксамітам...
Ты узнялася, раніца,
Бурнай ракой,
Вораг мчаў, як шалёны,
Па завулках разбітых.
І змаганнем гатоў
Комсомол агнявы,
Ён узяўся за стрэльбы,
Гранаты і штых,
І ляцелі уланы
На скрут галавы,
І атрады парткома
Стралялі па іх.

Так плацілі ім там
За пакуты і здзек,
Абсыпалі каменнем
Н’ат малыя дзеці, —
І ўжо ветрам ляцелі
Па вуліцах ў Менск
Баявыя раз’езды
Чырвонаармейцаў. 
Менск узрушаны стрэў
Бурнай радасцю іх,
Менск герояў вітаў
Ад усіх пакаленняў.
Так — цаною жыцця,
Так — цаною крыві,
Так прышло вызваленне.

Ад рабочых нізін, ад падпольніцкіх нор,
Ад пакуты і здзекаў бясконцых,
Праз засценкі турмы, праз жахлівы тэрор
Вы прайшлі, комсомольцы!

Перад смерцю у вас між варожых штыхоў
Бунтавалі юнацкія вочы;
Як сапраўдныя дзеці большэвікоў,
Вы прайшлі, комсомольцы!

Перад горам не паў на калені ніхто,
Не дрыжэў нікалі перад ноччу:
Праз агні барыкад, праз навалу франтоў
Вы прайшлі, комсомольцы!

Вы магутнаю сілай стаялі ў баях.
Ўзнагароджаны двойчы!
На вялікай будоўлі, на звонкіх палях
Хай жывуць комсомольцы!