Du yu speak rush translation. Du yu spik rashn? There are more public appearances

And so somehow I invite them to my dacha in Pocono. I explain in pure Russian: “Petya, you take exit 280, it turns into 80, at exit 284 you leave and call me, I’ll pick you up.” And I add: “Keep your eyes on the Pocono sign at all times.” Pocono, in case anyone doesn’t understand, is a summer cottage area.

Where Petya moved to 287th and at the same time went to reverse side- to the south, I didn’t understand, but now it doesn’t matter. And so he drives and drives and drives and drives, but the Pocono sign is still missing.

Two hours later, his Mila turns on her saw: “How could you not take the card? How could you not figure out where to go? How could I contact such an idiot? God, how could I get into trouble like this?”

Then Petya thinks: “We need to go faster, because at this speed she will cut me apart before we get to these Poconos.”

He presses the gas and drives like this for about five minutes - no more, because a cop appears behind him with his flashlight and demands to stop. Petya, a new immigrant with old habits, grabs his wallet and runs to the cop. He calmly takes out his pistol and says that if Petya doesn’t get back into his car now, he will kill him.

Petya, not so much by words as by gestures, understands that they are not joking with him and returns to his car.

The cop hides the gun, gets out of the car, approaches Petina and tells him: “Give me yours.” driver license" and points to his wallet. Petya again understands everything in his own way and takes out 100 dollars from his wallet. The cop tells him: “If you intend to give me not a driver’s license, but a bribe at the workplace, then I will put these handcuffs on you.” And shows him the handcuffs.

Mila, who also doesn’t understand why the cop refuses $100, asks: “Petya, what does he want from you?”
Petya replies: “I don’t know! Should I offer him 200?
Mila says: “My God, why did I get involved with such an idiot? If you don’t know how much it costs, then find out from him!”
“Why am I an idiot? - Petya is surprised once again. “It’s just that when they show me either a gun or handcuffs, I get a little nervous.”

“So stop being nervous and find out!” - says Mila.
“Okay, I’ll find out everything now! - says Petya, then turns to the cop and, as he was taught in English courses, says: “Hello, do you speak English?”
The cop is surprised: “Duh, speak English?!”
Petya to him: “Yes, yu! Du yu spik english?”
The cop is completely at a loss, because he doesn’t know any other languages ​​besides English.
Mila says: “In my opinion, he is just as idiotic as you! God, how I got into trouble!”
The cop, meanwhile, comes to his senses, hides the gun and says to Petya:
“Ok, where do you go, dude?” (Where are you going, smart guy?)
“I’m Petya,” Petya answers, as he was taught in the courses. - What is your name?

The cop, without answering Petya’s question, takes his phone, looks at the last number he dialed and calls me.
“Hello,” he says, “I’m policeman so-and-so, do you happen to know Petya?”
I answer honestly that Petya is well known to me, and has been since childhood.
"Wonderful! - says the cop. “Then answer me this question: does your friend suffer from any mental illness?”
I answer, no, he doesn’t suffer. “Perhaps he recently suffered some serious psychological trauma? - the cop continues to insist.
“Petya suffered severe psychological trauma,” I answer, “30 years ago, when he married the woman who is now sitting to his right. But judging by the fact that he still hasn’t strangled her, he’s in excellent psychological shape.”
“I understand this better than anyone,” the cop sighs.
“He just hasn’t had time to learn English yet,” I add. “That’s where all the problems come from.”
“So where are you waiting for him?” - the cop asks, and I explain where.
And then the cop stands in front of Petya’s car and drives him with a flashing light a hundred miles to exit 284, where he hands him over to me, as they say, hand to hand.

Already at the dacha, I explain to Petya that in America we have to be careful with the cops, because they can still shoot you on the spot.
“I’m telling you, he’s an idiot,” Mila remarks.
"Why?" - I don’t understand.
"Because there is no smart person won’t travel 100 miles to help a Petya like mine if he can shoot him on the spot and not have this headache!”

Our “support and support”, our “truthful and free Russian language”, as I.S. called it. Turgenev, in the mouths of our compatriots, looks less and less like one.
We clutter it up too much with foreign words. And not because there are few words in our language. We still have more than 130 thousand of them. But for some reason we really like to use foreign vocabulary. And we especially actively use English words in our speech.

We in the English language have become downright crazy in the bad sense of the word. We don’t just study it and apply it where appropriate. And inadvertently we mix it with Russian speech.

Of course, everyone is already accustomed to such a word as, for example, “manager”. Forgetting about the Russian equivalent of “manager”. No, managers are needed everywhere. The “wedge manager” is especially pleasing to the eye. Why not the cleaning lady? Probably because saying: “I work as a cleaning manager” is more prestigious than saying: “I am a cleaner.” In general, it seems that the main reason for clogging the language with anglicisms is the desire to look cool. It seems like you know a foreigner, you can twist a word or another into your speech. But why can't you be proud of knowledge? native language? Wide vocabulary? Instead of “cool” and “super”, use “wonderful”, “wonderful”, “great”?

Well, okay, we got used to managers and even came to terms with them. But why continue to pollute? At the same time, it is continued in most cases (not in all, of course) by those who bring the language to the masses - journalists in newspapers, on TV, radio and especially on the Internet.

On TV, when talking about the fashion industry, they began to use the word “look”, which means “image” (from the English look - look, appearance). A synonym in Russian can completely replace this word. Moreover, in our heads “onion” is more associated with a vegetable that makes tears flow. Although it’s true, you hear enough of these “onions” and you want to cry.

But recently in our large shopping center“MEGA” a certain “Street Couture” event took place, where ordinary buyers took part. And the presenter, who in theory should have excellent conversational Russian, said: “So, all participants are ready.” Which means that they are, in fact, ready (from the English ready - ready). It sounded funny. And most buyers simply did not understand the words. And the participants, judging by their faces, were surprised that they were somehow “ready.”

There is an example from radio journalism. On Mayak radio on Saturday morning, the presenter said: “So, let’s discuss all these trends... yes, trends... oh, I feel like we’re going to use this word today!” She wanted to say that they will use this word a lot times (from the English use - to use, to use). I have already heard this same verb, new to our language, in the speech of city residents, when a girl asked her friend to “use her mirror.”

All these words are practically ingrained in our language. But journalists do not stop there. They, especially on the Internet, offer more and more new Anglicisms. For example, on the website of the Macintosh laptop company, an article was published about a competition with a prize draw, where various companies chose the most frequently used word by “i-technical people.” IT people are just programmers (from the English IT - information Technology). So soon the journalists themselves will become “journalists”. Did they suggest such words in the article itself? like “google” (i.e. search for information through the Google search engine), “exploit” - as a replacement for the word “use” (from the English exploit - to use, use) and, attention, “unlock” - that is, “unblock” (from the English lock - lock, lock). Well, why these unnecessary replacements?!

And Internet users are already concerned about even the spelling of these Anglicisms. For example, on the portal [email protected], a certain Ilya Demyanovich asked the question “What is the correct way to say: “Google it” or “Google it”. And then he even explained: “I still thought that it was correct to “Google”, and today, to the question: “Where can I download Chinese rap,” my classmate answered “Google.” Of course, there were also humorous answers that it would be correct to “google” or “google”, but still the most popular was: “The correct thing to do would be to “enter the query into the Google search engine.” Well, apparently there are still people who stand for the purity of the Russian language.

Although there are fewer and fewer of them. A survey was conducted on the website headhunter.ru “How often do you use English terms in your speech? 57% answered always, 40% - sometimes/from time to time, 7% - very rarely. The column “never” did not even appear.

Maybe someone will say that there is nothing wrong with this, and in our integrating world it is normal to use foreign words. I doubt. Especially so intense. Still, the originality and individuality of cultures is necessary, and it is not least preserved through language. And little by little, maybe English will replace Russian altogether?

“The Russian language is losing its position in prevalence in the world and by 2025 may become even less popular than Bengali or Portuguese, according to the center’s data sociological research Ministry of Education and Science of Russia, obtained by RIA Novosti.

"Russian language in countries Western Europe Today, about 225 thousand schoolchildren study (before the early 90s - over 550 thousand). In higher education in Western Europe, 28.5 thousand students master the Russian language,” says the materials of the Ministry of Education and Science.

The Russian language still ranks fourth in the world in terms of prevalence. Chinese leads with 1.35 billion people, English with over 650 million, Spanish with over 330 million.

“It is assumed that in 10 years the number of people who know Russian may be reduced to 212 million people, and French, Hindi, and Arabic will overtake it,” the document says.

By 2025, when, according to sociologists, the number of Russian language speakers will drop to approximately 152 million people, Portuguese and Bengali will be ahead of them.

The Ministry of Education and Science notes that the policy of most CIS and Baltic countries in relation to the Russian language leads to the fact that in the first years of independence it could be considered a native language, then a second native language, then a language of interethnic communication, then a language of a national minority and, finally, one of the studied as an elective or even an optional subject.

“The Russian language has undergone a similar evolution in the Baltic states, Azerbaijan, Georgia and Turkmenistan,” the materials say.

Compared to the Soviet period, the number of secondary schools with instruction in Russian decreased in the CIS and Baltic countries by an average of two to three times. Russian like foreign language is also beginning to lose ground in school programs, yielding English language.

Similar situation is also observed in Europe. According to the Russian Ambassador to France, Alexander Orlov, the number of French people who study Russian is decreasing from year to year. Russian classes are being closed in some lyceums and colleges."
Yeees, Chinese Most of my friends have already gone to study courses... They say that this is the inevitable future of Russia - cooperation with China and, as a result, integration of the economy into Russia, from which you can “make good money.” I’m wondering who teaches their children Russian? Is it difficult for a child to live in Italy and learn the language of his mother and/or father? Are there any lovers of Chinese in Italy (not cuisine))) language and culture...)?

At the Sundance independent film festival, several films presented a new image of the Russian - without a matryoshka doll and a balalaika.
The American independent film festival Sundance, held in Park City, is very similar to its creator, Robert Redford. On the one hand, Redford is handsome and the audience really likes him. On the other hand, he is up to his neck in politics and believes that if we don’t talk about important things: about war, violence, civil responsibility - then the world will not move. And, of course, it needs to be moved. The festival behaves the same way. On the one hand, it is for the audience. The halls are full, people stand in line for two hours from seven in the morning for tickets. On the other hand, Sundance is very interested in politics and has a very strong documentary competition program.
Russia has participated in this festival more than once, and in 2008, director Anna Melikyan even received a prize for directing in the Foreign Feature Films competition at Sundance - her “Mermaid” was then one of the undisputed hits. This year Russian feature films not in the main competition. There is one documentary co-production - “Russian Lessons” by Andrei Nekrasov and Olga Konskaya. And there are a couple more films that tell Americans about what today's independent Russians are like. Everything fits perfectly within the framework declared high level"reboot".
The stereotype about bears on the streets of Moscow has remained in the same times where the evil Americans in top hats, the characters of Soviet cartoons, have sunk. The bears have been replaced by another cliché - the mafia bulls of the 1990s, walking through modern cinema, from David Cronenberg's Vice for Export to Terry Gilliam's The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. At last year's Sundance they showed the film Frozen Souls by Sophie Barts, in which the hero's soul is stolen by the Russian mafia and he has to go to St. Petersburg to get his soul. What else happens to Russians? Vodka, matryoshka, earflaps.
Robin Hessman in the film “My Perestroika” from the competitive documentary program tried to break American stereotypes by showing daily life several Russian families. Of course, there is vodka in the picture, but many Americans, after watching “Perestroika,” admitted that they had completely changed their opinion about Russia. “They were also taught in childhood that there was some kind of threat hanging over the world and that this threat was us,” the middle-aged man wondered after the film. “And we were taught in exactly the same words that they are the threat.” We are very similar. I became friends with these people."
This is one of the few films in which the history of our country does not look like petrified tediousness from a history textbook, or hysterical sobbing, as in television reports. This is a fairy tale about a wonderful pioneer childhood, very different youth (one of the heroes wanted to join the party, another was a dissident, the third was a conformist), about tanks and the hopes of 1991 and the disbelief of 2008.
“My Perestroika” is a warm, even tender film about several former classmates who entered the era of Gorbachev's perestroika as 20-year-olds, and now, when they are over forty, each of them lives as best they can. Ruslan plays in transition and gives banjo lessons; Andrey opens the seventeenth store of expensive French men's shirts; Olga repairs billiard tables and tries to preserve their former beauty; and the married couple Boris and Lyuba - perhaps the main characters of the film - teach at school No. 57, one of the most famous Moscow schools.
Robin Hessman lived in Russia for many years, first came to the USSR in 1991, studied at VGIK, and now oversees the documentary program of the Amfest film festival. She knows Russian life from the inside and admits that, of course, she can no longer objectively evaluate what is captured in the frame. For her, there is nothing strange or surprising in Moscow life, but the Americans were amazed at it. “There is no such thing as Americans thinking badly or well about Russia,” says Robin. “They don’t think about her at all.” We need to tell them more about Russia.”
Three heroes of “Perestroika” - teacher Boris Meerson, his wife Lyuba and son Mark - came to Park City for the premiere of the film, walked around the city in red fan scarves with the inscription “My perestroika”. Red is, after all, also a cliché, from the same row as bears-vodka-matryoshka-ushanka. After the film, viewers asked the characters if they were afraid to look into the future. A new stereotype is born: today's Russian is someone who should be scared.
This idea is supported by the film “Russian Lessons” by Andrei Nekrasov and Olga Konskaya - an investigation into the August 2008 events. The film talks about Russian-Georgian relations - not only about the 2008 war, but also about the Abkhaz conflict of the 1990s. The authors travel to the Russian-Georgian border with different sides: Olga – from Russian, Andrey – from Georgian. Along the way, they talk with witnesses to the events, send each other footage, and search for the truth. Then, when editing the film, they understand that they need to deal with both the lies of state channels (one of the most powerful moments of the film is a frame-by-frame analysis of Russian television stories in which video material was processed on a computer for propaganda purposes), and with the origins of the problem. They quote Leo Tolstoy, interview witnesses to the long-standing Abkhaz conflict, and in the film Russia appears as a loose monster, devouring everything that moves in the wrong direction.
This is a very personal film, and it can only be reproached for some manipulation of the viewer, a kind of emotional blackmail. The material in “Russian Lessons” already speaks for itself, but when tragic music is superimposed on eyewitness accounts, it reduces the credibility of the film. When the authors cite Putin’s words and prove that they have no relation to reality, this is honest work. But when Putin freezes on the screen, twisting into a bestial grin, this is a technique of Soviet propaganda. Nekrasov himself said in an interview that he made a political film, but hopes that it cannot be called propaganda. But the film, while claiming to be an objective depiction of reality, turns out to be extremely subjective.
Russian vodka flows in Estonian Veiko Õunpuu's surreal black-and-white parable "The Temptation of St. Tony," presented in competitive program Sundance. Actress Ravshana Kurkova came to present this film; she played the role of the hero’s Russian lover. Kurkova is best known for her work in the films “Dead Daughters” and “Three Girls”, in the TV series “Barvikha”, “Officers” and “Capercaillie”. “Temptation” is a movie on a completely different level, and Ravshana is absolutely organic in it. This is a scary, oppressive film about the eccentric Tony, who tries his best to be good, but falls deeper and deeper into the dreary horror of the world around him. In this world, a policeman slowly undresses during interrogation, and women are picked out like lobsters. Tony accidentally saves the heroine Ravshana from the police. The heroine's father is always drunk, and she gradually grows into this murky world. Ravshana explains why Eunpuu chose her: “We needed someone who would stand out from the film, my heroine is almost like an alien.”
Probably, the heroine could be of any nationality. The film is pure Babylon, in which quotes from Fellini coexist with Pasolini's detached morbidity and everyone speaks their own language: some in Estonian, some in Russian, some in German, some in French (the great French actor Denis appears in the film Laban), but everyone still understands each other. For his debut work " Autumn ball» Veiko Õunpuu received the Horizons competition prize at the Venice Film Festival; “The Temptation of St. Tony” is his second full-length film. According to Ravshana's definition, this is a film about what modern society it's impossible to be good. Even if you are a righteous person, you will have to eat someone, because that is how life works. Ravshana herself does not agree with this view of the world: “It’s a rather pessimistic idea. The hero is an eccentric, strange companion, but there is a lot of light in him. And the fact that he turns into a monster - I’m even outraged, I’ll tell you honestly... But Veiko showed apathy in this picture modern world».
The film has such energy that at the Sundance premiere, in the very middle of the film, right on the border between mild absurdity and complete lawlessness, a fire alarm sounded and lights flashed throughout the hall, but some viewers decided that this was just a special effect emphasizing the obvious unbearability of existence.
Stereotypes may have nothing to do with reality, but they say a lot about the main emotions that a country transmits to the outside world. Pride, fear, recklessness, compromise, threat. Today, it seems, a new, post-mafia image of the “standard Russian” is gradually emerging - submissive, but formidable. Without earflaps.

Du yu spik rashen?

Still, they knew. Of course they did. Otherwise, how did they contact me so instantly? Someone passed. But who? Second-hand book dealer? Or someone you know? Who did I tell? Or maybe they were just herding a second-hand bookseller? And you can see how the brain is activated when you just need to run, run, and run. Although, probably, it is all interconnected. The faster the brain works, the faster the legs move. Right here. For this building. Crap!
I think they fired! Oh, okay guys. This means we have been ordered not to mess with us. What kind of correctional courses are there? Clap, and order. Vari well. No hassle.
Alex, a thirty-year-old man, an ordinary modest employee, jumped around the corner and accelerated his run. The feds were on their heels.
It’s good that there are only two of them, Alex thought, accelerating to the limits of his capabilities, there is a chance to get away. Although, probably, all the patrol capsules are already flying here, and in about five minutes, there will be nowhere for an apple to fall, except perhaps on the head of one of these patrolmen. Oh, damn, it’s not easy to bear!
He ran around the next corner, smashing the concrete wall with his shoulder, and was surprised to see the open entrance door. Recklessly rushing towards her, like a hunted animal that had found a loophole, he only had time to fearfully assume that it might be a trap, but there was nowhere to go. The door is the only salvation. Not a single entrance door is open after nine in the evening. This is the law. But breaking the law is not in fashion these days. Not those times. Slipping like a mouse into a hole into the darkness of someone else's entrance, he closed the door behind him and froze. Trying to hold my breath made my heart clench and I felt nauseous. Alex sat down on the floor and began to listen. The silence of the night allowed him to clearly hear the clatter of two pairs of heavy boots, a tasty spit, and an evilly thrown phrase in state language.
- He went around that corner, bitch!
After which the stomping began to fade away.
God bless. Alex wiped his sweaty forehead and ran his palm over his eyes. God bless. It's just a miracle. There is not a single door... So, am I saved? Hardly. If it was me they were herding, then even a miracle would not help. And if only a second-hand bookstore, then... But we need one more thing. So that no one spots me here. None of the residents. Otherwise they'll give it up. It's the norm to pass.
He began to half-bend and fumble with his hand in the darkness. Somewhere here there is usually a storage room for all sorts of small items, strollers here and there, brooms. Broom, this is the main invention of man. We even sweep the reclaimed Moon with brooms. Alex felt for the doorknob. I started looking for the castle. If there is a code one, then it will be more difficult. But most importantly, he won't call the feds after two wrong attempts, like the one on front door entrance.
The lock was coded. Alex pressed the buttons by touch. Thank God, the lock turned out to be simple, only four buttons. About twenty minutes later he dialed the correct combination. After the lock quietly squeaked, Alex carefully pulled the door towards himself. All that was needed was for something to fall in there and make noise throughout the entire entrance. Dank storeroom air entered my nose. Trying not to catch anything, he slowly, like a slug into a narrow gap on the asphalt, began to squeeze inside. I felt for a broom with my hand. He smiled. He turned around, pulled in one leg, then the other, poking his calf into something sharp. He clenched his lips. Pain is nonsense. The main thing is that he is all inside, and you can close the door.
Finally everything. Alex felt the purchase in his pocket. It's a shame it's dark here. Well, nothing. You can just think about something. The main thing is not to fall asleep, not to fall asleep at all, that’s the main thing. Tomorrow, at exactly five minutes to seven, we need to get out of here. At seven, most residents will go to work, and they might have something lying around here. Something they are used to going out with.
Alex began to think about the unlocked entrance door. Does this happen? And indeed - a miracle. Thanks to which he escaped from pursuit. Even the feds couldn’t think that something so out of the ordinary could still happen. They are firmly convinced that all doors are closed. That's how it is in principle. In principle... but apparently something intervened that didn’t care about principles.

When he got to work in the morning, the first thing he did was jump into the toilet and wash himself thoroughly cold water. Although, if they ask about your sleep-deprived appearance, everything can be explained by malaise. My stomach ached all night, preventing me from sleeping and forcing myself to smile. They are unlikely to doubt it. Moreover, this is not the main thing. The main thing is to find out whether the federals have already been here, or no one knows anything about him, and they were really herding a second-hand book dealer. Alex, warily eyeing his colleagues, walked to his desk and plopped down in a chair. Turned on the computer. His colleagues diligently went about their business, not paying any attention to him. This doesn’t mean anything, he thought sadly, and stared at the monitor. So, what do we have here? Yeah, yesterday's letters from suppliers. Needs to be sorted. He set to work, but the work did not proceed. Too many worries over the past 24 hours. In addition, I really wanted to sleep. I wanted it unbearably. An hour later, he completely forgot about letters and suppliers, and just thought, looking at the screen detachedly. I thought about what happened yesterday, about what happened eighty years ago.
He was born sixty years after in Russia official language became English. Before that there was India, Serbia, then all of Europe. Someone deprived the peoples of their past, their roots, their essence. Ten years later, after the introduction of English in Russia, people began to be fined for speaking Russian, and after another fifteen years they were given prison sentences and correctional courses. And he wouldn’t care about all this if it weren’t for his father, who was one of those who didn’t want to lose his roots. He taught him Russian too. And now all my life I have been afraid, afraid of a random word in Russian, at work, on the street, among friends, and even at home. Aloud. Indeed, it was once said that even walls have ears. And also a constant, irresistible craving for this language, a constant thirst. But how to satisfy it? There is nothing on the Internet in Russian, nowhere. But a year ago, through an old Russianist, as the government called them, he got in touch with a second-hand bookseller, one who had apparently already been captured, tortured, or even killed. After all, they shot at me. And if they torture him, then sooner or later they will come out to my humble person. Alex shook his head. You need to behave normally, no suspicious movements, none. Now the question of his freedom, and possibly his life, is being decided. He started sorting the letters again.
- Attention, there is a problem in the change! “Fsem to leave the place immediately,” the office radio said in broken Russian.
Alex didn't smile. Not even a smirk touched his lips. Stupid check. Dumb check. They expect that those who know Russian will instinctively run away. These are idiots. Such checks are carried out every other day after the warning signal. And during them, immediately after the nasty beep, employees are advised to carefully look around. Observe the neighbors' reactions. Alex shook his head as instructed. Everything is fine. No one has any reactions.
Immersed in letters, he finally distracted himself from yesterday’s experiences, and by evening everything that had happened seemed to him somehow distant, blurry, and no longer so frightening. When the bell rang, signaling the end of the working day, he slowly rose from his chair and, together with the others, moved towards the exit.

But he didn't go home. He needed to pick up what he had left in that entrance, in that damp-smelling closet. He needed to pick up a book written in Russian. The book for which he gave the money he had saved up over four years. It was a volume of Pushkin's poems.
- I’ll come in, as usual. Nobody will pay attention to me. I’ll open the lock, the top left, then the bottom right twice, and again the top left, I’ll take the book and leave - he thought frantically as he walked - God willing. If they were guarding me, I would already be sitting somewhere in an office and giving evidence. It's all clear, Alex. You're lucky.
Cheering himself up, he approached the house where he had been sitting all last night. It was seven in the evening. The door is open. Making a stone face, he entered the entrance. I listened. No one went up or down the stairs. The elevator was also silent. Alex quickly, with trembling hands, typed the code and pulled the door. There, in the very corner, under some unnecessary rag, is a book. Right in the corner. No one should find it. He squatted down and fumbled with his hands. He felt for a rag, grabbed it, and threw it aside. There was no book. He felt a shiver run down his spine, but frantically fumbled again. There wasn't. Maybe I was wrong? Maybe she's in another corner? He reached to the right, but then a blow to the back of his head knocked him out.

Alex woke up sitting on a chair. My head ached mercilessly. Opening his eyes, he saw a man in uniform in front of him, raised his head and looked at the shoulder straps. Lieutenant colonel. That means things are bad for him. Very bad.
He looked around. The office is in gray, depressing colors, with minimal furnishings. A table, two chairs, a lamp on the table. A little further away is the second federal. Everything is like in stupid, cliched action films.
- Hey, are you here? – asked the underground in English.
What a stupid language. Alex nodded his head weakly.
- Who taught you?
“Myself,” Alex answered.
- Lie! - shouted the underground - Who are your associates?
- Nobody. “I myself,” Alex repeated.
The underground gave him a heavy slap in the face. My ears started ringing.
- Who?!
- I'm telling you, no one.
- Who told you about the book seller?
- Nobody
A blow to the cheekbone, a second later to the temple. Alex groaned.
- Who are the associates?!
Alex remained silent. Why talk when they don't listen. A series of blows knocked him to the floor. But they didn’t let him lie down. They grabbed him roughly under the arms and sat him back down on the chair.
- Speak! - shouted the underground.
- I'm telling you, no one. Me myself.
The underground went to the table. The second Federal approached. After the fourth blow, Alex fell into darkness. Then he came to his senses again, looked aloofly at the grin of the underground, again asking his question, did not answer anything, and with a broken nose, turned over along with the chair. One of the two of them pulled out a chair from under him and, swinging it, hit him on the back. One of the legs flew off to the side. Alex doubled over in pain and groaned muffledly. Tears rolled down my cheeks.
- Who are your associates?! - the underground roared.
- Nobody. “I myself,” Alex exhaled silently.

They picked him up from the floor and led him down the corridor, wringing his hands. Blood was running from the nose, the eyes were almost completely swollen, the face was swollen. If his own mother saw him now, it is unlikely that she would be able to recognize her son. And the father? No. His father would have recognized him. By the look.
Alex remembered how his father taught him Russian. Orally. Orally only. No books, notebooks, ABCs. Dangerous. Actually dangerous.
He was dragged down the stairs. And he understood everything, and instinctively tried to free his hands, but he was immediately hit on the back of the head. That's it, he thought. Correctional courses, prison terms, all this is nonsense. In fact, everything is simpler. But does he have any regrets?
He listened to himself, to his thoughts, to his heart. No, he doesn't regret it. What is there to regret? About remaining Russian? He smiled with broken lips. No. Never. Yes, now he will be killed, just like his father. He died of tuberculosis in Magadan, this official version. But now everything is explained.
They brought him into a dim, damp basement, let go of his hands, and pushed him in the back. Out of surprise, he ran a few steps, but did not fall, staying on his feet. Stopping, he straightened up.
“Gow,” an iron voice sounded behind him. Alex stepped forward.
I wonder where they'll shoot? To the head? In the back, where the heart is? Scary. Where are they shooting, damn them? Scary. Still, it's a pity. It's a pity that he didn't have time to read Pushkin. As a child, his father read him only one verse; he didn’t know any more. Pushkin was banned more than all other Russian-speaking writers combined. Alex turned around.
“Hey,” he said in English, “I want to pray.” Can I pray?
In the twilight he saw the dissatisfied face of the executioner.
“Oh, okay,” he muttered.
Alex closed his eyes.
- I remember wonderful moment– for the first time in the last two years, after that old Russian specialist died, he spoke Russian out loud. And he spoke loudly, without fear, without trembling, without hiding what he owned - You appeared before me...