What to do with the old handbrake from the icon. What to do with consecrated objects that have fallen into disrepair

Prison romance in short stories. The main characters are prisoners and guards. They live, love and hate, dream about something. Sometimes they cry, sometimes they laugh. Although they are on opposite sides of locked bars and doors, their lines of fate are closely connected and often intersect in the vicissitudes of long casemate corridors. And the most difficult thing for both sides is to understand that in prison one must also remain human...

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The given introductory fragment of the book Prison stories, funny and sad (Alexey Osipov) provided by our book partner - the company liters.

Stukach Evgeniy

Uncle Mitya was sitting on the bed in only his shorts, his thin legs hanging down. hairy legs. Lying on his lap torn jacket. There were so many tattoos on my uncle's body that it was easier to tell where he had none.

- What are you doing, Zhenya, son of a bitch? - he shamed his nephew, - after all, knocking in the zone is the last thing for our brother. Why are you disgracing me in the next world?

Zhenya woke up. I remembered my stupid dream, Uncle Mitya, who spent his entire adult life in prison and actually died of consumption the year before last. He cursed to himself. He looked around in the darkened cell. The workroom was empty. Apparently, everyone recently left to clear the snow from the exercise yards. Steam was still coming out of the liter mug with chifer in a thin stream. The door to the cell was not locked, well, the prison guard has one problem, and now there is something to report to the authorities about. Not bad for a start to the day. Evgeniy stood up and splashed his face with water. He sniffed the contents of the mug. The tart smell of steamed recyclables hit my nose. It’s a shame to use something like that. Evgeny winced in disgust. He put on his jacket and quietly slipped out onto the sidewalk.

It was stuffy in the bath and laundry department where he worked as a bath attendant. Huge shabby washing machines with round windows, similar to deep-sea bathyscaphes. An outrageously fat cat was sleeping on the desktop, occupying almost its entire area. Evgeny hit the cat with a broom. The cat meowed, twitched his tail nervously, rolled over, yawned sweetly and closed his eyes again. The bathhouse attendant deftly tripped the disgruntled cat with his foot, then threw him to the floor.

Evgeniy was not in a good mood. I couldn't get the idiotic dream out of my head. A hint at some of his actions. How else to survive in this stinking prison? Let the workers bend their backs. It’s not for him, in life, to move logs at a sawmill. Well, let the farmyard bulls sweat and bend their humps to the owner. They are mostly boogers. They will go out, get drunk and sit down again. And he, Evgeniy, will not work on principle. It's better to hand these devils over. Let them hate him. So what if he handed over more than one prisoner to the operatives, and some of the employees will be smarter. Spit.

The cigarettes ran out yesterday evening, and so did the tea. My head hurt. I needed something caffeinated. A playful and intrusive thought came. Zhenya locked himself inside the laundry room. Even though he was alone in the department, looking around, he approached the door of the storeroom. Carefully removed the seal without damaging it and opened the lock into a small room. Here, in complete darkness, huge maidans of krytniks stood on shelves. Convicts sentenced to prison were not supposed to have many things with them. They were forcibly handed over to the prison quarters. Already knowing approximately where and what was lying, Evgeniy confidently fished out a pack of cigarettes and a can of coffee from one bag. The jar was already unsealed, all that remained was to pour a little. That's it. The door is closed again. On-site printing.

The Brazilian coffee tasted amazing, it instantly lifted my spirits. The cigarettes were, however, so-so. But for free and sweet vinegar, even these will do.

Someone knocked. Evgeniy opened it fussily. A cook from the prisoner's catering department stood on the threshold. The cook Tolya was new. Zhenya did not like him, however, like it or not, he had to endure it. They were tied together by one secret known to them. Tolik was on his own, he kept walking around, sniffing around for something. And it evoked a mixed feeling of inexplicable anxiety, danger and jealousy. Maybe it was because they often met nose to nose in the basement of the prison building near the opera rooms.

-What do you want? – Evgeniy asked irritably.

- Yes, I came in. And, by the way, give me clean towels, we’ve already handed over the dirty ones,” Tolik found.

Evgeniy, making a note in the linen checkout log, shoved a stack of towels at him. Tolya stood for a while, finding no more reason to linger, he left.

“There are all sorts of people wandering around here,” Evgeniy muttered and went for a walk on his own. Walking along the length, I noticed that the guard had never looked into the “eye” of the cells all night, as evidenced by the cardboard boards he bent to the side, covering the round observation glass holes in the doors. No one has touched them since the evening. At the controller's post, on an iron table screwed to the wall, lay someone's pass-through key. This is great! The day had started no matter how well it began. This someone will pay for the forgotten key not only by not being able to get out of the case themselves, but will also be in big trouble. Zhenya put the key into his deep pocket. So, but the same controller does not lock the “feeders”, that means he is lazy. If you're lazy, little fellow, you'll lose your bonus, of course. And it serves you right.

There was a light on in the basement hallway. This means that Andrei Vasilyevich came early in the morning. Indeed, the operator was sitting in his office at the table, smoking and at the same time feeding the fish in a small aquarium. According to the established tradition, Zhenya greeted his main patron, quickly brought fresh water in a kettle, steamed some tea, and during the tea ceremony he punctually “drained” all the accumulated information for the day. Who, what, with whom, whom and when... Proudly in front of Vasilich he placed an iron key on the table.

- What is this?

– Passenger number 154.

- Where did you get it? – the chief asked.

- Well, as usual...

“Okay, we’ll figure it out,” the operator sighed tiredly. The captain was sick and tired of service, and he felt that he deeply despised Eugene, but he needed him. Often the eyes and ears of an informer were priceless. The captain dreamed of retiring, and Evgeniy dreamed of being released on parole.

“Well, Evgeny Aleksandrovich,” the operative turned to the bathhouse attendant familiarly and ironically, “how are you going to free yourself?” You'll make it to the bus alive. You have hurt many, I tell you! Evgeny was silent, not knowing what to answer. He himself thought about this more than once.

- Okay, don’t worry, we’ll help. “We’ll get the armored personnel carrier ready,” Vasilich joked in his own style, “today, in honor of the seventh of November, I won’t have much work, I’ll leave from lunch.” Drop by in the evening and tidy up here a little. Understood? – the captain asked his henchman, who had suddenly become gloomy from his jokes.

- Got it, Andrey Vasilyevich. And I forgot that today is a holiday.

– Yes, the seventh of November is a red day on the calendar. That's it, free. Get out! – the operator joked indelicately again.

Zhenya, leaving the office, headed straight to the utility yard because he had nothing better to do. There you could sharpen your lasses with a hillock or with bakers. By the way, they came to Kolyan on a date. Maybe there's something tasty left.

As it turned out, not everyone went to work in honor of the holiday. But only according to the specifics of the work, the most necessary: ​​fireman, pigs, bakers. But actually, Evgeny only needed Kolyan.

Kolya was finishing cleaning up after the last baking of bread. He diligently wiped the floor, listening to the howl of a brand new fashionable cassette from outside. Zhenya sat down next to him on the bench, looking at the other tapes. Then, having finished cleaning, Kolya hospitably treated his sidekick to tea. He showed off his new sneakers and tracksuit, hidden cunningly in the closet. Zhenya, enviously touching the high-quality material with his fingers, had already decided that after the weekend he would definitely report that the baker Vorobyov was hiding civilian clothes that were prohibited from being stored in the workplace.

Then Evgeniy, triumphantly walking through the half-empty utility yard, looked into the carpentry. I drank some tea there too, noticing that the carpenter was clearly working on the bride price, varnishing the newly assembled bread bin. Let us also inform you about this fact. Then, it was not a sin to finally turn into the boiler room. And there they fried meat. And this is already very serious! Requires a thorough investigation of Vasilich. Where does the meat come from, for example? Are all the piglets still alive? Who didn't notice? And finally, having honestly treated himself to a delicious meat dish, Evgeny, with a feeling of complete satisfaction with himself, headed to his laundry property.

- Well, stop! - the boss himself called out to Zhenya at the very gate, - why not at his workplace? Why are you freaking out here? Come on, let's talk on the way. To Zhenya’s surprise, the owner did not scold him, but immediately asked him directly:

– Does Andrei Vasilyevich use yours at work?

- I don’t know, Dmitry Yuryevich, I didn’t sniff...

“And now you’ll sniff and watch his every move.” What he does, what he says. Go through his things. Understood?

- No, Comrade Colonel, I’m afraid, he’s a senior officer after all.

– Aren’t you afraid to climb through the jailers’ things? Look at me! If anyone finds out about your affairs, do you know what will happen to you?

“Yes...” Zhenya muttered dejectedly.

– Did you understand me on the essence of the questions? – the boss asked angrily.

- Understood…

In the evening, Zhenya, as promised to Vasilyevich, came to clean up his office. After sitting for a while at the opera table, the bathhouse attendant made a face at the fish. I sniffed all the glasses. I went into the trash bin. After digging around in it quite a bit, I finally found a cork from a bottle of vodka. Satisfied and tired, having tidied everything up, he went to bed.

We are publishing the final part of the interview with a former prisoner about the everyday life of correctional colonies.

About other prisoners

Black people were generally treated normally. True, I have only seen one in all this time. He was chopping wood then. I was just surprised.

People with mental illness serve their sentences with the others. We had one such person in the detachment. In the colony he constantly wore sunglasses. Even the police didn’t touch him anymore. I could speed up and hit my head against the wall. They gave him something there in the spring and autumn during exacerbations, but it didn’t help much.

There was a case when a new prisoner came to the camp. He was in quarantine, we were sitting talking, and a man with glasses turned to him and said: “I will kill you today.” We went to the medical unit to give him a pill. I didn't kill anyone, but it was scary.

The administration treats people serving sentences for drugs more harshly and their regime is harsh. They sit separately from the others. We had two barracks set aside for them. They don't let me go anywhere. If we could go somewhere, to visit the same guys, then they did not have such an opportunity. As a rule, these are young guys under 25 years old, and their terms are 10-12 years. Although among other prisoners, they are almost the elite. There is usually money. The mother or young wife will give the last thing so that he can sit properly.

Different people are sitting. Some since 1998. I almost sat down in the Soviet Union, and now there are phones and gadgets. And he no longer had any health or a strong psyche left. There was a man who served 7 of 14 years, and then went to the Industrial Zone and hanged himself. Who knows what was in his head?

In general, every person can be eaten. And they ate it. Our own people, not the administration. Prisoners create all their problems for themselves.

About the colony workers

Each detachment has a squad leader and an operational officer. There can be one operational officer for two squads. These are officers. When I was last in IK-11, the operational officer was 22 years old, lieutenant. For me and about half of the squad it was considered normal, for the rest it was bad. You won't be good to everyone. At this time, someone who was bad to me was considered normal by other prisoners.

Physical force is not used now. They call you. Already learned.

For the most part, the fist does not walk in the zone. Issues are resolved through certain people. They are called thieves. But here a lot depends on the police. “Thieves” help maintain order and prevent assault, which is why the police are usually interested in them. Otherwise, it will be like this: today I will punch someone in the eye, and his wife will call some department and tomorrow an inspection will come to the colony. They don't want this.

About dependencies

Usually people come to the camps already “clean”. I myself have come out dry from drug addiction in prison more than once. It's easier there. With alcoholics it’s a little different: they can be poured some hawthorn somewhere. Although if you want, you can find everything. There was a time when I drank vodka alone in the pre-trial detention center.

I remember in 2013-2014 the police found vodka in glass in the refrigerator in the zone. So the policeman brought it. Now it's different. Even a handful of black seeds that are not in the stall, no one will easily bring you.

But it still remains. You won't know, but it is there. You have to look for ways out, but it’s not a fact that you’ll find it. Now, if I have canals (roads), I can carry vodka. Let’s say through drivers who transport scrap metal, but I know that if I tell anyone about this, even for $100 or $200, nothing will happen. I think I could carry it. Usually worn by civilian colony workers. And the administration, as a rule, is aware.

About transfers and losers

They are transferred to another colony if there is a threat to the life of the prisoner; if they lose, the accomplices should not sit together. Although every translation for the administration is also bad. It needs reasons. The transfer will not save the one who lost and the money will still have to be given back. The prison radio is very fast. By and large, you will wash the dishes and don’t have to give the money.

The loser becomes a loser. If I lost it, then I can even sell it. He owes me 300 dollars. I tell someone: “Vasya, here’s a man for 300 dollars.” Vasya will give me 300 dollars, and the dresser will do Vasya’s laundry and wash his plates. And he will do it. He may go to the police, but then he will become an informer.

It is possible to work off the debt. In extreme cases, he may be banned from playing. But this is the last stage. The room will be cleaned free of charge. He can give away the parcel for a debt, but he will remain a fuflyshnik forever. There will be nothing else to wash, but if I sit down to play with him, I won’t take the money if I win, because I knew that he was a fool and sat down to play with him.

There are black and red zones. But everything is relative here. It is believed that there are black people in Belarus too. Their elements are definitely everywhere. But often the police are in charge, so everything is complicated.

I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but you can understand the structure of the zone only by visiting there. If you have money, then you will sit comfortably, although you will not be considered authoritative. An authoritative person can sit with a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, but the police will listen to him.

You arrive at the zone and adjust. You get a routine. You won’t break this system, because it’s decades old. It's not scary to adapt. Ordinary team. Yes, special conditions, but everything else is the same.

Highest in the hierarchy is the thief. Thieves don't actually sit. I am of the opinion that there is only one thief in Belarus now. There are others abroad. Then come the lieutenants. They are sitting. There are usually 1-2 people in the zone, but there may not be any at all. The guards are moving away from the thief. From them come the vagabonds. These are the same thieves who usually solve problems. If someone did something wrong, thieves come and can take him in and beat him, but of course they won’t kill him. In this case, the person will know what he got for the job.

The thieves want to get to the thief and move to the thieves' family to the authorities.

Next come the men, that is, everyone else. The sweatshirt is also a man. He may be decent, but he lost. You can drink tea with him and take something from him, but you can’t play with him. The one who stole is considered a rat.

Roosters are the lowest.

About roosters and mugs

A rooster cleans toilets. Each prisoner pays him for cleaning. It costs, I think, 10 cigarettes. Overall, he does well. He sits at a separate table. Sleeps on a separate bed. You will never take anything from a rooster, you can only give him something: cigarettes, soap. If you take at least something, you automatically become a rooster. He comes last everywhere. There may be several such people in a squad.

They get caught in different ways: some already have a stigma, some are charged with rape, but here everything is ambiguous, because there are different kinds of rape. No one will force a person into this harem, because the one who has authority must put an end to it.

Usually someone comes with an article for rape and ends up “in the circles,” that is, he is neither a rooster nor a man. They didn’t put an end to it. In my presence, a man waited 4 years for his trial. I think it's even harder than being a rooster. You can't take anything from him either. This man waited for the trial and became normal. And they began to treat him differently.

In prison there is a rule that you cannot pick up any things in the toilet, even your own, if you have fallen. If you pick it up, you automatically become a rooster. Someone's lighter fell in the toilet, he picks it up, and the second prisoner comes in at that moment and sees that he picked up the lighter. With money, not everything is so simple. It’s as if you can’t raise them either, but money in the zone is a ban, and the ban doesn’t wax, so you can lift it.

In general, you can lift something in the toilet if you are confident that you can accelerate it. They’ll ask why you picked it up, and you’ll say, for example, that it’s the last lighter. For the first time they will forgive.

Margarita Korbut

Maybe such stories don’t need to be told, but it seems to me that they should be told, just to be aware that prison is not only our cheerful, smiling, inflexible political prisoners playing chess and monopoly with their fellow inmates. There is another, terrible thing, no one is safe from it.

And here’s the story: some parents ask us - why is our son sitting in a pre-trial detention center in a cell with “lowered” ones, and what will happen to him in the zone after that? Take action.

And we come to the interrogation room, and we sit there, and this guy is brought to us in a line of other prisoners. I, my permanent partner Lidia Borisovna Dubikova, an officer accompanying us. The guy doesn't look so great, he's very frail, he looks gloomy, his eyes are dull, he speaks incoherently and contently. He is over twenty years old. Student, in his last year of study. Ended up in a pre-trial detention center. I'll tell you why later. I'm still trying to understand the problem.

In general, at first everything was fine in the cell. There was a Russian watching, it was possible to live. Then the measure of restraint was changed for the Russian, and an Armenian became the person watching the cell. It got worse. And there was another Georgian... in general, they showed unhealthy interest. And once... once I was watching an erotic channel...

I say: calm down. I ask the officer: what else is there for the erotic channel in the pre-trial detention center? He: yes, there’s nothing like that, maybe there was an erotic program on a normal channel... Well, OK, I say, we’ll come back to the channel, but what was the unhealthy interest? Well,” the guy answers, “they forced us to be on duty for everyone, to clean the cell for everyone.” You can take turns cleaning, or all together, in different ways, but they didn’t want to...

The officer explodes: why didn’t you tell the employees right away when it started? You came here to the pre-trial detention center, the operational officers talked to you, explained what was what, why didn’t you tell the longitudinal officer right away? Ugh!

The guy sits, drooping. Well, like complaining is somehow not good... Then he remembers: and I didn’t need them mobile phone, so I called a couple of times - they told me that I now owed them money, they forced me to call home and ask my parents for money. I didn't want to. They insisted. I told them all sorts of stories... made them up...

I say: what stories? Silent.

I say: okay. Let's move on to the erotic channel. What happened?

Well, that evening the erotic channel was turned on. Yes, I didn’t watch it at all, but they started teasing me, making all sorts of jokes... And, in general, they asked - but, for example, have you touched a woman’s genitals with your lips? I say: no, I don’t want to talk to you about this at all, but they ask again. They ask and ask. And they pestered me so much that I basically said - yes, just leave me alone. They say: really? And for how long? I say: well, five seconds... or ten.

They then first say: well, it won’t be long, it’s okay. And then...

I say: damn it, but you knew you shouldn’t say that! Did you know?

The officer yells: but you knew you couldn’t say that! Did you know?

The guy says: well, I knew... I say: they beat you, so you said that? He says: no... just somehow with his jokes... well, I said... I thought they would leave me behind...

What happened then, he can’t say at all or doesn’t want to say. I ask: were you sexually assaulted? He says no. (Who knows what really happened there, I don’t even want to know). In general, they said that it was the custom in prison that if you did it with a woman, you can do it with a man, they beat him and broke him out of his cell. Like, that’s it, goodbye.

They transferred him to another cell. There was a normal person watching, they felt sorry for the guy, they said that it was completely lawless how they treated him, like sit still. He seemed to relax. But no, then they say: I’m sorry, but the person in charge of the pre-trial detention center sent you so that you won’t be allowed into more than one boy’s cell anymore. In short, they broke him out of this cell too.

Well, the administration transferred him to the cell where he is now. It's an unusual camera, there's no road going through it, it's a very low-profile camera. And bad fame will follow him to the colony. I say, Lydia Borisovna speaks, the officer says: watch your language! It's yours main enemy! Haven’t you even told this whole story in this cell? He says: no, I won’t tell anyone anything else! Oh. Okay, go ahead. Hold on.

Leaves. I say: so what?

The officer says: we do what we can. There is special control over him. And during the assembly, if we go anywhere, we make sure that we don’t cross paths with representatives of the criminal subculture. And he sits in a glass in the car. We are watching him as best we can. And they are unlikely to send news about him to the zone: who needs him anyway?..

Lidia Borisovna and I say: oh well... we are adults, the news will fly...

Well, then, says the officer, there is only one option left. If they give him less than five years, and if there are no violations of the regime, and if there is a place, we will leave him in the economic detachment. It's safer that way. Well, if they give you more than five, then alas. But the court will decide that... Of course, I wouldn’t want to ruin the guy’s fate. Something like this... maybe it will work out.

Oh, and I promised to tell you why the student was put in a pre-trial detention center. For hashish. Not for heroin, not for crocodile - for hashish. He came out of the entrance one day with a dosage, and then the cops came. They write distribution. It seems that his friend got him into this business: after the injury, the guy had a severe headache from time to time, and hashish seemed to relieve this pain. Well, occasionally, not that often. And he admitted the spread. Talked to myself. I ask: why? He says: the investigator promised to let him go, he believed the investigator...

I don’t have any special comments on this story. Well, yes, hashish. Well, yes, the guy is not a fighter. Well, yes, he didn’t even have the moral strength to complain - his “comrades” explained to him that this was a waste. But to ruin a person’s life for this damn hashish... well, it happens.

This post will introduce you to the stories of two inhabitants of the maximum security correctional colony No. 2, located in the city of Vozzhaevka, Amur Region. Both of them repent of what they did and believe that they will be released as completely different people.

Artem, 28 years old (spent 4 years in prison)

I have been on this slippery path since childhood. He was a bully. The street always attracted me, all these “shooters”, showdowns, thieves’ romance... It’s addictive. But when you are already stuck in this, it is difficult to get out. Old connections don't let go. Imagine, there’s a group of boys - they hunt together, steal something, and then one breaks away... It’s a mess. Like in a pack of wolves, the persecution of the one who has strayed from everyone begins. They immediately begin to “fix”. But you can still get out. Why do we have law enforcement agencies (smiles)?

The first time I was jailed for theft. Stole, stole, stole. I carried out apartments, garages, and at some events I happened to make money this way.

I mostly got into apartments by opening doors. Less often - through the window. There were three or four thefts a day. That is, morning, afternoon and evening. And when someone was not at home at night - and at night too. But most often, everything happened among broad daylight. People leave for work, you choose an apartment, ring the doorbell - if no one opens, then you take a pry bar and little is done. He opened the door, took what you wanted and left.

People don't like to interfere. Believe it or not, in broad daylight I lowered a TV set to my accomplice on a rope from the second floor, threw out a huge carpet, and threw things off. And at least someone would pay attention to this! There are more chances of getting caught at night than during the day - there is more noise.

There was such a case. In our area, a non-Russian rented an apartment - it was something like a transshipment base for him; he and the ladies went there to relax from his wife. I drove a jeep, it was so cool. And so, my friends and I lay in wait for him to leave, and climbed into his apartment on the fourth floor along the balcony. We went down from the roof. That’s where I had a blast: to be honest, they just took out the whole house... He never reported us. As soon as I gathered a meeting of my non-Russian friends in the yard, they were deciding something. And I calmly stood on the next balcony and drank wine that I pulled out of his own house. No, I wasn't afraid of them. They should have been afraid of me. In our area, everyone lives amicably - if something happened, they wouldn’t even leave it. Pistols wouldn't help either.

He knew that it was my friends and I who broke into his apartment. Yes, everyone knew. From the huts, we were the only ones operating in all the nearby areas, and we could also look into the nearby villages.

Thefts brought in normal income. Sometimes up to 30 thousand a day, but still it doesn’t happen every time. Once, following a tip, I went into one house - they told me that there should be a hundred poods of money there, three hundred thousand. And I had this habit: when I walk into an apartment, the first thing I do is go to the kitchen to have a meal. Eat, drink, if you have it. I open the refrigerator, and there is one pan in it. It contains borscht. I think, well, screw this borscht. I found some cookies that were lying around and drank some tea. And he began to look for three hundred thousand. Turned everything upside down. No money. Of course, I collected the gold and grabbed the TV. And then it turned out that the money was in the borscht, wrapped in cellophane. That's what the person who brought me told me later. An excellent hiding place - no one will look for it in the soup.

Most people hide money in predictable places. An experienced thief, entering a room, will almost immediately guess where the cash might be. Boxes rarely contain large sums of money. They are often hidden in drawers with laundry. Especially with women. They think they won’t look there. They build some kind of pocket between the closet and the wall. In carpets.

Once I found a real mountain of money under the mattress. I think what's going on there? And under the mattress there are even piles of money. I was even surprised - how do the poor owners sleep on this hillock? That money lasted me a long time (smiles).

People sometimes turn thieves on themselves. They tell everyone that they are saving for a vacation or renovation. They brag about something. It happens that a person gets drunk and blurts out too much. You always need to be careful what you say and to whom.

I lived with burglaries from 2000 to 2007. Then I also stole, but switched a little, because household appliances It was already difficult to implement, it didn’t work. Let's go new topic: scrap metal. You probably know about dumping the cargo from trains loaded with metal and handing it over later. I'm on railway how I went to work.

We even stopped trains. You put the crocodile clips on the junction box, the red light comes on, and the train starts to slow down. Just have time to throw off the metal. They managed to unload a whole car or half a car.

I got caught doing something trivial: I forgot to put on gloves and got burned on my fingerprints. All the way I remembered what to wear. Vodka mixed up all the cards, there was no need to go to work drunk.

When I was in the “Central” (Blagoveshchensk pre-trial detention center - author’s note) I reconsidered my views on life. I decided to give up crime. I think why the hell do I need all this? When I received my first term, I was still, as they say, in full sail with the thieves in life. Everything is rank by rank: “common funds” (in the wild this is something like a mutual aid fund for those who find themselves in places not so remote - author’s note), arrows. Helped everyone who needed it. But when I was imprisoned and when I was released, no one helped me. I thought: I’d rather live like normal person, work. Learn something new. So, in the colony I learned to play the harmonica. In just two months, even though I had never played anything before.

Valery, 27 years old (spent 7 years in prison, now sentenced to 3 years)

The first time I went to prison under Articles 161 and 162 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation. Robber, robber, that is. Commerce was bombed. At the scams, they kept watch over the majors: you wait until he wins enough, and you take him to “talk.” You know what I mean.

I gave up myself. Tired of it. I was put on the federal wanted list. I’ll even tell you exactly how long - one year, two months and 17 days. I ran around and decided: enough is enough! The sooner you get in, the sooner you get out. But all this time I was in my hometown, which only added extreme excitement to my running. One day my mother and I were walking through the market - we had just bought linoleum, and I was carrying it. And then the police come towards us. Of course, I threw the roll away and started running. I'm ashamed in front of my mother.

The gap between the first and second period is only... seven days. I was released on December 31st. I immediately went from Komsomolsk, where I was sitting, to my home in Belogorsk. I didn’t warn anyone, I decided to arrange a surprise. And he arranged it. On January 1 at 6:15 in the morning I showed up to my brother out of the blue.

I drove home already drunk. I don’t remember any particular feeling of joy from liberation. But when I saw my brother and my mother, my soul was very happy. Mom cried, I cried myself. You can say that in the first days after my arrival, I tried to live normally, I even managed to go to the gym a couple of times. But it so happened that I drank and was drawn to adventure.

I attempted a crime while drunk - passers-by stopped me in time. And only a day later I realized what had happened to me. Then he was already sitting in the bullpen. The state was wild: I understood only one thing, that I was in Belogorsk. There were no further details available. What brought me to the zone was fire water, as the Indians liked to say - most crimes are committed while drunk.

For seven years I lived a life of crime. Having arrived in Vozzhaevka, I greatly revised my outlook on life and now I want to take everything into my own hands. Honestly, I’m even glad that I got here. When I left the colony in Komsomolsk, I had no goal ahead. He lived not even for one day, but for one minute. The present - here and now. Now I started making at least some plans. Got wishes.

“Give me a return ticket to my youth, I will pay in full for the journey” - this is the tattoo I got in Takhtamygd at the very beginning of my term. The ring tattoo means ruined youth: “I ruined my youth in a government house.” The large tattoo on my back took three nights to fill. The tattoo with a cobra and a sword, representing the old coat of arms of the special department of the NKVD, symbolizes a childhood dream - I always wanted to serve in the army, but I was not accepted because of my criminal record. Since childhood, I have had suspended sentences.

Of course, getting tattoos in a colony is illegal. I had my own artist, I taught him. I noticed talent in the guy and decided to develop it. At first he drew us postcards and posters. Then I let him near my skin. But I feel that this happened too early. Ideally, you should have not let him in at all!

I believe that there is a bright future ahead - family, children, work. Once upon a time, at the beginning of my first term, I had a girlfriend. But now it’s not - can you imagine, I didn’t have time to meet freedom in seven days (laughs). Let's find it! I'm not worried about this yet.

I have a lot of professions, I won’t be lost. In the colony he mastered many specialties; he has qualifications: electrician, mechanic, carpenter, carpenter. But I still plan to start one after release own business. I'm a carpenter, I'll do woodworking. There are all possibilities for this. My stepfather has his own carpentry shop - only I was needed there. There was everything for a good life: an apartment, a car, a motorcycle. Only I’m not there now again...

House of none Orthodox family cannot do without icons, it is a mediator between us and the saints. Prayer in front of an icon is stronger because we have a visual image of the person we are addressing, which greatly helps us concentrate. Icon painting has been known for thousands of years, and during this time a huge number of icons have appeared, but they cannot exist in an unnamed state forever. If the image is badly damaged, we cannot read the face of the saint on it; of course, its owners may want to get rid of the icon. The only rule that needs to be remembered forever is that icons cannot be thrown away like ordinary garbage.

What to do with an old icon?

Dilapidated, old icons should be taken to the temple. If the image has completely lost its appearance, it will be burned in a church oven. You can burn them yourself, but not together with the garbage, but separately, clean. An icon always remains an icon, no matter what deplorable state it is in. An icon that is slightly faded or has minor damage can also be taken to the church, perhaps one of the parishioners will take it. Not far from the entrance to the temple there is usually a memorial table, where parishioners bring food to honor the memory of the deceased. The icon can be left on the funeral table; it would also be good to bring food, thereby expressing love for your deceased relatives. An unwanted image can be sent to church shop. You should not give someone an icon in poor condition, it will be disrespectful.

Very old icons can be restored, sometimes this turns out to be more profitable from an economic point of view than buying a new one.

After all, often the image is family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation, the loss of which is simply unbearable for family members.

Icons of the former owners of the house

It often happens that when buying a house or apartment, new residents discover abandoned icons. In this case, as in any other, you cannot throw away the icons of the old owners. An icon is a shrine and must be treated with respect. There is nothing wrong with leaving them. But if you are in doubt because of the unknown history of their presence in the house, the icons can be re-consecrated.

Family houses usually contain icons that belonged to deceased relatives, which the young people do not want to leave behind. Again, new icons from your home can be taken to the temple or donated if the images have retained their appearance. Many people mistakenly believe that giving and accepting images from someone else’s hands is prohibited, but the church believes that giving them as a gift is a good tradition. The icon cannot harm you, since it sacred object. If you doubt its former owners, you can bring it to the temple and ask for it to be consecrated.

Icons that belonged to strangers

Sometimes old wedding couples remain in houses, icons that are given to the newlyweds during the wedding sacrament, or icons of guardian angels of deceased relatives or old owners of the house. You can keep such images for yourself. An icon is not a talisman; people pray to a saint in front of it, and therefore it doesn’t matter at all who owned the shrine before and for what reason it appeared among the previous owners. The wedding couple usually consists of the icon of Jesus Christ “Lord Pantocrator” and the Mother of God – “Kazan Mother of God" These images of saints can move from couple to couple or even end up with a single person, this is acceptable.

An icon is a symbol of faith. Unlike modern paintings, holy images carry an instructive meaning. Each icon is a work of art, with its own history and intention. Many icons very reliably convey the events described in the Gospel, scenes from which are very often used by icon painters. Therefore, they should be treated with respect and awe, and not as a piece of furniture. And even if you decide to say goodbye to old icon, this must be done according to the rules, so as not to offend the saint, whose face is depicted on the icon, and not to harm yourself by reprehensible actions.