Dina Rubina's husband is an artist boris. Films based on the works of Dina Rubina

- Dina Ilyinichna, in Russia you are one of the most widely read Russian prose writers. Your works are translated into many languages ​​of the world, filmed (just remember the films "On Verkhnyaya Maslovka", "Lyubka", "On the sunny side of the street"). And in Israel you are simply called “our Dina”. Does the status of a recognized literary classic not press? How do you assess this - a kind of burden or a gift of fate?

- Only the first publication was a gift. When you are 16 years old, such a feint is perceived as fireworks. Now my fame is a burden, and quite serious. First of all, due to lack of time. A huge number of letters come to my email address - up to fifty a day: business, friendly, from readers. I answer most of them. There are also meetings with readers, interviews, an endless number of submitted manuscripts and books that I am asked to read, and so on. Perhaps all this would please me if I were essentially different, not appreciating solitude more than anything else in the world. After all, I only give the impression of a light, secular, sociable person. Few people suspect how morose introvert I am. I have a tragic personality, I do not know how to be joyful.

- I never understood and did not like these conversations about a happy childhood. Anyone you listen to - for everyone it turns out to be happy. And in my opinion, in childhood, a person is almost constantly unhappy, simply because he is defenseless and small, and this gigantic frightening world rushes towards him with great speed. And even if he grows up in a prosperous family, it means that something is certainly wrong in the yard, at school ... I was born in Tashkent. And she lived there for 30 years. She grew up and matured in a despotic environment. Now I am talking about this without fear of what my dad will read. (He sighs heavily.) He will not read it anymore: it has been three months since he has been gone ... And before I always gave interviews, taking into account that it could catch my father's eye. Afraid of his reaction. When I called in the morning to ask him what blood pressure he had, whether his back hurt, after two or three minutes of conversation, dad would certainly utter the catchphrase: “Well, stop talking! Work, Negro! " And I humbly listened to this in my sixth decade, with all my published volumes, huge circulations and prizes. My dad remained an oppressive father to the end. But he never touched me with a finger. The overwhelming force of his authority and character was overwhelming. He was an artist, taught painting and drawing at the Tashkent Theater and Art Institute. Students respected and loved him.

I grew up in a family where it was believed that a child should achieve everything on a daily basis, to achieve the maximum. For my father and my sister, there was always something not enough: high marks, success, thoroughness in the elaboration of some sonatas ... thirst for perfection. My personal perfection ... I still can't imagine myself doing nothing - for example, lying on the couch in front of the TV. It’s simply impossible, and not only because I don’t have a TV set. In me there is a constant inner work on the next book. Right now I am struggling with a new novel in two volumes - "Russian Canary". It is very difficult to write. The first book - in volume as "The White Dove of Cordoba" - is already ready. I have been writing this volume for two years. This means that the second will take at least another year. If you get a page a day - great luck. The first option never suits, the next day it will be rewritten, the day after tomorrow I will return to it again - and so on an uncountable number of times. At the same time, my creative baggage is huge simply by the totality of the working time in my life. Even in my youth, I woke up at five in the morning and sat down at a typewriter. The first half of the day I worked on my compositions, and the second half I was engaged in translations. I have always lived a hard, exhausting and very educating life ... By the age of 24 I was a member of the Writers' Union.

- No, mom is a very lively person, enchanting, I would even say adventurous. She escaped from her father's character behind some Potemkin villages. Moreover, as a teacher of Russian history, she knew many wonderful tales about that era and told them beautifully. In general, it seemed to me that Catherine II, Potemkin, Paul I, Peter the Great were representatives of our family clan.

- On the contrary, they considered my writing to be the most complete nonsense and idleness. They persistently led my sister and me to a musical career. By the way, my sister was taken out: Vera is a wonderful violinist. Now she lives in the USA, the president of the Massachusetts Music Association, a brilliant teacher - her students receive prizes at competitions. And my father and mother saw me as a pianist. They cooked thoroughly, and it was a real musical violence. I honestly hated classes and still believe that they took 17 years of my life. I studied at a special school at the conservatory and had to study music for six to seven hours a day. Imagine this hard labor. Of course, she tried to evade the drill, made a fair effort to get out of life at least some pieces of time for inner life. In this connection, scandals broke out in the family every now and then. But since my parents were constantly working, I still managed to slip out of their attention. I was a fantastic liar, I could build a tower of lies just to go where I wanted. For the sake of protecting your self and personal time, in order to escape from home captivity. Where to? I could take a commuter train and leave for the whole day without ever going to school. She often disappeared at the zoo - she just sat on the bench and looked at the monkeys. By the way, I moved in space in complete loneliness - and then I absolutely did not need anyone. I say: I am by nature a complete introvert, multiplied into a cube. It's strange, yes, to hear this from a person surrounded by friends, girlfriends, acquaintances, half-acquaintances, strangers? But it is so.

- Nobody broke through anywhere. Everything happened as if by itself. The smile of fate. Cinderella's option. While studying in ninth grade, I came across in the magazine "Youth" a story written by some eighth-grader. I thought: “But I have a hell of such stories. Why not send? " And she sent one, forgetting about it right away. And once again I ran away from school, God knows what neighborhoods in Tashkent. Returning, I knock on the door with a conventional family knock. Dad opens it and says from the doorway: "You have finished badly!" Everything is clear: the class teacher reported my absenteeism. Horror ... I am lamenting: "Dad, dad, forgive me, I will never again ... This will not happen again ..." To which he sternly said: "You have been sent a letter from the government department." Do you know in which envelope the dispatch came? Publishing house "Pravda". It was something unreal. It is good that the Stalinist times have passed, otherwise it was possible to get rid of it out of fear. Still - a letter from the leading party publishing house in the country. So, the envelope fell into the hands of my father. It was considered impossible to print other people's letters in the family, but it was also unthinkable to leave such a message unattended, so dad read it in the light, holding it to the lamp. It read: “I have read your story, I liked it… It will be published in such and such issue of the magazine…” The family was numb. The parents did not know how to react. On the one hand, I should have been blown up, because I again write some stupid handwriting, instead of studying music, and in mathematics and physics - an eternal nightmare in a cool journal. But on the other hand, the publication with a circulation of three million is not a joke. Do you know what fee I received? 92 rubles! Scary money, huge, at that time - the monthly salary of a junior researcher. Mom immediately said that she needed to buy something that would remain in memory of this event. For life! For many provincial people, everything is done "for life." (With a smile.) No, I still treat my childhood with great irony. In short, my mother and I went to the Farhad market. In the nearest gateway we were caught by a speculator. A gigantic aunt, a real Gargantua in a skirt. On her huge belly were some kind of sweaters, leggings, skirts packed in plastic bags. As soon as she saw us, my aunt squealed: "Come here, buy something for your girl, such a beauty, such a good mother!" Mom asked: "So what are you going to offer us?" She exclaimed: “And here's a jacket! Buy this charm for your daughter, Schaub she wore it all her life. " I thought longingly: “Why do we need a jacket for life? ! " But of course this monstrous pink synthetic masterpiece was bought. I wore the new thing for a week, before the first wash, after which the jacket faded and went in rolls.

- In 17 years. Passionately, ardently, as it should be in terms of age and emotional status. We met for three years, at the age of 20 I got married and lived in marriage for five years. Our son Dima was born. The boy was very restless, he did not sleep at all at night. Struggling with sleep, I took him out in the wheelchair - there he finally calmed down, fell asleep, and I, swinging my leg in the wheelchair, made notes in a notebook. This is how the story "When will it snow?" Was written, which was also published in "Youth". Suddenly it became popular - they made a radio staging based on it, staged a play. And I turned into a Tashkent celebrity.

- Was your husband okay with your success or was he jealous?

- And what man, especially in his youth, will gladly accept the success of his wife? My husband was no exception. But this was not the only reason for our divorce. Still, there is such a thing in the world as your half - a person who is intended specifically for you. Here is my second husband actually intended for me. And the first one just accidentally suffered from me. Like a meteorite. I bumped into him and hurt him for many years. I left like a man, taking only my son and a typewriter with me. Later, she bought Dimka and me a tiny one-room cooperative apartment not far from my parents with my fees.

- I repeat, my father hammered into me the main word - "duty". In everything. And of course, the child was my main duty. I lived on a break. But an incredible amount of energy was seething in me. I remember earning a living in Uzbekistan by translating Uzbek prose writers. In particular, there was such a Nurali Kabul - the son-in-law of the first secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the republic, Sharaf Rashidov. He wrote stories, they gave me an interlinear translation, and I made literature out of it. The resulting result was published in the magazine "Youth", and then translated into different languages ​​from my "translation". Nurali told me: “Dinkya-hon, why don't you ask for anything? What do you need? Do you want a car, do you want an apartment? What to give you?" Thinking, I answered: "Nurali, do you have paper for a typewriter?" Then it was in short supply. And he gave me a pack of paper ... From time to time Nurali arranged a "tui" ("holiday". - Approx. "TN") for some Moscow guests. And he invited me by itself, as his translator. But this eternal "duty, duty!" - dad believed that I myself should cope with my son and everyday difficulties. In a word, after sitting among the guests for a while, I got up and explained that I had to go home to my son. Nurali said: "For what I respect Dinka - he is a good mother ..."

- A film was filmed based on my story "Tomorrow as usual". The picture turned out to be worthless, but the music in it was lovely. It was written by the wonderful composer Sandor Kallosh. When I arrived in Moscow for dubbing, he said: "Dinochka, I want to introduce you to a brilliant artist." By that time, I had already been alone for five years, albeit surrounded by a crowd of suitors who circled around me with intention and hope. But I repeat: I am a heavy person and, most importantly, a workhorse, which means that it is not easy to endure me. Sandor was not aware of my personal life, he only wanted me to see interesting pictures and meet a talented person. My reaction was from a series of "thank you, no need" - since childhood, artists are fed up. But still she went. Boris Karafelov had a huge workshop in the Palace of Pioneers. He taught there several days a week. All this I described in the story "The camera comes running!". Although during my acquaintance with the painting of Boris I politely showed an approving attitude, his paintings did not make any impression on me. My father was an artist of a completely different direction, I grew up in realism, as if in materiality, and all Boris's colors, multicolor, multi-layeredness were incomprehensible to me, not close. But I liked the artist himself. Short, thin, with incredible eyes - very gentle, chaste and at the same time deep, penetrating. Moreover, his character turned out to be soft, delicate, absolutely not oppressive. In short, as it turned out later, Boris is the only person whom I can bear next to me for a long time. Nevertheless, I did not lose my head right away, unlike him, who immediately began to seek reciprocity. Everything happened very violently and very seriously: letters, trips to Tashkent - the light is not near ... He completely conquered me with his delightful old-fashionedness.

- Well, you, with all the great love for me, there has never been any loyalty. “Why would you get married? You have a son, you have creativity! And for whom - for the artist ?! " They are used to the fact that the daughter is alone and everything seems to be fine with her, so why the hell does she need more ?! But in 1984 I left for Boris in Moscow, and two years later Eva was born to us. By the way, we registered in secret. In Tashkent. For a lot of money - to speed up the process. First, for 25 rubles they bought a certificate that I was pregnant, and another 50 rubles were paid to get us painted the day after tomorrow. The next day after the stamps in the passports were affixed, my mother's brother, Uncle Yasha, came to see me. A loyal communist, a man of extremely strict rules. It was formed unexpectedly: I came to my parents, and this is a neighboring house, but there was no one there, and he came to me. At that moment I was preparing dinner in the kitchen, Boris was in the bathroom. Uncle Yasha entered the room and sat down to drink tea. Boris hid. For a long time he did not dare to appear, finally could not resist - well, how long can you be locked up? He came out in sports pants, a T-shirt and slippers. Uncle is in a daze. A dumb scene. "Uncle Yasha," I say, "meet me: this is my husband." He choked, asked: "Who, this ?!" - with such an intonation, as if Boris were an escaped convict. “Yes,” I say, “we signed yesterday.” - "On what basis ?!" - “Uncle Yash, how on what? Based on a woman's need. " Then he to Boris: "And what are you doing?" Borya admitted that he is an artist. Uncle Yasha looked at me disparagingly: "Couldn't you find anything more solid?" I have funny relatives. But then everyone resigned themselves to my choice and, by the way, loved Borya very much. (With a smile.) What else could they do? Do you know when my husband finally conquered me? Soon after we signed, my mother came to us. She was somehow very worried that she was not in the center of the incident. "Do you know, Boris, that Dina is a difficult person?" - asks. He said, "I know." “She can be silent all day,” he says. “I readily believe,” my husband replies. And I thought: "Here is finally a man who will swallow me with all my bells and whistles." Indeed, Borya and I may not say a word to each other in a day. And it doesn't annoy anyone.

- Dina, why did you decide to emigrate?

- There were several reasons. One of them, quite significant, was the fact that they gradually stopped publishing me. Obviously because I started writing something more serious than the romantic stories of a country girl. For example, the story "On Verkhnyaya Maslovka". Now she is so kind, filmed, translated into different languages, according to her in Western universities they write dissertations. And then they didn't take her to Yunost. The heroes are some kind of marginal people, losers, an ancient old woman ... Where are the burning topics, where is the nerve of our time ?! I thought that in the end on "Youth" the light did not converge like a wedge, and went to other magazines. But even there they gave me a turn from the gate. I wrote some things that fell outside the social orientation, the heroes of my stories and stories were eccentrics - strange people with non-Soviet destinies who existed on their own, separate from any communities, parties. My characters did not fit into the reality of the mid-1980s, and I myself did not fit ... And one more thing: it was a time when many districts of Moscow were covered with anti-Semitic appeals. This is exactly what our area was different. And I cannot live in a situation that is offensive, unbearable for my well-being. I realized that I do not want children to grow up in this dislike ... We left for Israel at the end of 1990. I moved the whole family there. I didn't have to persuade my husband - feeling my condition subtly, he understood how important it was for me. In addition, apparently, I have long wanted to, as they say, "change the pasture" - a purely literary feeling of the exhaustion of the surrounding space and themes. However, that global move was a colossal test.

Emigration is not just a change of scenery. And not even a natural disaster. This is hara-kiri, suicide. Especially for a writer who writes in the language of the country he left. We were leaving forever. With no hope of returning, no intention of returning. Leaving the apartment, although in those years housing could already be privatized and sold - many of our friends did just that. But I didn't. She left the country just like she left her first husband - she left everything, only she took the children. And, funny as it may seem, she took out only one thing. Except for Borin's paintings, paint-brushes - and you could take no more than 20 kg per person - I took my favorite Gzhel teapot, wrapping it in the rags I had turned up. It turned out to be two pairs of cowards - a son and a husband. (Laughing.) It was with these two pairs of panties that we started a new life.

- Yes, we got straight into the war - with air raid sirens, with gas masks. I described all this in the story "In your gates." A few weeks before the start of the bombing, they explained to us how the air raid siren would sound and what should be done at that moment. But when in the middle of the night a chilling howl was heard for the first time, I decided that the day of the Last Judgment had come. She lay motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling. Boris brought me out of the stupor: “Why are you lying ?! We put on gas masks and into the room! " In Israel, every home has a sealed room with a steel door and steel shutters on the windows in case of chemical and other attacks. The hardest part was putting on a gas mask on my four-year-old daughter. At these moments, Boris and Dimka, I began to dance around Eva, as if such a cheerful performance was taking place. (With a sigh.) Very scary, but there was no turning back. It just remained to live on. Life itself turned out to be the hardest test of strength. A million people fell on the country, there was no work, the language still had to be learned. All the little money that they gave us in the form of lifting money went to an apartment, a refrigerator, a heater ... There was nowhere else to take. And I started what most of the women who came from the Soviet Union did then, regardless of education, former social status and other Soviet regalia - I went to wash the floors for 10 shekels per hour. After all, the worst thing is the ghost of your starving children.

- Yes, there was a shock. It's just that now I know that I already died once - at that time. For me, of course, it was death. I knew for sure: my earthly life as a writer was over. But I could not cope with my gut, with verbal magma, with images that involuntarily overwhelmed me. Understand, I have been writing since childhood, all my life, by that time I had already been the author of four books, that is, a completely developed writer, and writing was my tick, the running of my hand that had been accumulated over the years.

- Well, what can you do? After all, I'm quite a hardy woman ... But soon I was offered an editorial position at a tiny publishing firm. They paid very little money, but still it was a stable income. She received the required small grant for the publication of the book - the circulation, of course, is scanty, but even that is bread. She began to travel around the country, to speak to readers - also some pennies. So little by little, life began to improve. And finally a wonderful period began: Borin's paintings began to sell well. The first was bought at an auction in Nice. It was serious money, we revived terribly and ... for the first time since our arrival, my husband and I went to a cafe.

- Not "taken away" - each person has the opportunity to choose alternative types of service. They go voluntarily because it is necessary. And there's nothing you can do about it. Of course, when my children put on a military uniform, I, like any mother, was worried. But at the same time she was proud. The fact is that this country rests on the shoulders of our children. If not for a strong army, it would have been crushed long ago. We simply have no other choice. Mine served honestly, as they say, according to the Hamburg account. Especially Eva - she served in a very serious, prestigious army.

- Dima works as a manager in a large trading company - he orders products, always conducts some kind of negotiations. Awarded with diplomas every year. Eva received her first university degree in English literature and is now completing her second degree in archeology, preparing to defend her diploma. Then she plans to take up a dissertation. He draws beautifully, writes prose and poetry, both in English and Hebrew. And I also have a wonderful Karina Pasternak, whom I consider an adopted daughter. In the early 2000s, I was the head of cultural and public relations in the Moscow branch of the Sokhnut agency, and Karina worked in my department. She became a very close friend of our family, and when we were to return to Israel, she suddenly said: "I want with you." I was taken aback: “How ?! And mom, grandmother ?! You are the only one with them. " But she firmly stood her ground. I had to discuss this topic with her mother, who now comes to Israel with pleasure to visit her daughter. And Karinka made a wonderful career here, she became the designer of the site of the famous museum of memory of victims of the Holocaust of the Jewish people "Yad Vashem". He drives around in his car, rents an apartment not far from us. On Fridays, all children gather for family dinner.

- I would say - stunning. The granddaughter was a huge discovery for me. It's so funny and instructive for me to watch Shiley - that's her name. Translated from Hebrew, it means "a gift to me." At first I was dumbfounded by such an unusual name for the Russian ear, hoping that after all the child would be called humanly. But now I'm used to it. And I already hear something dance-French in the name ...

- Never. Although recently I had to turn to "Parsley Syndrome", but only because a friend asked for advice about dolls. While I was working on the novel, I studied the topic thoroughly. So I was forced to return to my composition. I began to read. And I remembered the wonderful story about Tolstoy, when, putting things in order, he pulled out a sheet of writing from some gap and ... read it, and after reading it to the end, he said: “Who wrote this? Well written! " I had the same feeling. I even called Boris. He came down from the workshop: "What happened ?!" And I say: "Borka, you know, a very good book!" So I said that I do not know how to be happy. That's right, it is. And yet I know what happiness is. When the book is finished and by pressing the computer key I send it to the publisher, at that moment I experience an incomparable, great happiness.

Career: author of several dozen collections of novellas, short stories and seven novels: "On the Sunny Side of the Street", "Petrushka Syndrome", etc. She taught at the Tashkent Institute of Culture, headed the literary association at the Union of Writers of Uzbekistan, headed the department of cultural programs of the Jewish Agency"Dry"