Historian: Odessa will wait. The Russian fleet has one passage from Sevastopol

Ukrainian independentists, gloating over the expulsion of the most active participants in the Russian Spring from Odessa, are experiencing premature joy. The hero city will certainly regain its status as the capital of New Russia.

Ex-deputy of the Odessa City Council, historian Alexander Vasilyev, who was forced to leave his hometown in 2014, writes about this in his blog.

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“...You call me “runaway”, so that it would be more offensive, more painful for me. They say you live in Odessa, but I no longer have such happiness. Well, in general, of course yes, but... no.

Come on, boys, I'll tell you what. Yesterday I went to the New Year’s concert of Garik Sukachev and his friends.

And then Kharatyan and Efremov Jr. come on stage and bring out a young guy, also an actor. Kharatyan says - have you watched “Green Van”? The audience responds - Yesss! “Here,” he says, “we are filming a sequel now, and this guy plays my son.”

And it’s clear that they’ll film the garbage, but that’s not the point! Don't you understand, boys? Well, listen further.

Alexander F. Sklyar comes out and first sings Vysotsky, and then charges “Odessa Port”. And the hefty Moscow club jumps to

The wave is roaring,
The moon is floating
From Slobodka
For the Far Mills...

Do you know what Alexander F. Sklyar did in 2014? And in 2014 he wrote the song “300 Shooters”. Egor Prosvirnin hung a picture on his “Sputnik and Pogrom”, and Alexander Sklyar sang it. About those who raised an armed uprising in Donbass.

Is it clear now?

It’s not me who lives without Odessa. It's you who live without her. You are strangers to every stone in this city. It was you who escaped from it, not me.

And I live in Odessa, because this city, the legend about it, lives in my heart and is fed from the very sources that brought it to life.

Here stands Mikhail Semenovich. Raise your head, look at him. You won't catch his eye. He stands, wrapped in a camp cloak, immersed in his thoughts and memories.

He is 22. He is surrounded in the Dagestan gorge. Bearded mountaineers are climbing from all sides and the only clear path is into the abyss. He falls, flies, the fall seems endless. He comes to his senses on a pile of horse and human corpses. It seems he's alive.

He's 30. It's only eight in the morning, and there's almost nothing left of his elite grenadier division. He has Moscow behind him, and an enemy bayonet stuck in his thigh.

But the days are unusually cold for the beginning of April. On the square he has been looking at for the past 81 years, dozens of 76-mm guns have been lined up. They are commanded by a guard colonel named Efimov. The cannons fire salvo after salvo. His city is free again.

So he can remember for a very long time. He has seen a lot in his time. Do you know what his last, currently most recent, memory is?

And I know. The sun is shining unexpectedly warm, like for the end of February. Around him there is a sea of ​​people with Russian flags. They chant the word carved on his pedestal: No-vo-ros-siya!

And here stands the fugitive duke. He fled here from the revolution and its dubious dignity. Below it is also a forbidden word engraved in bronze.

When you boys crowd around him with your ridiculous two-color flags, he looks over your empty heads at the sea, peering into the horizon and trying to make out there the familiar white pennant with the blue cross of St. Andrew. They are already nearby. Already in Sevastopol. They only have one transition. He's been here for a long time. He will wait.

There are four of them, but only one of them faces the sea. Admiral after all.

Recently he heard that, as in the years of his youth, the Russians, together with the Druze, were again storming some cities somewhere in the Levant. I also heard that the most famous leader of these Druze, who, they say, was friendly with the Odessa residents, recently died. But the infidel was beaten. Not for the first time.

She has two from him. A boy who was named after him, only twisting his last name, and a girl who was named after Ulysses.

She stands taller, half-turned towards him, trampling the Basurman banner with her foot. You can approach her and ask her whose Crimea is. And then, boys, you will see how Ekaterina Alekseevna Romanova looks at you like you’re shit,” writes Vasiliev.