Finally, before another long car trip I was presented with a selection of discs from the series “Songs of Bards”. I looked at them, seemingly what was needed, and without touching the car, opened one of the cases to the touch, took out a disk and inserted it into the player. Two actions took place at the same time: the car started moving and a familiar voice, painfully familiar to me, literally poured out of the speakers:
-Parachutes rushed and took weight
The ground swayed barely
And below - the division "Edelweiss"
And "Dead Head"
And I immediately remembered a large room called the owners of the “hall” in an old, strange house not far from Taganskaya Square in Moscow. Strange, because entering from the street in a one-story house, you find yourself on the third floor, and two more floors went down the slope of the high bank of the Moscow River. Then in 1964, the family of real Russian intellectuals lived in this house of their own, and moreover they were no longer in the same generation. Sometimes in the "hall" on Tuesdays a certain company of connoisseurs of Russian poetry gathered, and did not intend to have a good drink and a tasty snack, but to listen to another guest engaged in poetry and deserving to be listened to, to talk a little about his work while sitting at a large table under a rag lamp shade, sipping at the same time gulls from a samovar, deliciously gnawing off small pieces from sugar lumps, as well as crunching bagels and crackers.
In that very “hall” I was lucky to listen to some of those who are now called bards, as well as those who were deprived of the talent to hum their own poems to an ingenuous tune, and who simply read them with more or less expressiveness. The conditions of these "Tuesdays" were simple - no more than one guest per evening and a minimum of repetitions, only if the magic of what was read or respectively sung was very much involved.
That memorable evening a middle-aged man came to visit, with what seemed to me a tired face. Guitar in her hands clearly said that this is a poet, performing his poems on his own written music.
“I present to you a talented poet and performer Mikhail Ancharov,” the hostess said.
At that time I was very young, twenty years is the age when romance prevails over everything in my head, so when the first chords sounded and a strong voice sang: “The parachutes rushed…”, I was completely subdued, and when I heard Hitler's divisions that fought in the Caucasus, everything around me disappeared.
The words, “And the Lord said:“ This is Goshka flies, the grandmaster's chieftain, the skull pierced, the parachute pierced, his machine gun in the blood. ” And I clearly saw an old man, our commander of a squad of newcomers from the Alibek camp, one of the best pre-war mountaineers in the country, honored master of sports in mountaineering, Alexey Alexandrovich Maleinov, who told us amazing things about the war in those mountains where one of the highland Meadows was set up our camp. It was from his mouth that I heard the names of these German divisions "Edelweiss" and "Dead Head", about which a person with a guitar sang so heartily. Ever since this song has been stuck in my head with a rusty nail, I managed to forget the author in the bustle of everyday life, but I could not forget about parachutes.
Everything that happened further that evening was not preserved in my memory; in no way could I deviate from those visions that devoured me.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but now I was given a pass on the general run-through of the play The Theory of Incredibility in the Yermolova Theater. Places were in the mezzanine, in the first row on the left side. A lot of people gathered, although no one broke into the theater and did not stand in the aisles. There were several songs in the text of the play, so Ancharov himself performed them right from the stage. He was standing in the left wing, and when the song was supposed to sound on the script, he moved forward a little so that the audience could see him, and to his own accompaniment, he sang, then again he hid in the wings.
That day I already looked at the stage, without stopping, and listened carefully. What was happening on the stage was interesting, but very unusual. Maybe that's why the play was not very long.
Unfortunately, I did not manage to meet with Mikhail Leonidovich anymore, but when I came across books, the authors of which were Ancharov, I acquired them without any hesitation.
Only then did I realize that he was an amazing person who was ahead of his time. A prose writer, yes of course, a poet - of course, a playwright - no doubt, and besides, a science fiction writer and script writer (according to his script, the first series on domestic television, “Day By Day”, was staged). So what is he - a writer? Yes, he was accepted without any questions in 1966 to the Union of Writers of the USSR. But he soon after the war graduated from the Moscow Art Institute. Surikov and painted his whole life. So he is an artist? Yes, he was also a wonderful painter.
Ancharov was a multifaceted man, a simple enumeration of what he managed to do is amazing: he was the first to write and perform original songs, first put the series on domestic television, the Surikov Institute taught the way of drawing, invented by him, he is the author of a principled new direction in fantastic literature.
Finally, I would like to quote from one of the speeches of Alexander Gorodnitsky, who using the words from Ancharov's song “We are bloodless champions,” said: “One of the champions of the bloodless struggle for human souls and hearts, a struggle that invariably continues, was and remains Michael Ancharov».