Soviet Godfather

A night bus slowly stopped in front of a Jewish community in Gorky, with only a few sporadic passengers on board. A frustrated old man got out of the car dejectedly. The man's name was Semyon Sharapov, and he was also a Jew. Just less than a month ago, Sharapov was the personal housekeeper of Nikolai Popov, one of the well-known gangsters in the city of Gorky. Under the care of Mr. Popov, Sharapov's life is not bad. But since Mr. Popov was murdered, Sharapov has completely lost his source of livelihood, and Sharapov is used to being extravagant and has no savings. So now I can only make a living by taking care of patients in the hospital and earning a little money every day.

Sharapov carried his handbag and walked heavily in the dark stairwell. The food in the handbag was his dinner today and the only meal of the day. Sharapov is still not used to the change from having no worries about food and clothing to unsustainable three meals, but people always have to survive, whether it is a happy life or a painful life, God will not care until the end of life your.

People always have various problems when they get old. Sharapov suffered severe lumbar muscle strain and varicose veins in his legs after decades of housekeeping. Now his legs start to feel uncomfortable when he climbs stairs. . Sharapov took out the key from his pocket, his hands were shaking involuntarily, which was the discomfort caused by overworked muscles. After closing the door, Sharapov poured himself a glass of warm water with his last strength, and then he slumped on the sofa, drinking the warm water while eating the dry and hard Daleba in the handbag. Sharapov was never married and had no children, and as he grew older, his relatives and friends also passed away one after another. People really get lonely as they get older.

Just when Sharapov was eating unpalatable Leba and feeling sad for his muddled life, a short but strong knock on the door interrupted Sharapov's thoughts. When I wondered if I had heard it wrong, the knock on the door rang again. Sharapov supported his exhausted body from the sofa with both hands, staggered to the door, asked in a hoarse voice, "Who is it?", and opened the door of his own house.

A strange 40-year-old man stood by the door. This man had brown hair, a pale face, and the most noticeable thing was his sharp eagle-like eyes, although his figure and appearance were not noticeable. , but the sharp eyes seemed to point directly at the heart. Sharapov looked at him for a long time. He was not sure if he knew this man, so he asked, "Sir, who are you looking for?"

"Mr. Sharapov, don't you know me? My uncle is Nikolai Popov. I lived with him for a while, and you took care of me." The man said kindly .

"Yes, I remembered. You were the young master who moved from Harbin, China, to join Mr. Popov. Your name was Ya... Ya...!" Sharapov couldn't remember. Yes, he felt the name was on his lips, but he just couldn't say it.

"Alexander! Alexander Popov" the middle-aged man blew himself up.

"Yes, it's Master Alexander Popov. I didn't expect to see you again. I remember you immigrated to Israel later. I didn't expect you to be so old. You were still a young man at that time." Sarah Bove sighed.

"Yes, later I and some Russian-Jewish immigrants established a gibbutz in Haifa (a kibbutz brought by some Israeli immigrants from the Soviet Union), and I lived there." The man replied.

Sharapov let Alexander Popov into his home. Although he had been exhausted all day, the joy of meeting his old friend seemed to give Sharapov infinite energy. Popov boiled water to make tea.

Alexander Popov was also very happy. He looked at Sharapov's home. It was a small apartment with a small area and very old furniture. It could be seen that Sharapov's life was Not too well.

Sharapov worked for a long time before preparing a cup of tea for Alexander Popov, and the two sat at the dilapidated dining table, silent for a moment. Alexander Popov broke the silence first, and asked: "Mr. Sharapov, I am here to visit this time, and I want to ask about my uncle Nikolai."

Sharapov was silent for a moment, collected his thoughts, and said: "Although I don't know who the murderer is, I'm sure that this matter has something to do with Boris Ilyich Pogorovsky from the Gorky Automobile Factory. .”

"Boris-Ilyich-Pogolovsky? What kind of character is he?" Alexander Popov continued to ask.

"It's nothing special, just an insignificant person." Sharapov said disdainfully.

"I don't understand, what's going on?" Alexander Popov was completely confused, how could an insignificant person kill his all-powerful uncle.

"In the beginning, some subordinates reported to Mr. Popov that a few gangsters were secretly reselling supplies on the black market without Mr. Popov's permission. Mr. Popov asked a few of his subordinates to teach them a lesson. , In the end, they actually beat the person Mr. Popov sent over. Then they hid. This is how things started," Sharapov said, taking a sip of tea.

"What happened later? What happened later?" Alexander Popov asked anxiously.

"Later Mr. Popov got some gamblers to coax Boris-Ilyich Pogorovsky out, and gave him a knife, but he didn't kill him. Mr. Popov may still want to teach him a lesson. He, didn't intend to kill him," Sharapov told Alexander Popov.

"So it wasn't Boris Ilyich Pogorovsky who did it?" Alexander Popov asked.

"Of course not, that guy has been lying in the hospital, and he definitely won't be the one who killed Mr. Popov." Sharapov replied affirmatively.

"Who could that be? A ghost?" Alexander Popov asked.

"Probably a real ghost, a vicious ghost, who sent over the fingers of those two rotten gamblers who helped Mr. Popov. And a threatening letter. And killed Popov in that brutal way." Mr. Alas~~!" Sharapov said with a long sigh and regret.