I was probably around twelve years old at that time. Growing up as a frail child, my mom wanted me to engage in some form of sport. One day, she turned her attention to martial arts and suggested I join a sambo club. She told me this story to convince me of the need to be able to defend myself.
But first, it's necessary to explain that my mom was a very socially active. At the time, she was an associate professor in the Department of Organic Chemistry at the Mendeleev Institute and the secretary of the faculty's party organization. She keenly felt any injustice, and at the institute, she had a reputation as someone ready to go against the tide and help in difficult situations.
One day, as my mom recounted, an older woman, a laboratory assistant from the polymer faculty, came to her party committee. I think she asked for help to save her son Slava from prison. Slava Mazur was a graduate student at our institute, and the following story unfolded with him. Late in the evening, he was returning to Moscow from the dacha on the last train. He was alone in the carriage, reading a book when three individuals – looking like troublemakers or thugs – entered the carriage. One positioned himself behind him, while the youngest, barely sixteen, approached with a knife in hand. The third, likely their leader, wore a sinister grin as he idly toyed with a long awl between his teeth.
-- What's up, nerd? Sitting comfortably, reading a book, give us your briefcase! -- Slava handed over his briefcase, which contained nothing but an article on thermodynamics.
-- Now, give me your watch! -- Slava took off his watch, and they moved on to the main event.
-- Take off your jacket, you don't need it. -- At that moment, Slava, probably everyone had already guessed, was a master of sports in sambo, threw his jacket into the face of the nearest thug, broke his arm, and reached the leader. The third bandit tried to run, but Slava caught up and neutralized him with an appropriate technique.
When the train arrived at the station, all three were unconscious, and Slava handed them over to the railway police. He was just about to be released, but then it turned out that the gang leader was not breathing – apparently, he had hit his head on the bench. Our graduate student was arrested and taken to the investigative prison. Moreover, it was discovered that the flustered Slava had, as he put it, given each assailant several pointed reminders—delivering swift jabs to their buttocks with the very same awl. As his mother said, the trial was approaching, and the boy was charged with exceeding the limits of necessary defense.
My mom sympathized with Slava's situation and reported the issue to the party bureau; it seems an institute advocate was even assigned. However, it didn't help. In court, the two victims and their lawyer claimed that Mazur attacked them first. As a result, they were sentenced to 2 years for hooliganism each, and Slava received a 6-year sentence in a high-security prison.
However, my mom paused dramatically and said that not even six months had passed since she had unexpectedly met Slava at the institute. More precisely, he came to her seeking help with reinstatement in the Komsomol (Communist Youth Organization) and the graduate program. Quite quickly after the trial, the prosecutor's office discovered the identity of the deceased, who turned out to be an escaped, extremely dangerous repeat offender. The case was reviewed, and Slava was acquitted and released.
The necessity of sports participation has been incontrovertibly proven. However, instead of sambo, my mom enrolled me in a badminton club, but that's another story.
© Dimus, June 2020 (ru), 2025 (en)
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