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Petrov Ilya

My cornet-a-piston in Bolshevo

Title: Buy the book "My cornet-a-piston in Bolshevo": feed_id: 5296 pattern_id: 2266 book_

MY CORNET-A-PISTON

IN BOLSHEV

On this day, as usual, at half past nine in the morning, I left the house and crossed the green square where in my youth I planted trees with my own hands. A huge yellow building with columns appeared ahead: the Kaliningrad Machine-Building Plant House of Culture. Here, in the semi-basement, there was an orchestra class: I had been leading it for many years.

My assistant pianist Tatyana Sheludko was not there yet. She’s young, recently married, why should she rush ahead of time? And like an old man, I always wanted to do more.

I had just begun to draw up a work plan for the next quarter when the door opened and a police lieutenant entered. “I haven’t seen you for two years,” flashed through my head. “Did something happen again?” For some reason, I remembered the student Gromikov: he had not been to class for two days [Last name, for obvious reasons, has been changed].

My instinct did not betray me, the police lieutenant spoke about him, saying that my student was under arrest.

What is he accused of? - I asked.

Bicycle theft.

This is a serious matter.

Did you confess?

Who will sign his own death sentence? - the lieutenant grinned. He dodges. But the evidence is all against it.

A little easier. Andrei Grsmikov stood before my mind's eye. A beautiful brown hairstyle, a confident look, thin, mobile, cunning lips, restrained but strong movements. He likes to dress well, look after girls, and drink with the guys. Can someone like this commit a crime? Eighteen years is a dangerous age. But he studies well and has mastered the oboe perfectly. And the family is good, the father has worked at a machine-building plant for twenty years, he is a drummer. And the guy, although he is carried away, has his own mind, but is pure and tasteful, dreams of the Moscow Operetta Orchestra. Everything is provided for, pocket money is available. This guy shouldn't have slipped so roughly.

I start a conversation with the police lieutenant: who’s bike was stolen, when, and he, guided by the victim’s testimony, accurately names the day and hour.

Wow, almost a month ago and only now have we found the threads.

Let’s check now,” I said.

How will you check? - The lieutenant was a little surprised. - I'm interested in Gromikov's characterization.

Maybe you yourself noticed something about him?

Without answering, I opened the desk drawer and took out two voluminous, hard-covered magazines. In one I wrote down the work plan, what was being learned, in the other I noted the daily presence of students hourly. A man whose name I always remember with deep gratitude began to teach me such precision - professor of the Moscow Conservatory and soloist of the Bolshoi Theater orchestra, Professor Mikhail Prokofievich Adamov, and I consolidated my discipline in the army: for twenty-five years I led divisional academic orchestras, in recent years I worked as a senior teacher military music schools, head of courses.

Soooo,” I said to myself, leafing through the magazine. - June, the eighteenth... the eighteenth... here it is: Friday. Gromikov Andrey... yes... from fourteen o'clock to seventeen he was in class. I ask you, Comrade Lieutenant, to see for yourself.

I pushed the magazine towards the police officer. Confusion showed on his round face.

You, Comrade Petrov, why... do you keep a journal every day?

But what about it? See for yourself.

This recording established Andrei Gromikov’s alibi, which I, of course, was very happy about. The lieutenant continued to look at the magazine incredulously, leafing through it, checking the dates and entries. I couldn’t resist and asked with fake simplicity:

Don't you think the entry... is incorrect? Check page numbering. All school days are marked.

The lieutenant knitted his eyebrows and stood up. He didn’t answer me, and he looked as if I had disappointed his expectations. “That’s right, he’s been working recently,” I thought. “The fate of a person is not important to him. He wants to distinguish himself.” I was tormented by anxiety, and I asked:

May I know why you suspected Gromikov? Did you see him with a bicycle or in general... what actions of his raised doubts?

The lieutenant straightened his jacket and answered dryly:

The work of the investigation is not subject to publicity.

He clearly turned and left without saying goodbye.

I was worried all day long. I knew all too well what the quagmire of crime was and how it sucked in unstable people. My recording removed suspicions from Andrei Gromikov, but maybe someone noticed something reprehensible about him? Were there any signals?

“We need to take care of Andrey,” I decided.

Our orchestral class is run by a factory, training there is free - we take care of young people, try to instill in them a love of art, of beauty, we attract everyone who has the ability. We work in two shifts. There are twenty students in the children's club, and forty who have already graduated from our music class, carefully prepared, play in the orchestra, which I conduct. We organize concerts in the Palace of Culture, perform at demonstrations, at evenings of communist labor drummers, at rallies, ceremonial meetings. The workers know our orchestra well.

And all that day, while studying with my students, I thought about Gromikov. If I didn’t have a very difficult past, perhaps I would have been more accepting of the police lieutenant’s visit.

I came home for dinner in a bad mood.

What's wrong with you? - my wife Anna Egorovna asked me, serving fried cutlets with potatoes. - I almost didn’t eat borscht at all. Bad, or what?

Why? I just have no appetite.

Returning to the club at five o'clock in the evening, I conducted classes with the second shift as usual, and when everyone had left and singing, the pretty assistant Tanya Sheludko also hurried home, powdered her nose, tinted her lips, I, having locked the classroom, went not to the square and my Stroiteley Street , but completely at the opposite end of the city. Tanya looked at me surprised: what happened to her “boss”?

I waved to her. By the way, she and her husband, an engineer at the Kaliningrad Machine-Building Plant, once studied with me in this class. Tanya, having graduated from the Moscow Institute of Culture, began working as a pianist, and her husband Yuri played clarinet-saxophone in our factory orchestra.

Having found the right street, I went up to the third floor of a blocky gray building and called. A tall elderly man in striped pajamas and slippers opened the door for me.

Will you be Stepan Grigorich Gromikov? - I asked. I wrote down Andrei's address in the journal.

“Exactly,” answered the man in pajamas, looking at me questioningly.

I gave my name. Gromikov glanced guiltily at his pajamas and slippers, hastily retreated deeper into the corridor and invited me to enter.

Is Andrey at home?

Came recently. A friend is now... right here in our house.

I briefly talked about the lieutenant’s visit and asked Stepan Grigoryevich to tell me what happened to his son and why the police detained him. Senior Gromikov sat down on the sofa opposite the chair where I was sitting.

Andrei explained it to me this way,” he began. - He doesn’t know this Krutanov, whose bicycle was taken away. One day, about a month ago, Andrei came out of a pub with a friend, and his bicycle was standing still. He's a fool, take it and sit down: there are drunken devils in his head. He drove around the block, came back and put it in place, and the owner could see it from the window! He was shaving, sitting in a chair next to him in the barber shop, and he jumped out with soap foam on one cheek, grabbing his hand. "Whose?" Andrey just laughed:

"I am Gromikov. The hunt has come." When the bike was actually stolen, Krutanov and point out. Do you understand?

“There was a case. So-and-so was trying it on.” Mine, as luck would have it, was noticed by the regional police department. For a fight with one... They gave both roosters fifteen days each... remember the December decree? Well, Andrei was suspected. Thank you, Ilya Grigorievich, otherwise who knows how it would have ended.

It’s not about “thank you,” I said. - You need to talk to the guy more often... and I, for my part, will carry out educational work. Andrey is capable and can become a good musician.

Yes, he promised not to put too much into his mouth.

Stepan Grigorievich asked me to drink tea, but I thanked him and refused. Probably already tired of waiting at home.

Two days later, when I came to dinner at three o’clock in the afternoon, my wife, putting a bread box on the table, said with a smile:

The rabbits in the grocery store were thrown out today. Of course, all the housewives rushed to the people. Well, me too.

I’m standing in line and hear a conversation: “Here’s where he’s caring. Not only in the orchestra, but also visiting people’s homes.

Why is that all? He grew up in a good family. Raised since childhood." At first I had no idea who they were gossiping about. I listened with half an ear, and then I became more alert.

Yes, this is about you, Ilyusha. “He’s a good musician, a conductor, he graduated from the Moscow Conservatory, he fought,” and they said your name.

From a good family? - I repeated after my wife. - Raised from an early age? You guessed it.

And I thought,” Anna Egorovna laughed after me. She knew my biography well, what a good family I had and how I was raised as a child.

Andrei Gromikov began to go to the orchestra class carefully, played the oboe, kept the instrument in order: he lubricated the valves with oil, wiped them dry with a flannel. He was helpful to me, as if he wanted to emphasize his gratitude and was embarrassed to openly express his feelings. I then asked Stepan Grigorievich not to tell my son anything about my participation in his “business,” but I’m afraid that the old man did not keep his word. I treated Andrey in the old way: I praised him for his success; if he suddenly didn’t do his homework or skipped classes, he didn’t give any concessions, scolding him harshly. Once again I went to the Gromikovs’ apartment, had a conversation, and discussed what and how best to influence their son, to keep him in “blinders” tighter.

“They babysit you a lot,” I once told my students during class. - In my time they taught more strictly. My first teacher, if we were out of tune, played the wrong note, fidgeted in class, he would hit us on the hands. A stick...with which I counted the beats. And there was an intellectual, a professor.

A week and a half has passed. After the next lesson, collecting notes and magazines, I noticed that Andrei lingered in class. The last few days he kept hovering around me, I felt that something was tormenting him.

I locked magazines and sheet music in the locker and it was as if I just noticed the guy.

And are you here? I'm at lunch.

We went out together, and as we walked up the stairs from the basement, he, blushing to the hair on his freckled forehead, asked me point blank:

Was it you, Ilya Grigorievich, who rescued me from the police?

Did they tell you at the department?

Yes. Then my mother confirmed it at home.

I didn't help you out. I showed the lieutenant the magazine... well, that’s all, “I’ve been wanting to thank you for a long time.”

For what? Thank yourself for not doing something that would have cost you dearly. Thank your parents...they raised you. Well, to be honest, it’s right that the police shook you. Let this warning serve as a warning to you for the rest of your life.

Andrei blushed even more and pursed his thin lips proudly. I knew this trait of his: he immediately stands on his hind legs, like a restive horse. But now Andrei considered himself obligated to me and did not bite the bit, did not object, did not show off.

Are you free now? - I said. - Isn’t it time to go to the factory yet? Let's talk now that we've started.

Andrei worked as a mechanic, like his father, which is why there was always money around. The family was generally wealthy. He silently walked alongside.

So, to be honest, you, Andrey, need to think about your behavior, reconsider some things. Do you know what I mean?

He nodded silently.

“I’ve already passed sixty,” I continued. - I've seen a lot and... I don't understand today's youth. The majority, of course, are healthy guys, studying and working. But part, and not so small... you just throw up your hands. What do they want? What are they interested in? That's not how we lived. They knew the price of a piece of bread, the price of a roof over your head, the price of a place at a mechanic's vice...

I noticed a slight smile and boredom in Andrey’s eyes. He continued persistently:

Do you think: “Well, the old conductor started singing”?

Your father must have talked to you like that more than once? Be patient, listen. Here you are, the son of a worker, a young mechanic yourself, studying for free in an orchestra class. If you want to go to college, the doors of the conservatory are wide open. Here I am, a former pupil of the Rukavishnikovsky orphanage, an inhabitant of an asphalt cauldron, police cells, and even then I received an education...

Andrey's eyes opened wide and he stopped.

You, Ilya Grigorievich... are you... in an asphalt cauldron, a police cell? You are not...

“I didn’t make a mistake,” I interrupted. - Everything you shamed. - the absolute truth. I’ll tell you more: I’ve gone through more than one prison in my life. I’m saying this so that you understand what Soviet power gave the people, built socialism... which we not so long ago defended with our blood from the Nazis. What are we worth?

Tell me, Ilya Grigorievich,” Andrey asked.

And I complied with his request.

I was born in 1906, orphaned early, having lost my father in the war, in the Masurian swamps. Mother worked as a maid for the gentlemen. She was young, beautiful and did not stay long in “good houses”: the owner or his eldest son began to pester, and the mother received payment from the jealous “lady”. And there I began to grow up: who needs a servant with a child? And when her mother reached her fifties, she found herself in the Workhouse. Here, together with other homeless women, she sewed some kind of “shoe covers” for the soldiers at the front. I always helped her, surprising her with my intelligence and dexterity. So at the age of ten I became a “shoemaker”.

When my mother died, I was sent to a shelter with Dr. Haaz in Sokolniki. Famine began, the king abdicated the throne. The Cadets were in power in Moscow.

In 1918, there was a big fire at the warehouses of the Ryazan station: warehouses burned and collapsed. I and the guys got the hang of stealing sugar and potatoes from the ruins, even though they were guarded by soldiers. I was caught by a friend, declared “defective” and transferred to the Rukavishnikovsky shelter, which was considered a correctional facility.

The boss there was first Zabugin, after him Schultz, but we were ruled by “guys” - burly fellows from retired soldiers, with heavy fists, often half-drunk. Their “pedagogical methods” and “suggestions” consisted of a punishment cell, slaps on the wrist, and even much more severe beatings.

The only bright spot for me in the Rukavishnikoz shelter was the brass band. The guys went into it reluctantly: do “do-o, re-e, mi-i...”, learn scales and notes on the trumpets, master the instrument. What's interesting here? We were taught by professor of the Moscow Conservatory Mikhail Prokofievich Adamov. At the shelter, Adamov received food rations, which is perhaps why he came to teach with us. Usually, finishing classes, Professor Adamov said:

Well, boys, how should you play, or what?

Everyone shouted in unison:

Play! Please.

Carefully, with his thin fingers, Adamov took the cornet-a-piston out of the case - a small curved silver-plated pipe with three valves - and the class froze. The professor's lips were thick. So he applied them to the instrument, and magical sounds filled the room. Usually he performed the Neapolitan dance of P. I. Tchaikovsky, Lelya's aria, and polkas.

I couldn’t breathe, I could hear the hair on the top of my head cracking and moving. I did not take my eyes off the professor’s puffy cheeks, from his red face, covered with sweat from tension, from his cleanly washed hands, his flying fingers, and sat motionless, shocked by the wondrous melody.

Adamov noticed my love for music. From the very first days, he heard me whistling various tunes and looked with interest. Calling us to the piano to check our hearing, he lingered especially long with me. Once he turned on a swivel stool and looked out from under his eyebrows.

Take it straight, whistler. True rumor.

And by the end of the first month he said:

You can become a musician. Which instrument do you like?

Cornet-a-piston.

Will you study seriously?

Saliva filled my throat with excitement, and I just nodded.

We all knew that Professor Adamov was a soloist in the Bolshoi Theater orchestra: he played the cornet-a-piston there. Maybe that’s why I chose this instrument, essentially not knowing any other? But from that time on, the main dream of my life was to have my own cornet-a-piston, a seemingly simple “horn”, but which produced captivating, bewitching sounds in the hands of a craftsman.

I didn't have much time to study. Life became more and more hungry, our “uncles” became wild, remembering with emotion the “Tsar-Father”. At our shelter there was a home church; in our educational system it was assigned almost the main role in instilling good morals and humility. They took us there in formation and continued to do so, despite the October “coup.” However, we already had a saying in Rukavishnikovsky: “Cut, Vanka, there is no God!” And one day I refused to go to mass. The men beat me mercilessly, injuring my hip. I fell ill, and when I started walking, I ran away from the shelter and never returned there. The Smolensky market was noisy nearby - there I found my new refuge. Our Protochny Lane stood out for the entire district: Krynkin’s restaurant, where the money was drunk, a hangout, music, cards and many shady personalities like me! Here I met teenage thieves: Kolya Zhuravlev, whose friendship connected us for decades, with Sasha Egoza, Monkey and other people who were not burdened with an excessive conscience.

Looking around, I, with the help of my new “homies,” determined my new life profile: I began to work “on the screen.” Moscow at that time was teeming with yesterday's gentlemen, or, as they now called it, "bourgeois." Many did not have time to escape to the Don to Ataman Kaledin, to Siberia to the Directory, the “supreme ruler” Admiral Kolchak, and now, expecting the fall of the Soviets any day now, they were slowly selling furs, jewelry, tuxedos, and silk dresses with puffs. I got the hang of unfastening gold brooches with diamonds and chains of pendants from ladies on the fly. The buddies, noticing the prey, always called me: “Ilyukha. It!” -that is a jewel. I studied the clasps on these pieces of jewelry and opened them with lightning-fast movements of three fingers. I was a good-looking boy, black-haired, short in stature, and did not arouse suspicion among the people milling about in the huge market, at the “flea market.” Nimble, nimble, I slipped out of any hands, quickly dived into the crowd - only they saw me.

Like all thieves, I dressed well: a corduroy jacket, chrome boots, a white cap, which is why they took me for “homey.”

In addition to pockets, brooches, and earrings, I was also involved in other types of the thief profession. In general, I didn’t have a strict “profile”, like many beginning gangsters at that time; whatever came to hand, he did it. Could the boots be removed from the locker? Filmed. Cut the ham? They cut it off. Pick up a load of underwear? They took it. Several people often acted “wobbly”.

We also walked “quietly,” always at four or five in the morning, no later. Everyone is sleeping, the windows in the houses are open.

You climb in, walk around on tiptoe, take a watch, a brooch. And then you go into the apartment during the day - it was also called “quiet”. You take your coat off the hanger, pass it to your friend, he immediately scurries away, and if the hostess comes out, you ask for some water. Get drunk and thank him politely. If you notice it’s missing, you make a surprised face. “Stole? What does it have to do with me? Search.”

We also had major thefts. Years passed, I grew up, gained experience, well-known thieves recognized me well and took me into their “business.” I especially enjoyed the thrift store on Arbat, which the three of us worked on. What was missing here! Paintings, bronze candelabra, fur rotundas, astrakhan coats, pieces of drape, silk, suits of different styles, carpets! My accomplices were tying knots, and I didn’t even touch anything: an elegant silver-plated cornet-a-piston from the French company Cortois and two Zimmermann trumpets caught my eye. “Ilyukha,” one of the buddies called out to me. “Why are you stuck in the mud? Grab the tsimes.” I just waved it off. The thieves are already accustomed to my “eccentricities.” I didn’t drink at all, refused to snort cocaine or smoke marijuana, I only indulged in cigarettes: “Ira”, “Duchess”, “D.E.” - "Give me Europe." What I always had in my bosom was chocolate. He gnawed all the time, could treat him to a bar at any time - then chocolate was sold by weight - and what’s surprising is that it didn’t ruin his teeth. I spent the night at first in asphalt boilers, entrances, and when the money started up, in “corners” and dens.

So I only took musical instruments from a thrift store on Arbat. He sold Zimmerman's pipes somewhere - I don't remember where now, but kept the corket-a-piston for himself. It was of the first grade, with golden leaves and birds on the silvered surface.

At night, in the shalman, the thieves played it, picking out melodies by ear. The thieves liked it, they sang along with me and danced. And I remembered Professor Adamov, how I whistled for him in Rukavishnikovsky, how he assured me that I would grow up to be a musician. "What if we start learning again? We have our own instrument." I was quick to make decisions, like the rest of our “gang”. The next morning I was already on Sadovo-Kudrinskaya. Here, in the gardens of the new zoo, on Kabanikhin Lane, Adamov lived in a wooden house. I went to see him more than once from the orphanage, became friends with his youngest son Leonid, who studied cello at the conservatory: we chased pigeons with him, hunted white Nicholas, pleki, monks. Secretly I looked at the professor’s daughter Tanya, the future ballerina of the Bolshoi Theater.

I went up to the second floor and called. They remembered me immediately and made me feel welcome.

“Oh, whistler,” said Mikhail Prokofievich, “where have you been?” What are you doing?

At the factory,” I lied. - Apprentice locksmith.

It was already 1920, I was fifteen years old. Mikhail Proksfievich has changed little: he remains lean, straight, not bent at all, the same aquiline nose, the sharp gaze of black eyes, even the same coat with tails.

Have you given up music, Ilyusha?

I took out the cornet-a-piston, hidden in the hallway, and showed it to the professor. He was pleasantly surprised.

Oh, what a magnificent instrument: the Cortois is first class. This is rare. Where did you get it?

In those years, they said “bought” less often, and “got it” more often. I felt myself blushing to my ears: what if the professor had seen my cornet-a-piston somewhere?

Now I wouldn't dare to do that anymore. I muttered: “From the hands of one Gavrik,” and in order to quickly change the topic, I took out a large bar of loose chocolate and put it on the table.

I think that this offering of mine impressed the owners more than the musical instrument. Questions began again, where did I get such a luxury, a “delicacy”? Again I had to lie: they say, I earn money on the side doing repairs, making lighters, and selling them on the Smolensk market.

Leonid and I were still chasing pigeons: he only had one pair of marble ones left. They sat me down for lunch, I refused, and when I was about to leave, I said to the professor:

What do I want to ask, Mikhail Prokofievich. Will you accept me as a student again? I'll pay.

So I again began taking music lessons from Professor Adamov. I came to his house carefully three times a week and worked hard. Cornet-a-piston became my favorite friend; when I went to bed, I put it next to me. I picked out the melodies of fashionable songs by ear, played “Internationale”, “Gop-with-bow”, which thieves loved very much, but very soon I mastered both scales and the treble clef, and could easily understand the notes.

A lot of suspicious people usually gathered in the vacant lot near the market, and there was always a card massacre going on; they washed their farts at Krynkin’s restaurant, and, of course, “cops” from Maly Gnezdnikovsky, where the Moscow Criminal Investigation Department was located in those years, often came here. And as soon as they showed up, I began to cut the “Internationale” with all the strength of my lungs. This served as a conditioned signal: danger!

Thieves, speculators, hucksters - the entire “black aristocracy” immediately scattered, and the search agents wondered why the little people swarming around disappeared.

Still, they guessed that the matter could not be accomplished without me. I pretended to be a simpleton: “What are you talking about? I’m studying with Professor Adamov. I’m preparing a lesson.” Perhaps they made inquiries from Maly Gnezdnikovsky, and Mikhail Prokofievich confirmed: yes, a capable locksmith guy goes to see him. And I changed the password, and during the next raid I played either “Apple” or “Barynya”, and again the agents were greeted by a bare wasteland.

My studies with Adamov would have been very successful if there had been no misfires. The fact is that, after studying for two or three months, I suddenly disappeared for a whole six months and did not show my nose on Kabanikhin Lane: this meant that they still caught me and put me behind bars. After such absences, Mikhail Prokofievich became angry:

Again, Ilya! - he met. - It’s impossible to do that. As soon as we get better, get into the rhythm, you’ll disappear. Your embouchure will disappear. And he must develop.

An embouchure is a “callus” on the upper lip caused by a trumpet. There is no embouchure, there is no ease in playing, and without exercise, the fingers lose flexibility and speed of movement.

“Work, Mikhail Prokofievich,” I wriggled out. - The recovery period in the republic, or don’t you know? An urgent task, almost days at a workbench behind a vice.

Finally he once told me:

Do you want me to call the factory and explain to them... what are they called now: factory committees? You have the ability, workers love everything now. Do you want me to go? What street is your business on?

I barely dissuaded the professor, promising that I would now attend more carefully. “Where did we stop there?” Adamov asked, giving up, but still angrily. “I’ve already forgotten. No wonder: I didn’t show up for five months. You’re my only such student.” I myself barely remembered: “You explained these... sharps.” The professor remembered: “Hm. Have you already given me the major scale? Let’s start with the minor scale... up to three signs.”

The classes continued until my next vacation somewhere in Butyrki or Taganka. The fact is that my “honeymoon” in freedom is over. What is it like for thieves? When? Always at the beginning of the "activity". As a boy, when they grabbed me and couldn’t escape, I began to whimper, out of fear shed a real tear: “Any day, I won’t do it anymore. I wanted to eat. My little sister is hungry at home.” They expressed their condolences to me in the crowd that gathers in markets and fleas over all sorts of incidents; they stood up for me: “What life has come to! Good children even go astray. Let him go!”

Adults are not so pitied. Even though I wasn’t tall, I had a feeling in my shoulders and a sharp look in my eyes, and I became familiar on Smolensky, in the vacant lot, in Krynkin’s restaurant. The main thing is that I have already been registered both at the local police station and at the “corner” on Maly Gnezdnikovsky. When they took me to fingerprinting and took my fingerprints, photographed and sent out my “sign”, and got acquainted with me in prisons, then came the collapse that happens to all thieves: now I had spent more time in prison than walking free. “Backs” and “dirty tracks” trailed behind me; I could not hide behind a fictitious name; I was immediately identified and brought to light.

Every time I went to jail, I went to a shoemaker's shop. Why to the shoe shop? But even in my adolescence I helped my mother in the Workhouse to sew “shoe covers”, slippers, and duvets. My fingers are dexterous, fast, and also well-developed for the cornet-a-piston, and I soon learned how to perfectly knot, sew, and cut blanks. The main thing I could do was pull burkas, a “tricky” job that not everyone could master. The shoemaker's workshop in Butyrki was run by the civilian Armenian Abayants.

Seeing how I was wielding a shoe knife, an awl, and a rasp, he exclaimed: “That’s what I need!” and put the burok to tighten.

A month passed, then six months, and then another, and I still sat in Butyrki. Party after party was sent to Solovki, they did not touch me; Every time Abayants ran to the head of the prison, begged: “The shoemaker will be naked,” and they left me.

And then one day the cell door opened and I was stunned: my old friends came in - Kolya Chinarik, Alekha Chuvaev, Kolya Vorobyov, nicknamed "Gaga" - he stuttered heavily - two more unknown guys, all well dressed, with haircuts, tanned.

We said hello, and they began to persuade me to go to Bolshevo. “You’ll live well, Ilyukha. Why should you feed the prison bugs?”

We had already heard about the labor commune near Moscow in Butyrki and believed that “cops” lived there. And how could our prisoner brother think otherwise? All orphanages and colonies were in the system of the People's Commissariat for Education, while the Bolshevo commune was organized by the OGPU. What else!

I was a little embarrassed by the fact that among these “cops” were my close buddies - good thieves, desperate guys. However, this did not captivate me.

“I’m not bad in prison,” I said.

Do they take you for walks? - Chinarik asked sarcastically. - A whole hour around the yard?

We laughed.

“What made them sell?” I wondered. “What did you buy them with?”

It’s clear, Ilyukha, you think that we sold ourselves to the cops,” said Alekha Chuvaev: he was always distinguished among young gangsters by his intelligence and courage, and it was not for nothing that he later became the director of a shoe factory in Bolshevo. - Don’t rack your brains in vain, it’s not in your head right now. You need to live in a commune, then you will understand. But you won’t play “Internationale” so that we will run away... remember the vacant lot on Protochny? On the contrary, they would come running and pull you up in unison.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, so as not to upset my former comrades with their refusal.

“Think, think,” said Kolya Gaga, stuttering. “Maybe a head like a camel’s will grow.”

We parted laughing.

Returning to the common cell, I again sat down on the upper bunk, where I had previously played preference.

"Shall we continue?" - I said cheerfully. The homemade cards were already hidden: the prisoners did not know why they had called me. One of the partners, the most famous adventurer in the criminal world, the “safeguard” Alexey Pogodin, who, as he himself said, had been hit by a government bullet for a long time, asked: “Why were they dragging you?”

I answered bravely: “They persuaded me to go to Bolshevo. To get him to screw me up.” Pogodin said nothing, only looked vigilantly with his piercing brown eyes. The preference continued. I began to tell how, in freedom, I met the famous billiard virtuoso Berezin, a student of the famous Levushka, who hit the ball through a glass with a burning candle, and how I adopted many of the playing techniques from him: pyramid, carom.

In the evening, when Pogodin and I were smoking by the window to go to bed, he said quietly and very seriously:

In vain, Ilyushka, he refused Bolshev. You’ll be free, these laces won’t be an eyesore,” he nodded at the iron bars. - You are still young, your whole life is ahead of you. We are all screwed here. After all, all our “deeds” are also a game of chance. I was already lost... I thought they would give me a tower. Once again they spared: a chervonets. I’m forty-six, but I would go to a commune, but they wouldn’t take me, I left too much behind. Agree before it’s too late... and then don’t forget me. Talk to Pogrebinsky: a man with a head.

It was then that I thought: “How? Alexey Pogodin himself would willingly go to Bolshevo? Why is this being done? The criminal world is collapsing.” Yes, I have already begun to understand and feel the iron paw of the law the hard way: you live as if on an island, and wherever you step there is a prison. You will rot in a cell, in camp barracks.

About a month later, I was called back to the reception room, and I again saw the Bolshevo people there, and with them a short, black-eyed man in a kubanka, a leather jacket, with a mustache over rather thick but moving lips.

Is this guy breaking down? - He said, looking tenaciously at me with his black eyes. - I wouldn’t bother with you, but your friends are asking for you, they say “International”, you play the trumpet well. Well?

I guessed that this was probably the famous Pogrebinsky.

My heart was beating faster, I was sweating: my fate was being decided.

“But no need,” the man in the kubanka snapped: it really was Pogrebinsky. - We'll make do. They ask to come to us, and we can’t take them all yet.

“That’s right, they’re asking,” I remembered Pogodin and smiled from ear to ear.

Who told you that I don’t want to? - I said to Pogrebinsky. - Maybe I’ve already changed my mind and at least like this, in shoe covers, I’m ready to go to the commune?

For a second, Pogrebinsky’s gaze remained sharp and angry. And suddenly he smiled too, put his fingers into my thick, long-grown hair, and tugged sensitively.

This conversation would be long overdue.

And here I am in Bolshevo.

Having looked around the commune, I realized that there is probably no better place on earth than Bolshevo. Why? Firstly, secondly, and thirdly - at large. Fourthly, work is no longer in a small shoe workshop, but in a shoe factory, behind the machines. Fifthly, if you work hard conscientiously, your pocket will swell; in your own Bolshevo cooperative, you’ll grab a coat, a suit, and pay like a bourgeois, in cash and labor. The club is at your service, cinema, amateur clubs, football. And what was also very, very important was that there were people around. Self-love is perhaps one of the Archimedean levers with which the Earth moved. No one here threw it in my face: “Thief.

Convict." They are like that. Full of buddies by choice, from serving time in different prisons. We compete with each other, trying not to let us down: in the cases of thieves it was heads, but now it’s tails? This can’t be done.

Naturally, he chose a job in shoe making. My workmates tried their best, but they didn’t have enough experience, and I also didn’t have the acumen. I see that the tightening norm is thirty pairs. I worked, I worked, I got tired of it. “Why are they moving their claws like crayfish?!” And he gave fifty pairs. There is a commotion in the workshop, they don’t believe it, the foreman has come, the trade union organizer, the director - everyone is checking, wondering. "Done cleanly. What a fellow!" In the first years we had a lot of civilian workers in Bolshevo.

Apparently, our bosses didn’t really believe that the thief would work like a shock. And did we have to take an example from someone? So they installed Muscovites. Among the highly qualified, who will go to the Arkharovites? They recruited “second-hand” ones, already older: some were lame, some were rheumatic. Seeing that my record was not accidental - I give fifty pairs per puff a day, the second, a week - they were indignant, muttering: “Upstart! Boy! We can’t run from machine to machine like him. He broke the norm!” The fact is that before we worked quite primitively. First, I had to smear the toe of the boot with a mixture of acetone at the table, and then quickly jump to the machine to tighten it. I got angry: “Oh, are you like that, old stumps?” And he gave me ninety pairs per shift. What was going on here! Pogrebinsky came, examined my boots, laughed for a long time, and then said to the director of the factory:

You'll have to make Ilya a master. Otherwise the old people will hit him on the head with a spandrel or a block. They'll kill you.

He insisted that they give me one hundred and sixty rubles in salary. The norm at the shoe shop was nevertheless increased to fifty pairs per shift. So they began to call it “Petrovskaya”.

It’s impossible to say that I immediately took root in Bolshevo. There was hardly a single person from our brother who would not yearn for “freedom”, the former wild life. Whose secret is that during the Civil War, most criminals became anarchists? The people are unbridled, discipline for them is like a cross for the devil. In the first days, I also thought: was it in vain that I exchanged Butyrki for this almshouse?

Maybe we should escape from here? Here every day I go to work. If something goes wrong, they drag him to the conflict room, put him in front of the general meeting and warm him up like that - he would have failed out of shame.

The great merit of the administration and educators of the Bolshevo labor commune was that they all tried to unravel the character of each of us and help advance us. That's how it was with me,

It seems that you, Ilya, know how to play International? - Pogrebinsky once asked me. - Well, let's start our own orchestra. It's time.

I just smiled to myself. “He sees that he’s bored, he consoles.” And he gasped when a week later they brought trumpets, a drum and... a cornet-a-piston. Not silver plated, from the Cortua company, which I once stole from a thrift store on Arbat and subsequently lost, but quite usable. That same evening I announced a list of Communards willing to join the orchestra, which I began to conduct. I wanted to recommend Adamov to the commune as a teacher, but would he agree? He taught at the conservatory and continued to play at the Bolshoi Theater. For some reason I was embarrassed to go to him myself. We took Vasily Ivanovich Agapkin, conductor of the Central School.

Eight months after moving from Butyrki to Bolshevo, I brought Alexei Pogodin to us, and the next year I vouched for Nikolai Zhuravl, an old friend from the Smolensk market. I don’t remember such a case when the criminal investigation department or the OGPU refused requests from our team.

Since the Bolshevites asked, it means they were responsible for the people they took.

I became a prominent person in the commune. Pogrebinsky suggested that I leave the shoe factory and take a permanent job as a conductor. “Why?” I refused. “I’ll be on the bandwagon during the day, and the orchestra in the evening.” I was nominated as a member of the conflict-ridden Committee for Missing Rides, and then I became the chairman?! her. I had to sort out a lot of different “cases” here.

Maxim Gorky came to us in Bolshevo several times. We also went to his dacha in Gorki, a hundred people at a time, with a whole song and dance ensemble.

Gorky advised me to go study, and Pogrebinsky repeated this more than once, and in 1934 I entered the workers' faculty at the conservatory in Moscow, and after graduating, I went to preparatory courses. At that time, Professor Adamov was no longer there, and I never saw him again. In 1938 I graduated from the conservatory and was sent to Voronezh. Here he became the division's bandmaster and at the same time the second conductor of the Philharmonic.

Well, then there’s the Patriotic War, participation in the defense of Moscow. I gave twenty-five years of my life to the army. In 1960, he was demobilized with the rank of major and has government awards. And then again I felt the urge to go “home”: I returned to Bolshevo, and here everything was new, instead of a village there was the city of Kaliningrad. On the basis of our former commune plant, a giant grew up, at whose cultural center the orchestra was organized.

And now I’m teaching you,” I continued my story to Andrei Gromikov. The OGPU commune turned my thieves' hands into labor hands. Do you understand now, Andrei, why I am interested in your fate? I experienced first-hand what “thieves’ romance” is, and I wouldn’t wish it on my enemy. Yes, and the habit of playing around, helping in the destinies of the “stumbled” lyugs took its toll... for how many years he was the chairman of the conflict jumission. You, on top of everything else, are not a stranger to me, a student... and capable. You know how many excellent musicians I have raised. Several people play in the Exemplary Orchestra of the Ministry from the Harrow, Seryozha Soloviev in the State Orchestra of the RSFSR, Leva Kochetkov - with Utesov, and there is also Silantiev on the radio! And you can follow this path... and then, sure enough, you might end up in an operetta. Just study properly, don’t miss classes... and look into your beer mug less often, stop being naughty. Here...

They walked in silence for some time. Andrey seemed to be chewing on everything I told him.

Well, of course, no one can talk about this... you, Ilya Grigorievich, don’t worry.

“It’s your business,” I laughed again. - I'm not going to hide anything, Andrey. The last decades of my working life and service to the Motherland are voting for me. Only philistines, ordinary people can judge me.

In general, is it possible to beat someone because a person slipped, fell... but got back on his feet, no matter how difficult it was? Of course, it's better to hold on tight. Therefore, when your elders “sing boring songs” to you, do not shrug it off. Well, here I go. Be!

We broke up.

What else can I add? Four years have passed since then, Andrei has long since received his “diploma” and plays the oboe in our orchestra. True, he didn’t go to music school, he got married, he works as a mechanic at a factory in the sixth category: he goes with his father.

Maxim Gorky has a book "My Universities". My university and that of my comrades was the Bolshevo labor commune of OGPU No. 1. It was there that we acquired a profession, received an education, and, as they say, “became people.”

A cornet is a brass musical instrument, similar to a trumpet, but equipped with pistons rather than valves. It was created in France in the 30s.

Cornet: structural features of a musical instrument Cornet: structural features of a musical instrument

At the top of the cornet there are buttons, presented in the form of a piston mechanism. They are located at the same height as the mouthpiece, which, in turn, is placed on the main pipe and is needed to reproduce sound. At the bottom of the case there are keys necessary for removing condensate. There is also a bell designed for the “exit” of sounds.

The length of the musical instrument is up to 60 centimeters, so the cornet is bought in cases where there is a need for frequent travel. The shiny case made of copper adds to its presentability. The cornet successfully stands out among other wind instruments in the orchestra.

The cornet has a wide tonal range, including up to three octaves. This feature allows the instrument to reproduce not only classical works, but also more complex ones. The main advantage of the clarinet is its ability to play music that requires fluency. The softness of the timbre is expressed in the first octave. In the lower register, the sound of the instrument becomes somewhat gloomy.

Cornet: what models can you buy at an affordable price in Moscow? Cornet: what models can you buy at an affordable price in Moscow?

Among the budget models of cornets, which can be purchased in Moscow stores at an affordable price, the following are in highest demand:

1 Maxtone TCC53L. The model was released under a famous Chinese brand. The instrument stands out for its high build quality, beautiful clear sound, and reliable mechanics. This model of cornet is suitable for beginning musicians because it can be purchased at an affordable price. The diameter of the bell is 121 mm, the mouthpiece is 11.8 mm.

2 Odyssey OCR200. The cornet is of good quality, but has a low cost. This model, like the previous one, is suitable for beginners, however, professionals also enjoy using it. The bell diameter reaches 119 mm, the scale length is 11.68 mm. The instrument has 3 valves.

The cornet or zinc is considered an undeservedly forgotten hero of musical art. For two centuries - XVI-XVII, it was one of the most popular instruments in Europe, because not a single city festival could do without it. It was believed that it was most similar to the human voice, so its sound evoked special feelings among listeners.

Surprisingly, today the cornet is classified as a brass instrument, although it was made of wood - sycamore, pear, or plum. It sounds like a trumpet, but its voice is slightly weaker and softer. The appearance of the cornet is depicted on the bas-relief of Lincoln Cathedral: it is a conical tube with seven holes. This instrument could vary in shape: it was made in straight and curved shapes. Curved cornets were considered exclusive; they were covered with leather or even made of ivory.

It is believed that one of the main reasons for the oblivion of this musical instrument was the epidemic of diseases that swept across Europe in the 17th century, which was called the “Great Plague”. Swift and merciless, she did not leave the most talented cornet virtuosos alive. The former glory of their instrument went with them.