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The first courtyard on old Zhilyanskaya, 34, like the second and third, was guarded by 60-year-old Uncle Kolya, a menacing classic bearded janitor, who wore cowhide boots and a canvas apron in winter and summer, with some kind of badge on his chest, denoting his unlimited powers in all the courtyards connected by the arches of our pre-revolutionary houses, with the sheds in the third courtyard and several brick garages in the second, the owners of which drove around in pre-war Pobedas, Moskvichs and one 21st Volga, the owner of which, a certain 35-year-old Semyon Broishman, a famous Kiev saxophonist, in the summertime would belt out blues roulades from the open window of his communal apartment. Publication in CHAT: RussiaThe yard was locked by Uncle Kolya with ancient forged gates with a heavy chain and an equally heavy padlock, and no one could get into the yard after 12 midnight. Unless they got over the three-meter brick fence between the two houses, built, like the houses in our communal apartments, from white Kyiv bricks from the pre-revolutionary company of the Roisman brothers. Since our childhood in the yard fell on the mid-1960s, therefore, Uncle Kolya at 60 remembered his pre-revolutionary childhood, his father, who in the tsarist times also conscientiously served as a janitor. And a janitor in those days was a person of state level, kept duplicate keys to many apartments, reported to the district police chief, had a badge on his chest, and in case of disorder immediately blew a siren from a service whistle, which was not inferior to the sound of a pre-war locomotive. The favorite yard of our children's team was the second one. There was a tennis table there, and the area between the house and the garages served as a football field, here they also played knives - they threw them into the ground, dividing the drawn circle. The winner was the one who managed to cut the ground from the opponent. They also played wall, throwing coins against the wall of the house. They took turns throwing their coins so that they bounced off the "cone" and fell to the ground. They remembered where whose coin fell. The winner was the one who could cover the distance between his and someone else's coin with the fingers of one hand. The most difficult game was the baker's game. Forgotten now, but very exciting, probably popular more than one century ago. The game requires throwing sticks - bats - for each of the players. Players, throwing the bat strictly in turns, try to knock the ryukha out of the circle. At this time, the baker's task is to prevent other players from knocking down the ryukha with his bat, "tag" the player (touch the player with his bat) and knock the ryukha down himself. If the baker's ryukha is knocked down, the "tag" player becomes the baker. If the ryukha is broken, the baker must put it back in place. However, this wisdom could only be learned through practice. But let's not get distracted from the main character of our story - Granny Katya. Her house, similar to a closet, with a tiny front garden, was somehow attached to the back wall of the house. Granny Katya, a small plump woman with kerchiefs wrapped around her head even in the heat, looked after the yard cats, which multiplied at the speed of a chain reaction, so that in March and February there was a real howl of fighting male cats in the yards. Naturally, such a violent cat invasion could not please the residents of our yards. Someone managed to drown new offspring in the trash can, and someone called the "booth", whose employees, like Bulgakov's Sharikov, arrived at the scene with a net and huge net nets, with which they covered the frightened Murziks and threw them into the cage of a car van. We, boys, could not watch these atrocities indifferently. Climbing onto the roofs of the barns, we threw sticks and stones at the sadists – not without the risk of being caught by one of them. But then granny Katya appeared from her closet. On a wooden tray in her hands stood a bottle of vodka, sliced ​​sausage, onions and cucumbers. Here also lay several “chervonets” – Soviet ten-ruble notes. Smiling, she headed to the booth and handed the tray to the senior sadist with these words: - Here, my dears, try some sausage, drink a glass to my health. I am sick, and these cats are healing me. Do you know, my dears, what the Scripture says? "The Lord has mercy on the beasts," and the Apostle Paul added: "For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers pain together until now because of the sins of men." And who will protect them, my dears? Respect the old woman, go with God. Don't touch the cats, because they are our smaller brothers... The employees of the “booth” – three drunken men – did not listen very closely to the missionary speeches of Baba Katya; they were more interested in the contents of the tray with vodka, snacks and red chervonets bills. - Okay, old lady, we won't touch your cats. But remember: if they continue to breed like this and prevent people from sleeping, create unsanitary conditions, you won't be able to get away with heating... Rent a car and take them somewhere to the village, to the field, to the forest. Otherwise, look, tomorrow the local police officer will come to you and write you such a fine that your pension won't be enough... - Yes, my dears, I will try. God bless you for your kindness. And we, boys, stood on the roof of the barn with our mouths open, watching as the GAZ-53 with the “booth” van set off on its way. When I grew up and entered university, I went into the Florovsky Monastery on Podol and saw a bent old woman in black. A whole flock of cats was circling around her. I recognized Granny Katya. She had hardly changed, only her face was covered with a network of wrinkles, through which, it seemed to me, some special light was radiating. Author: Deacon Sergiy Geruk Original source Source link