Ze year vas 1972. I vas born in a small city in the Soviet Union. My birthplace, an instrument factory, vas a model of ze industrialized mass production that vas ze pride of our society. For ze first veeks of my life I lived in a dark concrete room, but I vas in the company of hundreds of my kind. Ve vere all different colors--red, green, silver, blue--but vat ve all had in common vas ze label reading "Marinka Accordion."
Eventually my box vas picked up and loaded onto an rusting truck. I was dropped of at a ze back of an old brick building, vith a sign emblazoned "музыкальный магазин (Music Store)." I vas placed carefully on vooden shelf by bearded old man, ze shop's owner. Zere I sat for weeks, vaiting.
And vaiting.
More zan a month passed until finally a very skinny young man valked into ze store. He poked around ze tiny shop, investigating an old guitar, then a blemished trumpet, before finally turning to the shelf vere I sat alone.
He lifted me by my leather strap, and asked ze shop owner a question. I vas so excited to be held zat I did not pay attention to vat he said. Ze shop owner grunted and vent into ze back storeroom.
I panicked--vas zere something wrong? Vas he looking for a different color? Vould he put me back on ze shelf to vait for ze rest of ze century?
I vas in ze middle of my meltdown ven I realized ve vere moving. Ze young man looked around guiltily, to check zat ze store owner vas still in ze back, zen he ran out ze door, with me still in his arms.
I vas shocked. I had never experienced crime before (partially because I had only lived in a factory, a box, and a music store) but I knew zat it had been wrong for ze young man to take me vithout paying ze owner. And yet, I vas so happy to be outside and avay from my shelf zat it did not matter.
Ze next day ze man took me from my new spot on ze table in his tiny apartment and ve again vent outside. Zis time, ve walked up and down ze street, playing music. I realized it vas ze first time I had ever made noise, and it vas beautiful. Ze people on ze streets of Moscow must have thought ze same, because they smiled and gave us rubles venever zey passed us.
By ze time night fell ze young man's pockets vere full of coins, and he began to valk back to his house, still playing intricate melodies. Ven ve rounded a corner, ve saw ze music store from which I had been stolen only a day ago. It vas closed now, but still ze man frowned at it from across ze street. He stood still, thinking. Zen he slowly reached into his pockets and pulled out all of ze money zat we had earned today.
He turned suddenly and marched across ze street until ve got to ze doorstep of ze store. He set me down on ze cold concrete and looked around the empty street. Carefully, he pushed ze coins through ze crack in ze door until his pockets vere empty. Finally he stood up and pulled out a pen and paper, scribbled a short note, and shoved it under ze door. It fell on top of ze pile of coins, and I read it as ze man picked me up again and hurried avay.
It said "спасибо за маринка."
Thank you for the Marinka.
nice
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