SOVIET LITERATURE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

ANATOLY RYBAKOV

THE DIRK A story

————————————————————————————— ———— Foreign Languages PUBLISHING HOUSE MOSCOW 1954 ___________________________________

OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY DAVID SKVIRSKY ILLUSTRATED BY 0.VEREISKY DESIGNED BY A.VLASOVA

CONTENTS Part I REVSK Chapter 1 —The Damaged Inner Tube Chapter 2 —The Boys of Ogorodnaya and Alekseyevskaya Streets Chapter 3 —Affairs and Dreams Chapter 4 —The Punishment Chapter 5 — The Tree Hut Chapter 6 — The Raid Chapter 7 — Mother Chapter 8 — Visitors Chapter 9 — The Battleship Empress Maria Chapter 10 — Departure Chapter 11 — In the Troop Train Chapter 12 — The Railway Guard's Cabin Chapter 13 — Bandits Chapter 14 — Farewell Part II THE COURT IN ARBAT STREET Chapter 15 — A Year Later Chapter 16 — The Bookcase Chapter 17 — Genka Chapter 18 — Borka, the Skinflint Chapter 19 — Shura Bolshoi Chapter 20 — The Club Chapter 21 — Acrobats Chapter 22 — The "Art" Cinema Chapter 23 — The Dramatic Circle Chapter 24 — The Cellars Chapter 25 — Suspicious Characters Chapter 26 — The Aerial Runway Chapter 27 — The Secret Chapter 28 — The Code Part III NEW FRIENDS

2

Chapter 29 — Ellen Bush Chapter 30 — The Purchase Chapter 31 — Mikhail Korovin Chapter 32 — Misha Has a Talk with Mother Chapter 33 — The Black Fan Chapter 34 — Aunt Agrippina Chapter 35 — Filin Chapter 36 — In Krasnaya Presnya District Chapter 37 — A Slight Misunderstanding Chapter 38 — Impressions Chapter 39 — Artists Chapter 40 — Experienced Sleuths Chapter 41 — The Performance Part IV DETACHMENT No 17 Chapter 42 — Young Pioneers Chapter 43 — The Playground Chapter 44 — Yura's Bicycle Chapter 45 — The Ribbon Chapter 46 — Plans Chapter 47 — Preparing for Camp Chapter 48 — In Camp Chapter 49 — The Quartermaster General Chapter 50 — The Camp-Fire Chapter 51 — Mysterious Preparations Chapter 52 — The Cart Chapter 53 — The Sheath Part V GRADE SEVEN Chapter 54 — Auntie Brosha Chapter 55 — Class Meeting Chapter 56 — Lethory Chapter 57 — A Strange Inscription Chapter 58 — The Wall Newspaper Chapter 59 — The Regimental Gunsmith Chapter 60 — A Drawing Lesson Chapter 61 — Boris Fyodorovich Chapter 62 — Grandmother Podvolotskaya and Aunt Sonya Chapter 63 — Letters Part VI THE COTTAGE IN PUSHKINO

3

Chapter 64 — Slava Chapter 65 — Konstantin Alekseyevich Chapter 66 — Correspondence Chapter 67 — Genka's Birthday Party Chapter 68 — Pushkino Chapter 69 — Nikitsky Chapter 70 — About Father Chapter 71 — Genka's Blunder Chapter 72 — Face to Face with Nikitsky Chapter 73 — The Terentyev Family Chapter 74 — New Members of the Komsomol

4

Part I REVSK Chapter 1 THE DAMAGED INNER TUBE Misha got up noiselessly from his bed, dressed, and slipped out to the porch. The broad, empty street was dozing in the warmth of the early morning sun. Only the crowing of roosters broke the silence, and from the house came an occasional cough and sleepy mumbling—the first sounds of animation in the cool stillness of repose. Misha screwed up his eyes and shivered. He felt like going back to his warm bed, but the thought of the catapult red-headed Genka had been parading yesterday made him shake off his sleepiness, and he picked his way carefully across the squeaky floor-boards to the store-room. A narrow ray of light coming from a tiny window near the ceiling fell on a bicycle against the wall. It was an old machine that had been assembled from spare parts; its tyres were flat, the spokes broken and rusty, and the chain cracked. On the wall over the bicycle hung a torn inner tube with patches of every hue and colour; Misha took it down, cut out two thin strips with his penknife, and replaced it so that the cuts were hidden against the wall. He cautiously opened the door and was about to leave the storeroom, when he suddenly caught sight of Polevoy in the passage, barefooted, in a

5

striped jersey and with his hair all rumpled. Misha softly pulled the door back, leaving it slightly ajar, and watched through the narrow opening. Polevoy went into the yard, stopped in front of a neglected kennel, and looked about him attentively. "Why isn't he asleep?" Misha wondered. "And he's behaving queerly, too." Everyone called Polevoy "Comrade Commissar." He was a tall strongly built man with fair hair and sly, laughing eyes. He had once been a sailor, and he always wore wide black trousers and a jacket that smelled of tobacco, and carried a revolver on a belt under the jacket. All the boys envied Misha because Polevoy lived in his house. "Why isn't he in bed?" Misha thought. "Now I'll never get out of here!" Polevoy sat on a log near the kennel and looked round the yard again. His searching gaze swept the opening Misha was peeping through and the windows of the house. Then he slipped his hand under the kennel, rummaged about a long time evidently feeling for something, and finally straightened up, rose to his feet, and went back to the house. The door of his room made a scraping sound, the bed creaked under his heavy weight, and everything became still again. Misha wanted to start making a catapult right away, but he also wanted to know what Polevoy had looked for under the kennel. He moved up to it stealthily, then stopped to think. Should he look? What if someone saw him? Misha sat on the log and eyed the windows. No, it was wrong to be so inquisitive ... he scooped out the earth and thrust his hand under the kennel. Of course there was nothing there, Misha told himself. He had simply imagined that Polevoy was looking for something. He rummaged about under the kennel. Nothing, of course! Only earth. He would not take it out and look at it even if something was hidden there; all he wanted was to make sure. His fingers touched something soft like a piece of cloth. So there was something there, after all. Should he take it out? Misha looked at the house again, gave the cloth a tug, scraped away the earth, and pulled out a package. As he opened the package the steel blade of a dagger flashed in the sunlight. A dirk! Naval officers carried dirks like that. It had three sharp edges and no sheath. Coiled round the yellowed bone handle was a small bronze serpent with open jaws and tongue curled upwards. It was only an ordinary naval dirk. Why was Polevoy hiding it? Strange. Very strange—Misha inspected the dirk again, then wrapped it in the cloth, put it back under the kennel, covered it with earth, and returned to the porch. The gates of neighbouring yards were thrown open with a clatter and the cows, their tails swishing, lumbered out importantly to join a passing herd. They were followed by a boy who wore a long ragged coat that came down to his bare heels and a sheepskin cap. He was shouting at the cows and deftly cracking a whip that trailed after him in the dust like a snake. Misha thought of the dirk as he sat on the porch making the catapult. It was an ordinary one, except for the small bronze serpent. But what was Polevoy hiding it for?

6

He finished the catapult. It was better than Genka's, he was sure, and, to try it, he picked up a stone and let it fly at some sparrows hopping in the street. The stone missed the target. The sparrows flew off and alighted on the neighbouring fence. Misha wanted to try another shot but was stopped by the sound of steps in the house, the grating of the damper, and the splashing of water in the tub. He hid the catapult under his shirt and went into the kitchen. Grandmother was moving large baskets of cherries that stood on a bench. She was wearing a greasy dressing-gown, the pockets weighed down with keys. Her plump face was careworn and furrowed with wrinkles, and nearsightedness made her blink her small, slightly squinting eyes. "Take your hands off!" she exclaimed when Misha put his hand into a basket. "The idea... with dirty paws!" "Stingy!" Misha grumbled. "You can have some later. Go and wash yourself first." Misha went to the sink; he wetted his palms under the tap, touched the tip of his nose, slid his hands across the towel, and went to the dining-room. Grandfather was already there, sitting in his customary seat "at the head of the long table covered with a brown oilcloth with a flowered pattern. He was a grey-haired old man with a thin beard and a reddish moustache, and when Misha came in he was using his thumb to carry a pinch of tobacco to his nostrils and sneezing into a yellow handkerchief. There was laughter in his lively eyes, set in kindly beaming wrinkles, and from his jacket came a mild, pleasant smell, that was exclusively his own. Breakfast had not yet been served, and to while away the time Misha pushed his plate into the middle of a rose in the pattern of the oilcloth and with his fork traced a ring round it. A deep scratch appeared on the oilcloth. "My respects to Mikhail Grigoryevich!" Polevoy's merry voice boomed behind Misha. Polevoy came out of his room with a towel tied round his waist. "Good morning, Sergei Ivanovich," Misha replied with a sly look at Polevoy: he would never guess that Misha knew about the dirk! Misha covered the scratch with his elbows when Grandmother carried the samovar into the room. "Where's Senya?" Grandfather asked. "In the store-room," Grandmother replied. "Took it into his head to repair his bicycle at this unearthly hour!" Misha started at these words and took his elbows off the table, forgetting all about the scratch. Went to repair the bike?! Just his luck! Uncle Senya had not gone near the bicycle all summer and of all days he had to do the repairing to-day. He was bound to see the tube now and make a tiresome fuss. Uncle Senya certainly was a nuisance! If Misha got into a scrape with Grandmother she would simply give him a scolding and let it go at that. But not Uncle Senya. Not him! His style was to curl his lips and begin a long lecture. Whenever that happened he would look past Misha, fidget with his

7

pince-nez, endlessly putting it on and taking it off, pull at the gilt buttons on his student uniform. Misha could not see why he still wore that uniform: he had been expelled from the university a long time ago for "stirring up disturbances." It would be interesting to know what disturbances such a well-mannered person as Uncle Senya could stir up. His face was pale and grave, and he wore a short moustache. At dinner he usually squinted over a book and ate his food absent-mindedly. The clatter of the bicycle in the store-room made Misha start again. And when Uncle Senya appeared in the doorway with the slashed tube in his hand Misha sprang out of his chair, overturning it as he dashed out of the house. Chapter 2 THE BOYS OF OGORODNAYA AND ALEKSEYEVSKAYA STREETS He dashed across the garden, scrambled over the fence and landed in the neighbouring street—Ogorodnaya. Only a hundred yards separated this street from his own—the Alekseyevskaya; but the Ogorodnaya boys, sworn enemies of the boys from the Alekseyevskaya, noticed Misha and charged upon him from all sides, gleefully whooping and whistling at the prospect of beating up a boy from the Alekseyevskaya, and a Moscovite to boot. Misha quickly climbed back on to the fence and straddled his legs over it. "What, caught me?" he shouted at them. "You miserable Ogorodnaya (Ogorodnaya—from the Russian ogorod, meaning vegetable garden. —Tr). scarecrows!" He could not have picked on a deadlier insult. A hail of stones showered down on him. Misha slid off the fence, feeling a lump swelling on his forehead, but the stones continued to fly, landing near the house from which Grandmother made a sudden appearance. She peered near-sightedly and, turning to the house, called to someone. Uncle Senya, most likely. Misha pressed himself against the fence. "Hey, fellows," he called out, "wait a sec! I want to tell you something." "What?" demanded a voice from the other side of the fence. "First stop throwing!" Misha climbed back to the fence, cautiously watching the boys' hands, and said: "Why did you all team up against one fellow? Play fair—one against one." "Come on then!" cried Petka Petukh ( Petukh—from the Russian meaning cock.—Tr.), a sturdy boy of about fifteen throwing off his torn jacket and pugnaciously rolling up his sleeves. "Let's agree that while we're fighting you fellows won't interfere," Misha warned. "All right, all right, come down!" Uncle Senya was already standing beside Grandmother on the porch. Misha jumped off the fence and Petukh immediately stepped up to him. He was almost twice Misha's size.

8

"Hey, what's that?" Misha said, poking at the steel buckle on Petka's belt. The rules forbade any metal objects on the clothes of the opponents. Petukh took off the belt, and his trousers almost dropped. He caught them with one hand and while he was tying them up with a bit of string someone had given him, Misha pushed the boys to make a wider ring. "Give us more room!" he was saying; then, seeing a chance of getting away, he shoved one of the boys aside and took to his heels. The Ogorodnaya boys started off in pursuit, shouting and whistling; Petukh brought up the rear, holding on to his trousers and almost crying with disappointment. Misha ran as fast as his legs could carry him, his bare heels flashing in the sun. Behind him he heard the patter of his pursuers' feet, their heavy breathing and cries. He made a sharp turn, dashed down a short alley, and reached his own street. The Alekseyevskaya boys came running to his rescue, but the others turned back without going into battle. "Where've you come from?" red-haired Genka asked. Misha drew a sharp breath and looked round at his friends. "Ogorodnaya Street," he said nonchalantly. "Fought fair and square with Petukh, and when I was getting the better of it, they all jumped on me." "You fought Petukh?" Genka asked dubiously. "Who else? You? A tough chap he is; look at the bump he gave me!" Misha said, touching his forehead. His friends gazed on this blue mark of his valour with great respect. "I gave him something to remember me by, too," Misha continued. "And I took away his catapult." He pulled a catapult with long red rubber bands out of his shirt. "Better'n yours by a long shot!" He hid the catapult and gave a contemptuous look at the girls making mud-pies. "Well, and what are you doing?" he jeered at Genka. "Playing hide-andseek, catchers? 'Who's afraid of the big bad wolf, big bad wolf, big bad wolf—" "What d'you take me for!" Genka exclaimed with a shake of his red forelock, but for some reason he flushed and said quickly "Let's play knives." "For five hot ones with grease." "Right." They sat on the wooden pavement and began throwing a penknife into the ground in turns: a plain throw, from the palm, a long throw, over the shoulder, a straight throw.... Misha finished the ten throws first and Genka stretched his hand out to him. Then Misha made a fierce face and raised two spit-wetted fingers. The few seconds that these preliminaries took seemed eternal to Genka, but Misha did not hit him. "The grease's dried up," he said, lowering his hand. He started wetting his fingers all over again. This was repeated before every blow, until Misha finally paid off all the five hot ones. Genka tried to

9

hold back the tears welling up in his eyes as he blew on his smarting hand; it had turned blue. The sun was rising higher and higher in the sky; the shortening shadows pressed closer to the fences; the street lay hushed, hardly breathing in the torpid heat; and the air was stifling. The boys decided to go swimming and trooped off to the River Desna. The narrow road, grooved by hardened ruts, wound across the fields that spread out in all directions in greenish-yellow squares. These seemed to sink into hollows and clamber the hills, gradually becoming round and moving off into the distance in a broad arc that supported the woods, the isolated barns, and the pensive clouds. The wheat stood tall and still. The boys tore off the ears and chewed the grain, energetically spitting out the husks that stuck to their palates. There was a rustling in the wheat and frightened birds flew up into the air almost from under their feet. At the river's edge the boys chose a sandy spot, undressed, and jumped into the water, splashing it up in huge fountains. They swam, dived, wrestled, jumped from a rickety bridge, and finally climbed back to the bank and dug themselves into the hot sand. "Misha, is there a river in Moscow?" Genka asked. "Yes. The Moscow River. I've already told you that a thousand times." "You mean it flows through the city?" "Yes." "Then how can you swim in it?" "In trunks. They won't let you near a mile of it without trunks. The mounted militia watches." Genka smirked in disbelief. "What are you smirking for?" Misha said getting angry. "You haven't seen anything except your Revsk, and you think you're smart!" He fell silent, watching a drove of horses approach the river. "Now you tell me: what's the smallest horse?" he asked. "A foal," Genka replied without hesitation. "There, you don't know! The pony's the smallest horse. There are Shetland ponies, they're the size of dogs; while Japanese ponies are like cats almost." "You're fibbing!" "Who, me? If you'd been to a circus just once you wouldn't argue. You haven't been to a circus, have you? Own up: you haven't?... There you are. And you're arguing!" Genka stopped to think for a moment. "A horse like that's no good," he said, "can't use it in the cavalry, or anywhere else." "What's the cavalry got to do with it? D'you think people fight only on horseback? If you want to know, one sailor's worth three cavalrymen." "I'm not saying anything about sailors," Genka said, "but you can't do without cavalry. Nikitsky's gang is all mounted." "Well, what about it!" Misha said with a contemptuous curl of his lip. "Polevoy'll catch that Nikitsky soon anyway."

10

"That's not so simple," Genka contended, "they've been trying to get him a whole year now, and they can't." "They will," Misha said confidently. "Easy to say," Genka looked up, "but he's wrecking trains every day. Father's already afraid of driving his engine." "Never mind, they'll catch him." Misha yawned, dug deeper into the sand and shut his eyes. Genka was also dozing. They did not feel like arguing any longer in the heat. The silent steppe was lazily withdrawing into the horizon as though to escape the scorching sun. Chapters 3 AFFAIRS AND DREAMS Genka went home to dinner, but Misha went to the crowded, noisy Ukrainian market. He wandered about the market for a long time, looking at the carts piled high with green cucumbers, red tomatoes, and wicker-baskets of berries; the pink, shrilly squealing sucking-pigs; the white geese flapping their great wings; the sluggish oxen endlessly chewing the cud, their sticky saliva dribbling to the ground. As he walked through the market Misha remembered the Moscow bread and the watery milk bartered for potato peel. He longed for Moscow, its tram-cars, and evening lights. He stopped before an invalid rolling three beads on a bench. Each was of a different colour—red, white, and black. The man covered one of them with a thimble and offered a prize to anyone guessing its colour. But the right colour was elusive. "Friends!" the invalid said, appealing to the losers. "If I start losing to everyone I'll have to sell my last leg. You've got to under stand that." While Misha was examining the beads, someone suddenly put a hand on his shoulder. Turning round he saw Grandmother standing behind him. "Where on earth have you been the whole day?" she asked sternly, clinging tenaciously to Misha's shoulder. "Swimming," Misha mumbled. "Swimming!" Grandmother repeated. "How do you like that? He was swimming—well, we'll speak about it at home." She gave him her basket of purchases and marched him off. Grandmother walked in silence. She smelled of onions, garlic and of something fried, something boiled, like all the smells in the kitchen. "What'll they do to me?" Misha thought as he walked beside Grandmother. He was in a bit of a jam, he could see that. Against him there were Grandmother and Uncle Senya. For him—Grandfather and Polevoy. But what if Polevoy was not at home? That would leave only Grandfather.

11

And what if Grandfather was sleeping? That would leave no one to stand up for him, and give Grand mother and Uncle Senya a free hand. They would take it in turn lecture him. Uncle Senya would lecture and Grandmother would rest, and then Grandmother would take over and Uncle Senya would rest. There was hardly anything they would leave unsaid! They would call him bad-mannered, say he would never amount to anything; that he was a disgrace to the family; that he was a trial to his mother and that if he had not yet driven her to her grave he would do so in the next few days (he felt sure they would say that, even though Mother was living in Moscow and he had not seen her for two months); that it was amazing how the earth held him at all—and many other things like that.... When they came home Misha put the basket in the kitchen and went to the dining-room. Grandfather was sitting near the window listening to Uncle Senya discussing the political situation, as he reclined on the sofa and smoked a cigarette. They did not even so much as glance at Misha when he entered. That was on purpose! To make Misha feel small, to show that looking at him was a waste of time. That was Uncle Senya's way of torturing people. As far as Misha was concerned he could do as he liked, it was even better that way, because by the time Uncle Senya was ready to deliver his lecture Polevoy would come home. Misha sat on a chair and listened to their conversation. A few words were enough to tell him that Uncle Senya was raising a panic again. Bandit Makhno had occupied a number of towns, he said, and Antonov, another bandit, had approached the outskirts of Tambov. Fancy getting panicky over that! Last year, when the White Poles had occupied Kiev and Wrangel had broken through into the Donbas, Uncle Senya had also started to panic. Well, what had happened then? The Red Army had crushed the lot. Before that there had been Denikin, Kolchak, Yudenich ( Whiteguard generals who led the counter-revolution in the U.S.S.R. during the Civil War.—Ed.), and other Whiteguard generals. The Red Army had smashed them all. And it would lick these, too. . From Makhno and Antonov, Uncle Senya turned to Nikitsky. "You can't call him a bandit," Uncle Senya said, unbuttoning the collar of his student jacket. "Moreover, they say he's a man of culture, a former naval officer." What? Nikitsky not a bandit? Misha almost choked with indignation. Why, Nikitsky was burning down villages and killing Communists, member of the Komsomol, (All-Union Lenin Young Communist League.—Tr.) and workers! What was bandit then? It was disgusting to listen to Uncle Senya's prattle. Polevoy finally came. Misha sighed with relief. Now his punishment would be put off till to-morrow, at the earliest. Polevoy took off his jacket and washed. Then everyone sat down to supper. His laughter filled the room. He called Grandfather—father and Grandmother—mother; he winked playfully at Misha and addressed him as Mikhail Grigoryevich. After supper they went out of the house and sat on

12

the porch steps. The evening brought a fresh coolness into the garden; some girls were singing in the distance and snatches of their songs reached the porch; the dogs barked incessantly in the vegetable gardens. Polevoy pulled at a pipe of home-grown tobacco and spoke îf voyages to distant lands, of mutinies on the high seas, of cruisers and submarines, of Ivan Poddubny and other famous wrestlers in black red, and green masks, of strong men lifting three horses together with the carts, each cart containing ten persons. Misha gaped in wonder. Orange lights blinked timidly from the dark rows of little wooden houses huddling close on the silent street Polevoy also spoke of the Empress Maria on which he had served during the world war.

The Empress Maria was a huge ship, the most powerful battleship in the Black Sea Fleet. She was launched in June 1915 and blew up near Sevastopol in October 1916, half a mile off the coast. "A black business that was," Polevoy said. "She was not struck by a mine or a torpedo, but blew up on her own. The magazine of the first turret, that had about forty-eight tons of powder in it, was the first to explode. That set everything off. In an hour the ship was already under water; the survivors, less than half the crew, were all either badly burned or injured." "Who blew her up, then?" Misha asked. Polevoy shrugged his broad shoulders. "Many people tried to get to the bottom of it," he said, "but all to no purpose; and then came the Revolution. You have to ask the tsarist admirals for an explanation." "Sergei Ivanovich," Misha asked suddenly, "who's greater, a tsar or a king?" "Hm!. . ." Polevoi spat out the brown tobacco juice. "One's as good as the other." "And are there still tsars in other countries?" "Yes, here and there."

13

"Should I ask him about the dirk?" Misha thought. "No, better not. He might think I had followed him on purpose." A little later everyone went back into the house. Grandmother made her usual evening rounds, closing the shutters. The iron bolts clanged warningly. The kerosene lamp hanging in the dining-room was put out, and the moths and midges that had swarmed around it melted into the darkness. Misha lay awake in bed a long time. The moon sent its pale threads through the chinks in the shutters, and a cricket began chirping behind the stove in the kitchen. They had no crickets in Moscow. What would a cricket be doing in a big, noisy apartment, where people walked in and out at night, banging the doors and clicking the electric switches! That was why he heard a cricket only in Grandfather's quiet house when he lay alone with his dreams in the dark room. What a splendid thing it would be if Polevoy gave him the dirk. He would not be unarmed as now. And the times were alarming, with the Civil War going on. Bandits were running loose in the Ukrainian villages, and even the towns were not safe. Detachments of the local self-defence corps patrolled the streets at night, armed with old rifles with rusty bolts and no bullets. Misha dreamed of the future when he would be tall and strong, when he would wear bell-bottomed trousers, or, better still, puttees; smart khaki army puttees. He would carry a rifle, hand-grenades, machine-gun belts, and wear a revolver on a creaky leather waist-belt. He would ride a raven-black horse, slender-legged, sharp-eyed, with a powerful croup, short neck, and a sleek coat. And he would catch Nikitsky and break up his gang. Then he and Polevoy would go to the front and fight shoulder-to-shoulder; he would save Polevoy's life heroically and die, leaving his friend to grieve for him all his life; and he would never again meet a boy like Misha.... And Misha went to sleep. Chapter 4 THE PUNISHMENT Misha did not doubt that Uncle Senya had invented this punishment. It could not have been anyone else. And the thing that hurt most was that Grandfather was siding with him. "Got all the running about you wanted yesterday?" he said,, looking up at Misha while they were having their breakfast. "Well, I'm glad of that. Should last you for a week, at least. I'm afraid you'll have to stay indoors today." Waste the whole day at home! To-day. On Sunday! The fellows were going to the woods and might even cross to the island in a boat, while he ...

14

Misha twisted his mouth and stared at his plate. "What are you sulking about?" Grandmother said. "You're getting far too mischievous." "That's enough," interjected Grandfather, rising from the table. "He's got his punishment. Now it's all over." Misha slouched despondently from room to room. What a rotten place this is! he thought. The walls in the dining-room were covered with oil paintings. The paint was cracked and had lost its lustre. One painting showed a huge white seagull skimming over blue waves; another was of a reindeer with long, branching horns, standing between two straight pines; a third painting had some herons in it; yet another depicted bearded hunters in top boots and feathers in their caps, with guns and bandoliers slung over their shoulders; in the foreground were dogs with noses close to the ground. Misha thought the dogs had clever eyes. Portraits of Grandfather and Grandmother, taken when they were young, hung on the wall behind the sofa. Grandfather had a thick moustache, and his clean-shaven chin was propped up by a starched collar with bent corners. Grandmother wore a high-necked black dress and a medallion on a long chain around her neck. Her hair was piled high on her head so that it almost touched the frame. Misha went out into the yard where two wood-cutters were sawing firewood. The saw rang merrily while a carpet of yellow sawdust was rapidly covering the ground round the saw-horse. Misha sat on the log near the kennel and studied the wood-cutters. The older man looked about forty; he was of medium height, stocky, had a swarthy face and his curly hair stuck to his perspiring forehead. The second man was a young, fair-haired fellow with a freckled face and bleached brows, and somehow he looked slack and clumsy. Misha stealthily slipped his hand under the kennel and felt for the package. Should he take it out? He looked at the wood-cutters out of the corner of his eye. They had stopped sawing and were resting on the firewood. The older man rolled a scrap of paper into a small bent cone, filled it with tobacco from his palm, and lit it. While he smoked, the second man dozed. "Whew! I'm sleepy!" he said, opening his eyes and yawning. "When you're sleepy even a harrow's a good bed," the older man replied. The men fell silent. All was quiet in the yard. Only the hens pecked a rapid tattoo on a wooden trough. They were drinking water, comically throwing back their small red-combed heads after every gulp. When the wood-cutters rose and began splitting the fire-wood again, Misha carefully pulled out the package and opened it. He turned the blade in his hand and noticed a hardly perceptible engraving of a wolf on one side. On the second side was a scorpion, on the third a lily. Wolf, scorpion, and lily. What could they signify? Misha's thoughts were rudely disturbed by a log falling near him. He pressed the dirk to his breast in alarm, covering it with his hand.

15

"Move off, kiddy, or you'll get hurt," the swarthy man said. "I'm not a kid," Misha retorted. "Oho! You've got a sharp tongue!" the man laughed. "Who are you? The commissar's son?" "What commissar?" "Polevoy," the man said and for some reason threw a look at the house. "No. He only lives with us." "Is he at home?" the man asked, dropping the axe and looking intently at Misha. "No. He usually comes in at dinner-time. Do you want him?" "No. Thought I'd ask, that's all." When they had split all the wood, Grandmother brought the woodcutters a plate of pork, bread, and some vodka. The man with the fair hair drank his vodka silently, but the older man made a ceremony of it. "Well, here's how!" he said, and emptied his glass. He wrinkled his face, sniffed at the bread, and cleared his throat noisily. "Ah, that was good!" he said with a wink at Misha. They ate the meal slowly: sliced the pork into neat pieces, chewed and sucked the skin. Before going off each drank a ladle of water. Grandmother, however, remained in the yard. She stood a large brass pan with a long wooden handle on a tripod, heaped kindlings under it, and made a wind-break of bricks. That meant she was going to cook jam and stay there for some time. Misha saw it was no use trying to return the dirk to its hiding place, so he put it in his sleeve and went into the house. "Don't make a noise. Grandfather's sleeping," Grandmother said grumpily when Misha passed her. "I'll go quietly," he answered. He hid the dirk in his room under the bed, intending to put it back where he had found it as soon as Grandmother left the yard. At the worst, he thought, he could take it back in the evening under cover of darkness. It was so still in the house that Misha could hear the clock ticking on the wall and a fly buzzing against a window-pane. Time hung heavily on his hands. He stopped at Uncle Senya's room and put his ear to the door. Uncle Senya was coughing and rustling some papers. "Uncle Senya, why do sailors carry dirks?" Misha asked as he walked in. Uncle Senya was lying on a disarranged narrow bed and reading a book. He looked at Misha over his pince-nez. "What sailors? What dirks?" he said with a puzzled expression. "Don't you know? Only sailors carry dirks. And I want to know why they do." Misha sat on a chair firmly resolved not to get up until dinner. "I don't know," Uncle Senya replied impatiently. "Part of their uniform, I suppose. Is that all?" That meant Misha had to leave the room right away. "Let me stay here a little. I'll be very quiet," he pleaded. "Only don't disturb me," Uncle Senya said, taking up his book again. Misha sat with his hands under his thighs. Uncle Senya's small room

16

contained a bed, a bookcase, and a writing-desk with a pistol-shaped inkpot on it. To open the inkpot you had to press the trigger. Misha wished it was his; all the boys at school would envy him then. Pictures and portraits covered the walls. One of them was a portrait of Nekrasov Shura Bolshoi always recited from Nekrasov at school parties. " 'Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia,' by Nekrasov," he would announce before every recital as though everyone did not know the poem had been written by Nekrasov. The painting by Repin that hung next to Nekrasov's portrait had the words "They did not expect him." It showed a political prisoner returning home unexpectedly from exile and taking the whole family by surprise. The eyes of his daughter, who had probably forgotten him, expressed surprise and wonder, as she turned her head towards him. Misha thought of his own father who would never return. He had died in a tsarist hard-labour camp, and Misha did not remember him. Uncle Senya had an astounding number of books; he kept them in the bookcase, on top of it, under the bed, on the table.... But he never gave Misha anything to read; as if Misha did not know how to handle books. Why, in Moscow he had a library of his own; the World of Adventure magazine was worth practically everything Uncle Senya had! Uncle Senya went on reading without paying the slightest attention to Misha. When he left the room Uncle did not even look up. What a bore! He wished dinner-time would come round faster or that the jam would be ready. Grandmother would be sure to let him have what she had skimmed off.... Misha went to the window. A huge green fly with grey wings was crawling up and down the window-pane, and every time it went down it filled the room with a loud buzzing as it beat its wings and body against the glass. At last here was something he could do! He could train his will-power a little by looking at the fly and forcing himself not to catch it. Misha watched it. What a noise its buzzing made! If he let it go on it might awaken Grandfather. The buzzing had to be stopped, Misha decided, but to do so he had to catch the fly. No, he would not kill it; but would let it out into the street. There was nothing easier than catching a fly. In a trice it was in his fist. He opened his hand carefully and drew the fly out by one of its wings. It beat its free wing frantically in an effort to escape, but Misha held it firmly. He opened the window and stopped short. It would be a pity to let it go, he thought. Just wasting the time he'd spent catching it. And when you came to think of it, flies were disease-carriers. While hesitating whether to let it out or to kill it, he suddenly felt someone watching him. He looked up and saw Genka standing under the window. "Hello, Misha!" he smirked. "Hello," Misha replied guardedly. "Caught many flies to-day?" "As many as I need." "Why aren't you coming out?" "Don't want to."

17

"You're lying: you're not allowed to, that's why." "Fat lot you know! I'll come out if I want to." "Well, start wanting!" "But I don't." "You don't!" Genka laughed. "Better say you can't." "I can't?" "You can't!" "If that's what you think!'" Misha climbed on the sill and jumped out into the street next to Genka. "What d'you say to this?" But Grandmother put her head out of the window before Genka could reply. "Misha, come home at once!" she called. "Run!" Misha whispered. They sped down the street, darted into a side alley, climbed over the fence into Genka's garden, and hid in a tree hut. Chapter 5 THE TREE HUT Genka's hut was made of boards, branches, and leaves and it stood about ten feet from the ground balanced between three trees that hid it with their foliage. From it there was a view of the entire town, the railway station, the River Desna, and the road leading to the village of Nosovka. It was cool in the hut, it smelt of pine, and the leaves quivered slightly in the dying rays of the July sun. "How will you go home now?" Genka asked. "You'll get it from your Grandmother, you know." "I shan't go home at all," Misha announced. "What d'you mean?" "I shan't go, that's all. Why should I? To-morrow Polevoy is going to take his detachment out against Nikitsky's gang, and he'll take me with him. The job's got to be done." "What'll you do in the detachment? Be drummer to a retired goat?" Genka burst out laughing. "You can laugh as much as you like," Misha replied imperturbably. "Polevoy's taking me as scout. In a war all scouts are boys. Polevoy also told me to choose some other fellows, but—" he looked regretfully at Genka, "we haven't got the right fellows." Misha sighed. "Looks as though I'll have to go alone." Genka looked appealingly into Misha's eyes. "Well, all right," Misha breathed condescendingly, "bring me something to eat and we'll think it over. Only mind you don't say a word to anyone, it's a big secret." "Hooray!" Genka shouted. "We're going to be scouts!"

18

"There you go!" Misha said angrily, "You're already yelling and giving the secret away! I shan't take you." "All right, all right!" Genka said lowering his voice to a whisper; he slid down the tree and disappeared into the garden. While he waited for Genka, Misha stretched himself out on the plank floor and rested his chin on his fists. This was a fix! He could not sleep in the street, but he was ashamed of returning home, especially of facing Grandfather. Then he remembered about the dirk—someone might find it, and that would be a pretty kettle of fish! Misha looked at the garden through the foliage. It was planted with low apple-trees, luxuriant pears, raspberry-canes and gooseberry bushes. Why, he asked himself, did different fruit grow on different trees when they all grew on the same ground next to each other? A lady-bird settled on Misha's hand; it was small, round, had a hard red body and a black pin-point head. Misha picked it up carefully, put it on his palm and chanted: "Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home; your house is on fire, your children alone"—and it unfolded its tiny wings and flew away. A wasp droned into the hut, circled round Misha's head and, falling silent, sat on his leg. Would it sting him? Not if he kept still, Misha thought, and lay motionless. It crawled along his leg, then took off with a monotonous hum. A vast but unnoticed living world was teaming all around him. An ant dragged a pine needle, throwing on the ground a small angular shadow that moved with it. A little grasshopper leaped in the grass, its long legs bent so sharply they seemed to be broken in the middle. A sparrow hopped in the garden path, its awkward sideways movements watched by the dreamy, halfclosed but attentive eyes of a cat dozing on the steps of the summer-house. The breeze carried into the hut the smell of the grass and the scent of flowers. A tender drowsiness fell upon Misha and he closed his eyes and forgot his troubles. .. . Genka breathlessly clambered into the hut with a big warm piece of under-done beef under his shirt. "Here, look," he whispered, "took it out of the soup." "You're mad!" Misha cried in horror. "Don't you realize you've left everyone without their dinner?" "What of it!" Genka exclaimed, throwing his head back recklessly. "I'm going away as a scout, aren't I? They can cook another piece of beef for all I care." He chuckled, well pleased with himself. Misha ate the meat, tearing it with his teeth and hands. What a blockhead Genka was, after all! He was sure to get a belting from his stern father, a tall, thin man with a grey moustache, who was an engine-driver. And his stepmother would also have something to say about it. "Heard the news?" Genka asked. "What news?" "Catch me telling you!" "That's your business. Only I can't imagine you as a scout. Will you keep things from me then, too?"

19

The threat in Misha's voice had its effect. Now, after the theft of the meat from the pot, Genka had only one recourse—to be a scout. That meant he had to obey. "We had a man from Nosovka to see us just now," Genka said, "and he told us Nikitsky's gang's quite near." "What about it?" Misha asked, fiercely chewing the meat. "Don't you see? They may attack Revsk." "And you believed it?" Misha said with a laugh. "You poor sap. And you want to be a scout!" "Why shouldn't I?" Genka stammered. "Nikitsky's near Chernigov, that's why. He can't attack us because we have a garrison. See? A gar-ri-son...." "What's a garrison?" "You don't know what a garrison is? It's... well, how shall I put it. . it's—" "Wait a minute! Hear that?" Genka whispered suddenly. Misha stopped chewing and listened. Shots rang out somewhere beyond the houses and the reports were drowned in the blue dome of the sky. This was followed by the screeching of the siren at the raid way station and the hurried splutter and rattle of a machine-gun. The boys looked silently at each other in alarm, then pushed aside the foliage and peeped out of the hut. Clouds of dust were rising from the road to Nosovka. The sound of firing came from the railway station and, before the boys could collect their wits, yelling horsemen in red-topped lambskin caps their whips whistling in the air, galloped up the deserted street. Whiteguards had broken into the town. Chapter 6 THE RAID Misha hid at Genka's and when the firing stopped he looked into the street and ran home, keeping close to the fences. Grandfather was standing on the porch, confused and pale. Lathered horses with Cossack saddles were snorting near the house. Misha ran up the porch and what he saw in the house froze him to the threshold. Polevoy was fighting desperately with bandits in the dining-room; six of them hung on to him and though he resisted with all the strength of his powerful body, they pulled him down to the floor where they rolled over and over, knocking over the furniture and dragging with them the table-cloth, door-mats and curtains. Another Whiteguard, the leader evidently, was standing motionless near the window his eyes riveted on Polevoy's movements. Misha concealed himself behind numerous coats hanging from the rack. His heart was in his mouth. He waited for Polevoy to get up, as he had so

20

often seen him in dreams, shake the bandits off with his mighty shoulders, single-handed, and send them all flying. But Polevoy did not get up. His furious efforts to throw the bandits off grew weaker. Finally, the bandits stood him on his legs, twisted his arms behind his back, and led him to the Whiteguard standing near the window. Polevoy's breath was coming in gasps and blood was oozing through his fair hair. He was barefooted and wearing his striped jersey. Misha realized he had been surprised in his sleep. The bandits were armed with carbines, pistols, and sabres, and their hobnailed boots rang against the floor. The Whiteguard leader looked at Polevoy with unblinking eyes. A black forelock had escaped from under his cocked fur cap and hung over his piercing grey eyes. A crimson scar ran down his right cheek. The only sounds in the room were the laboured breathing of the men and the indifferent ticking of the clock. "The dirk!" the Whiteguard snapped in a sharp, hollow voice. "The dirk!" he repeated, his eyes, fixed on Polevoy, almost popping out. Polevoy said nothing. He took a deep breath and slowly shrugged his shoulders. The Whiteguard stepped up to him, raised his whip, and brought it down heavily across Polevoy's face. Misha shuddered, tightly shutting his eyes. "You've forgotten Nikitsky? Then I'll remind you!" the Whiteguard raved. So this was Nikitsky! And Polevoy had concealed the dirk from him! "Listen here, Polevoy," Nikitsky's voice was unexpectedly calm, "you can't get away. Return the dirk and clear off anywhere please. If you don't my men'll hang you!" Still Polevoy said nothing. "All right," Nikitsky said. "Blame yourself!" He nodded to two of the bandits and they went to Polevoy's Misha recognized them as the wood-cutters he had seen in the mo: They began searching the room, turned everything over, littered the floor, broke the door of the cupboard with the butts of their carbines, ran their knives into the pillows, and raked the ash out of the stove. Misha was afraid they would now go to his room. He left his shelter and moved stealthily to it. Night was already setting in. In the darkness Misha's hand closed round the cold steel of the dirk that lay under the bed. He pulled it out and hid it in his sleeve. Holding both the sleeve and the handle in his fist, he returned to his hiding place behind the coats in the passage.

21

The bandits were still ransacking Polevoy's room, while Polevoy himself stood in the dining-room, his body bent forward, his arms twisted behind his back. Suddenly there was a thud of hoofs from the street and rapid footsteps were heard on the porch. A Whiteguard bandit came in and said something to Nikitsky in a low voice. Nikitsky made no move. "To horse!" he cried in the next second, cracking his whip. The bandits dragged Polevoy into the dark passage that opened on to the street and the back-yard. As they pushed him into the passage, Misha took Polevoy's hand and opened his fist. The handle of the dirk touched Polevoy's palm. He drew the dirk towards him and, taking several steps forward along the passage, jerked his hand up and stabbed the bandit in front of him in the neck. Meanwhile, Misha threw himself at the other bandit's feet, tripping him up, thus giving Polevoy time to run out into the dark back-yard.

22

But Misha did not see whether Polevoy had escaped. He was struck down by a terrible blow with the butt of a revolver and he sagged like a sack into the corner under a canvas rain-coat hanging from the rack. Chapter 7 MOTHER Swathed in bandages, Misha lay quietly in bed listening to distant sounds coming in through the slightly stirring lace curtains. People were walking in the street. He heard their footsteps on the wooden sidewalk, and their deep-toned voices speaking in Ukrainian.... A cart squeaked by.... A boy rolled a wheel, driving it with a stick. All these sounds reached Misha through a sort of haze and were jumbled up with his short quickly-forgotten dreams. Polevoy.... The Whiteguards.... The dark night into which Polevoy had vanished... Nikitsky.... The dirk.... The blood on Polevoy's face, on his own face.... Warm, sticky blood.... Grandfather told him what had happened. A detachment of railway workers had surrounded the town and not all the bandits got away on their swift horses. But Nikitsky had escaped. Polevoy had beer wounded in the fight and was now in the hospital at the railway station. "What a hero you are!" Grandfather said with a pat on Misha's head. But he was not a hero at all! A hero would have shot all the bandits and captured Nikitsky. Misha wondered what Polevoy would do when they met. Probably slap him on the back and say, "Well, Mikhail Grigoryevich, how are things?" Perhaps he would give him a revolver and a belt to hang it on, and they would walk down the street together, armed and bandaged like real soldiers. That would give the fellows something to look at! Even Petukh would not be able to scare him then. Mother entered the room. Grandfather had sent her a telegram and she had come down from Moscow a few days ago. She tidied the bed clothes, cleared the plates and bread from the table, and brushed off the crumbs. "Mother," Misha asked, "is the cinema in our block working?" "Yes." "What picture are they showing?" "I don't remember. Lie still." "I am. Has our bell been repaired?" "No. You'll do it when you come home." "Of course, I will. Who'd you see of the fellows? Did you see Slava?" "Yes."

23

"And Shura Bolshoi?" "Yes, I saw them all. Lie quietly, I tell you!" What a pity he was going to Moscow without the bandages! How the fellows would have envied him with them! And what if they were not taken off after all and he went to Moscow all bandaged up? Wouldn't that be grand! And he would not have to wash.... Mother was sitting by the window, sewing something. "How much longer will I be in bed, Mother?" "Until you get well." "But I feel quite well. Let me go out." "Don't be silly! Lie still and stop talking." "Grudging me a little walk," Misha thought gloomily. "Wants to keep me here in bed! See if I don't get up and run away." He imagined to himself how Mother would enter the room and find him already gone. She would weep and pine away with grief; but it would be no good and she would never see him again. Misha gave Mother a sidelong glance. She was bent over her sewing. Now and then she stopped to bite off the thread. She would have a hard time without him! She'd be all alone. And no one would be there when she came home from work. The room would be empty and dark, and every evening she would sit thinking of Misha. He felt a lump rising to his throat. She was so frail and reserved, with her grey, radiant eyes; so tireless and industrious. She came home late from the factory, cooked the dinner, tidied the room, washed Misha's shirts, darned his socks, and helped him with his home-work. Yet whenever she asked him to do something like chopping wood, going to the baker's for bread or warming up the dinner, he always found some excuse for backing out. Dear, adorable Mummy! How often had he distressed her by disobeying his teachers and misbehaving in school! Mother had been called to school on several occasions and she had pleaded for Might before the headmaster. How many things had he smashed, torn or spoiled! Books, clothes.... All his misdeeds fell on Mother's thin shoulders. But she worked patiently, darned and sewed. And he was ashamed of holding her hand in the street "like a little boy." He never kissed Mother—he thought that was sloppy. And today, too, he had been thinking of some way to distress her, after she had dropped every thing at home, suffered an agonizing week travelling in goods-vans and brought him all the things he needed. She had carried them all herself and now never left his bedside. Misha half closed his eyes. The room was quite dark. Only the corner where Mother was sitting was illumined by the golden light of the passing day. She was sewing, her head bent over her work, and singing softly. Blacker than treachery, blacker than tyranny, Black is an autumn night, Black as the prisons that loom in the mistiness,

24

Black is the tyrant's might. And the word "Hear. . ." that started the refrain was as drawn-out and melancholy as a groan. This was the song of a young prisoner with fine features, who sang it with his hands clutching the bars of his prison while his eyes gazed on the happy, inaccessible world outside. Mother sang on and on. Misha opened his eyes; he could just dimly make out her pale face in the darkness. One song followed another and all of them were mournful and sad. Misha suddenly burst out crying. "Misha, darling, what's the matter?" Mother asked gently, bending over him. Without a word, he flung his arms round her neck, pulled her towards him, and pressed his face against her warm, familiar blouse. "Mummy, darling, I love you so!" he whispered. Chapter 8 VISITORS Misha recovered quickly; the only bandage left was on his head. He was allowed to get up for short intervals and to sit up in bed, and, finally, his chum Genka was let in to see him. Genka came into the room timidly and stopped near the door. Misha did not turn his head. "Sit down," he said weakly and watched Genka out of the corner of his eye. His friend sat down gingerly on the edge of a chair, stared open-mouthed at Misha, and vainly tried to hide his rather dirty feet under the chair. Misha lay on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Every line on his face expressed pain and suffering. From time to time he touched the bandage on his head—not because his head ached but to make Genka give it its proper due. "How d'you feel?" Genka asked, finally plucking up his courage. "All right," came the faint response, but the deep sigh that followed was meant to show that he really felt ill and was heroically enduring racking pain. "You're going to Moscow?" Genka asked after a pause. "Uh-huh," Misha replied with another sigh. "They say you're going in Polevoy's troop train." "How d'you know?" Misha sat up immediately. "Who told you? "

25

"Someone." Silence. Misha looked up at Genka. "And what've you decided to do?" "About what?" "About going to Moscow." "Why d'you ask these things?" Genka said, shaking his he angrily. "You know quite well that Father won't let me go." "But your aunt, Agrippina Tikhonovna, has often asked you come. And in the letter Mother brought from her she says she wants you to come now. If you go you'll be living in the same block with us. "

"I'm telling you Father won't let me," Genka sighed. "Mother won't either." "But Aunt Nyura's not your real mother." "She's good to me just the same." "Agrippina Tikhonovna's better."

26

"Oh, how can I go?" "That's easily done: in the box under the carriage. You can hide there and as soon as we pull out of Revsk you can come out and join us." "What if Father drives the engine?" "You'll get out at Bakhmach then, when they change the engine." "What'll I do in Moscow?" "Why, anything you like! You can go to school or you can get a job in a factory." "How d'you mean—a job in a factory? I don't know how to do a job." "You mean you don't know what to do in a factory? Rubbish. You'll learn. Just think it over. I'm serious about it." "You were also serious about the scouts, and I can still feel where I was whacked for that meat." "Can I be blamed if Nikitsky attacked Revsk? If that hadn't happened we'd have certainly gone as scouts. As soon as we arrive in Moscow we'll volunteer to fight the Whites. Will you go?" "Where?" Genka asked guardedly. "First to Moscow, then to the front to fight the Whites." "If we're going to fight the Whites, then perhaps I might," Genka replied evasively. When Genka left, Misha lay back in his bed and thought of Polevoy. Why didn't he come? What was the secret of the dirk? There must be a purpose for the wolf, scorpion, and lily on the blade, and the bronze serpent round the handle. What did it all mean? His thoughts were interrupted by Uncle Senya. He came in, and took off his pince-nez. Without it his eyes were small and red and seemed to have a frightened look. "How are you feeling, Mikhail?" he asked, fixing on his pince-nez. "All right. I'm allowed to get up already." "No, no, please don't get up," Uncle Senya said anxiously when Misha tried to get up. He stood awkwardly for a while, started pacing the room, then stopped in front of the bed again. "Mikhail, I want to have a talk with you," he said. "Not about the tube?" Misha wondered. "I hope you're old enough—hm—so to say—to understand me and to arrive at useful conclusions from what I have to tell you." "Here it comes!" "Well," continued Uncle Senya, "I cannot see a prank in the unfortunate incident we had recently. I see it as a premature start in politics." "What? What did you say?" Misha asked with a surprised stare at Uncle Senya. "You don't understand me? I'll explain. You were a witness of an act of political struggle, and you, a young person, as yet immature, interfered in this act. And to no purpose." "What d'you mean?" Misha asked in amazement. "The bandits were going to kill Polevoy and you wanted me to do nothing about it? Is that what you mean?"

27

"As a person of high morals, you must», of course, champion any sufferer, but only in the event, say, of Polevoy being attacked by robbers in the street. But nothing of the sort happened in the case I'm alluding to. The Reds are fighting the Whites and you're still too small to meddle in politics. Your business is to keep out of it." "Why should I keep out?" Misha said, touched to the quick. "I'm for the Reds, you know." "I'm not agitating either for the Reds or for the Whites. But I consider it my duty, as a relative, to warn you against participating in politics." "Then according to you we should let the bourgeoisie rule?" Misha stretched out on his back and pulled the blanket up to his chin. "No! Just as you like, Uncle Senya, but I don't agree with you." "No one's asking you whether you agree or not," Uncle Senya said irritably, "you listen to what your elders tell you!" "That's exactly what I'm doing. Polevoy's my elder. My Father was, too. And Lenin. All of them are against the bourgeoisie. And I'm against them, too." "You're impossible!" Uncle Senya exclaimed, making a deprecatory gesture with his hand as he stamped out of the room.

28

Chapter 9 THE BATTLESHIP EMPRESS MARIA Uneasiness grew in Revsk and Mother hurried with the preparations for their departure. Misha was already up, but as yet Mother would not let him out of the house, only allowing him to sit by the window and watch his friends playing in the street. Everyone treated him with respect. Even Petka Petukh from Ogorodnaya Street came to see him and gave him a cane ornamented with spirals, rhombs, and squares, and before he left, he said: "Misha, you can walk in our street as much as you please. Don't be afraid, we won't touch you." But Polevoy still did not come. Misha thought of the grand times he used to have sitting with him on the porch and listening to amazing stories about seas, oceans, and the vast moving world. He wondered if he should go down to the hospital himself. The doctor there would be sure to let him in if he asked him. But Misha did not have to go to the hospital. Polevoy came himself and Misha's heart beat excitedly when he caught the sound of his merry voice far down the street. Polevoy came into the house in army uniform and top boots, and brought into Misha's room the sunny freshness of the street and the scents of the warm summer. The chair near Misha's bed creaked plaintively and swayed under Polevoy's weight, withstanding it all the same, and the man and boy looked at each other and smiled. Then Polevoy patted the blanket and narrowed his eyes slyly. "Hello, Mikhail Grigoryevich! How are you getting on? All right?" Misha only smiled happily. "Will you be up soon?" Polevoy asked. "Mother's letting me go out of doors to-morrow." "I'm glad to hear that." After a moment's silence Polevoy burst out laughing. "Neat the way you tripped up the other one. Capital! Well done! And got me out of a heap of trouble, too. I'm in your debt, my lad, and I'll settle it when I return from the front." "From the front?" Misha's voice trembled. "Uncle Seryozha... only don't be angry with me.... Take me along. Please, please." "I think we could arrange it," Polevoy said, knitting his brows as though considering Misha's request. "I'll tell you what we'll do. You'll go in my troop train as far as Bakhmach, and from there I'll send you on to Moscow. Understand?" he concluded with his booming laugh. "Only to Bakhmach," Misha drawled in disappointment. "You're saying that just to tease me." "Don't be hurt," Polevoy said, patting the blanket again. "You'll do all the fighting you want when you grow up. Tell me better how you happened to

29

have that dirk?" Misha flushed. "Don't be afraid, I shan't eat you," Polevoy laughed. "I saw it accidentally, honour bright," Misha muttered in embarrassment, "quite accidentally. I took it out to have a look and Grandmother came along! So I hid it under the bed and didn't have time to put it back. I didn't do it on purpose, honest I didn't." "Did you tell anyone about the dirk?" "No, I swear I didn't!" "All right, all right, I believe you," Polevoy calmed him. "Uncle Seryozha, why's Nikitsky looking for that dirk?" Polevoy did not reply. He humped his back strangely and stared at the floor. "Remember I told you about the Empress Maria?" he asked, sighing heavily as though he was coming out of a trance. "Yes." "Well, Nikitsky was a lieutenant on board that battleship. He v a regular scoundrel, of course, but that's got nothing to do with the story. Nikitsky shot an officer before the explosion; about three minutes before. I was the only witness. That officer had just joined our ship and I even don't know his name. I happened to be near cabin. It would take a long time to tell why I was there, but I had personal accounts to settle with Nikitsky. Well, I stood there and listened to them arguing. Nikitsky called the officer Vladimir. And then, bang—a shot! I rushed into the cabin. The officer was lying the floor and Nikitsky was pulling the dirk out of a suit-case, fired at me ... but missed. After that he snatched up the dirk and went at each other. But before we could have it out a terrific explosion suddenly shook the ship; this was followed by another explosion and I thought the whole world had turned upside down.... I came to on deck, everything round me was roaring, smoking, crashing, and found I was holding the dirk. The sheath must have remained w Nikitsky, but he was gone." Polevoy paused. "I was in hospital for some time after that," he continued, "and before I knew it the Revolution had started, then the Civil War. Then this Nikitsky turned up as the leader of a bandit gang. Well, we met. He evidently heard my name mentioned in Revsk and so nosed me out. He raided the town to settle old scores. Seemingly, he now nee the dirk, too. Only he won't get it: what's useful to the enemy harmful to us. But we'll look into it after the war." Polevoy paused again. "Nikitsky's batman was a Revsk man," he said thoughtfully though talking to himself. "Thought I'd find him here ... but no ... he's disappeared." Polevoy stood up. "I've lost all track of time talking to you! Tell your mother to pack. We'll be leaving in about two days. Well, good-bye!" He held Misha's small hand in his big fist, winked slyly at him and went away.

30

Chapter 1O DEPARTURE The troop train was already drawn up at the railway station and Misha and Genka had been there several times to look at it. Red Army soldiers were making plank-beds for themselves in the goodsvans and dividing the carriages into stalls for the horses. The boys spied abig iron box under the only passenger carriage. "Look how comfortable this is, Genka," Misha cried, climbing into the box, "you can sleep here and do anything you like. Nothing to be afraid of, is there? You'll only have to spend one night in it and then you can change into the carriage and I'll ride in the box." "It's all right for you to talk, but how can I leave my little sister behind?" Genka whimpered. "Fancy that! His little sister! Why she's only three and won't even notice that you've gone. But look what you'll get instead. You'll go to Moscow!" Misha smacked his lips temptingly. "I'll introduce you to the fellows. We've got some great fellows out there! Slava can play anything you care to name on the piano, without even looking at the music. Shura Ogureyev's an actor: you'd never recognize him when he sticks on a beard. Then there's a firstrate cinema in our block; the pictures it shows are all in three parts at least.... But if you don't want to go, you don't have to. And you won't see the circus, you won't see anything. Suit yourself." "All right. I'll go," Genka decided. "That's a good fellow!" Misha said happily. "You'll write home from Bakhmach and say that you've gone to Moscow to Aunt Agrippina, that everything's all right, and that they're not to worry." The boys walked down the platform where the troop train was drawn up, "Headquarters" was spelled out in chalk on one of the carriages, which had posters nailed to its sides. Misha undertook to explain the pictures to Genka. "See that one with the crown, cloak, and red nose? That's the tsar. And the man in the white shirt with a whip in his hand is a Cossack sergeant. That's a Menshevik there, in spectacles and straw hat. And this three-headed snake represents generals Denikin, Kolchak, and Yudenich." "And who's that?" Genka poked a poster. The man shown in the poster was a bourgeois in a silk top-hat, with a sagging stomach and a predatory beak-shaped nose. He was sitting on a bag of gold, and blood was dripping from the long nails of his fat fingers. "Are you blind that you can't see he's a bourgeois?" Misha replied. "He's sitting on money. Thinks he can buy the whole world with it." "Why's 'Entente' written there?" "It amounts to the same thing. The Entente's an alliance of all the bourgeoisie of world capital against the Soviet power. See?" "Uh-huh," Genka drawled rather vaguely. "And why's that got

31

'International' on it?" he asked, pointing at a big plywood board nailed to one of the carriages. The picture showed the globe bound with chains which a muscular worker was smashing with a sledge hammer. "That's the International—the union of all the workers of the world," Misha replied. "The worker there," he pointed at the picture, "is the International. And the chains are the Entente. And when these chains are smashed, the workers will rule the whole world, and there won't be any more bourgeoisie." ... At last the day came when they had to leave. The two horses harnessed to a cart near the house were snorting and brushing the flies away with their tails. The luggage had been taken to the cart and Mother was saying good-bye to Grandfather and Grandmother. There they were on the porch looking very small and old. Grandfather wore his frayed frock-coat and Grandmother was in her greasy dressing-gown, wiping away tears and creasing her face unhappily. Grandfather was sniffing tobacco and smiling through moist eyes, "Everything'll be all right. Everything'll be all right," he kept muttering. Misha climbed on to a suit-case and the cart clattered off over the uneven road, jolting and swaying as it went. When it turned off the Alekseyevskaya into the Privokzalnaya Misha twisted round for a last look at the little wooden cottage with its green shutters and three willows behind the fence. Chapter 11 IN THE TROOP TRAIN Misha pressed his face against the carriage window-pane and peered into the darkness outside, which was sprinkled with bright pin-point stars and the station lights. The drawn-out whistling and puffing of the engines, the clang of the carriages as they were coupled, and the hurried steps and cries of the guards and oilers, rushing up and down near the train with their lanterns dangling like fire-flies in front of them, disturbed the night and filled it with mysterious and repressing anxiety. Misha looked steadily out of the window and the longer he kept his face pressed to the pane the more distinct became the objects outside. The train jerked backwards with a clang of its buffers. Then it moved again, forward this time, and, without stopping, thundered pa the switches as it picked up speed. The station lights were already left behind. The moon had come out from behind the ragged clouds. Trees, cabins and deserted platforms flashed by in a grey ribbon. . Good-bye Revsk! The train was not moving when Misha woke up early the next morning.

32

He jumped out and ran to the box under the carriage to see how Genka was getting along. The troop train was standing without its engine on a side-track at some station. Except for a sentry dozing on the platform of one of the carriages, the place was deserted. The horses were stamping their hoofs in their stalls. Misha scratched the box. "Genka, come out!" he whispered. No answer. Misha knocked on the box with his knuckles. Silence. He crawled under the carriage and saw that the box was empty. Where could Genka be? Could he have run back home yesterday? A bugle sounded the reveille, bringing the troop train and the station to life. Soldiers jumped out of the goods-vans and ran to douse themselves with cold water; the men on duty busied themselves with pots and kettles. The smell of porridge filled the air. One soldier called to a comrade, another swore at someone. Then they all lined up in two ranks facing the train and the roll was called. The men were shabbily dressed, in a variety of uniforms. They wore peaked helmets, grey infantry caps, cavalry caps, round naval caps, and Cossack fur caps. Some had top-boots, others shoes, felt boots, galoshes, and there were even some who were barefoot. There were soldiers and sailors, workers and peasants. The old and the young, the aged and mere boys were standing side by side. Misha glanced into the headquarters carriage and saw Genka there. He was standing and wiping tears off his face with his sleeve. A young snubnosed chap with big ears and a pipe between his teeth was sitting behind the table in front of Genka. His patched tunic was criss-crossed with belts and his extremely wide riding breeches had red piping. Every now and then he took the pipe out of his mouth and spat gloomily over the table past Genka, who started each time as if a bullet were flying at him. "Well then, what did you say your name is?" the chap asked sternly. "Petrov," Genka snivelled. "Petrov! You're not lying?" "No-o-o." "You know you can't fool me!" "But it's the truth, I swear it is!" Genka sobbed. The chap paused, sucked at his pipe and spat, after which the questioning continued, with the questions and answers being repeated over and over again. Genka was arrested! Misha sprang away from the carriage and ran to find Polevoy. He was with a group of officers inspecting the guns on the flatcars. "Sergei Ivanovich," Misha said, appealing to him, "Genka's been arrested over there. Please let him go. He's going to Moscow with us." "Who arrested your Genka?" Polevoy asked in surprise. "Over there, at headquarters. An officer in blue riding breeches, a young officer." Polevoy exchanged glances with the other officers and started laughing.

33

"That's Styopa for you," one of them guffawed. "All right," Polevoy said, "come on, we'll see what we can do. Maybe the officer'll let him go." When Genka's tormentor saw the officers climbing into the carriage he sprang to his feet, hastily hid the pipe in his pocket, and, bringing his hand up to his broken peak in a salute, stood stiffly in front of 'Polevoy. "Comrade Commander, permit me to report that we've detained a suspected criminal," he said in a weak bass and pointed to the sobbing Genka. "According to my investigations he confessed himself guilty that his surname's Petrov, first name's Genka, that he ran away from his parents and is going to Moscow to his aunt. His father's an engine-driver. I found no weapons on him: only three empty cartridge-cases used in Nagant revolvers. He was caught red-handed sleeping in an empty box under the carriage." A short chap, somewhat taller than Genka, he lowered his hand but stood stiffly at attention as before, oblivious to the laughter around him. Polevoy suppressed his mirth and looked sternly at Genka. "Why did you get under the carriage?" Genka's sobs grew louder. "Uncle, word of honour, I'm going to Moscow, to my aunt. He can tell you," Genka pointed to Misha. "We'll straighten it out," Polevoy said. "You, Styopa," he turned to the chap who had arrested Genka, "run for the sergeant and tell him to report to me." "Right!" Styopa said smartly, saluted, wheeled about, and hopped out of the carriage. "And you," Polevoy turned to the boys, "out you go, quick march." Genka climbed out, but Misha lingered behind for a minute. "Who's that chap?" he asked Polevoy in a whisper. "Oh, brother!" Polevoy laughed. "He's a big man here. Stepan Ivanovich Reznikov, the chief messenger boy at our headquarters." Chapter 12 THE RAILWAY GUARD'S CABIN For two weeks the troop train was held up at Nizkovka. "Bakhmach won't let us through; there aren't enough engines," Genka explained. He considered himself an expert on railway matters because his father was an engine-driver. Genka now had legal status in the troop train. His father had found him, tweaked his ears, and had wanted to take him back to Revsk, but Polevoy and Misha's mother had intervened. Polevoy invited Genka's father to his carriage. The boys did not know what they spoke about there, but when they came out Genka's father

34

announced with a frown that he would not take Genka home that day, but would return to Revsk and do "as Mother decides." He came back the next day with Genka's clothes and a letter for Aunt Agrippina. After giving his son a long lecture, he returned home to Revsk with a promise from Misha's mother to "deliver" Genka safely to his aunt. Meanwhile, there was still no sign that the troop train would leave Nizkovka. The Red Army men lit fires between the tracks and cooked their meals in mess-tins. The black ash left by these fires would smoulder redly in the evenings and, in the carriages, someone would play an accordion, another a balalaika, and voices would join in singing folk-songs. The men would sit on the scattered sleepers, the railway lines or simply on the ground, talk about politics, railway regulations, God, but mostly about food. There was a shortage of food; and one day Misha and Genka set out for the woods to gather mushrooms. The boys went off early in the morning, as the woods were far away, about five versts from the station; they expected to be back by nightfall, but things turned out differently. They were given the wrong directions and walked more than five versts before they realized their mistake. Misha and Genka spent the whole day wandering in the woods, and when finally they had filled their baskets with mushrooms and turned back, twilight had already set in. Moreover, the sky was completely overcast and rain began to fall. "Why are sleepers placed so irregularly under the rails?" Misha wondered as he walked beside Genka along the track. "You can't walk in step properly. An ordinary road's better any day."

The track lay on an embankment stretching across endless fields; a small village standing far, far away showed through the film of rain from time to time, and the boys thought they heard the mooing of cows, the barking of dogs and the squeaking crank of a well, in fact all the distant sounds that rain usually brings to the ear of a traveller when he sees some habitation.

35

It was already dark when they reached the railway guard's cabin. From there it was three versts to Nizkovka. "Let's go in," Genka suggested. "What for? We'll only waste time." "Why get soaked in the rain? We can spend the night here and go on in the morning." "No. Mother'11 worry. And the troop train might move off." "Phew!" Genka whistled. "It won't budge for another week. And even if it does, this is the track to Bakhmach. We'll be sure to catch it. Oh, come on! Let's get a drink of water at least." They knocked on the door. A dog chained near the fence barked angrily. "What d'you want?" a woman's voice asked behind the door. "Auntie," Genka piped in a thin voice, "we only want some water." The barking was savage now and the dog tore at its chain. The bolt was drawn back, the door opened, and the boys walked through the narrow passage into a low but roomy hut. Someone moved restlessly on the stove. "Who is it, Matryona?" said an old man in a sleepy voice. "Boys," the woman replied, scratching her side and yawning. "Came in for a drink. Been out gathering mushrooms?" she asked them. "Uh-huh." "Where're you going?" "To Nizkovka." "A bit far, that is," the woman drawled. "Aren't you afraid to walk about at night?" "That's exactly what I'm saying, auntie," Genka said, jumping at her remark. "Perhaps you'll let us stay overnight?" "Why not! There's room enough. I can't push you out at night into the rain, can I? It's pouring cats and dogs," the woman said, pulling a sheepskin coat off the stove and spreading it on the floor. "Yes, and there are bad men about. And then a train might run you over. Here, lie down. Sleep till it's light, then it won't take you long to reach the station." She latched the door, blew out the taper and climbed on the stove-couch with a groan. The boys made themselves comfortable on the sheepskin coat and quickly fell asleep. Chapter 13 BANDITS The dream Misha had was all jumbled. A black foal, its short tail flying in the wind, plunged and kicked out with its hind legs, then raced across a field near the foot of a sheer cliff. Everybody laughed. Polevoy, Grandfather, Slava, Nikitsky.... They were all laughing at him, at Misha. Now the foal stopped and shook its head fitfully, now it kicked out with its legs and sped

36

across the field again. Suddenly it was not a foal any longer, but a horse; a huge black horse. It threw itself against the steep cliff and began clambering up.... It looked like an enormous black fly as it climbed, and Nikitsky rapped a tree with the handle of his whip and shouted: "Catch that horse, catch it!" The horse's movements grew slower and slower. "Catch that horse, catch it!" Nikitsky shouted. Suddenly the horse lost its hold and hurtled down into the abyss with a terrifying clatter... The clatter broke off at Misha's feet: a pail clattered once more and then lay still. "Catch that horse!" a voice again shouted from the hut into the yard and swore. "Ah, the devil take it! They had to put that pail there!" Someone struck a match. Its dim light revealed a tall man in a felt cloak. Horses were neighing in the yard and the dog was barking furiously. "Who's that?" the man in the felt cloak asked, pointing his whip to the boys lying in the corner. "Lads from the station; been gathering mushrooms," the railway guard replied with a frown. He was standing in his underwear, a taper in his hand; his tangled beard threw a dancing shadow on the wall. "But they're asleep, you needn't worry!" "Shut your mouth!" the man in the felt cloak yelled at him. He went up to the boys and bent down to peer at them. Misha pretended he was sleeping and in the split second when he half opened his eyes he caught the flash of a piercing glance from under a black forelock and a Caucasian fur cap.... Nikitsky! Nikitsky turned to the railway guard. "Has the engine for Nizkovka passed yet?" "Yes," the old man replied sullenly. "Why, you old devil!" Nikitsky grabbed him by his shirt, gave it a twist, and hit the railway guard across the face with the handle of his whip. "The train's due to pass in an hour and you didn't even tell us?" He hit him again, and rushed out of the hut. The old man slumped to the floor. Voices and the thud of hoofs sounded in the yard and then all was silent. Only the dog continued to bark and pull at its chain. Misha thought over everything he had heard. The train was due to pass in an hour! From Nizkovka! The engine had already gone there. Could it be their troop train? And suddenly the fearful thought that the bandits were laying an ambush for the train crossed Misha's mind. What could he do? How could he warn Polevoy? He and Genka would never reach Nizkovka in an hour. The railway guard groaned. The old woman fussed over him with sighs and lamentations. Misha shook Genka. "Get up! D'you hear, Genka? Get up!" "What, what d'you want?" Genka mumbled sleepily. Misha pulled him, but Genka kicked and tried to curl up on the sheepskin coat again.

37

"Get up," Misha whispered, "get up!" He shook Genka roughly. "Get up! Nikitsky's here. They want to attack the troop train." The boys stole out of the hut quietly. The rain had stopped, but a damp smell rose from the ground, and water dripped monotonously from the roof. The full moon lit up the edges of the thinning clouds, the railway line and the gleaming rails. The dog's dismal and eerie howling made the boys' flesh creep. They fled in terror, following a path by the side of the embankment. They had not gone far when they stopped short at the sight of dark figures on the line. The clang of heavy iron told them the bandits were pulling the rails apart. They were working at the highest point on the embankment, near a small bridge thrown across a deep gully. The sounds of horses neighing, branches rustling and cracking, and muffled voices came from a grove on the side of the gully. The boys noiselessly slipped down the embankment, by-passed the grove, and ran as fast as they could.

The cold dawn made objects clearer and clearer as it pushed back the horizon. The boys could already see the station lights, and in their desperate race for the station they neither felt the sharp stones that cut their feet nor heard the wind screeching in their ears. The drawn-out whistle of an engine suddenly reached them. They stopped for a second, then ran forward again, their eyes glued to the bent iron hand-rails of the engine which had wreathes of white steam curling round them. The hand-rails grew bigger and bigger, so big that they hid the engine. Just as Misha was about to stretch out to grip them a strong hand fell on his shoulder.... It was Polevoy. "Well, where've you been loafing?" he asked sternly. "Sergei Ivanovich," Misha panted. "Nikitsky's over there." "Where?" Polevoy asked quickly. "Over there—in the railway guard's cabin. They're in the gully now." "In the gully?" "Yes." "So 'that's what they're up to. . ." Polevoy thought for a second. "And we

38

waited for them here. Thanks, lads! And now off you go to the carriage! And see that you don't leave it, or I'll have you put under lock and key."

39

Chapter 14 FAREWELL The battle was soon over. The bandits were routed. In their flight they did not stop to carry away their dead. Riderless horses tore up and down the field; they were caught and unsaddled by the Red Army soldiers, who then drove them up planks into the carriages. The rails were speedily repaired and the train continued its journey. When they arrived in Bakhmach the boys learned that the troop train was making only a short stop before leaving for the front. The passenger carriage was uncoupled and left to wait for a Moscow-bound train. Polevoy called Misha over before the troop train pulled out, and they sat down in the shade of a warehouse: Misha on the ground and Polevoy on an empty box. They sat there without talking, each engrossed in his own thoughts, and it was quite possible that both were thinking of the same thing. Finally, Polevoy looked up at Misha and smiled. "Well, Mikhail Grigoryevich, what have you got to say at parting?" Misha did not reply; only lowered his eyes. "Yes," Polevoy said, "the time's come for us to part, Misha, my lad. I don't know if we'll see each other again, so look here." He took the dirk out and held it in the palm of his left hand. The dirk had not changed; it had the same yellowed handle with the bronze serpent around it. With his right hand Polevoy twisted the handle in the direction of the serpent's head. The handle rose along the spiral of the serpent's body until it came off altogether. Polevoy disengaged the serpent from the handle and pulled out a little tube made of very thin metal plate and covered with unintelligible signs: dots, dashes, and circles. "Do you know what this is?" he asked. "A code," Misha said uncertainly with a questioning look at Polevoy. "Correct," Polevoy confirmed," "it's a code. Only the key to this code is in the sheath and Nikitsky has it. See now why he wanted the dirk?" Misha nodded. "A man was killed for this dirk; that means there's some mystery about it. I thought of clearing it up, but now's not the time for that," he sighed, "and I can't carry the dirk with me any longer. Who can tell what may happen, especially with the war. So here, take it." He held out the dirk to Misha. "Take it," Polevoy repeated. "If I come back from the front I'll attend to it, and if I don't return," he looked at Misha and winked playfully, "if I don't return, this'll be something to remember me by." Misha took the dirk. "Why don't you say something?" Polevoy asked. "Are you afraid?" "No. What is there to be afraid of?" Misha replied.

40

"Then remember," Polevoy said, "don't wag your tongue unnecessarily. Especially," he looked at Misha, "beware of one man." "Nikitsky?" "Nikitsky will never dream you have anything to do with it. Besides, I doubt if you'll ever see him again. There's another man. I didn't find him here. But he's a Revsk man, too. You may chance upon him—so mind you beware of him." "Who is he?" Polevoy gave Misha another glance. "You've got to beware of him and not show you're doing it. name's Filin." "Filin," Misha repeated thoughtfully. "We have a Filin living near us in Moscow." "What's his first name and patronymic?" "I don't know. But I know his son—Borka. The fellows call Skinflint." "Skinflint," Polevoy laughed. "Is he from Revsk?" "I don't know." "Well, Filin's a common name, you know," Polevoy mused." I believe Revsk's half full of them. But I don't think the one I mean is in Moscow. I'm sure he's hidden deeper. But be careful all the same. They're a tough crowd, dangerous. Understand?" "Yes," Misha replied quietly. "Courage, Mikhail Grigoryevich!" Polevoy slapped him on the shoulder. "You're a man already, one can say. You've weighed anchor. Only remember..." He rose. Misha did the same. "Only remember, Misha, my lad, life's like a sea. If ever you think of living for yourself, you'll be like a lonely fisherman in a rotten, leaky boat: you'll always be keeping to the shallows, looking at one and the same shore, and plugging holes with torn trousers. But if you live for the people, you'll sail on a big ship and a broad expanse will open before you. No storm can then frighten you! The whole world will be yours! You for your comrades and your comrades for you. See? Well, that's fine!" He stretched out his hand to Misha, smiled again, and strode off along the uneven sleepers, tall, strong, with his grey army great-coat thrown across his shoulders. A meeting was held before the train departed. Many townspeople and depot workers gathered at the station. Girls walked up and down the platform, eating sunflower seeds and exchanging smiles with the soldiers. The meeting was opened by Polevoy, who stood on the roof of the headquarters carriage, over the shield with the emblem of the International. He said that danger was threatening Soviet Russia, that the bourgeoisie of the whole world had attacked the young Soviet Republic; he was confident that the power of the workers and peasants would crush all its enemies and that the banner of Freedom would rise over our Motherland. When Polevoy finished everybody shouted "Hurrah!" The next speaker was a soldier. He said there was a shortage of supplies in the army, but its unbending spirit and its faith in the just cause made it invincible. He was also applauded and people shouted "Hurrah!" Misha and

41

Genka, who were sitting on the roof of the carriage, also clapped enthusiastically and their "Hurrahs!" were the loudest of all. The troop train pulled out of the station after the meeting. Red Army soldiers crowded the open doors of the goods-vans; some sat and dangled their feet, showing their worn shoes and torn leggings, others stood behind them and all sang the Internationale. The notes of the anthem filled the station, burst out into the wide steppes, and floated across the boundless land. The crowd on the platform caught up the anthem. Misha sang in his clear voice. His heart swelled as he sang the words, a shiver of pride ran down his spine, a lump rose in his throat choking the words, and tears he could not control filled his eyes. The train grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared with a wave of its long, curved tail. Evening kindled twinkling lights in the sky, the crowd dispersed, leaving the platform deserted. But Misha did not go away. He stood looking in the direction where the train had disappeared, where the glittering tangle of rails merged into one narrow steel line that cut into the humped, misty horizon. And in his mind's eye he saw the Red Army soldiers inside the troop train, Polevoy in his grey army great-coat, and the muscular worker breaking with his sledge hammer the chains fettering the globe.

42

Part II THE COURT IN ARBAT STREET Chapter 15 A YEAR LATER A noise in the corridor awakened Misha. He opened his eyes and promptly shut them again. A short ray of sunlight had crept into the room past the tall neighbouring buildings and was shining on the millions of dust particles dancing between the window and the rug on the floor. The striped tiger embroidered on the rug was also dozing with its eyes screwed up and its head resting on outstretched paws. It was decrepit old tiger, threadbare and harmless. The ray narrowed and moved slowly across the room, from the rug to the edge of the table. It threw a light on the nickel-plating on Mother's bed, it shone on the sewing-machine and disappeared abruptly as if it had never been there. The room became darker. An open window squeaked lightly and from Arbat Street and the court-yard below came the warning bells of the tramcars, the honk-honk of motor-cars, the merry voices of children, and the cries of the knife-grinders and old clothes men—all combining to make the discordant sounds of a city street in spring-time. Misha dozed. He wanted to go back to sleep, for it would not do to get up at the usual time on the first day of the holidays. He could idle away the

43

whole day. How splendid! Mother entered with a flat-iron. She spread a folded blanket on the table and put the iron on an overturned samovar ring. On a char beside her was a heap of rough-dry washing. "Get up, Misha," Mother said. "Get up, son." Misha made no move. Why did Mother always know whether he was sleeping or not? After all he had his eyes shut. "Get up, don't pretend," Mother said, coming up to the bed. It was as much as he could do to keep from laughing. When Mother slipped her hand under the blanket Misha brought his knees up to his chin, but her cold hand followed his heels relentlessly. This was too much for Misha. He sprang out of bed with a peal of laughter. He dressed quickly and went to the kitchen. The white-tiled floor gleamed in the dim light. The water-pipe had burst in the winter and now the grey walls were striped with long dark lines. Misha took his shirt off, firmly intending to give himself a cold rub-down. He had decided long ago to make this a habit and promised himself to begin as soon as the holidays started. He turned on the tap with a shiver; a gushing stream ran into the wash-bowl and splashes of icy water stung Misha's shoulders. Brrr.... A bit too cold, that. To be sure, he had resolved to start this business the first day of the holidays, but... the term had ended two weeks earlier. The holidays should have started on June 1, and now it was only May 15. Could he be blamed if the school had been closed for repairs? All right: he would have the first rub-down on June 1. And Misha pulled on his shirt. He looked closely at himself in the mirror as he stood in front of it combing his hair. That chin of his was no good! If it had jutted out he would have had a lot of will-power. That was what Jack London wrote. And he needed strong will-power badly. Why, just a few minutes ago he had failed in his decision to rub himself down with cold water. The same thing had happened every time he made up his mind to do something. Look at the diary he had wanted to keep. He had started a note-book but he had not gone farther than the first page—his patience had given out. What about morning exercises? Hadn't he dropped them, too? And those excuses lie always gave himself! It was downright laziness, nothing more. Then what about his habit of postponing things? Monday, the first of the month, the new school term... these were the dates to which he usually postponed anything he thought of doing. It was enough to make one sick just to think of it. Weakling, you've got no backbone, he told himself. About time to stop all that. Misha stuck out his chin. There, that was the kind of chin a man with strong will-power should have. You had to hold your teeth like that all the time; that would gradually make the chin jut out. Potatoes were steaming on the table, and the day's ration of two slices of black bread lay on a plate beside them. Misha cut his slice into three— breakfast, dinner, supper—and took one piece. He hardly noticed how he ate it, it was so small, and he wondered if he should take the second piece. Dinner could be had without bread.... No! That would not do! If he ate up all his ration now Mother would be sure to give him her portion in the evening

44

and go without bread. Misha put the bread back and as he stuck his chin out resolutely, he forgot that he was eating a hot potato and painfully bit his tongue. Chapter 16 THE BOOKCASE Misha wanted to go outdoors after breakfast. "Where are you going?" Mother stopped him. "For a walk." "In the court-yard?" "Yes... I'll go into the court-yard, too." "What about your books?" she wetted her finger and touched the iron. "Who's going to put your books away?" "But Mother, I simply haven't any time for that now." "That means / have to put them away for you?" Mother put the iron down on the ring and looked questioningly at Misha. "All right, I'll do it," Misha mumbled. "You're always like that: getting at me when every minute counts!" Misha's shelf was the second from the bottom. The case was meat for books, but as they had no cupboard or a dresser, it was used for clothes and crockery. Misha took the books out, swept the dust off the shelf with a shoe brush and spread a newspaper on it. Then he sat on the floor and sorted out the books, putting them back one by one. Two volumes of the Brokhaus and Efron Encyclopaedia were the first to go back on the shelf. Misha prized them most. A fellow with all the eightysix volumes need not go to school: he could get a higher education by just learning the whole encyclopaedia by heart. The Brokhaus was followed by The World of Adventure in two volumes, Nikolai Gogol's Collected Works in one volume, Tolstoy's Childhood, Adolescence and Youth, Goncharov's Oblomov, and Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. But what was this? Hm! Charskaya... Princess Javaha.... Misha hesitated about putting it back. A trashy book, if ever there was one! Sloppy! For girls! The binding was the only good thing about it. Slava might agree to swop it for some other book. He liked beautifully-bound books. Misha went to the window and threw it open. The noise and rumble of the street invaded the room. The buildings in the long blocks were of different heights and they stretched out in all directions. The latticed iron balconies looked glued to them, so did the narrow fire escapes. The Moscow River flowed in a winding blue ribbon, while, seen from a distance, the bridges looked like black bands holding down this ribbon. The golden dome of the nearest church glittered with a thousand suns, and behind it the Kremlin thrust the sharp spires of its towers high into

45

the sky. Misha leaned out of the window and turned his face towards the neighbouring house. "Slav-a-a!" he called. Slava, a pale boy with long thin fingers, looked out of a third-storey window. His friends teasingly called him "bourgeois" because he always wore a bow tie, played the piano, and never fought. His mother was a famous singer and his father was chief engineer at the Sverdlov Factory in which Misha's mother, Genka's aunt, and many other tenants in the block worked. The factory had been idle for a long time and now preparations were being made to get it working again. "Slava," Misha called, "want to swop?" He waved the book. "A real corker! Princess Javaha. You won't be able to tear yourself away from it!" "No," Slava shouted. "I've got it already." "Doesn't matter. Just look at the binding! Like it? You can have it for your Gadfly." "No!" "All right! You needn't then! Later you'll ask for it yourself, but it'll be too late." "When are you going out?" Slava asked. "Soon." "Come to Genka's. I'll be there." "All right." Misha hopped off the window-sill and put the book on the shelf. It can stay there for a while, he thought, and in the autumn he would see if anybody at school would like to give him something for it. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, In the Wilds of Africa, The Leather Stocking, The Headless Horseman.... All about cowboys, prairies, Red Indians, scalps, mustangs.... These were real books! Now for the text-books: Kiselyov, Rybkin, Krayevich, Shaposhnikov and Valtsev....

46

He had hardly opened them last year. The school had not been heated and it had been so cold that the boys' fingers froze and they could not write. But they had attended school all the same. For the hot soup. The winter of nineteen hundred and twenty-one had been a severe and hungry one. Misha put away his exercise-books, stamp album, the compasses with the bent needle, the set-square with the obliterated divisions, and his protractor. Then with a sidelong glance at Mother he felt for his secret package which was hidden behind a bundle of old magazine supplements. The dirk was there. Misha felt the hard steel of the blade through the cloth. Where was Polevoy now? Only one letter had come from him and nothing more. But Misha was sure he would come. Fighting was still going on in some places, though the war was over. The White Finns had been chased out of Karelia only last February. In the Far East our soldiers were pushing the Japanese interventionists into the sea. But the Entente was already preparing for a new war. Everything was pointing to that. Nikitsky had probably been killed by this time; or he had fled across the frontier like other White officers. He had the sheath, and the mystery of the dirk would never be unveiled. Misha's thoughts turned to Filin, Borka's father, who managed the storehouse. Who was he? Could he be the same Filin that Polevoy had spoken about? Misha thought he came from Revsk.

He had asked Mother several times about him, but she was not sure; but Genka's Aunt Agrippina knew. When Misha had casually asked about Film, she spat and said angrily: "I don't know and I don't care to know. He's a bad lot. The whole breed's the same." Misha could not make Aunt Agrippina say anything else, but since she had mentioned the "breed" he felt that she knew something. It was impossible to get anything out of her. A tall, stout woman, she was hard nut to crack, and there was no one stricter in the whole block. All the tenants

47

were afraid of her, even the house-manager; he obsequiously referred to her as "our very voluminous Agrippina Tikhonovna." She was also a "delegate" ( The author has in mind the elective public office of organizer of cultural and political work among women. This office existed in the first years after the establishment of Soviet power and aimed at drawing women into active social and political work and production.—Ed.) and that made her the most important woman at the factory. Genka alone was not afraid of her: even a trifling row was enough to make him start packing and announce that he was going back to Revsk. That always made Aunt Agrippina give in. ... Was there any way to find out about Filin? Why hadn't he thought of asking Polevoy for the man's first name and patronymic? Misha sighed, carefully hid the dirk behind the supplements and closed the bookcase. There was nothing to keep him at home now he went to Genka's. Chapter 17 GENKA The boys were playing chess with the board and chessmen on a chair. Slava was standing and Genka was sitting on the edge of a wide bed covered with a quilt. The pillows were piled high in a pyramid the tip of which almost reached a small icon hanging near the ceiling. Genka's aunt was kneading dough on the table beside them. She seemed annoyed about something, for when Misha entered the room she greeted him with a stern look. "Where on earth have you been?" Genka cried to Misha. "Take a look, I'll checkmate him in three moves.... Here: ein, zwei, drei." "Zwei, dreil" Aunt Agrippina said suddenly. "Get up from the bed! A nice place you've found to sit on!" Genka moved slightly, as if preparing to get up. "Don't fidget, but get up! Who do you think I'm talking to?" Aunt Agrippina attacked the dough fiercely with her rolling pin, then turned to Genka again. "For shame! A big lad like you, hacking away at the cabbage and spoiling the whole head! Tell me why you had to cut it?" "All right, I'll tell you: I wanted the stump. You don't need it anyway." "Then couldn't you have cut it out carefully, you blockhead? I was saving that head for stuffed cabbage-rolls and now you've gone and spoiled all the leaves." "Meat rolled in cabbage leaves, Auntie," Genka replied slowly, his mind on his next move, "is a petty-bourgeois prejudice. We're not bourgeoisie to eat cabbage-rolls. Anyway they wouldn't have been the proper thing; you'd have stuffed them with millet, wouldn't you? Meat stuffing would have been different."

48

"Are you trying to teach me, young man?" "I'm surprised at you, Auntie, honestly I am," Genka chattered on, his eyes fixed on the chessmen. "You're an important person, so to speak, and here you are getting excited about stuffed cabbage-rolls. Getting yourself all hot and bothered about a miserable little stump. Upsetting your health." "My health's no business of yours," Aunt Agrippina grumbled, cutting the dough into noodles. "That's enough, shut up. Shut up, I say, or I'll have this rolling pin on you." "All right. But don't threaten me with that rolling pin. You won't hit me anyway." "Why do you think so?" Aunt Agrippina asked, formidably straightening to her full height. "You won't." "Why won't I, I'm asking you?" "Why?" Genka picked up a pawn and held it thoughtfully in his hand. "Because you love me, Auntie dear; love and respect me." "Oh, you're such a silly boy," Aunt Agrippina laughed. "Why are you so silly?" "Mate!" Slava announced suddenly. "Where? Where? Where've you mated me?" Genka asked in alarm. "You're right. See that, Auntie," he added plaintively, "I've lost a won game because of your cabbage-rolls." "No harm done, I'm sure!" Aunt Agrippina said, going off to the kitchen. "What's the matter with you, Genka, quarrelling with your aunt all the time?" Slava asked. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself! "Me? Quarrelling? You're talking through your hat! Call that quarrelling? It's just her way of talking, that's all," Genka said, setting up the chessmen. "Let's have a game, Misha." "No," Misha said. "Let's go down to the court-yard. What's the sense of staying here." Genka put away the chessmen, folded the board and the boys went out of the house. Chapter 18 BORKA, THE SKINFLINT It was already May, but the snow in the court-yard had not yet thawed. The snow-drifts that had heaped up during the winter had settled, blackened, compressed, but, sheltered by eight-storeyed buildings crowding closely together, they had not capitulated to the sun. On clear days sunbeams crept into the court-yard and dozed on a narrow strip of asphalt, where the girls had chalked off squares for hop-scotch, then rose slowly higher and

49

higher up the wall until they hid behind the buildings. The boys were playing penny-pitching with big tsarist five-kopek pieces. Genka tried to reach Misha's coin by stretching his fingers out as much as they would go. "No use. You won't reach it," Misha said. "You won't. Shoot, Skinflint. Your turn." "See if I don't hit it right on the head," Borka muttered, aiming at Slava's coin, "right on the head. There!" His big flattened five-kopek piece hit Slava's. "Shell out, bourgeois!" The blood rushed to Slava's face. "I've lost everything already," he said. "I'll owe it you." "Then why did you butt in?" Borka shouted. "No one plays on credit here. Give me the money." "I've told you already that I haven't any. I'll pay you when I win it back." "So that's what you want!" Borka cried, seizing Slava's coin. "You'll get this back when you pay up." "Who gave you the right?" Slava asked, his voice trembling and a red spot showing on his pale cheeks. "Who gave you the right to do that?" "I've got the right," Borka muttered, hiding the coin in his pocket. "You'll know better next time." Misha offered Borka a kopek. "Here, give him back his aimer. And you, Slava, don't play when you haven't any money." "I won't take it," Borka grumbled, shaking his head. "I won't take anyone else's. Let him pay up himself." "Want to play the skinflint?" "Maybe I do." "Well, you won't. Give Slava back his aimer." "You keep out of it!" Borka snapped angrily. "D'you think you own the place?" "Are you going to give it back?" Misha said stepping up to Borka. "Let him have it, Misha!" Genka shouted, also closing in on Borka. "Get back, Genka, I'll manage this myself," Misha said, pushing Genka away. "I'm asking you for the last time: will you give it back?" Borka stepped away and averted his eyes. The coin rang against the stones. "There! And I hope he chokes! Who d'you think you are, defending people?" he said, walking away with a spiteful look at Misha. The game was spoilt. The boys lolled in the sun on the warm asphalt near the wall. The crowns of the stunted trees muffled the sound of bells pealing from the church near by. Washing fluttered on the clothes-lines stretched out between the trees, and the wooden clothes-pegs shook as they leaned from one side to another. A woman was washing windows in an apartment on the fifth floor.

50

Misha sat on a pile of rusty radiators making faces at Borka. So it didn't come off? You didn't succeed in pocketing someone else's money. He had earned the name of skinflint without a doubt. You could always find him at Smolensk Market selling cigarettes and toffees; he would lick the toffees to give them a shine. And his father, Filin, the storehouse manager, was always on the make, too. Meanwhile Borka was telling the boys about "hoppers" as if nothing had happened. "Hoppers wrap themselves in a sheet," Borka was saying between sniffs, "hold a torch in their mouths and tie springs to their feet. They jump from the street right to the fifth floor and rob everyone. They can jump over houses, too. As soon as a militiaman comes up they take one jump and land in the next street." "Go on!" Misha drawled with a contemptuous gesture. "You're just a gasbag. 'Hoppers'," he mimicked Borka. "You'd do better to tell us about the cellars and the corpses you've seen there." "If you want to know," Borka said, "there are corpses in the cellars. It's where there used to be a cemetery. At night they howl and groan and it's horrible." "There's nothing in your cellars," Misha said. "You can tell those lies to someone else. Cemeteries and ghosts, what rubbish!" "But there used to be a cemetery," Borka insisted. "And it has a secret passage under the whole of Moscow. Tsar Ivan Grozny built it." Everybody laughed. "Ivan Grozny lived four hundred years ago," Misha said, "and it's only ten years since our house was built. You can't even tell a good lie." "So you call me a liar!" Borka said with a spiteful smirk. "Come down the cellars with me and I'll show you the underground passages and the corpses." "Don't go, Misha," Genka said. 'He'll take you there and then play some dirty trick on you." That was Borka's favourite ruse. He knew the cellars under the huge

51

building better than any of the boys, and when he got any of them to go down with him he would suddenly stop talking and keep quite still and let the pitch darkness do its work. His companion would invariably lose his way and call out to him, but Borka would turn a deaf ear. He would lead his victim out of the cellars only after torturing him and extracting a promise of a reward. "We aren't fools," continued Genka, who had already gone through the experience. "Go down into the cellars yourself." "All right, then," Borka said, feigning indifference. "If you've got cold feet, you needn't come." "Who are you referring to?" Misha asked, flaring up. "Oh, no one in particular." Borka shrugged his shoulders. "I just meant people who're afraid to go into the cellars." "In that case... Come on!" Misha said, getting up. The two boys crossed into the fore-court and went down into the cellars, carefully feeling their way along the clammy walls. Borka led the way. The earth was loose, and bits of tin and broken glass tinkled under their boots. Misha knew that Borka wanted to make a fool of him. All right, hå would see who came out on top. They pushed on in the pitch dark and when they had gone quite a distance Borka stopped suddenly. "So it's starting," Misha thought. "Well, will your corpses appear soon?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound as natural as possible. But the only answer was a muffled echo that died away in some distant unseen corners. Borka did not reply, but Misha felt he was somewhere very near, and decided not to call out to him any more. Several uneasy minutes went by in this way. Both boys held their breath as each waited for the other to speak first. Then Misha softly turned round and went back, groping for the turns. Never mind, he was sure he would find the way by himself and when he did so he would close the door and keep Borka here for a good half hour. That would teach him. Misha proceeded quietly and, in the stillness, he heard faint footfalls behind him: Borka was stealthily following him. So he was losing his nerve! He did not want to be left there alone! Misha went on. There was something wrong, he thought, for instead of widening, the passage was getting narrower. Still he went on and on. How could Borka see in this darkness? What if he left him here and he could not find the way? That was enough to give anyone the creeps. The passage narrowed so that Misha's shoulders brushed both walls. He stopped. Should he call out to Borka? No, not for anything. He raised his hand and felt a cold iron pipe running overhead. Water was gurgling somewhere. Suddenly he heard a loud rustling above his head. He thought that a huge toad had jumped on him, and he threw himself forward; there was no ground under his feet and he fell headlong down a hole.... He picked himself up after he had recovered from the first shock; the fall had done him no harm and it was lighter here and he could dimly make out

52

the grey uneven walls. He was in a narrow passage running at right angles to the one he had fallen from and it was about two feet lower down. "Mi-sha-a!" Borka's dark figure appeared in the upper passage. "Misha! Where are you?" Misha did not reply. Borka had had to talk first, after all! Well, let him search now. Misha pressed to the wall and kept still. "Misha, Misha, where are you?" Borka muttered. He was worried and craned his neck to peer into the passage. "Why don't you answer? Misha...." "Where's your underground passage?" Misha scoffed. "And the corpses? Show me!" "This is the underground passage," Borka whispered, "Only you mustn't go along it. That's where the coffins and corpses are." "A lot I care for your corpses!" Misha said and started off into the passage. But Borka caught him by the shoulder. "Look, Misha," he whispered anxiously. "Listen to me, let's go back, or it'll be the worse for us." "What are you trying to scare me for?" "Look here, don't go. We won't find anything without a torch anyway. I'll get one to-morrow, and then we'll go." "D'you mean it? I know you, after all!" "Cross my heart! May I be struck dead if I lie! But if you don't come back, then you'd better watch out: I'll go away and won't return. You'll never get out by yourself." "And a lot I care!" Misha replied scornfully, but all the same he groped his way out of the cellars after Borka. The bright sunlight at the entrance dazzled their eyes. "Mind you come tomorrow morning," Misha said. "All right, it's a bargain," Borka replied. Chapter 19 SHURA BOLSHOI Shura Ogureyev appeared in the court-yard. He was the tallest boy there and all his friends called him Shura Bolshoi. (Bolshoi—big.—Tr) They considered him a great actor and he was a member of the amateur dramatic circle in the club that had its headquarters in the basement of the first block. The house management that ran the club did not allow boys to join. Shura Bolshoi was the exception, and he was very proud of it. "Hello, Daddy Longshanks!" Misha greeted him. Shura gave him a haughty look. "What childish ways you have, indeed! I should have thought you'd grown out of your infancy!" "Well, I'll be hanged!" Genka said. 'Where'd they teach you that? In the club?"

53

"That's none of your business." Shura made a significant pause. "Of course you know only adults are allowed to join the club." "Don't make me laugh!" Misha said. "You've grown about a mile long. That's why they let you join." "I'm one of the leading actors," Shura answered importantly, "and if you're jealous, say so." "They aren't letting us join because we're not organized," Slava said, "but I've heard mere's a Young Communist organization in Krasnaya Presnya and they have their own club." "Yes, that's true," Shura confirmed authoritatively, "only it has another name. I've forgotten it. But it's for children. Grown-ups join the Komsomol." This was a hint that he was regularly attending the Komsomol cell at the factory and intended joining it. "Splendid," Misha mused. "Kids having their own organization!" "They're probably boy scouts," Genka said. "You're making a mistake somewhere, Slava." "No, I'm not. Scouts wear blue ties and these kids wear red ones." "Red?" Misha asked. "Well, if their ties are red then they're for the Soviets. And then, there couldn't be boy scouts in Krasnaya Presnya. It's the most proletarian district in the city." "Yes, they're for the Soviets," Shura chimed in. "And they have their own club?" "Of course," Shura said. "They all have membership cards," he added uncertainly. "I say! . . ." Misha drawled. "How is it I've not heard anything about it? How do you know all this, Slava?" "A chap from the music school told me." "Why didn't you find out exactly? What they're called, where their club is, and who can join...." "Join!" Shura laughed. "Think it's so simple to join. I can just see them taking you!" "Why shouldn't they take me?" "It's not as easy as that!" Shura said, shaking his head meaningly. "You have to prove your worth first." "What d'you mean, prove your worth?" "Well... er, generally speaking," Shura said with an indefinite gesture. "Like other chaps, for example: doing something useful in the club, going to Komsomol meetings." "All right, Shura," Misha interrupted him. "You needn't brag so much. You swagger a lot, but how much use are you?" "What are you driving at?" "I'll tell you. You want to join the Komsomol, don't you? All right. Komsomol members fought at the front. Now they're working at the factories and workshops. And what do you do? You're just one of the crowd at the back of the stage. Tell me, would you like to be stage manager?" "How can I be stage manager? Our stage manager's Comrade Mitya Sakharov."

54

"He's stage manager of the adult dramatic circle, but we'll organize one for the children. Then they'll let all of us join the club. We'll put a play on and send the money to help the people starving in. the Volga region. That'll be showing what stuff we're made of." "That's right," Slava said. "And we can organize a music circle,' and a choir, and a drawing circle." "They won't let you," Shura shook his head doubtfully. But the boys could see that he was eager to be their stage manager. "They will," Misha insisted. "Let's go and see Comrade Mitya Sakharov and tell him about it. How can he prevent us?" "He'll kick you out!" Borka shouted from the garbage bin where he was rummaging for empty bottles. "You keep your nose out of this!" Genka said showing his fist. "Go and sell your toffees." "Well, it's a good idea," Shura continued reflectively. "But my forte's acting and not stage managing." "Couldn't be better," Misha said. "If you're an actor you'll act the role of stage manager. Don't waste time thinking!" "All right," Shura finally agreed. "Only promise you'll obey me in everything. Discipline's most important in art. Genka, you'll play the funny roles, and Slava can be the hero and, of course, see to the music. I suggest we appoint Misha our manager." Shura looked at the other children. "I'll distribute the other roles later, after a test."

Chapter 2O THE CLUB The club premises consisted of a hall and a stage and when there was no performance or tenants' meeting, the benches were moved to one side to make room for other activities. Housewives and domestic workers studied in a literacy class. The dramatic circle rehearsed on the stage. Billiards enthusiasts played in the middle of the hall, and whenever the string orchestra practised, the billiard players knocked their cues against the musicians. All these activities were presided over by the club manager, Comrade Mitya Sakharov, who was also the stage manager. He was a young man with a long thin nose; his Adam's apple was so sharp that it seemed about to cut through his throat, and his face always had a preoccupied look. He usually wore a long velvet jacket so old that it had turned brown, a shining black bow, and narrow trousers. Mitya's hair was long, straight and of an indefinite colour, and he was constantly smoothing it off his face with the palm of his hand. Shura pushed Misha forward when the boys entered the club. "You do the talking. You're the manager," he said and moved aside with

55

an air as though all this had nothing to do with him and, as far as he was concerned, was just some childish undertaking. "Hm!. . ." said Mitya Sakharov thoughtfully, after hearing Misha out. "Hm.... All I can say is that I'm not running a theatrical school. This is a cultural establishment. Hm ... a cultural establishment under the firm rule of the house committee...." And he walked to the stage from where, very soon, his tearful voice could be heard pleading: "Comrade Parashina, try to understand your role; be the person you're acting." "No go," Misha said, returning to his friends. "He's turned us down. He's not running a theatrical school but a cultural establishment under the firm rule of the house committee." "There, you see," Shura said, "I told you so." "Oh you and your eternal 'I told you so'," Misha said angrily. The boys stood thinking for a while. The balls on the billiard table clicked with a hollow sound; the string orchestra was rehearsing Mozart's Turkish March; and a poster on the wall showed an emaciated old man stretching out a skinny hand: "Help the starving in the Volga country!" The old man's eyes were feverish and followed you relentlessly no matter from which side you approached the poster. "There's another way out," Misha said. "What way?" "To go and see Comrade Zhurbin." "Nonsense," said Shura with a hopeless gesture. "He's a member of the City Soviet. It's not likely he'll bother himself about our circle. I'm not going to him. Might run into the old witch, too." "Then I'll go," Misha insisted. "The club doesn't belong to Mitya Sakharov, after all. Come on, Genka!" They ran up the broad staircase to the fourth floor where Zhurbin lived. Misha rang the bell. Genka stood on the stairs in a blue funk and as soon as they heard steps the other side of the door, he fled down the steps three at a time. The door was opened by Zhurbin's neighbour, a tall, thin, crosslooking woman with long protruding teeth. The boys called her an old witch because of her sharp temper. "What do you want?" she asked. "I want to see Comrade Zhurbin." "What for?" "On business." "What business can you have! Loafing about here..." she mumbled and slammed the door, almost on Misha's nose. "Old witch!" he shouted and ran down the stairs. He had almost reached the bottom when he suddenly bumped into someone. He looked up, and there stood Comrade Zhurbin. "What's this? Why are you behaving like a ruffian?" Zhurbin asked sternly. Misha lowered his head. "Well?" Zhurbin questioned. "Are you deaf?" "N-no."

56

"Then why don't you answer me? Don't do it again!" he said, and began climbing the stairs slowly and heavily. Misha walked away sadly. It had all turned out so badly! He heard Zhurbin's heavy steps above him, heard the key turn in the lock and the door open. Misha stopped. "Comrade Zhurbin, could I see you for a minute?" he cried, running upstairs again. Zhurbin stood at the open door and looked inquiringly at Misha. "What is it?" "Comrade Zhurbin," Misha puffed, "we want to organize a dramatic circle." He caught his breath, and continued, "We want to, but Comrade Mitya Sakharov won't let us." "Who is 'we'?" "All of us. The kids in the court-yard." Zhurbin's stern look relaxed. A smile hovered round the tips of his moustache and shone in his eyes. But he did not reply, just stood there and smiled into Misha's blue eyes, at his black tangled hair and sharp scratched elbows. Misha wondered why this middle-aged, heavily-built man with the military Order of the Red Banner pinned to his chest was smiling and what he was thinking about. "Oh well, come in and we'll have a talk," Zhurbin finally said and walked into the flat. Misha followed him. Zhurbin's "witch" neighbour looked angrily at him but said nothing. Chapter 21 ACROBATS Misha left Zhurbin's flat half an hour later and went to join his friends in the court-yard. A large crowd was watching a performance by some acrobats. Misha wriggled to the front. A boy and a girl were giving a turn. They wore blue tights and had red sashes round their waists, and were performing on a rug, while a cleanshaven man also in blue tights was encouraging them with cries of Allez. They were doing incredible things. Especially the girl, a thin, slender little thing with blue eyes under curling lashes. She bowed gracefully, then, carelessly throwing back her long flaxen hair, and chasing, as it were, a habitual smile from her face, made a running somersault. Near by stood a small donkey harnessed to a cart on two bicycle wheels. On the cart were two plywood boards fixed at an angle, bearing the following inscription in bold letters: Bush Brother & Sister Acrobatic Turn

57

Bush Brother & Sister The donkey was quite docile. It simply rolled its big eyes round as it looked at the people, and twitched its long ears in a funny way.

When the show ended, the clean-shaven man announced that they were not beggars but actors, and that "circumstances" had forced them to perform in court-yards. He invited the "esteemed public" to show their appreciation of the performance by giving as much as they could afford. The boy and girl went among the spectators with aluminium plates. Those who had watched the performance from their windows, threw down coins wrapped in paper. The children picked up the money and handed it to the acrobats. Misha, too, picked up a piece of paper with a coin in it and waited for the girl to come up to him. She came up finally and stopped in front of him, and the smile from her big blue eyes so embarrassed him that he was powerless to move. "Well?" the girl said, lightly nudging him in the chest with her plate. That brought Misha back to his senses and he dropped the paper into the plate. The girl moved on, then turned round to look at Misha and laughed. And later when, surrounded by the crowd, the acrobats were leaving the court-yard, the girl turned and smiled at him again. A slap on his back made Misha turn round. Near him were Shura, Genka, and Slava. "What did Zhurbin say?" Shura asked. "Here, read this!" Misha opened his fist and unfolded a piece of paper. What was this? In the crumpled paper with slanting lines and oil spots there was a ten-kopek piece. Why, of course! He had given Zhurbin's note to the girl by mistake. "He gave you the sum total of ten kopeks," Shura drawled derisively. Misha tore out through the gates and raced to the neighbouring court-yard.

58

The acrobats were already finishing their performance. When the girl started going round with the plate, Misha went to her and put the ten kopeks in her plate. "Listen, I gave you the wrong paper by mistake," he mumbled in confusion. "Please give it back to me. It's a very important note." The girl answered him with a merry peal of laughter. "What note? How funny you are. And why have you got a scar on your forehead?" "That's no concern of yours," Misha replied dryly. "The White-guards made it. Give me back my note." "You probably like to fight," the girl said, admonishing him with her finger. "I don't like boys who fight." "I don't care," Misha said gloomily. "Give me back my note." "You are funny!" the girl shrugged her shoulders. "I never saw your note. Perhaps Bush has it. Wait a minute." When she finished the round she gave the money she had collected to the man and said something to him. He waved her aside irritably, but the girl insisted, even stamped her foot in its tiny satin shoe. The man put his hand into a canvas bag, frowned and grumbled as he searched in it and finally pulled out the folded piece of paper that Zhurbin had given Misha. Misha snatched it away and ran back to his own court-yard. The girl followed him with her eyes and laughed, and it seemed to Misha that the donkey too shook its head and bared its long yellow teeth to jeer at him. Chapter 23 THE "ART" CINEMA The boys read Zhurbin's pencilled note, their heads pressed closely together. "Comrade Sakharov, The initiative shown by the children must be supported. Work among them is important, especially for the club. Please be sure to help the children of our house to organize a dramatic circle. Zhurbin" "That puts everything right," Shura said. "I knew Zhurbin would help. We'll call an inaugural meeting for to-morrow. Till then, good-bye," he looked at the boys meaningly, "I'm in a hurry. Have an important conference to attend to." "What a swanker he is!" Genka said when Shura had gone. "I can just see them waiting for him at an important conference. What he needs is a hiding to knock the swagger out of him!" Misha, Genka, and Slava were sitting on the stone steps at the exit of the

59

"Art" Cinema. The evening had plunged everything into a grey mist; only the iron roof of the fire emergency tank stood out black in the middle of the court-yard. A guitar was being strummed somewhere and women laughed gaily. Arbat Street throbbed with the last, hurried, fading sounds of evening. "You know what, chaps?" Genka said. "We can go to the cinema free." "We know," Misha replied, "but you have to carry posters round all day for that. An interesting amusement, indeed!" "Well, if we had a cart like the acrobats," Genka smacked his lips, "we could use it to carry the posters. That'd be tip-top!" "That's right," Misha broke in, "and we could use you for the donkey." "Can't do that," Slava interjected seriously. "Whoever saw a redheaded donkey?" "All right, laugh," Genka said, "but Borka'll get the job and a free pass to the cinema." "He won't apply," Misha pointed out. "He's too busy speculating in stamps now. I'd like to know where he gets them from." "I know," Genka said. "On the Ostozhenka. From an old stamp dealer." "Really?" Misha said in surprise. "All the times I've been there I've never seen him." "You never will. He goes in by the back-door." "He does, does he?" Misha said wondering. "You mean he's stealing the stamps? He's selling them dirt cheap, you know." "I don't know about that," Genka drawled. "I only know that he does go there. I saw him myself." "Oh, bother him," Misha said. "Now listen: do you know what Zhurbin told me?" "How should we! You never told us," Slava said with a shrug. "Listen then. He told me about those kids in Krasnaya Presnya. They're called Young Pioneers, That's what they're called." "And what do they do?" Genka asked. "What do you mean? It's a children's communist organization. See? Commu-nist. That means they're Communists... only... well, they're kids. But what kids!" After a pause, Misha continued: "Zhurbin said, 'Go on with your circle, visit the club and before you know it you'll be Young Pioneers.' " "He said that?" "That's what he said." "Did he tell you where this organization is?" Slava asked. "At the print-shop in Krasnaya Presnya. See, I've got everything pat. Not like you." "It'd be a good idea to go there and have a look!" Slava said, ignoring Misha's remark. "Yes, that'd be a good idea," Misha agreed. "Only we've got to get the address of the print-shop." The boys fell silent. Through the door of the cinema, left open to let the air in, the boys saw the black rows of spectators with the bright ray of the

60

projector over their heads. Slava's mother, a beautiful, elegantly dressed woman, passed by, and Slava rose as soon as he saw her. "Slava," she said, pulling on her fine black gloves, "it's time you went home." "I'll go soon." "Don't stay out too long. Dasha will give you your supper and then you must go to bed." She moved on, leaving behind a trail of delicate perfume. "Mother's gone to a concert," Slava said. "You know what? Let's go to the cinema! They're showing the second part of Little Red Devils." "What about money?" Slava hesitated. "Mother gave me two roubles. I did want to buy some music with it." "Why didn't you tell us before?" cried Genka, springing up. "Come on. You can't buy music to-day. All the shops are closed already." "But I could buy it to-morrow," Slava argued. "To-morrow? Let to-morrow take care of itself. And, anyway, you should never put things off till to-morrow. If we can go to the cinema to-day, we should go." The boys bought the tickets and went in. A narrow passage led from the entrance to a small lobby. On its walls old placards alternated with portraits of famous film stars and yellowed announcements. A Red Army soldier in a cavalry army cap, holding a rifle in his hand, looked down from one of the posters, which bore the inscription: "We have volunteered. What about you? Sign below." Another poster, with the words "Help to combat juvenile delinquency," hung against the wall behind the buffet with its sweets and stale pastries. The crowd was a motley one. Demobilized army men in caps and greatcoats. Women workers in kerchiefs. Young men in Russian blouses, jackets, and trousers tucked into high boots. The bell rang and the spectators scrambled into the hall for the best seats. The lights went out; the projector began its furious clatter; a monotonous tune came from the broken-down piano; the spectators huddled close together on the narrow benches, whispering and eating sunflower seeds. The film ended and the boys found themselves in the street again, but their thoughts were still there, in the cinema with the Little Red Devils and their amazing adventures. The boys' admiration for the Young Communists in the film knew no bounds. What a pity he had been small when he was in Revsk, Misha thought. He would know now how to deal with Nikitsky.... So ended the first day of the holidays. Now it was time to go home. It was already quite dark. Only the lamps at the entrance to the "Art" Cinema threw a big patch of light on the pavement. The photographs had grown dim behind the wire netting of the bill-boards and torn strips of posters fluttered against the doors.

61

Chapter 23 THE DRAMATIC CIRCLE When Misha went down to the court-yard on the following morning he noticed Uncle Vasili, the janitor, coming out of the back entrance carrying a hammer and nails. Misha walked up to the entrance and saw that the opening leading to the cellars had been boarded up with thick planks. "Well, I'm blowed," he thought. He went back to where Uncle Vasili was washing down the courtyard with-a thick canvas hose. "Uncle Vasili, let me do it for you," Misha offered. "Get along with you!" The janitor apparently was in a bad humour. "Too many of you volunteers for this job! You only want to muck about." Misha looked closely at the janitor. "Uncle Vasili, have you started doing carpentry?" he asked cautiously. Uncle Vasili gave the hose an angry shake, sending a stream of water on the windows of the second floor. "Filin's worrying about his store, so I'm to board it up. Stuck to me like a leech. Thieves might get into the basement, he says, so I'm to board it up. There's nothing in the store but scrap iron, nothing at all; but all the same, I'm to board it up. Nonsense, I call it!" So that was it! Filin was at the bottom of the business. There was something in the wind after all. And Borka must have had a reason for not letting him into the cellars yesterday. It was certainly not just for nothing! Borka was hawking cigarettes at the entrance gates. "Let's go down into the cellars," Misha suggested, going up to him. "Nothing doing!" Borka sneered. "They've boarded up the entrance." "On whose orders?" Borka sniffed. "Whose? Everybody knows: the house-manager's." "Why'd he order it?" "Why? What for?" Borka mimicked. "So that the corpses wouldn't run away. That's why. And so that characters like you wouldn't nose around in the cellars!" he added, taking to his heels. Misha followed in hot pursuit, but Borka took shelter in his father's storehouse. Misha shook his fist at him and went to the club. Zhurbin's note worked. Mitya Sakharov allotted the children a space in the club but warned them that he would not give them a single kopek. "Solvency is the main principle of the theatre," he said. "Learn to work without financial assistance." He said many other strange words the children did not understand. Shura Bolshoi gave a test to everyone who wished to join; he got them to recite Pushkin's Prophet. The way they recited did not satisfy him and he showed them how it should be done. When he came to the words "And tore out my sinful tongue," he made a face and desperately motioned with his

62

hands as though he were really tearing out his tongue and throwing it down the stairs. His efforts were so convincing that afterwards little Vovka Baranov, nicknamed Whiner, kept looking into his mouth to see if his tongue was still there. After the tests they began to choose a play. "Pavel Ivanov" Slava suggested. "Everyone's fed up with it!" said Shura with a flourish of his hand. "It's a hackneyed bourgeois play." And he recited: Kir, the mighty Persian king, Ripped his trousers hurrying. "We know all about that king! No, it won't do," he added in a tone that brooked no objection. After a long argument they finally settled on a play in verse, The Kulak and the Labourer, about a boy named Vanya who worked for Pakhom the kulak. Shura took the part of the kulak, Genka—the boy Vanya, and the role of Vanya's grandmother was given to Zina Kruglova, a fat girl, full of giggles, who lived in the first block. Misha took no part in the tests. He sat at a chess table with his chin in his hands and thought about the cellars. Borka Filin had cheated him, cheated him deliberately. He had told his father, and Filin had ordered the entrance to be blocked. That meant there was some kind of connection between the cellars and the storehouse, although the latter was in the neighbouring court-yard. What threat hung over the storehouse with its rusty, useless machinery and spare parts? Junk like that was scattered all over the court-yard and nobody bothered about it. Who wanted it? Who would climb down there, especially into the cellars where one had to crawl on all fours? And this Filin. Perhaps he really was the man Polevoy had told him about. Misha recalled his narrow face, flattened in at the sides, and his small, peering eyes. One winter Filin had come to their flat and given Mother a tiny sack of coarse flour in exchange for Father's dark-blue suit and waistcoat that he had hardly worn. Filin had looked round for something else, his small eyes darting about the room. When Mother had said she regretted parting with the suit as it was the last thing she had to remember Father by, Filin had replied: "Are you going to eat this souvenir with butter? I hope you like it." Mother had sighed, but said nothing. Misha felt he simply had to get to the bottom of all this. He could not let Borka off so easily. He got up and swept his eyes round the club-room, wondering if there was a way of getting into the cellars from it. Actually the club was in the basement, true, in another part of the building, but that was not important: there should be some passage connecting the club with the rest of the building.

63

Misha walked round the room, carefully studying the walls. He pulled off posters and diagrams, got behind cupboards, but found nothing. He went behind the stage. The floor here was cluttered up with all sorts of lumber. In the dim light he saw decorations standing against the wall: plywood birchtrees with black-and-white trunks, cottages with fretted windows; rooms with clocks and a view on a river. He was moving these decorations, trying to get closer to the wall, when suddenly Comrade Mitya Sakharov appeared from behind the curtains. "Misha Polyakov! What are you doing here?" "I lost ten kopeks, Comrade Sakharov, and I can't find it anywhere." "What ten kopeks?" "Ten kopeks, you understand, a coin," Misha mumbled keeping his eyes fastened to one spot. Behind a board with a painting of a white-columned landlord's mansion there was an iron door. "You know, a silver twenty-kopek piece." "Hm. What's this nonsense? A ten-kopek piece, then a twenty-kopek piece.... Are you out of your mind?" "Oh, no," Misha said, his eyes still on the door. "I had a ten-kopek piece, but I lost a twenty-kopek piece. What's wrong with that?" "Plenty," Mitya Sakharov said, shrugging his shoulders. "Oh yes, plenty. Anyhow, find your ten-kopek-twenty-kopek piece quickly and get out." He smoothed his hair back with the palm of his hand and walked away. Chapter 24 THE CELLARS Misha, Genka, and Slava were on the bank of the Moscow River near the newly built aquatic station hard by the Dorogomilovsky Bridge. Slava lay on his back and looked dreamily at the sky. Genka was shying pebbles into the river and counting the number of times they jumped on the surface. Misha was trying to persuade his friends to go with him in search of the passage to the cellars. Daylight was fading. Wisps of thin mist skimmed the surface of the water like poorly inflated grey balls, touching it and gently rebounding into the air. Tram-cars were clattering over the bridge, pedestrians hurried over and cars sped by; they looked tiny from where the boys were sitting. "Just think of it—corpses and coffins!" Misha was saying. "It's all fairytales. As though Filin would bother about corpses! All that's been cooked up to keep us out. Cooked up on purpose. Either there's an underground passage, or they're hiding something." "Don't argue, Misha," Genka sighed, "there are corpses that can't rest in peace. There's always the chance they'll attack you if you go into the cellars." "There aren't any corpses there, of course," Slava said, "but why should all

64

this concern us? Suppose Filin is hiding something there: everybody knows he's a speculator. What business is it of ours?" "But if there really is an underground passage leading out to all parts of Moscow, what then?" "We shan't find it anyway," Slava objected. "We've got no plan." "All right," Misha said, standing up. "All I can say is you're cowards. And you want to be Young Pioneers! Pity I told you about it. Never mind, I'll get along without you." "I haven't refused to go, have I?" Genka said, shaking his head. "I only mentioned the corpses. You're so touchy. It's Slava who doesn't want to go. I'll go any time you like." "When did I say I wouldn't go?" said Slava flushing. "I only said it'd be better if we had a plan. Didn't I?" The friends arrived for the next rehearsal earlier than the others. Rehearsals of the juvenile dramatic circle were usually held from two to four o'clock in the afternoon. After that Aunt Elizaveta, the cleaner, locked up the club till five when the adults arrived. The boys wanted to use the period between four and five o'clock to get ink) the cellars. Misha and Slava hid at the back of the stage. Genka waited for the other actors. Soon they appeared and began rehearsing; Misha and Slava could hear everything they said. Shura, playing the kulak, was persuading Genka, in the role of Vanya. "Vanya, I christened you," he declaimed, to which Genka-Vanya haughtily replied: "I didn't ask you to." And then they argued about how Genka should stand on the stage: with his face to the audience and his back to Shura, or with his face to Shura and his back to the audience. They argued more than they rehearsed. Shura shouted at everyone, and threatened to wash his hands of the whole thing. Genka wrangled with him. Zina Kruglova could not stop giggling and kept tittering all the time. The rehearsal finally ended. Genka unnoticeably joined his friends and the other boys and girls left; Aunt Elizaveta closed the club. The boys were now alone in front of the heavy iron door that led into the cellars. They pulled out a nail with a pair of pincers they had brought with them, and pushed the door; it squeaked on its rusty hinges and opened slowly. A stream of damp air rose from the passage. Misha switched on a small torch and they went in. The battery in the torch was weak and to see the grey, irregular wall, they had to keep close to it. The cellars in which they found themselves consisted of several square sections, formed by the foundation of the building. These were empty, except that one of them contained two big boilers. This was an abandoned boiler-room. The floor was strewn with bits of piping, hardened lime, bricks, coal, and wooden boxes with dried cement. The torch was getting weaker and weaker... and finally went out. The boys moved on in the darkness, feeling for the turns with their hands. At times

65

they thought they were circling about one spot, but Misha doggedly pushed ahead, and Slava and Genka did their best to keep up. A strip of light showed through a narrow opening. They had reached the boarded-up door and the light was filtering through the slits between the boards. Leading up to the door was a narrow staircase with steep steps and iron hand-rails. The boys went farther into the cellars, keeping to the right as before. The passage narrowed more and more. Misha felt the ceiling and found the iron pipe. He stopped to listen: water was gurgling quietly above him. He squatted on his heels and lit a match. A narrow passage stretched below, the same one into which he had fallen when he had come with Borka. The boys crawled along this passage and when they reached the end of it Misha put his hand up to feel for the ceiling. It was out of reach and he lit another match. The boys saw they were in a big square space with a low ceiling. "Look," whispered Genka, "coffins." The dark outlines of big "coffins" loomed against the opposite wall. The boys came to a dead stop. The match went out. In the darkness they thought they heard strange rustlings and muffled graveyard voices. The boys stood rooted to the ground. Suddenly there was a creaking sound overhead, a beam of light showed and widened and they heard the shuffling of feet. They fled back to the passage and hid there, hardly daring to breathe. A trap-door opened in the ceiling and someone lowered a ladder. Two men climbed down carefully. A third handed down some boxes; these were placed alongside the pile of other boxes, which the boys in their fright had taken for coffins. Then a third man lowered himself into the space. As he stepped off the ladder he tripped and swore. Misha started. He thought the voice sounded familiar.

This man was tall. He went round the room, examined the boxes and

66

sniffed. "Who's been striking matches here?" he asked. The boys' hearts sank. "You're imagining things, Sergei Ivanovich," one of the other men said. The boys recognized Filin's voice. "I never imagine anything, get that into your head, Filin." The tall man approached the passage and stood quite close to the boys. But he had his back to them and they could not see his face. "Did you have the passage blocked?'" he asked. "Exactly as you ordered," Filin replied promptly. "The door's been boarded up and the passage blocked." That was a lie: the passage had not been blocked at all. Then all three climbed back through the trap-door, pulling the ladder after them. The trap-door was closed and the room again plunged in darkness. The friends quickly crawled back and made their way into the club. It was already open and they rushed out into the street.

67

Chapter 25 SUSPICIOUS CHARACTERS A short summer shower was just over, leaving a sparkle on the cobblestones, the shop windows, and the black silk umbrellas. Muddy streams were running into the drains from the gutters. Girls were laughing merrily as they splashed through the puddles, carrying their shoes in their hands. Some builders went by with sacks on their heads like hoods. Water was spurting from a burst drain-pipe, splashing passers-by, making them jump aside in fright. And above all this the cheerful sun shone in the sky, chasing away the ragged, heavy clouds. "What did you get the wind up for, Genka?" Misha asked. "You go round

68

seeing coffins everywhere!" "You mean to tell me you weren't frightened?" Genka retorted. "You were pretty scared yourself, and now you're picking on me!" He paused for a minute, then said: "I know what's in those boxes." "What?" "Thread. That's what." "How d'you know?" "I know. All the speculators are now dealing in thread. They say it pays best." But Misha's ears still rang with the sound of the strangely familiar voice. Who could it have been? They called him Sergei Ivanovich. Polevoy was also called that, but this man was not Polevoy. It was just that their names coincided. The boys were standing near the "Art" Cinema. Misha had his eye on the door of the storehouse. Genka and Slava were looking at the stills on the bill-board. "Famine... famine... famine." It was a film about the famine on the Volga. Yura Stotsky, the son of Doctor "Ear, Nose, and Throat," passed them. He had been a boy scout, but now there were no scouts and Yura did not wear the uniform; but all the boys still called him Yura the Scout. He was with two friends and was carrying a stave with a flag tied to the end of it. "Hey, you! Scouts!" Genka bullied them. "Hand that stick over!" He pulled at the flag and Yura and his friends tugged at the other end of the stave. Genka was alone against three of them. He looked round for his friends: why weren't they helping him? But Slava did not interfere and Misha said curtly: "Cut it out" and continued to watch Filin's storehouse. What did Misha mean: "cut it out"? Let the scouts get the better of him? These bourgeois fawners? They were supporting some general. Well, he would show them a general! He kicked out at his opponents and tugged with all his might. "Cut it out, I tell you!" Misha said angrily. Genka let go the stave. "All right, I'll show you yet," he said puffing. "Go on, show us!" Yura sneered arrogantly. "We're not afraid of you." Yura marched off with his friends. Genka looked at Misha in surprise, but the latter ignored both Genka and Yura. A tall, thin man came out of the storehouse; he was wearing top boots and a white Caucasian shirt, complete with a black silver-ornamented belt. The man stopped at the gates to light a cigarette, bringing the match up and shielding the flame with his palms. His palms hid his face, and through his fingers he surveyed the street, after which he threw away the match and went in the direction of Arbat Square. Misha followed him, but in crossing the street the man unexpectedly boarded a passing tram-car and vanished. Misha wandered about the streets, a vague alarm clutching his heart. The flaming sunset lit fires on the domes of the churches. The hot summer breeze carried the smell of the melted asphalt pavements and of the dust of

69

the cobble-stone roads. Carefree children played in the green boulevards and old women sat on the benches. Why was this man's voice so strangely familiar? Where had he heard it? What was Filin hiding in the cellar? Perhaps there was nothing in it all. He was simply using the cellar as a store-room. Of course he could have imagined that the voice was familiar. But what if... No, that could not be! Was it possible that the stranger was Nikitsky? No! He did not look like him. Where was the scar and the forelock? No, he was not Nikitsky. And he was called Sergei Ivanovich. If he were Nikitsky would he have dared to walk about Moscow so openly? Misha passed the Vozdvizhenka and came out on the Mokhovaya.. Book dealers had their stalls against the university railings. Elderly men, thin and stoop-shouldered, wearing glasses and battered hats were standing on the pavement absorbed in their reading. Students of the workers' faculty in Russian blouses and leather jackets carrying shabby brief-cases under their arms were streaming out of the university. A column of demonstrators blocked Misha's way at the corner of the street. They were workers from the Krasnaya Presnya district,, bearing banners that stretched across the entire width of the street: "Down with the Hirelings of the Entente!" "Down with the Agents of International Imperialism!" The demonstrators were moving to the House of Trade Unions, where some Social-Revolutionaries ( Social-Revolutionaries were a petty-bourgeois party that degenerated into a gang of assassins, spies, and saboteurs working against the young Soviet land.—Ed.) were being tried in the Hall of Columns. Other columns of demonstrators were marching from the Lubyanskaya and the Red squares. These were workers from the Sokolniki and Zamoskvorechye districts from the "Guzhon," "Bromley" and "Mikhelson" ( "Guzhon," "Bromley," and "Mikhelson" were factories named after their former owners.—Ed). factories. Young Communists were engaged in excited conversation. Orators addressed the crowds. They said the British and American capitalists wanted to strangle the Soviet Republic with the help of social-revolutionary traitors. They had failed in open battle; the intervention had been crushed; and now they were conspiring among themselves and sending spies and saboteurs into our country. Maybe Nikitsky had not escaped abroad, thought Misha. He might be hiding somewhere and organizing a plot, just like the men who were now facing trial. He was a Whiteguard, an enemy of the Soviets.... What if that tall stranger was Nikitsky, and Filin was the man Polevoy had told him about? In that case Nikitsky was using Film's house as a hide-out; he was in disguise and had changed his name... Perhaps they were using the cellar to hide weapons for their Whiteguard band. It all looked very suspicious indeed. Polevoy had warned him to be careful. But that was a long time ago. He had been small then. And now. Ought he to wait for Polevoy? What if a plot was really being organized and the men had weapons? No, he could not wait any longer....

70

At the entrance to the House of Trade Unions two Red Army soldiers were checking the passes of the people going in. Misha tried to slip through, but a strong hand stopped him. "Where d'you think you're going? Show your pass!" Misha walked away glowering at the guards. All they did was to stand there all day. They little knew that he, Misha, might soon uncover a fearful plot. Chapter 26 THE AERIAL RUNWAY The low brick premises of Filin's storehouse with their broad gates and boarded windows stretched along the length of the neighbouring court-yard, which was littered with old machine parts and scrap metal. Misha now spent much of his time near or around the storehouse. Once he had even entered it, but Filin had chased him away. So he began to keep an eye on the door from a distance. For days on end he watched from the cinema entrance, from the workmen's dining-room with the green and yellow sign-board, and from the bread shop, but the tall stranger in the white Caucasian shirt never appeared again. One day Misha wanted to go down into the cellars beneath Filin's storehouse, but the passage-way was blocked. Meanwhile, rehearsals were finishing. The day for the performance drew nearer, and Shura began to pester Misha to buy the make-up. "You're the manager," he said, "it's your job to see that we get the makeup. We'll manage about the scenery, but we've got to have paints for the make-up. That's not all. We also need wigs. You're the manager. It's your job. I can't see to everything, and I don't have to tell you that acting and directing is enough to keep anyone busy." Mitya Sakharov had refused to provide any money, so Misha decided to organize a lottery, and for the prize he sacrificed his volume of Gogol's Collected Works. Although parting with Gogol made his heart ache, there was nothing else he could do. He could not ruin the show, could he? And then Shura Bolshoi always said that "art demands sacrifices." One hundred lottery tickets at thirty kopeks each were quickly sold out. Only Borka refused to buy one, and did everything he could to spoil the lottery. He told everyone that Misha's ticket would be sure to win the prize and that all the money would also go to him. He was so determined to discredit the lottery that even the beatings Misha and Genka gave him proved unavailing. Borka's latest friend was Yura, the Scout, who now joined in the games in the court-yard. One day Borka and Yura built an aerial runway as a counterattraction to the dramatic circle. The aerial runway consisted of a metal cable, stretched across the backyard, one end fastened to a fire escape near the second floor of one of the buildings, and the other to a tree, about four yards above the ground; the

71

cable had rollers fixed to it, and from these dangled a rope with its loose end tied in a loop. The "passenger" sat in the loop and, with a helping push from the higher end at the fire escape, glided swiftly over the yard. A long rope was used to pull the loop back to the fire escape. Borka took the first ride, then Yura, and after him several other boys. The aerial runway attracted general attention; boys came from the neighbouring court-yards to look at it. Inquisitive tenants watched the proceedings from their windows, while Uncle Vasili, the janitor, stood a long time leaning on his broom and then went away with a muttered "More mischief, I call it!" Suddenly Borka stopped the aerial runway and, after a whispered consultation with Yura, announced that there would be no more free rides. Anyone wanting to ride now had to pay five kopeks a turn. "And anyone who's hard up," he added, "can return his lottery ticket to Misha and get his money back. What's the lottery to you anyway? You won't win anything." Yegorka, the pigeon-fancier, was the first to approach Misha, and he was followed by blobber-lipped Vaska. They held out their tickets and asked for their money back. At this point Genka interfered, stepping between them and Misha. "I'm sorry, citizens," he announced sweetly, mimicking the shop-assistant at the baker's, "it's against regulations to take anything back. Count your change before leaving the cash desk." That raised a terrific hubbub. Borka shouted that this was downright robbery and swindling. Yegorka and Vaska demanded their money. Yura stood in the background, smirking maliciously. Misha pushed Genka aside, looked calmly round at the shouting boys and took the lottery money from his pocket. There was immediate silence. He counted the money, exactly thirty roubles, then placed it on a back-door step and weighed it down with a stone to prevent the wind from blowing it away, and turned and faced the boys. "I don't want your money," he said. "You can take it back. Only use your heads a bit and think why Yura and Borka want to spoil our show. Yura used to go to the boy scouts' club and you know that the scouts are for the bourgeois, and they don't want us to have our own club. As for Borka, he's not worth talking about. There! Now let those who have no conscience take their money back themselves and put their tickets on the step." After this long speech Misha walked to a rusty radiator lying in the yard and sat down with his back to the boys. But no one went for his money. The boys shifted from one foot to the other in embarrassment, each of them pretending he had never had any intention of returning his ticket. In the meantime Genka had climbed the fire escape and was untying the runway. "Get off there," Borka shouted. "Don't you dare touch it!" But the cable and loop were already on the ground. Genka jumped off the fire escape and went up to Borka.

72

"What are you getting all excited for? D'you think we don't know anything? We know everything. About the cellars and the boxes. Push off!" Borka gave the boys and girls a sullen look, picked up the cable, rolled it up, and went away without saying a word. Chapter 27 THE SECRET "What d'you mean by it, you bungler!" Misha railed Genka. "Who asked you to blurt everything out?" "You want me to tolerate his cheek, is that your idea?" Genka said in selfdefence. "I've got to keep my mouth shut and let him spoil the show, is that it?" The friends were at Slava's. He lived in a large, bright flat. The floor was carpeted, a beautiful lamp-shade hung over the table, and gaily coloured cushions lay on the sofa. Genka was sitting on the revolving piano-stool in front of the piano and looking at the covers of the music scores. He knew he was in the wrong and kept up an unnaturally animated chatter to hide his discomfiture. "Paganini," he read. "Who's this Paganini?" "He was a famous violinist," Slava explained. "On one occasion his enemies snapped the strings of his violin before a concert, but he played on one string and no one noticed the difference." "What's great in that? Father had a fireman called Panfilov on his engine who could play anything you want on bottles. I'd like to see your Paganini play on bottles!" "What's the use of talking to you," Slava said irritably. "What do you know about music!" "Can't I talk?" Genka said, pushing away from the piano and turning on the revolving stool. "Listen here, Genka," Misha said gloomily, "you've got to think before you open your mouth. If you had done that, you'd never have blurted out about the boxes to Borka." "Especially when there's nothing in those boxes," Slava added. "But there is something," Genka objected, "they're full of thread." "Why are you so sure of that?" Slava asked. "I'm sure, that's all!" Genka said with a toss of his forelocks. "You're always babbling about what you don't know," Misha said. "The boxes contain something quite different." "What?" "Catch me telling you! Why, you'd blab it out again to the first person you'd meet." "Word of honour!" Genka said, placing his hand over his heart. "May I die on the spot! May I. . ."

73

"You can keep on swearing from now till doomsday," Misha interrupted him, "I shan't tell you just the same, because you've always been a blabber and still are." "But you can tell me, can't you? I didn't blab," Slava said. "I shan't tell you anything," Misha said angrily. "I see I can't trust you with anything important." The friends sat in silence, pouting at each other. "All the same it's mean to hide anything," Slava said finally. "All three of us went into the cellar and therefore we shouldn't have any secrets from each other." "How could I know there was a secret?" Genka spoke up, appealing to Slava. "I thought the boxes were, well, just ordinary boxes... Misha didn't warn me. He's hiding something and now he's blaming others." That set Misha thinking. He realized that he was not altogether in the right. He should have warned Genka. And, in general, he had not behaved as a comrade should. He should have confided in his friends. But... then what about the dirk? Should he have told them about the dirk, too? Of course, he could depend on them not to give him away, and Genka would never have blabbed if he had known everything. But should he tell them about the dirk? He could start by telling them about Filin and Nikitsky, and tell them about the dirk another time. But then if they knew about the dirk they could help him... for alone he would be unable to do anything. It's hard to fight a battle single-handed. "When a chap has a head on his shoulders he should use it," he muttered looking at Genka. "Poor chap, he wasn't 'warned'!" Genka sensed the conciliatory note in Misha's voice. "But try to understand my side of it, Misha," he said energetically. "How could I have known? It never entered my head that you were hiding something from us. You know I have no secrets from you." "And anyway," Slava said in a hurt voice, "if you have secrets from us then there's nothing more to be said." "All right," Misha said. "I'll tell you, but remember it's a big secret. It was entrusted to me not by just anybody. It was told to me by—" he looked at the tense curiosity in the boys' faces and added slowly: "by Polevoy. That's who told me the secret!" Genka's pupils widened, and he fixed his eyes on Misha. Slava, too, was looking at Misha very attentively—he knew about Polevoy and Nikitsky from the stories Misha and Genka had told him. "So there!" Misha continued. "First give me your word of honour that you will never, no matter what happens, tell anything to anyone." "I give you my word of honour," Genka announced solemnly, striking his chest with his fist. "I swear on my honour," Slava said. Misha got up and tiptoed to the door. He carefully opened it, peeped into the corridor, and tightly shut it again. After that he cautiously glanced about the room and looked under the sofa. "Anyone in there?" he whispered, pointing to the bedroom door.

74

"No," Slava whispered back. "All right, here goes," Misha said in a low voice, casting his eyes about the room mysteriously. "The name of Nikitsky's right-hand man in his gang is—" he paused, then announced significantly: "Filin! There!" His friends were stunned by the news. Genka sat tightly gripping the piano-stool, his body bent forward, his mouth wide-open and his eyes as big as saucers. Even his hair stood on end in a peculiar way, sticking out in all directions, as if it, too, had been taken aback by the news. Slava blinked as though sand had been thrown in his eyes. Misha saw the impression he had made, and to make it stronger, continued: "And so I suspect that the tall man we saw in the cellar, you remember the one with the Caucasian shirt, is Nikitsky!" Genka almost fell off his chair. Slava stood up and looked at Misha in bewilderment. "Are you, are you serious?" he asked, scarcely able to bring out the words. "Well, I like that," Misha shrugged his shoulders. "Now, would I joke about things like that! It's not a joking matter, chum. I recognized him by his voice. True, I didn't see his face, but I'm sure he's in disguise." "Well, I'm blowed!" Genka said, when at last he found his voice. "You can well be blowed, especially with your tongue!" "In that case," Slava said, "we should immediately notify the militia." "We can't do that," Misha replied with a mysterious look. "Why not?" "We can't," he repeated. "But why?" Slava wondered. "First we've got to make sure of everything," Misha replied evasively. "I don't see what there is to make sure of," Slava shrugged. "Even if you're not sure about Nikitsky, Filin's the one." The situation was becoming critical. Slava was so full of scruples. Now he would start reasoning, and Misha was still not sure if Filin was really the man or not. "I've not told you the whole story yet," Misha said, making up his mind to tell his friends about the dirk. "Let's go over to my place." The friends went to Misha's and as they crossed the court-yard Genka cast a suspicious look around. His imagination was already working furiously, and he half expected Nikitsky to appear any minute. Chapter 28 THE CODE When they arrived at Misha's the boys silently took their places round the table.

75

It was already evening, but Misha did not put on the light. Genka and Slava watched him with bated breath. He latched the door as noiselessly as he could, then drew the curtains, plunging the room into almost complete darkness. After taking all these precautions, he took his package from the book-shelf and placed it on the table. "See this!" he whispered mysteriously, and opened the package. Genka and Slava leaned forward and almost lay on the table. The dirk appeared in Misha's hands. "A dirk," Genka whispered. But Misha raised a warning finger. "Quiet!" he said. "Look." And he showed his friends the markings on the blade. "Wolf, scorpion, and lily. See? And now for the most important part." He unscrewed the handle with a theatrical gesture, drew out the scroll, and smoothed it out on the table. "A code," Slava whispered with a searching look at Misha. "Yes," he confirmed, "it's a code, and the key to it is in the sheath, understand? And Nikitsky has the sheath. There. And now listen." Misha rolled his eyes and gesticulated with his hands as, in a hardly audible voice, he told his friends about the Empress Maria, about her destruction, and about the murder of the officer named Vladimir.... The boys sat like statues, hypnotized by the strange story. The room was already in complete darkness, and there seemed to be no one in the flat, it was so still. Only a muffled gurgle sometimes came from the water-pipe and a homeless cat mewed pitifully on the landing. In the gloom about them the boys thought they saw wondrous ships and distant, desert lands. They felt the coolness of the ocean depths and the touch of sea monsters. Misha stood up and turned on the light. The small lamp shone brightly under the shade and illumined the excited faces of the boys, the white cloth on the table, and the steel blade of the glittering dirk with the bronze serpent twined round the yellowed handle. "I wonder what the code's about?" Slava said, breaking the silence first. "It's difficult to say," Misha shrugged. "Polevoy had no idea, and it's doubtful if Nikitsky knows. He's looking for the dirk, you know, to decipher this scroll. That means it's a secret to him, too. Otherwise why should he be so keen on having it?" "Why, that's easy to see," Genka joined in. "It's clear Nikitsky's looking for treasure. That's what he's looking for. And the dirk says where that treasure is. I say, there must be a lot of money there!" "You only find treasure in books," Misha said, "books specially written for idlers, who sit around doing nothing and dream of finding treasure and becoming rich." "Naturally there can't be any treasure in this," Slava remarked. "Nikitsky killed a man because of the dirk. Would you, Genka, for instance, kill a man for money?" "W-well," Genka drawled, "a nice comparison you're making! Nikitsky's not me and I'm not Nikitsky. Naturally I wouldn't have killed anyone, but for Nikitsky it's easy as winking. Nikitsky's a bourgeois, after all."

76

"Maybe there's some military secret in this," Slava said. "It all happened during the war on a battleship." "I've thought of that already," Misha interrupted him. "Let's suppose Nikitsky's a German spy. Why did he look for the dirk in 1921? The war was already over then." "All codes can be deciphered without a key," Slava continued. "Edgar Allen Ðîå has..." "We know, we know!" Misha stopped him. "The Gold Bug, we've read it. But this is different. Look." They bent over the scroll. "See? There are only three kinds of signs here: dots, dashes, and circles. If a sign stands for a letter then there are only three letters. See? These signs are written in tables." "Maybe each table stands for a letter," Slava reflected. "I've thought of that, too," Misha replied, "but most of the tables have five signs. Count them! Exactly seventy tables, and forty have five signs each. One letter can't occur forty times out of seventy." "Why try to solve the code," Genka said, "the thing to do is to find the sheath. Especially as Nikitsky's here." "Well," Slava objected, "it's still uncertain whether the man is Nikitsky. It's only your supposition, isn't it, Misha?" "The man's Nikitsky all right," Genka persisted. "Film's here. And he and Nikitsky are from the same gang. I'm right, aren't I, Misha?" Misha felt a bit awkward. "As I've told you everything," he said with a resolute toss of his head, "I've got to be quite honest with you. The fact is I still don't know if he's the right Filin or not." "What d'you mean you don't know," the boys cried out dumbfoundedly. "What I say. Polevoy only told me the surname, and we've got to find out whether Filin is the man he told me about. There are lots of Filins! But somehow I feel he's the man." "Indeed," Slava said slowly, "this turns out to be an equation with' two unknowns." "Here, just look at him bringing in mathematics," Genka said, boiling up. "Film's our man, that's definite. You can see he's a bandit by his face." "By his face—that's no proof," Slava argued. "All right," Misha said. "I agree that we haven't any proof. But let's think it out properly. Now, wait a minute. In the first place his surname's Filin, that coincides. Next, is he a suspicious character? He is, without the slightest doubt. A speculator and all that.... Right. Secondly: are they doing anything shady? They most certainly are. They have a room full of boxes in the cellar and they've boarded up the door and blocked the passage. Thirdly: is the tall man a suspicious character? He is. Did you see how he looked up and down the street and hid his face? Then his voice. I know his voice. Even suppose he's not Nikitsky, it's a fact that some gang is operating there. Maybe they're Whiteguards. Or spies. Ought we to sit and do nothing? Eh? Ought we? No. Our duty is to unmask this gang." "That's right," Genka supported him. "We've got to catch this gang, take

77

away the sheath and divide the treasure into three equal parts." "Wait a minute with your treasure and don't interrupt!" Misha said angrily. "It's like this. We can, of course, go to the militia, but what if it all turns out to be nothing? Suddenly? What then? We'll look fools. No! First we've got to find out everything. We've got to find out if it's the right Filin, what they're hiding in the cellar, and the main thing is to get on the track of the tall stranger in the white Caucasian shirt and find out who he is." "That won't be easy," said Slava, but seeing the smirk on Genka's face, he hurriedly added, "We've got to unmask the gang, of course> but we've got to lay our plans carefully." "Yes, you're right," Misha agreed. "Everything's got to be planned. This is what we'll do. We'll take it in turn to watch so that Filin and Borka won't be suspicious. And when we get on the track of the whole gang, ascertain everything, we can inform the Cheka." (An extraordinary commission that had existed in the first years of Soviet power to fight the enemies of the Soviet state—counter-revolutionaries, spies, and speculators.—Ed.) "That'll be great!" Genka exclaimed joyfully. "We'll catch the whole gang!" "You bet we will," Misha said, "that's the way gangs are caught. That'll be really showing ourselves—not like shouting from the wings."

78

Part III NEW FRIENDS Chapter 29 ELLEN BUSH Several days later Misha and Shura Bolshoi went to Smolensky Market to buy the make-up paints. When they passed Film's storehouse they saw Genka in the street "on duty" by the gates. "What are you hanging around here for?" Shura asked him. "Come with us for the make-up." "I'm busy," Genka replied importantly, with a knowing glance at Misha. At the market crowds of people were thronging the space between the stalls. Waifs were dodging in and out of them, gramophones were screeching, and some buyers were bargaining over the price of the watches. Dowdy old women in old-fashioned hats were selling broken locks and brass candlesticks. A perspiring village lad had obviously spent the morning haggling over a concertina; surrounded by music-lovers, he dragged out the same lovesick tune over and over again. Near him a parrot was picking out envelopes, enclosing papers which told fortunes and gave detailed descriptions of the past. Gipsy women in full skirts and bright kerchiefs were looking for people wanting their fortunes told. The market seemed endless to Misha and Shura. It stretched on and on along a path littered with sunflower-seed husks and leading to Novinsky Boulevard, where municipal workmen were placing the first litter bins and enclosing the sickly grass with shining wire. The boys were looking at the wares of an old man selling "everything for

79

the theatre," when suddenly someone touched Misha's shoulder. He turned to see the girl acrobat. She was wearing an ordinary dress and did not look like an actress at all. "Hello, scrapper!" she said, holding out her hand. Misha did not like her tone. "Hello," he replied coldly. "Why are you looking so stern?" "I'm not. I'm always like that." "What's your name?" "Misha." "And I'm called Ellen." "You can't call that a name." "It's my stage name. Ellen Bush. All actresses have stage names. My real name's Elena Frolova." "Who was the fellow that acted with you?" "My brother Igor." "And the shaved man?" "What shaved man?" "The one who stood by while you were doing your turn. Is he the owner of the show?" "Owner?" Elena laughed. "Oh, no. He's my father." "Why did you call him Bush, then?" "I've already explained that: Bush's our stage name." "Are you still going round the court-yards?" "No. Father's signed a contract and as soon as the season opens we'll do our act in Solomonsky's circus. Ever been there?" "Of course I have. But now we have our own dramatic circle in our block. This is our stage manager," he said pointing to Shura. Shura drew himself up and made a dignified bow. "We're putting on our first show on Sunday," Misha continued, "and the play's really good. Come with your brother. You can do your act after the show." "All right, I'll tell Bush," Elena said. And after a moment's reflection, she asked, "How much will you pay us?" "What?" Misha did not understand. "How much will you pay us? For acting, I mean." "Pay you?" Misha said indignantly. "Are you mad? We're putting on the show for the benefit of the children in the Volga country. All our actors are performing free." "W-well, I don't know," Elena said, shaking her head doubtfully. "I don't think Bush'11 agree." "You needn't come, then. We'll get along without you. Other people are giving all they can to help the starving and you want to snatch something out of it for yourself. Aren't you ashamed?" "Don't be angry," Elena laughed, "How stern you are! I'll tell you what we'll do. Igor and I'll ask to go for a walk and we'll come to your show. All right?"

80

"All right." "Well, good-bye," Elena said, shaking hands with Misha and Shura. "Only, please, don't be so ratty." "I'm not ratty," Misha replied. "Oh, arn't girls a nuisance," he said to Shura when Elena went away. Chapter 30 THE PURCHASE The boys turned their attention to the make-up. "These are the most suitable," Shura said, turning a box of coloured pencils in his hand. "This colour's called claret. Take it, Misha." Misha put his hand in his pocket to take the money out and in the same second was horrified to find that the purse was gone. For a moment he felt dizzy. The figure of a waif darting in and out of the crowds of people brought Misha round, and, with a desperate shout, he dashed off in hot pursuit. The waif ran out from the stalls, turned into an alley and sped on, a long torn coat hampering his movements. Dirty cotton padding was sticking out of the holes, and the sleeves dragged on the ground. He shot into a communicating court-yard, but Misha kept close to his heels and finally caught up with him in a vacant lot. "Let's have it back," he breathed heavily, seizing the waif by his tattered coat. "Don't touch me, I'm a mental case!" the waif shrieked and rolled the whites of his eyes, giving a frightful look to his black, soot-covered face.

They grappled. The waif yelled shrilly and used his teeth, but Misha knocked him down and, holding him to the ground, searched for the purse in the tatters. The waif squirmed and bit Misha's hand. Misha pulled him by the sleeve. 'It tore off and the purse fell out. A wave of terrible anger took

81

possession of Misha as he picked it up. He had worked so hard to organize the dramatic circle, talked to the fellows, begged, persuaded, sacrificed his Gogol! And this little thief had almost ruined everything! And the fellows might have thought that he had pocketed the money. Misha was determined to give the waif a good licking. The waif lay with his face to the ground. In the wide collar of the coat his dirty neck seemed even thinner than it really was, while his bare, dirty, and scratched arm looked odd, sticking out of the torn sleeve. All right. Misha was not the fellow to hit a man when he was down. He poked the waif with his foot to make him rise. "That'll teach you not to steal." But the waif did not get up. Misha walked off a few steps, then returned. "Oh, get up," he said gloomily, "stop pretending!" The waif sat up. "You satisfied?" he muttered, sobbing and wiping his face with his fist. "Why'd you steal the purse? I never touched you." "Go to hell!" "If you don't stop swearing, I'll add to what I've already given you." But Misha's anger had passed and he knew he would not hit the waif again. Still sniffing, the waif picked up the torn sleeve. His coat flew open, showing his naked emaciated body. There was not even a shirt under the coat. "How are you going to sew it on?" Misha asked, squatting and examining the sleeve. The waif turned the sleeve round in gloomy silence. "I'll tell you what," Misha said. "Come home with me and my mother'll sew it on for you." "Want to run me in," the waif looked distrustfully at him. "Here's my word! What's your name?" "Mikhail." "That's a good one," Misha laughed. "I'm also called Mikhail. Come to our club." "Been waiting for that all my life!" "Drop that, come on. The girls there'll sew your sleeve on in a jiffy." "Been waiting for that all my life!" "If you don't want to come to the club, come to my place. You'll have dinner with us." "Been waiting for that all my life!" "You are stubborn!" Misha said, getting angry. "Come on!" He rose and pulled the waif by the good sleeve. "Here, get up!" "Leggo!" the waif yelled, but it was too late. The thread snapped and the second sleeve was left dangling in Misha's hands. "There, see," Misha muttered in embarrassment, "I told you to come." "But you wanted to force me, yes, wanted...." Now the waif's coat was sleeveless, only his bare arms stuck out of it.

82

"You'll have to come now," Misha said resolutely, taking the two sleeves. "If you don't, you won't get these and you can go about without sleeves." Chapter 31 MIKHAIL KOROVIN "What will Mother say?" Misha wondered as he walked beside the waif. "Kick us both out, very likely. Can't be helped now. What's done is done." They passed Genka at his post. He looked at Misha and his ragged companion in surprise. The boys in the court-yard also stared. Misha counted the lottery money and gave it to Slava. "Here!" he said. "As soon as Shura comes, give it to him and tell him to buy the make-up. I haven't any time." When they reached Misha's landing he pushed the waif into the flat. "Mother, this chap'll have dinner with us." Mother said nothing. "I tore his sleeves accidentally. He's also called Mikhail." "What's his surname?" Misha glanced at the waif. The latter had started sniffing. "My surname's Korovin," he said importantly. "Very well, Comrade Korovin," Mother sighed, "at least go and wash yourself." Misha took him to the kitchen, but Korovin did not evince any particular desire to wash, and even if he did it would have been quite impossible to wash away the dirt. They stood for a minute in front of the tap, then returned to the room and sat down at the table. Korovin ate gravely, bringing his spoon down after every swallow. Two dark spots, appeared on the table-cloth where his elbows rested. Misha ate silently, throwing sidelong looks at Mother from time to time. She had Korovin's coat hanging over the back of a chair and was sewing on the sleeves. The frown on her face told Misha that there would be an unpleasant conversation after Korovin's departure. He lowered his head and continued eating in silence. After they had finished the soup, Mother served a pan of fried potatoes. Misha pushed away his plate. "Thank you, Mother," he said. "I'm full." "Eat, eat, there's enough for everyone." She had already sewn on the sleeves and was now sewing in the torn lining. Korovin finished his dinner and put his spoon on the table. "There you are," Mother said, smoothing the coat out on her hands and giving it to Korovin, "your coat is ready. Isn't it rather warm to wear in this weather?" Korovin did not reply immediately. He stood up and pulled the coat on.

83

"Never mind, we're used to things like that," he muttered. "Haven't you any relatives?" Silence. "Mother, father, anybody?" Korovin was near the door already. Instead of replying he began to sniff. "Where's he going?" Misha wondered. "Out into the street again?" "Where will you go now?" he asked, trying not to look at Mother. This question seemed to astonish the waif. He pulled his coat closer round his body and went out with a muttered "Good-bye". Misha followed. "Wait a second, it's dark here." He opened the front door and let Korovin out. "Drop in any time you want to," he said on parting. "You'll always find me either at home or in the yard." The waif went down the stairs without a word. Chapter 33 MISHA HAS A TALK WITH MOTHER When Misha returned, Mother was sitting at her sewing-machine and threading the needle. The sewing-machine stood near the window and the sunlight was reflected on its metal parts. Misha took a book and opened it. It was quiet in the room. Only the sewing-machine hummed every time Mother worked the pedal. Misha knew he would get a scolding. There was no avoiding it, as Mother would start talking anyway, but he wished she would hurry and get it over with. "Where did you meet him?" Mother asked finally, without turning her head. "In the market. He stole my money."

84

Mother, stopped the machine and looked at Misha. "What money?" "From the lottery. I told you about it. Shura and I were buying the makeup." "Well, and did he return the money?" Misha smiled. "He did. I caught up with him. Well, naturally, we fought—" "That is how you got introduced?" Mother turned to her sewing-machine. "A pretty picture, I must say: fighting in the streets with waifs." "No one saw us, Mother. It happened on a vacant lot. And then we didn't fight, I only pressed him to the ground a bit." "Yes. .." Mother shook her head again. "But why did you bring him home with you? To let him steal something here, too?" "He wouldn't steal." "How do you know?" "I think so, that's all." The silence that ensued was broken only by the even hum of the sewingmachine. "Are you displeased?" Misha asked. Instead of replying, she said: "But what made you bring him here?" «I don't know." "Did you feel sorry for him?" Mother turned and scrutinized Misha's face. "Why sorry," he shrugged. "Just like that—I tore his sleeves and they had to be sewn on." "Yes, of course," she said, starting the machine again. The white cloth came off the machine slowly and folded in waves on the floor beside the chair. "All the same," Misha said, "you're displeased that I brought him." "I haven't said anything, but, of course, it's not a very pleasant acquaintanceship. That comes first. Secondly you were ready to ask him to live with us. You could have asked me first, you know. I think I, too, am connected in some way to this house." "That's true," Misha admitted, "but I'm sorry for him; he'll go out into the

85

street again—and steal." "Yes, it's a pity!" Mother agreed. "Many people are adopting these children, but... you know yourself that I'm in no position to do so at present." "You'll see, they'll all be taken off the streets soon," Misha said with feeling. "D'you know how many children's homes have already been opened?" "Yes, I know," Mother replied, "but all the same it is very difficult to reeducate these children. They have been spoiled by running wild in the street. Everything will be done in time, but our country is still very poor." "You know, Mother, there's a group of children in Moscow called Young Pioneers, and the fellows there are like Komsomol members ; they work among these homeless children and sort of.. ." he made an indefinite gesture, "do all sorts of things. Genka, Slava, arid I have decided to join: We've found out the address already. It's on the Panteleyevka. We're going there on Sunday." "On the Panteleyevka? But that's miles from here." "What of it! It's summer and we've got plenty of time. And when we're fourteen we'll join the Komsomol." Mother looked up and smiled at Misha. "You're wanting to join the Komsomol already?" "Not now. They won't accept us yet. But later. . ." "When you join the Komsomol you'll be so busy you won't have any time for me," Mother sighed, and then smiled. "Why, Mother!" Misha also smiled. "I'll always have time for you." He flushed and bent over his book. "We'll see," Mother said, pushing the pedal of the sewing-machine. Misha stole a glance at her. She was intent on her work. The tight knot of her chestnut hair touched her green blouse; it was shiny, neatly ironed, and had a smooth collar. Misha got up, tiptoed to Mother, put his arms round her and pressed his cheek to her hair. "Well, what is it?" Mother asked, putting her work on her knees. "D'you know what I think, Mother?" Misha asked, slyly narrowing his eyes. "What?" "Only you must answer: yes or no." "All right, I'll answer." "I think—that you're not a. bit angry with me. Isn't that true? Say it's true." Mother laughed softly and tried to free herself from Misha's embrace. "No, tell me first," Misha cried out merrily. "Tell me! And you know what else I think?" "What?" "I think," Misha paused, "that you would have done exactly the same thing. Wouldn't you? Tell me, am I right?" "Yes, yes," she unclasped his arms and smoothed her hair. "But try not to bring too many waifs into the house."

86

Chapter 33 THE BLACK FAN "Misha!" Genka called from the court-yard. Misha put his head out of the window. Genka was standing with his face upturned. "What d'you want?" "Come down quickly. It's something important!" Genka squinted in the direction of Filin's storehouse. "What's happened?" Misha cried impatiently. He wanted to stay at home. "Hurry!" Genka twisted his face. "Understand?" he added, making all sorts of signs to show that the matter was very urgent. Misha left the flat and ran down the stairs. When he reached the yard Genka immediately stepped up to him. "You know where that tall stranger is?" '"Where?" "In the workmen's dining-room." Genka led the way there and through the big grimy window they saw people sitting at the small marble tables. The plaster figures on the ceiling seemed to be swimming in blue waves of tobacco smoke. Filin was at one of the tables. But he was alone. "Well, where's your stranger?" Misha asked. "He was here a minute ago," Genka said in bewilderment, "sitting right there with Filin. Where could he have gone?" "If he was here he couldn't have gone far," Misha said. "You go to the left, to Smolenskaya Square, and I'll go to the right, to Arbat Square." Misha walked rapidly in the direction of Arbat Square, closely scanning the street. As he was crossing a side-street he caught a glimpse down it of a man in a white shirt, turning the corner into another side-street, near a church. Misha ran as fast as he could, stopping to look around near the church. The tall stranger was walking quickly along the road toward Kropotkin Street. Misha ran after him. The stranger crossed Kropotkin Street and went down another side-street. Misha caught up with him near Ostozhenka Street, but a tram separated them. When the tram had passed the tall stranger had vanished. But where? Misha searched the street with his eyes. A stamp shop on the opposite side caught his attention. He had often been in this shop to buy stamps for his collection. And this was the shop, which, according to Genka, Borka Filin had visited for ' some purpose. Misha pushed the door open, making the bell ring sharply. No one was there. Stamps were lying 'under the glass on the counter and the shelves were filled with boxes and albums. The bell brought the owner, a bald-headed old man with a red nose, out of the back room. He shut the door tightly behind him and asked Misha what he wanted. "May I see your stamps?"

87

The old man threw on the counter several envelopes with stamps and returned to the back room, leaving the door slightly ajar in order to keep an

eye on the shop. While pretending to examine a Bosnia and Herzegovina stamp, Misha looked furtively into the back room. It had no windows and was quite dark; only a shaded lamp stood on the table. There was someone in it besides the old man and they were talking in undertones. Misha could not see the other man, the counter was in the way, but somehow he felt that this other man was the stranger he had followed. He strained his ears to hear what they were talking about, but their voices were too low. A chair scraped in the back room. Misha was sure the men would come into the shop, and he bent over the stamps in tense anticipation. He would see the stranger any minute now. A door squeaked, and a few minutes later the old man appeared in the shop. This was an unexpected turn. The tall stranger had gone out by the back-door. "Have you chosen what you want?" the old man asked with a frown as he took his place behind the counter. "Just a minute," Misha replied, pretending to inspect the stamps carefully. "Be quick about it," the old man said, "it's time to close the shop." He went to the back room and this time he did not bother about the door. The lamp lighted up the edge of the table and in its light Misha saw the

88

old man's bony hands. He was picking up papers from the table, folding them, and putting them away into a drawer. Then a black fan appeared in his hands. For some time the fan remained open in his hands, then he folded it slowly until it looked like a stick.... Next the old man picked up two shiny metal objects. They looked like a ring and a ball. He put them away in a drawer together with the fan.

89

Chapter 34 AUNT AGRIPPINA Misha walked home slowly. The mysterious stranger had eluded him. But what he had seen in the stamp shop was very suspicious. The stranger had gone out by the back-door and the shopkeeper had behaved strangely. Then Borka, the Skinflint, was a frequent visitor there.... He thought of the black fan when he was almost home and an extraordinary idea flashed suddenly through his mind. When the old man had folded the fan it had looked like a sheath. And then the ring. Could it be the sheath to his dirk? He ran to look for his friends to share this exciting idea with them. They were at Genka's, sitting round the table. Slava was ruling lines on some paper and Genka was writing. He had his feet on the chair and was bent low over the table. Aunt Agrippina, who was sitting opposite them, looked up at Misha over her spectacles, and went on dictating from a sheet of paper held at arm's length above the table and on a level with her eyes. "Rubtsova, Anna Grigoryevna," she dictated slowly. "Did you write it? Neater, neater, don't hurry. That's it. Semyonova, Yevdokia Gavrilovna." "Look, Misha," Genka shouted with a merry giggle. "I've got a new job— secretary to the Women's Department!" "Stop fidgeting," Aunt Agrippina raised her voice, "you'll smudge the page!" Misha glanced over Genka's shoulder: "List of women workers at the shop who have finished the school for the abolition of illiteracy." Every name was followed by a number: that was the age. All were over forty. "Why can't you keep still?" Aunt Agrippina grumbled. "Look how neatly Slava is drawing, while you're fidgeting all the time. Well? Have you got Yevdokia Gavrilovna?" "Yes, yes. Go on. What d'you want to teach all these old women for?" Aunt Agrippina fixed her eyes on Genka. "What do you mean what for? Are you serious?" "Of course, I'm serious," he said in a quarrelsome tone, although it was obvious that his aunt's question had made him uncomfortable. "There," he jabbed his pen at the list, "fifty-four years old. Can you tell me what she wants to be literate for?" "So that's what you're like!" Aunt Agrippina said slowly, taking off her spectacles. "That's the kind of boy you are! And I hadn't the faintest idea." "Why—what's the matter?" said Genka, now quite confused. "I see," Aunt Agrippina said, her eyes on Genka. "So you're the only one who wants to learn to read and write?" "I didn't..." "Be quiet. Don't interrupt. So reading and writing is only for you? All this has been won especially for you? Is that what you think? Semyonova sweated for forty years at the factory and she can die illiterate for all you care. And I, too, studied to no purpose? I lost two sons in the Civil War so that Genka might study and I might remain

90

what I was before? And Asafyeva, who has been moved into a flat from her cellar. That, too, shouldn't have been done? You'd say that after sixty years in the cellar she might as well die there. Is that what you think? Tell me." "Auntie," Genka sobbed loudly, "you didn't understand me! I was only joking." "I understood you quite well," Aunt Agrippina snapped, "quite well, young man. I never thought you had such ideas, Gennady. I never thought you looked upon the worker that way." "Auntie," Genka whispered dismally, his head lowered, "Auntie! I spoke without thinking. Well—said the first foolish thing that entered my head." "In that case," Aunt Agrippina admonished, "you've got to think, got to watch what you say." She rose heavily from her chair. "Well, all right, a sin confessed is half forgiven. But the next time, think." Chapter-35 FILIN Aunt Agrippina went to the kitchen. Genka remained at the table feeling very sorry for himself. "Well, you got it in the neck?" Misha mocked. "That wasn't half what you deserved. That tongue of yours will get you in hot water." "Come now, Misha," Slava said in a conciliatory tone, "he admitted he was wrong, didn't he?" "All right," Misha replied. "Did you see the tall stranger, Genka?" "I didn't see anyone," Genka answered gloomily, without raising his head. "Listen then," said Misha nonchalantly, leaning on the edge of the dresser, "while you were sitting here ... I ... saw the sheath." "What sheath?" Slava asked, not catching Misha's meaning. "An ordinary one. Belonging to my dirk." Genka raised his head and looked sceptically at Misha. ''Did you really?" Slava asked. "Yes. I saw it myself, just now." "Where?" Genka stood up. "In the stamp shop in Ostozhenka Street." "You're a liar!" "I'm not. I don't lie." "Great guns!" Genka drawled. "Where does he keep it?" While Aunt Agrippina was in the kitchen Misha hurriedly told his friends about the stamp dealer, the tall stranger, and the black fan. "I like that," Genka said in disappointment, "I thought you said you saw the sheath, and here you are telling us about some blinking fan." "Well, we had an equation with two unknowns," Slava said, "and now there are three: the first is Filin, the second—Nikitsky, and the third—the fan. I suppose you realize, Misha, that if Filin is not our man then the rest is

91

also fantasy." "He's right, Misha," Genka said, "maybe you imagined it all." Misha did not reply. He was still leaning against the edge of the dresser that had a lace-edged cloth spread over it. On it was a square mirror with bevelled edges and a green petal stuck in the top left-hand corner. A reel of cotton pierced by a long needle lay beside some old photographs in oval frames, with the names of the photographers stamped in gilt letters. The names were different but all the photographs had the same background—a pond between grey curtains and a mist-enveloped summer-house in the distance. "Of course Slava's right," Misha thought. "But all the same there's something in all this." He looked at Genka. "If you hadn't quarrelled with your aunt, we could have learned something about Filin." "What d'you mean?" "What I say. She knows Filin. She could at least tell us if he's from Revsk or not." "Why d'you think she won't tell us? I'm sure she will." "That's what you think. She won't talk to you now." "She won't talk to me? Then you don't know my aunt. She's forgotten everything long ago, especially as I've apologized. She needs a special approach. You'll see in a minute." Aunt Agrippina returned to the room, gave the boys, who had fallen silent, a searching look, and began clearing the table. Genka pretended he was continuing a story which his aunt's entrance had interrupted. "I said to him, 'Your father's a speculator like all your family. Everyone in Revsk knows about you—' " "Who's that you're talking about?" Aunt Agrippina asked. "About Borka Filin," Genka said with an innocent look. "I said to him, 'All Revsk knows your name.' And he said, 'We never lived in Revsk. And I don't know what you're talking about'—" The boys looked at Aunt Agrippina in anticipation. She gave the tablecloth an angry shake. "What business have you got with him? I've told you time and again not to have anything to do with this Borka Filin. He'll only get you into trouble." "Then why does he lie? If he comes from Revsk then he should say so and not lie about it." "Perhaps he's never been to Revsk." "I never said he did, but his father's from Revsk. Why hide it?" "Perhaps he knows nothing about his father." "But Filin himself sat near us. He laughed and said: 'We are native Moscovites, proletarians.' " "Did he say 'proletarians"?" Aunt Agrippina finally gave in. "If you want to know, his father was a warder, a gendarme in Revsk, and now he's flying the colours of a worker! Proletarians, indeed—" "You mean Filin himself was a gendarme?" Misha asked.

92

"No. His father was. Well, like father like son. And you keep away from them." Aunt Agrippina folded the table-cloth and left the room. "See that?" Genka exulted, following her with a wink. "And you said she wouldn't say anything. Told us everything! I happen to know my aunt. It's all clear now. Film's our man. That means Nikitsky's here, and the sheath, too. I can just feel that treasure getting warmer!" he rubbed his hands gleefully. "Everything's not quite clear," Slava objected. "You said yourself that Revsk is full of Filins. Maybe this is another Filin." "You're talking through your hat!" Genka said with a shake of his head. "The spawn of gendarmes. He's our man, it's a fact." "All right," Misha said merrily, "he may be our man and he may not. But the fact is that he's from Revsk. Now we'll find out if he ever served on the Empress Maria.'''' "How are we going to find that out?" Genka asked. "It's going to be easy. D'you think Borka won't tell us?" Chapter 36 IN KRASNAYA PRESNYA DISTRICT On Sunday the three friends set out for the print-shop in the Panteleyevka in Krasnaya Presnya district, to see the Young Pioneer detachment. Because of the shortage of electric power the trams did not run on Sundays, and so the boys started out early in the morning. Arbat Street was enveloped in a grey mist. At this hour it was deserted, even the janitors had not yet come out with their brooms. The boys walked briskly in the cheerful freshness of the morning. 'The heels of their shoes rang against the cold, resonant asphalt, echoing in the deserted street. The reflections of their small figures shone in the shop windows. "How strange to see Arbat Street so deserted!" Misha thought. The street seemed small, narrow, and quiet. You could have a good look at its buildings now. Misha looked around him. There was the "Carnaval" Cinema, and behind it the tall Military Tribunal building. And there was the house where Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin ( Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (1799-1837)—great Russian poet and founder of realism in Russian literature.—Ed) once lived. An ordinary two-storeyed house with nothing remarkable about it. It was even odd to think that Pushkin had ever lived in it. Of course, he had walked along Arbat Street like everybody else in .those days and no one had given it a thought. But if Pushkin were to appear in Arbat Street now, what a fuss there would be! All Moscow would come running! "We'll see what those Young Pioneers are like," Genka chattered, '"we'll see. Maybe we won't like them; we might even find them embroidering

93

flowers like girls in a children's home." "You fathead!" Misha said. "They're a communist organization, don't you understand? That means they do something worthwhile." "Somehow I still feel a bit uncomfortable about going there," Slava said. "Why?" "I just do," he said and shrugged his shoulders. "They'll ask us who we are and why we came. I don't feel comfortable somehow." "But I do," Misha replied firmly. "What's wrong with it? Maybe we also want to be Young Pioneers? We have a right, haven't we?" The boys fell silent. The splendid morning sun was rising from behind the houses. Its slanting rays cast huge square shadows from the buildings; the shadows were shortening and gradually moving to one side of the street, ousted by the sun that was pouring its bright, blinding light on the other side. The street was coming to life. Postmen with big leather bags, tightly packed with newspapers, were leaving the post office. Peasants passed by, their milk-cans rattling. The boys reached Kudrinskaya Square. "Look there, Genka!" Misha said, pointing to a house on the corner. Its walls had been chipped by bullets and shell splinters. "D'you know why those walls are pock-marked?" "No." "Some of the hottest battles of the October Revolution were fought here. Our people shelled the Cadets. (Members of the Constitutional-Democratic Party, the main bourgeois party in tsarist Russia, who participated in all armed counter-revolutionary uprisings against the Soviet power.—-Ed). We saw it with Slava. Remember?" "I wasn't here then," Slava confessed, "and I think you weren't either." "Me? I was here any number of times! I came here often with Shura. Once we even filled our caps with cartridge-cases. True, that was a long time ago—I was eight then. And, naturally, you never saw us. You had to stay indoors. Your mother never let you out." The boys arrived in the Panteleyevka. Through the big windows they saw the print-shop filled with machines. There were no workers in the workshop. Over the gates hung a sign: "Printshop of the Moscow Publishing House." The boys went to the entrance. A man, to all appearances the watchman, was sitting behind a low railing in a small hut made of planks, ladling soup out of a large bowl. Here, too, was a girl of about ten, her short pigtails tied with red ribbons. When the boys entered, the watchman raised his head, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand, and looked inquiringly at them. "Could you please tell us where the Young Pioneer detachment is?" Misha asked him. "Young Pioneers?" The watchman picked up his spoon. "Who sent you, may I ask—the District Committee, or what?" "Well... we're here—" Misha stammered, "we're here on business." The little girl looked inquisitively at them. The watchman finished his

94

soup, and pushed the bowl away. "We have Young Pioneers. Most likely they're in their club." "Would you tell us where it is?" This question seemed to surprise the little girl. "Hm. You mean to tell me you don't know where the club is?" the watchman asked. "You see," Misha faltered, "we're from another district. From Khamovniki district." "0-oh—" the watchman drawled. "Well-well—their club's in the Sadovaya Street. It's not far from here." "In what Sadovaya Street?" "Aren't they funny!" the little girl giggled. "They don't know the club. Papa, they don't know where it is." "Be still!" the watchman said, raising his voice at the little girl. "You know far too much for your age! Show them the way. Maybe they really have some important business," he added with a dubious glance at the boys. "In a minute." The little girl rinsed the bowl and spoon under a small water-tank, tied them in a table napkin, and went into the street with the boys. "I know those Young Pioneers well," she prattled. "Our Vasya's the most important one there—he plays the drum." Misha gave her a scornful look, but said nothing. No use arguing with her! "They also have a bugle," the little girl went on. "And you know what strict rules they have! They're not allowed to swear, keep their hands in their pockets or fight with girls. There. They're only allowed to fight the bourgeoisie, and when they do that they have to take off their ties. They're not allowed to fight in ties." "Don't get under my feet," Misha said sternly. "And they allow girls to join, too," the little girl continued, paying no attention to him, "not all, only those, well, those that are old enough." "And how old's your Vasya?" Slava asked. "Oh—he's big—fourteen, maybe even fifteen. And you know how serious he is! He comes right into the house and takes everything away." The friends looked at her in astonishment. "How can he take everything away?" Genka asked. "Don't you know," the little girl replied importantly, "for those... well, those homes for homeless children. The Young Pioneers go around people's houses and collect things. They took my blouse," she announced proudly. "Took your blouse?" "Uh-huh." "But that isn't right," Genka said. "No one can take anything away." The little girl looked unhappy for a moment. "They didn't take it themselves, Mama gave it them." "And you felt sorry about it?" Slava laughed. "Not a bit. I wanted to give them my last year's hat, but Vasya said I shouldn't, as I'd have nothing to give the next time. He was right, for in the

95

morning they took the blouse and then in the evening they came back for the hat." She sighed. "There are lots of homeless children—it'll take a long time to get clothes and shoes for all of them." They reached the house in Sadovaya Street. "There, on the third floor," the little girl pointed, and added anxiously, "I'll leave you now, or Vasya might see me." Chapter 37 A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING The little girl walked away, leaving the boys in front of the door. For some reason they had become timid. A boy peeped out of the doorway, looked at them and vanished, then another fair head popped out and also vanished. The boys hesitated. Misha suddenly wanted to go home. It was just possible they might be chased away, he thought. But he could not show weakness before Genka and Slava, so he started resolutely up the stairs. Genka and Slava followed. On the third floor they opened a massive carved oak door and found themselves before a large square room. Against the opposite wall leaned a folded banner with gold tassels and an oval-shaped bronze spear-head. Over the banner a red streamer, stretching across the entire wall carried the words: "The organization of children is the best way of training Communards. Lenin." A drum and bugle lay on a table next to the banner. A small flag with some kind of emblem stood in each of the four corners of the room. Pictures and posters hung on the walls. There was no one in the room or on the landing. For a second the friends heard footsteps on the floor above, then everything became still again. Misha, Genka, and Slava entered the room and began to look round the Young Pioneer Club. The emblems on the four small flags were an owl, a fox, a bear, and a panther. The pictures on the walls had been cut out of newspapers; there was also a big sheet of paper with semaphore rules and the Morse code. Exercise-books bearing the inscription "Group Log Book" were hanging on a nail. They were looking at one of the exercise-books when they heard a slight sound behind. Turning, they saw some boys in red ties stealing up to them. Their bearing left no doubt as to their intentions and our friends instantly took up a defensive attitude. When they realized they had been seen the Young Pioneers charged the boys with lusty yells, only to be quickly repulsed. With Misha in the centre and Genka and Slava protecting the flanks, and one corner of the room giving them cover from the rear, they fought desperately with their hands and feet to prevent their attackers from breaking

96

through and scattering them. The Young Pioneers made a second rush, led by a thin fair-haired boy with a stripe on his sleeve. He was very excited and dashed back and forth, urging his comrades on.

"Forward! Steady now... that's it ... steady.... Don't let them get away.... Steady... pull them apart.... Steady!" The second attack was successful. The Young Pioneers managed to pull Slava away. Misha went to his rescue, breaking up the line, and the boys fought singly. "That's it ... steady!" the fair-haired boy yelled, clinging to Slava. "Steady... tackle them! Steady.... Seryozha, sound the general alarm!" One of the Young Pioneers left the fray and started beating the drum furiously. At last Misha saved Slava and the three boys kicked out at their attackers, backed to the wall, and took up their original position in the corner.

97

Both sides were badly mauled. All the boys were out of breath. The Young Pioneers' ties were askew, Slava's collar was torn, and Genka felt his red hair with his hand, suspecting he had lost much of it. "What d'you want?" Misha gasped. "Shut up, you're prisoners!" the leader shouted. "If you don't we'll put a double reef knot on you." The drum rolled on desperately, more and more Young Pioneers came running into the room. "Steady now!" the fair-haired boy cried out, running from one end of the room to the other. "Keep off! These are our prisoners.... Bears, foxes... don't interfere. They're not your prisoners; they're ours ... we caught them." A stocky, broad-shouldered young man in a singlet, long black trousers, and a red tie, walked quickly into the room. The fair-haired Young Pioneer saluted. "Our group has captured three boy scout spies," he reported excitedly. "They were trying to steal the detachment colours. We noticed them when they were still in the street. We saw them whispering near the entrance, watching for a chance to get in." "Wait a minute," the young man stopped him. "Release them." The crowd of Young Pioneers who were making a close ring round the boys moved away, and they came out of their corner. "All right," the young man said, eyeing the boys. "Go on, Vasya." "Well, they waited for a chance to get in," the fair-haired boy continued, "then they went up the stairs. We climbed to the fourth floor by the back stairs. They looked in here, saw there was no one about and entered, but we jumped on them and made them prisoners." He paused, then asked in a business-like tone, "What shall we do with them now? Try them ourselves, or turn them over?" "Well," the Young Pioneer leader asked. "Tell me, who are you?" "Nobody," Misha answered sullenly. "We just came in to see what Young Pioneers are like." That raised a general laugh. "They're lying!" Vasya yelled. "They're scouts. I know this one," he pointed to Slava, "he's a patrol leader." "That's not true!" said Slava flushing hotly. "I've never been a scout!" "Oh, no? Never? Don't tell us, I know you. We've all seen you many times. Haven't we, Seryozha?" "Uh-huh," confirmed the drummer, without batting an eyelid. "See?" Vasya shouted. "They can't deny it now. I know them well. They live in Bronnaya Street." "That's a lie," said Misha, "we live in Arbat Street." "In Arbat Street?" the Young Pioneer leader said in surprise. "Then how do you come to be here?" "We walked.... This is the only place that has a detachment." "No, it isn't," the leader replied. "There's one at the Goznak Factory, in Khamovniki district. They have a House of Pioneers, too. Why didn't you go there?"

98

"We didn't know," Misha said uncomfortably. "We were told that there was only one detachment in Moscow—your detachment." "Who told you?" "Comrade Zhurbin." "Comrade Zhurbin? How do you know him?" "He lives in our block." "I see," the leader said with a friendly smile. "I know Comrade Zhurbin. You say he told you. But our detachment's not the only one now. There's a detachment at the railway workshops in Sokolniki district and at the Goznak Factory in your district. Where do your parents work?" "At the Sverdlov Factory," Genka broke in. "We also have a club in our house and our own dramatic circle." "Yes," Misha backed him up, "we have our own dramatic circle, but ... we ... we want to be Young Pioneers as well." "All right," the leader laughed. "Everything's clear now. We've had a slight misunderstanding. My boys are still warring against the scouts by force of habit, and you got it by mistake. Never mind, we'll settle everything." He blew on his flat whistle and in a few seconds the whole detachment lined up along the walls, forming a square, with the leader, Misha, Genka, and Slava in the middle. The boys looked admiringly at the Young Pioneers. They were not a crowd of boys and girls any more, but a detachment. They stood in formation in their separate groups, with the group flags on the right flank of each. The slanting rays of the bright sun shone through the tall windows and picked out the straight line of red ties. The boys wore shorts and the girls were in gym bloomers. They were all sun-tanned and looked smart. "Bugler, the salute," the leader commanded. "Boys and girls," he said when the last note faded, "we have visitors from Khamovniki district. They came to find out about our life and work and want to follow our example. They want to be Young Pioneers. Let's ask them to convey to the boys and girls of Khamovniki district our warm Young Pioneer greetings." And the Young Pioneers of Krasnaya Presnya district gave three cheers for the future Young Pioneers of Khamovniki district. Chapter 38 IMPRESSIONS The boys spent almost the whole day enjoying the hospitality of the Young Pioneer Club. They were delighted with everything they saw and their minds were full of it all as they walked home in the evening down Sadovaya Street. " 'A Young Pioneer is healthy and strong'—that's what I call a rule," Genka was saying, "a grand rule. I've got to do more exercises and develop

99

my muscles." "They have rules that are more important," Slava remarked. "Do they? Then name them," Genka challenged. "All right. For instance: 'A Young Pioneer strives after knowledge. Knowledge and ability are strength in the fight for the workers' cause.' " "D'you call that more important? Then that's all you know! If you're feeble, the bourgeoisie will finish you off in no time, and all the knowledge in the world won't help. Isn't that right. Misha?" "Two rules are most important," Misha admonished. "The first is that 'A Young Pioneer is loyal to the cause of the working class,' and the second: 'A Young Pioneer is fearless, persevering, and never downhearted.' But most important of all is what Lenin said. Did you hear the Pioneer leader read it out? 'Children, who are the proletarians of the future, should help the Revolution.' That's what is most important." "And did you notice how the watchman at the print-shop spoke about them?" Slava observed. "With respect." "I should think so," Misha said, "the whole district knows them, let alone their own print-shop." "Only why don't they have any guns and things?" Genka said, perplexed. "If only a rifle, just for the sake of appearance. We'll certainly get rifles for our detachment." "That's where you're wrong," Misha said. "They won't let us have rifles. But when we organize our detachment we'll call the groups by other names. Revolutionary names would be best, like Karl Liebknecht ( Karl Liebknecht (1871-1919)—one of the founders of the Communist Party of Germany.— Ed.) or Spartacus. ( Spartacus—leader of the greatest uprising of slaves in Rome in 74-71 B.C.—Ed.) That'll sound better than those animal names. They're really childish." "That isn't your own idea," Genka pointed out, "they want to change the names as well. You heard the leader mention it?" "I know, but I thought of it before, as soon as I saw the animal badges. And did you hear the leader say that on International Youth Day they'll recommend the best Young Pioneers to the Komsomol? Would you believe it? That fair-haired fellow'll already be in the Komsomol, and we aren't even Young Pioneers yet." "Oh, him! He needs a good hiding," Genka grumbled. "What for?" Misha objected. "They were only defending their banner. How could they know who we were? That fair-haired chap's got the fighting spirit all right." "Now we've got to go to the Goznak Factory," Slava said. "Maybe they'll let us join the detachment there, or tell us where the House of Young Pioneers is being organized." "Why should we go there when we have our own factory!" Misha protested. "Didn't you hear their leader say that detachments will be organized at all factories and plants? There's a Komsomol decision about it." "Phew!" Genka whistled. "Sit around and wait for our director or his father," nodding at Slava, "to do anything. Auntie says they're stingy about

100

money." "You will talk when you don't know anything," said Slava taking offence. "Some of the workshops are still idle and the factory has to be selfsupporting. It's not so easy, running a factory." "We must go to the Party cell and to the District Committee." Misha said, "and see Zhurbin while we're about it. The last time we saw him he mentioned the Young Pioneers." When they were nearing their block the friends heard a noise and shouting coming from the back-yard. They quickened their steps and saw a crowd of fellows standing in a close ring round Korovin. He had his back to the wall and looked from one to another with wild eyes, like a wolf-cub at bay. Borka Filin made a lunge at him. "What'd you come here for?" he was yelling. "To steal? Eh? Tell me! To steal? Give it him, chaps!" Misha pushed his way through the crowd and stood next to the waif. "Why can't you leave him alone?" he said. "A whole crowd against one. You must be mad, Borka!" "Lay off, Misha," Genka called, "that's the chap that stole your money! Why stick up for him? They're all alike, these waifs... young thieves and nothing more!" he added contemptuously. "You're a thief yourself, a red-headed thief," Korovin muttered with a sudden sniff. A roar of laughter greeted the words. "Come along to the club," Misha said. "Come with us." He pulled the waif by his sleeve, but immediately released his hold, remembering that Korovin's sleeves came off easily. "I'm not coming," Korovin replied in surly tones, with a distrustful look at Genka. "Quite right," Borka interfered suddenly, "you stay here, old chap. Have a game of penny-pitching with me." "Come on, come on," Misha said, pulling the waif again, "stop fooling, come on." Chapter 39 ARTISTS In the club the members of the dramatic circle, headed by Shura Bolshoi, were painting scenery. Long strips of white paper lay on the stage. Little Vovka Baranov the Whiner was trying in vain to draw an imposing peasant cottage to represent the home of the kulak Pakhomov. "You miserable whiner, you!" Shura raged. "Can't you draw a simple peasant cottage, and you, the son of an artist!" "What's that got to do with it?" the Whiner contested. "My father's my father and I'm just myself."

101

To everyone's surprise Korovin looked at the sketch, picked up a piece of charcoal and began drawing. The outlines of a stove, windows, and long benches rapidly appeared on the white sheets. "See that?" Misha said, nudging Genka. "What of it!" Genka said, shaking his red hair scornfully. "There's nothing clever in his being able to draw. I can't see why you bother with him." "Cut that out!" Misha frowned. "If each of us were to put one waif on the right road, there wouldn't be any left running the streets." "Rotten paint-brushes!" Korovin said, as if to himself when he had finished the drawing. Shura gave him some others, but he rejected them too. "I want the other kind." Misha pulled out of his pocket what remained of the lottery money and held it out to Korovin. "Here, go and buy the right ones." Korovin did not take the money and looked silently at Misha. "Well, go and buy them," Misha said. "What are you staring at me for?" Korovin took the money half-heartedly, looked silently at the boys, and went out of the club. "Wow!" Genka exclaimed. "That's good-bye to our money!" "If you go about throwing our money away like that," Shura announced, "then I wash my hands of all responsibility for the show." "Don't get hot and bothered before you know. Let's wait for him to come back," Misha said. The boys waited in agony. The adults began to arrive, but there was no sign of Korovin. "Will he cheat me?" Misha wondered, but then remembered the look Korovin gave him when he took the money. "No. He'll come back." But there was still no sign of Korovin. "No use waiting any longer," Shura said. "Go on, Whiner, finish the job." Vovka had just begun mixing the paints when suddenly the door of the club opened and Korovin appeared. He was not alone. A tall, dark girl with black bobbed hair led him in by the shoulder. She was dressed in a blue skirt and a khaki tunic, held in at her slim waist by a broad army belt. But the most interesting item of her dress was a red tie, a real Young Pioneer tie. She held Korovin's shoulder firmly with one hand and in her other hand was a bundle of paintbrushes. The girl looked very determined. "Which of you sent him for brushes?" she asked sternly as she came up to the boys, still gripping Korovin. "I did," Misha replied timidly. "Why?" "What do you need brushes for?" "We're painting scenery for our show." The girl released Korovin, went up to the stage and looked in surprise at the scenery. "What play are you putting on?" Shurka Bolshoi took a step forward. "The Kulak and the Farm-hand" he said importantly. "By the way, allow me to introduce myself: Shura Ogureyev. Art director and stage manager."

102

He held out his hand. The girl laughed as she ceremoniously shook hands with Shura. "I am Valya Ivanova. From the district House of Young Pioneers." "May I ask what's wrong?" Shura said. "The fact is," the girl's voice grew stern again, "that we're trying to stop waifs stealing, and here you are teaching them to steal. He came and stole our paint-brushes." "I didn't," Korovin mumbled. "I only borrowed them." Misha looked at the girl with astonishment. She looked not more than seventeen and was already a Young Pioneer leader, and working in the House of Young Pioneers. "Where's that House of yours?" he asked distrustfully. "In Devichye Polye," the girl hesitated. "Strictly speaking, it's only just being organized. But tell me what's this curious circle of yours? Who directs you? What organization do you belong to?" "To the House Committee!" Genka yelled. "Indeed!" the girl laughed. "Do you know what Young Pioneers are?" she asked, looking at the boys. "Yes," cried Misha, Genka, and Slava in unison, but the "No, we don't!" of the others drowned their voices. "Not so loud!" the girl cried out, raising her hand. "Pioneers," she continued, when silence was restored, "are the successors of the Young Communists. All children are now joining Young Pioneer detachments and in them they are learning to be Young Communists in the future, and later real Communists." She gave the boys a sly look and smiled. "You think I came about the paint-brushes? No. I could have just taken them away from him. But he said he was taking them to some boys in a dramatic circle. And I wanted to see for myself." "We're worth looking at!" Genka shouted. Then when the laughter subsided, he added: "We'll also be Young Pioneers!" "I don't doubt it," the girl said. "I'll find out about your club and how you can be helped. Meanwhile come and see us at the House of Young Pioneers. We are going to have various workshops and circles. Be sure to come. Then you can bring back the paint-brushes. Who's your leader?" Genka pushed Misha forward. "He's our chairman," he said. "Good," the girl said with an approving look at Misha. "You'll be responsible for these brushes. Get your people together and come to see us. Don't forget." "All right," Misha said. "And you come to see our show on Sunday." When the girl left, Korovin returned the money to Misha and began painting. "Why didn't you go to the shop for them?" Misha asked him. "That would have been a waste of money!" Korovin said with a look at Genka. "I didn't do it for myself." "He's not in the habit of paying for things," Genka scoffed. Then he added

103

in a kinder tone, "All right—get on with the painting." Chapter 4O EXPERIENCED SLEUTHS There he goes!" Genka whispered giving Slava a push. "Come on." Filin came out of the gates, turned into Nikolsky Lane and made for Kropotkin Street. Genka and Slava who had been watching out for him followed, attentively studying his rolling gait. "D'you notice how he walks," Genka whispered. "He must have been a sailor, some time. Look how far apart he keeps his feet, as though he's walking on deck." "I don't see anything unusual," Slava argued, "Everybody walks like that. Then he's in top boots. Sailors always wear bell-bottomed trousers." "The trousers have nothing to do with it! Wait till he turns round and take a peek at his face. You'll see it's as red as a beet-root. It's clear that it got weather-beaten on a ship." "His face is certainly red," Slava agreed, "but don't forget that Film's a drunkard. Vodka makes the face red." "No, it doesn't!' Genka argued heatedly. "Vodka gives you a red nose and makes your face turn purple." "Then, look," Slava continued, "he's got his hands in his pockets. A real sailor would never do that. A real sailor always swings them because he's accustomed to keeping his balance when the ship rolls." "For heaven's sake, Slava," Genka said, getting nettled, "come off it. Hands in his pockets.... You know, sailors reckon it's very smart to keep their hands in their pockets and their pipes between their teeth during a storm. So there. What's more, if you don't believe Filin's the man, then you should have stayed at home." They said no more but continued to follow Filin. He crossed Kropotkin Street, stopped in front of the stamp shop, looked around and entered. "So that's that," Slava said, "nothing more for us here." "Let's go into the shop," Genka suggested after a moment's hesitation. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Genka!" Slava reproached him. "We agreed we wouldn't. And Misha said we weren't to go into the shop. The old man turned Misha out and he'll do the same; with us." "No, he won't. Who can stop us going in to buy stamps? Come on." , J Slava tried to hold him back but it was too late. Genka had already pushed open the door of the shop and Slava had to follow him in. The old stamp dealer was standing behind the counter talking to Filin. They stopped talking when the boys entered. "What do you want?" the old man asked suspiciously. "You come in to look every day and don't buy anything. Well, what stamps do you want?" "Guatemala," Genka whispered in confusion.

104

The old man took down a box from the shelf, pulled out an envelope and threw it on the counter. "There, find what you want." Genka began to look through the stamps nervously. Everyone watched him silently. Finally he could bear it no longer and pointed to one of the stamps. "That one," he said. The stamp dealer put away the envelope, leaving on the counter the stamp Genka had chosen. "Twenty kopeks." Genka looked helplessly at Slava. Slava realized at once that Genka had no money. But neither had he. The old man and Filin looked intently at the boys. "Well," repeated the old man, "twenty kopeks." Instead of replying Genka turned and ran headlong out of the shop. Slava rushed after him. They ran across the street and hurriedly made their way home. "I told you not to go in," Slava began. "Well, what of it?" Genka replied in an off-hand manner. "What d'you mean by that? They've had a good look at us now and know we're watching them." "How can they know? Dozens of chaps go into the shop without money." "Just wait. You'll get it from Misha." "I don't take orders from him!" Genka said with an independent air. "What do I care!" "Misha doesn't give orders, but the dirk's his and you might spoil everything with your stupid nonsense." "I know my own business," Genka cut him short. "I've got a mind of my own!" They had now reached their house and found Misha just coming down the stairs from Zhurbin's. "Hey, Misha," Genka called as if nothing were the matter, "we've got some news for you!" "What is it?" "Everything's fine!" Genka said in a whisper. "We tracked down Filin. He went to see that old stamp dealer. We noticed the way he walks. He's a sailor all right, you can bet your life!" "There you are!" Misha said. "That's what I always said. And everything's all right with me. I saw Zhurbin, then I went to the House of Young Pioneers and spoke to the secretary of the Komsomol cell." "What'd you find out?" "You'll see on Sunday," Misha replied mysteriously. "Can't you tell us now?" "You'll see when the time comes. Everything's all right. Now we have to find out for sure whether Filin ever served on the battleship. After that we'll tackle the stamp dealer. Only you'll have to do it: he won't let me into his shop any more."

105

"Don't you worry, Misha," said Slava, who had been silent till then, "we can't do it." He threw a meaning glance at Genka. "Why?" "Because he won't let us in, either." "Why won't he?" Misha asked, looking perplexedly from one to the other. "Whatever's happened?" "Let him tell you," Slava nodded at Genka. "You see, Misha," Genka blustered, his face very red, "we were trailing Filin, to find out where he was going. He turned into an alley and we did the same. He went down the Ostozhenka and so did we. He went into the shop and we followed. And in the shop we hadn't any money to pay for the stamps. Well, we calmly turned round and walked out. That's all." "I see," Misha drawled, shaking his head. "In other words you got caught. How many times did I tell you not to go into the shop. And now you've messed up the whole thing and none of us can go to the shop. That's the second time you've bungled everything. The first time you blabbed out about the boxes to Borka and now you've messed up everything at the shop. I'm finished with you. We'll have to manage without you." This time Genka did not argue. He knew that Misha's anger would pass and that he would not do anything without him. Chapter 41 THE PERFORMANCE Sunday. The Kulak and the Farm-hand, a play in three acts for children, read the announcement that had hung on the door of the club for several days now. Further the announcement read: Studio Director—Shura Ogureyev. Stage Manager—Shura Ogureyev. In the leading role—Shura Ogureyev. And at the very bottom in small letters were the words: Artist— Mikhail Korovin, directed by Shura Ogureyev. Korovin was very proud to see his name in the announcement which was read by crowds of waifs. The tickets sold out quickly and the boys handed the proceeds to the newspaper Izvestia to be put into the relief fund for the people starving in the Volga country. On Sunday morning the club was filled with children; they made a lot of noise, climbed over the backs of the chairs, and quarrelled. Children came from neighbouring buildings and Korovin brought in a large crowd of waifs. Igor and Elena, the acrobats, also came, and Misha gave them seats in the front row and left them in Slava's care. When everything was ready Misha ran to invite Zhurbin. In Zhurbin's flat he found Valya Ivanova and another Young Communist in a cap and leather jacket, with a bundle of newspapers sticking out of his pocket. The jacket was unbuttoned and revealed a blue Russian blouse with a Young

106

Communist badge pinned to it. "This is the boy who started it," Zhurbin said pointing to Misha. "We've already met," Valya remarked with a friendly smile at Misha. "My name is Nikolai Sevostyanov," said the Young Communist, holding out his hand. He looked closely at Misha while he spoke, standing with his body bent slightly forward. Tall and somewhat round-shouldered, a tuft of blond hair escaping from under his cap and hanging over his pale forehead, his look was so close and attentive that Misha felt as though his grey, tired, and very clever eyes were boring right through him. "Comrade Sevostyanov wants to see your performance," Zhurbin said, "when it's over he will make an announcement." Mitya Sakharov, the club manager, made a speech before the curtain rose. "Comrades!" he said, tossing back his hair and addressing his words more to Zhurbin than to the audience, "you will now see a play produced by the children's dramatic circle of our club." He tossed his hair back again. "Our club gave the circle all the funds it needed to produce the play because it attaches great importance to work among children. We hope that our expenses will be fully covered. And now, comrades, let us call the performers." He clapped his hands and the entire hall responded with a thunderous applause. The show was a great success. Zina Kruglova produced a sensation, when, during the show, she gave Shura a resounding whack across his back with the oven prongs. The young spectators were so delighted that they shouted: "Go it, Zina, give it him good and strong!" And like a true actor, Shura did not even show that the blow was painful. As an epilogue all the performers joined in a song and dance. To round it off Elena and Igor gave a performance, with Slava accompanying them on the piano. After that Nikolai Sevostyanov climbed on to the stage. "Did you like it?" he asked, scanning the faces of the spectators. "Yes, yes!" they chorused. "You see," Nikolai said, "the boys and girls of this block have done some good and useful work. They are sharing in the activities of the club and helping our little comrades in the Volga country. Tell me, do you think they've done a good job?" "Yes," the children chorused again. "That's fine," Nikolai continued. "I shall now ask you a question—" He stood silent for a moment while the audience waited. "Now tell me, have you ever heard of the Young Pioneers?" "Yes, yes!" Genka yelled at the top of his voice. Misha nudged him. "Stop yelling! You may know, but the others don't." There was a loud clamour in the hall. Some children cried "We know," others shouted "No, we don't." Each group tried to outshout the other, and in

107

some parts of the hall there was skirmishing. Nikolai raised his hand for order, and when silence was restored, continued : "Young Pioneers are the children who will grow up to be Young Communists. Young Pioneers are called upon to complete the work begun by their fathers and elder brothers—the work of building communism. Detachments of Young Pioneers are helping the Party and the Young Communists to bring up children in the communist spirit. In cur district there are already three detachments: at the Rubber Factory, at the 'Livers' Works and at the Goznak Factory." "Why haven't we got one?" Misha asked. "That's what I want to talk to you about. Boys and girls, this club is being taken over by our factory, and at the factory we're organizing a Young Pioneer detachment." "Hooray!" Genka yelled. He wanted to shout something else, but Misha poked him again in the ribs and he fell silent. "I think that's all," Nikolai concluded. "Those that want to join can sign up with me now, and we'll have our first meeting to-day." "I'm going to ask him something," Genka mumbled. "What?" Misha asked, pricking up his ears. "Whether Young Pioneers are allowed to fight boy scouts." "Stupid questions again!" Misha said angrily. "I just can't understand your habit of talking for the sake of talking. Talk sense when you open your mouth."

108

Part IV DETACHMENT No. 17 Chapter 42 YOUNG PIONEERS " 'A Young Pioneer does his work quickly and tidily,' " said Genka, holding forth as he swung his hammer. He was standing on the top rung of a wooden ladder and nailing a poster to the wall near the ceiling. "That's right: 'quickly and tidily,' and you've already wasted a whole hour over it," Slava observed. With one hand he was holding the ladder and with the other the lower end of the poster. The factory was at last working to its full capacity and now the club was getting ready to celebrate the occasion. Garlands of fir-tree branches with coloured lamps in them hung from the ceiling. The Young Pioneers were putting the last touches to their group corners and everywhere the hall smelled of pinewood, carpenter's glue, and paint. All the Young Pioneers were wearing new khaki-coloured uniforms which they had received from the factory management when they went up to take the Young Pioneer oath. The detachment had been presented with a banner, drum, and bugle. "Now, boys and girls," the factory director had said, "our country has a shortage of shoes and clothes; it is only just dragging itself out of the ruins, but for you it is sparing nothing. Remember that." Misha watched Genka working. "Come down, enough of your tongue-wagging!" he called out when his

109

friend nailed home the second end of the poster. Genka came down the ladder and stood next to Misha and Slava, and together the three of them contentedly surveyed their work. A plywood board with the words: "Red Fleet Group No. 1," hung in the centre of the group corner. The words had been cut out of the plywood and red paper had been pasted on the back. An electric lamp had been fitted behind the board and it made the red letters glow. The effect was splendid. "Well? How d'you like it?" Genka boasted. "No one else thought of such an idea!" He pointed to the other groups. Indeed, none of the other groups had an illuminated board. Their corners were modestly decorated, ornamented with drawings, newspaper cuttings, and slogans. Just then little Vovka Baranov ran past with a can of paint in his hand. He almost bumped into Genka, who jumped aside and cast a frightened look at the sleeve of his brand-new tunic, to see if the Whiner had smudged it. But nothing had happened. "That wretched whiner!" Genka said angrily. "Runs about like a madman! Almost smudged my tunic!" He felt it fondly. "First-class material!" he said, smacking his lips. "That's a textile industry for you! Something for the chaps at the Rubber Factory to look up to! I get a pain just listening to those chaps swanking about them being chemists and rubbermen.... They'll find out all about being 'rubber-men' when they get rubber overalls." Nikolai Sevostyanov joined them. "I say, Nikolai," Genka said to him, "look at that, isn't it great? Better than all the others!" "Not bad," Nikolai replied indifferently. "And I don't think you've anything to boast about. You are all older than the boys and girls in the other groups, and your decorations should be the best. Polyakov!" he turned to Misha. "Yes?" Misha answered. "Quickly, take your group out to the playground. Korovin is there with his chaps." "Right!" "And bear in mind," Nikolai continued, "the first meeting's the most important. If you succeed in making friends they'll visit us regularly. If you don't they'll never come again. Be sociable. First, try to get them to join you in a game. Understand? Well, off you go!" "Red Fleet Group," Misha called out, "fall in." Chapter 43 THE PLAYGROUND The group consisted of the older children of the detachment; they included Misha, their group leader, Slava, Genka, Shura, Zina Kruglova, and a

110

number of other boys and girls from neighbouring houses. They lined up quickly and went out at the double to the playground, as the court-yard was now called. Except for the addition of a volleyball net nothing had changed there. About ten waifs sat huddled together on the asphalt near the building. Some of them were smoking and all were ragged and dirty and their hair was long and unkempt. Only one of them was wearing a new grey cap which he had obviously acquired that very day. They were sitting quietly, exchanging remarks now and then and paid no attention whatever to the children standing round and watching them with frank curiosity. As soon as the Young Pioneers reached the playground they broke up into two teams, an arrangement they had agreed upon beforehand, and one of the teams went to the volleyball court. "We need six more players!" Misha shouted out, in this way inviting the waifs to a game. The waifs made no move, and while the Young Pioneers played they remained sitting as before, disinterested in the game and in everything around them. "They're not giving in!" Genka whispered to Misha. Instead of answering Misha served the ball, and with a long drive sent it right into the group of waifs. But this, too, failed to make an impression. Korovin lazily kicked the ball back. The Young Pioneers played excitedly, punctuating every second with cries of "pass," "your ball," "drive," "sink," "candle," "blow it out," "butter fingers." But this did not stir the waifs. Some, with their backs against the wall, were already dozing or blinking in the sun. "They're taking our measure, of course. Can't draw them in immediately," Misha thought. "We'll have to watch out or they'll go away." He blew his whistle and the game stopped. The girls remained on the court while the boys sat down beside the waifs. "Hello, Korovin!" Misha opened. "How are things, namesake?" "Not so bad," Korovin replied grudgingly. "What's that pole?" one of the waifs asked suddenly, pointing to a homemade horizontal bar consisting of a piece of water-piping wedged between two trees. The waif had such an abundance of freckles on his face that even the thick layer of dirt could not hide them. "That's a horizontal bar," Misha explained eagerly. "What's it for?" "Watch here, I'll show you." Misha went to the horizontal bar, pulled himself up by his arms and dropped back to the ground. "Think you can do it?" "Don't know, never tried," the waif answered. "Go ahead, try it," Misha offered. "Why not? I think I will...." He got up lazily, slouched up to the bar, looked at it for a minute with a doubtful shake of his head, then jumped and pulled himself up. His coat rose over his head and a pair of dirty bare legs dangled in the air, but he had

111

pulled himself up all the same. Then he jumped down and waddled back to his place. The waifs grinned and cast mocking glances at the Young Pioneers. "That's first rate!" Misha said. "That's about as good as any of us. Here, Genka, you try." "Not me, I can't," Genka replied. "Go on, it won't hurt you to try," Misha said persuasively. Genka stood under the horizontal bar, raised his head, and stretched up his arms. Then from a crouch position he sprang up, gripped the bar, and began to swing, keeping his legs tautly extended. He swung faster and faster and suddenly stopped in a handstand. This was followed by a second handstand after he had swung himself round the bar again. Then a third handstand. He described rapid circles and his red tie flew after him. His swings became slower and slower and finally he hopped back to the ground. "Not bad," Korovin said. . "That's called 'turning the sun'," Misha explained. "What's that to us?" said the waif in the cap. "It might come in useful," Shura Bolshoi put in suddenly. "You have to be able to do and know everything," he admonished. "Ah, the 'kulak'?" a small waif giggled. "They gave you a good whack on the pants with the oven prongs." "What of it," Shura said, "a real actor has to grow used to everything. Art demands sacrifices." "That's true," the waif in the cap affirmed. "Lazarenko, the acrobat, is always risking his neck, but keeps on jumping." "And in the circus they somersault right under the top and aren't afraid," the waif with the freckles caught up. That set the ball rolling. Shura Bolshoi led the conversation. He was just going to tell them all about the new picture Brigade Commander Ivanov when an unexpected circumstance broke up the talk so successfully started. Chapter 44 YURA'S BICYCLE Yura the Scout and Borka appeared in the court, and their appearance was a spectacular one, for they rode in on a bicycle. It was a ladies' bicycle, but it was real, two-wheeled and brand-new and had a bright silk net over the rear wheel. Yura was standing and pedalling, while Borka was in the saddle, his legs wide apart and his mouth stretched from ear to ear in a triumphant grin. They circled round the court, then Borka got off and Yura went off alone and gave an exhibition of fancy riding. He rode with his arms folded, brought his knees on the saddle, did the

112

"swallow," rode by using only one pedal, and expertly jumped off the bicycle. While this was going on Borka tried to draw everyone's attention to Yura and shouted with all his might "How d'you like that!" "That's right," "Show 'em, Yura!" In his excess of enthusiasm he .clapped his hands against his trousers and threw his cap in the air. All eyes were turned towards Yura. The conversation between the Young Pioneers and the waifs was interrupted. "They're doing it on purpose," Misha thought, "they want to break up our work." "Let's give it them," Genka suggested in a whisper. But Misha waved him aside. It would not do to start a fight! That would only :spoil things.

His mind was working feverishly to find some solution when suddenly he saw Yura's father, Doctor Stotsky, standing near the gates. Misha glanced at Yura, but he had not noticed his father; he was round the corner of the building, adjusting the bicycle chain with Borka's assistance. "Yu-ra-a-a," Misha called, "come here!" He winked at Genka with a nod at Yura's father. Yura turned round and looked perplexedly at Misha. He walked up indecisively, wheeling his bicycle. "What make?" Misha nodded at the bicycle. "Royal Enfield." "Oh, a Royal Enfield!" Misha fingered the bicycle. "Not a bad bike." Korovin and the waif in the cap also began feeling the bicycle.

113

Genka suddenly put his fingers in his mouth and whistled as loudly as he could. This attracted the doctor standing near the gate; he turned his head and, seeing Yura, quickly came up to the boys. He was a handsome man with a smooth-shaven face and plump white hands. He exuded a smell that was a mixture of eau-de-Cologne and a chemist's shop. Yura stood beside his bicycle and looked with discomfiture at his father. "Yura," the doctor said sternly, "go home." "But . .." Yura began. "Go home," the doctor repeated icily; he surveyed the waifs, turned up his nose in disgust, swivelled on his heel, and walked out of the court-yard. Yura followed him, wheeling the bicycle and accompanied by the uproarious laughter of all the children. "That made him look a fool," said Korovin. "He shouldn't swank," moralized the freckle-faced waif. Chapter 45 THE RIBBON The conversation was resumed and the boys chatted for a whole hour. When they went the waifs promised to come the next day. The Young Pioneers were pleased with their first success and animatedly discussed the behaviour of the waifs. Not far away Borka was sitting on the asphalt path playing a lone game of penny-pitching. "Hey, Skinflint," Genka called to him, "why aren't you riding a bicycle?" Borka held his tongue. "You just remember," Genka continued, "you just get it into that thick head of yours and tell your miserable scout friend that if you try to spoil our

114

work again we'll give it you so hard you won't forget it in a year." Borka continued to hold his tongue. "Stop getting at him, Genka," Misha said, in a generous tone. "There's no need to pick a quarrel. Borka's all right, if only he wouldn't pal up with the scout." Meanwhile Borka listened attentively, fearing that some trick was being played on him. "I just don't see why they're friends," Misha continued. "Yura doesn't even regard him as a human being. Did you see the way his father looked at us?" Borka again said nothing; he was at a loss to understand what Misha was driving at. "You all saw it, didn't you?" Misha repeated, and turning to Borka said, "It's true what I say, isn't it, Borka?" "What are you trying to persuade me for?" Borka replied. "D'you want me to join the Young Pioneers? Well, I don't need your Young Pioneers. You're just wasting your time." "No one'll let you join!" Genka shouted. "Just a minute," said Misha, interrupting him, then continued to address Borka: "I'm not trying to persuade you. I'm just telling you. And then another thing. I'd like you to help me in something. Something big. Slava and I spoke about it only yesterday. Isn't that right, Slava?" Slava did not catch Misha's meaning but all the same he confirmed that they had talked about it the previous day. "What d'you want?" Borka asked cautiously. "Well, you see," Misha said, "we're putting on a new play all about sailors and we need a sailor's uniform. You understand? A real striped jersey, trousers, and cap. It doesn't matter whether they're old or new. The main thing is that the name of the ship should be real. The ribbon, for example. That's why I wanted to speak with you. You know all the ins and outs of it. Perhaps you could get it for us?" "Wouldn't I just like to do something for you," Borka jeered. "Especially for nothing! You're looking for some fool, it seems to me!" "Nothing of the sort. We'll pay." "Hm!" Borka became thoughtful. "How much?" "We've got to see first. D'you think you can get it?" "I can get anything." He looked at Misha. "Will you swop me your knife? I'll bring the ribbon right away." "A real ribbon?" "I said so, didn't I?" "All right. Fetch it." "You're not kidding me?" Borka said, getting up. "I've given my word. Bring it and you'll get the knife." Borka ran home. "What are you up to, Misha?" Shura Bolshoi said indignantly "What's this play you're going to put on? Why don't I know anything about it?" "I'll tell you later. This is some other business." "What d'you mean by 'later'? After all, I'm the director of the detachment's

115

dramatic circle!" "Don't get so worked up," Genka said. "Misha knows what he's doing; that's why he's group leader." "And I'm the stage manager; I'm responsible for the plays." "Go on being responsible," Genka said shrugging his shoulders, "no one's stopping you." "Shut up," Misha stopped them. "There's Borka coming." Borka ran up to them; he had something in his hand. "Come on, hand over that knife!" "Show what you got first." Borka opened his hand slightly and showed the edge of a crumpled black ribbon. "Let me have a look," Misha said, putting out his hand. "Maybe it isn't a real one." Borka quickly closed his fist. "Catch me handing it over. Give me the knife first. Don't worry, it's a real one. I'll stake my head on that." "Well, I'll take a chance!" Misha sighed, handing Borka the knife. Borka grabbed it and gave Misha the ribbon. He unfolded it, while Genka and Slava leaned over him. On the well-worn ribbon the boys saw distinct traces of the silver lettering: Empress Maria. Chapter 46 PLANS From that day the waifs regularly came to the playground. They brought their friends, played lapta (Lapta—a Russian ball game.—Tr.) and volleyball with the Young Pioneers and listened to Shura's stories. But though it was hot in the July sun it was impossible to make them take off their rags. A hot, pungent smell came from the huge boilers in which asphalt was being melted, and from the newly laid asphalt smoking on the roped-off stretches of pavement. Tram-cars, freshly painted and with advertisements on them, crawled slowly along the streets, their drivers frenziedly clanging the bells at the workmen repairing the road. The court-yards were filled with boilers, radiators, pipes, bricks, barrels of cement and lime. Moscow was being rebuilt. "The Tsindel Factory's working again," said Genka who always had the latest news. He pointed to a wisp of smoke rising from a factory chimney in the distance somewhere on the other side of the buildings. "It started working yesterday, and to-morrow the Tryokhgornaya Textile Mills will start up." "You seem to know everything," Misha mocked, "even whose chimney's

116

smoking. But what's going on here?" He pointed to some electricians working on posts. "Can't you see? They're electricians mending the wires." " 'Mending wires'," Misha teased. "A fat lot you know! Why are they mending them?" "They broke down, I suppose." "That just shows how much you know! They've started up the Shatura Power Station, that's what. It works on peat. Now the lamps will burn all night, and on both sides of the street, too. See? And they're finishing the Kashira station that'll work on coal. And they're building the first hydroelectric power station on the Volkhov; the water's going to turn it...." "I know all that without you telling me," Genka said. "D'you think you're the only one who reads the papers?" Genka really did have a whole batch of newspapers at home, but all were copies of the Izvestia of the same issue. Under the heading Volga Country Relief Fund, it carried a line which said: "From the children of Tenants' Society No. 267—87 roubles." All the children were very proud of this, and Genka always had a copy of the newspaper with him and lost no opportunity of showing it. The days passed and the boys could not think of any way to get hold of the sheath. Now that it was definitely established that Filin was the man they were looking for, they had to find out definitely whether what Misha had seen at the stamp dealer's was the sheath or whether it was only a fan. But how were they to do it? "Get in when the old man's not there, that's how," said Genka. "They're bandits so we don't have to stand on ceremony." "How do you think you can get in?" "Easy. Through the window. Better still would be to let your new friend, Korovin, do it. He's an expert in that field." "You'd better keep your mouth shut," Misha said. "It's all your fault that we can't show our noses in the shop. We tried yesterday, and he wouldn't even let us in. The fact is, he's suspicious. And there's no need to drag Korovin into this. A fine thing it would be for us to get him to climb through the window. What would he think of us Young Pioneers then? And he doesn't know anything about the dirk. No, we have to think of some other way." And Misha did think of a way. Only the thought came to him several days later—when he was spending a week-end with the detachment, camping by Lake Senezh . Chapter 47 PREPARING FOR CAMP The day they were to leave for camp Misha woke up early.

117

It was already light in the room and through the windows the grey walls of the neighbouring buildings could be distinguished in the early morning mist. Dim lamps were flickering in some of the windows. "What time is it, Mother?" Misha asked, springing out of bed. "Five. Go back to sleep; there's plenty of time." Mother was moving about the room, laying the table for breakfast. "No. I have to get up," Misha said dressing quickly. "I must go and get the others. They're probably still asleep." "Only eat something first," Mother said. "In a minute." Misha washed hurriedly and began packing his haversack. "Mother," he cried in desperation, "where's my spoon?" "Where you put it yourself." "But it isn't here!" Misha rummaged hastily in the haversack. "Oh, here it is." "No one's touched your haversack." Mother yawned and shivered with the cold. "And don't rummage about in it or you'll turn everything upside down. Here, drink your tea and I'll roll your blanket for you." "No, no, you don't know how to." Misha rolled the blanket and tied it to the haversack, which already had a mug, and a mess-tin dangling from it. "That's how you have to do it." "All right. Do it yourself. And when you're there don't lose anything and, please, don't swim out far." "I know without you telling me," Misha said, scalding himself with the tea. "You don't seem to realize I'm not little any more. You'll see, when I return from camp, I'll break up that thing," he pointed to the brick stove in the corner. "The steam heating will be turned on soon. It'll be warm then, you'll see!" "I'll let you do it only when they turn it on," Mother replied. Misha ran out of the flat, the haversack over his shoulder.

118

He collided with Genka on the landing. He, too, was fully rigged out for camp. Misha sent him to the playground to collect the other children, and went upstairs to Slava's flat. As he expected, Slava was still asleep. "I knew it!" Misha said angrily. "How long do you intend to sleep?" "But we agreed that you'd come for me," Slava protested, stretching his arms and rubbing his sleepy eyes. "You've got to rely on yourself. Get dressed quickly." Misha went to the piano and irritably turned over some pages of music. Konstantin Alekseyevich, Slava's father, came out of the bedroom. His heavy paunch sagged over the belt round his trousers. The open neck of his Russian shirt revealed a powerful chest covered with a thick growth of red hair. His small eyes now heavy with sleep seemed like narrow slits in his plump, kindly face. "Well, Young Pioneers," he said, yawning, "so you're off to camp?" He held out his hand to Misha. "Good morning, Comrade Commander. Dressing down your men early? That's the right idea!" "Good morning," Misha replied. "We were just talking." For some reason he always felt embarrassed in the presence of Konstantin Alekseyevich. Misha always felt he was enjoying some joke at his and the other boys' expense. In addition, Konstantin Alekseyevich was the chief engineer at the factory, a "specialist," as Agrippina Tikhonovna put it. "Well, well, carry on." Konstantin Alekseyevich shuffled to the kitchen. Soon the boys heard the hiss of a primus-stove. "Oh, bother," Misha thought gloomily. "He's making tea! Now we'll be late and all because of Slava!" "Kostya!" Alia Sergeyevna's voice came from the bedroom. "Kostya!" "Father's in the kitchen," Slava shouted. "Slava! Slava!"

119

"Yes, Mother?" "Tell Father to pack the rissoles in wax paper." "All right," Slava answered, lacing up his boots. "Don't say 'all right,' but go and tell him at once." Slava was silent. "Who's that with you?" Alia Sergeyevna's voice came again. "Misha." "Misha? Hello, Misha!" "Good morning," Misha replied loudly. "Misha, dear," Alia Sergeyevna said from her bed, "please don't let Slava go swimming. The doctors have categorically forbidden it." Slava flushed and gave his laces a desperate tug. "All right," Misha smiled. "And, Misha!" Alia Sergeyevna continued, "keep an eye on him. I wouldn't have let him go if you were not going. You're a sensible boy and he listens to you." "All right, I'll look after him," Misha replied, making a face at Slava. Konstantin Alekseyevich came in carrying the tea-pot and a wire stand. "Well, campers, how about some tea?" he said, putting the tea-pot on the table. "Thank you, I've had my breakfast," Misha replied. "Kostya," Alia Sergeyevna again called from the bedroom, "what are you doing there? Go and wake Dasha!" "Never mind," Konstantin Alekseyevich said, cutting the bread, "everything's ready." "Tell Dasha," Alia Sergeyevna continued, "to take only a pint when the milk-woman comes." "All right, I'll tell her. Go to sleep again." "How do you think I can sleep!" Alia Sergeyevna replied petulantly. "Oh, why did you agree to let him go? Now I'll have to worry two whole days. And I have a concert to-day." "Never mind, let him go," Konstantin Alekseyevich said with a sly look at the boys. "You can't very well stop him now. He's almost grown-up." "No, no ... it's madness, simply madness! To let a child go off to some strange place for two whole days, and for no sane reason.... Slava! Don't you dare run about barefoot." "All right," Slava mumbled, finishing his tea. "Well," Konstantin Alekseyevich asked Misha, a smile still lighting up his face, "what did you do with the vice I gave you?" "We made good use of it," Misha said. "It's in the House of Pioneers; in the fitter's shop." "What! Is the whole club using it?" "Oh, no!" Misha laughed. "We collected tools from the whole district." "You want me to believe that?" "Ye-es. Why, in addition to the fitter's shop, we have a carpenter's shop, a sewing room, shoe-making and book-binding shops." "Indeed! A whole combine!"

120

"Only you were stingy," Slava said slinging his haversack on his shoulder. "The director of the Napilnik Factory gave us a whole lathe." "Is that so! But I haven't any lathes," Konstantin Alekseyevich raised his hands in mock dismay. "If you want one I can let you have a weavingmachine. I'll give you one as big as this room. You don't want it? I can't do anything about it, then. You're welcome to all I have." "You're always joking," Slava said. "Let's go, Misha." Konstantin Alekseyevich saw the boys to the door, and on parting he said laughingly: "All the same, though you're independent young fellows, try I come home without fractured legs and arms, and, if you can manage it, with no heads broken."

121

Chapter 48 IN CAMP Misha's group had finished making a big raft, had enjoyed a swim and were resting on the shore. A big lake spread out before them. Clouds rested on the distant, indistinguishable shore like ragged snow-clad mountains. Sharp-winged gulls skimmed over the blue water. Thousands of tiny fish darted to and fro in the shallows. White water lilies dozed on the gently rocking wavelets. Their long green stalks were entwined with the reeds close to the shore, where the frogs were croaking, and from time to tin one heard a sharp splash as a larger fish lashed out with its tail. "The main thing is to get a good tan," said Genka with a preoccupied air, as he rubbed his chest and shoulders with ointment. "A tan's the first sign of good health. Here, Misha, rub it into my back and then I'll do yours." Misha took the tin, sniffed at it and frowned in disgust. "What's this muck? Phew!" "A lot you know! It's nut-oil. The best there is. The smell comes from the tin. It's an old shoe-polish tin." Misha continued his horrified inspection of the ointment. "And there are bits of egg-shell and bread crumbs in it." "That's nothing," Genka said shaking his head. "You see everything got mixed up in my haversack. Never mind, rub it in!" "No!" Misha returned the tin to Genka. "Do it yourself. I wouldn't like to touch it." "Don't then. You just see, I'll have a bronze tan by evening." "Come on, fellows," Slava said. "Here's Nikolai." The boys went over to the camp, to the peaked little grey tents pitched on the edge of the woods. A flag-pole had already been fixed in the middle of the camp; the flagraising ceremony was set for the next day. The children had trampled the newly turned earth round the pole and now it formed a little grey mound. All round the earth was brown, strewn with pine bark, pine needles and dry, crackling twigs. The cries of girls bustling around the camp-fire came from a tent at the end of the camp. Pots slung on a pole fixed between two forked branches hung over the fire and a smell of burnt porridge quickly spread throughout the camp. "What are they yelling about?" Genka said. "Girls can never do anything quietly. They have to raise a howl. There's nothing easier than cooking porridge—and they're fussing about as though they were roasting a bull." Nikolai emerged from the woods surrounded by a gang of waifs— they were the lads who had regularly visited the playground. All were in rags, and Korovin alone was stripped to the waist.

122

"I wonder where Nikolai took them," Misha thought. ''Of course, he went off with them on purpose while we were setting up the camp. They're not used to doing any work. While we were fixing things they'd have got tired of waiting and might even have made off. I wonder where he took them?" "Where've you been?" Misha asked Korovin. Korovin looked sideways at the boys standing by. "To the village," he replied quietly. "What for?" "We looked at the grain, watched the threshing," he sighed. "We, too, used to... We had a cow." Misha looked admiringly at Nikolai. Surrounded by the girls, he was standing near the camp-fire laughing and blowing on the spoonful of porridge he was tasting. "How clever he is," Misha thought. "Took these fellows to the village. And with a purpose, too. All of them come from the village and he took them there to remind them of their homes and families." "We went to the station as well," Korovin continued. "Why?" "There's an orphans' home there. We saw how the kids are living. They used to be..." he hesitated, "well, chaps like us." "Did you like it?" "Not bad. They've got their own kitchen garden." "Nikolai took them there on purpose, too," thought Misha. Nikolai continued to stand by the camp kitchen. Misha joined him. "Oh, how am I going to share it all out?" Zina Kruglova was moaning plaintively. "There's a hundred different things here. No one brought the same as anyone else. Look," she pointed to the food arranged near the fire, "five rissoles, eight herrings, twelve eggs, nine slices of meat, four roach, macaroni, porridge, and things." She pouted and then suddenly burst out laughing, "And Group 2 caught a lot of fish—sixteen gudgeon." Her red, scorched face with its little snub nose grew completely round. "The fish are rather small," Nikolai laughed, "but never mind, I'm sure we'll have a tasty dinner." Chapter 49 THE QUARTERMASTER GENERAL Dinner went off very well indeed. The porridge smelt deliciously of smoke; so did the boiled roach; and pine needles, globules of fat, and bits of egg-shell floated in the tea. All the children sat round the fire and ate with spoons made of birch bark. Nikolai straightened out a piece of wire, spread fragments of meat on it and roasted them. Each child got only a small piece, but they felt they had never tasted anything so wonderful.

123

After dinner Nikolai lined up the whole detachment. "To-morrow we'll play a game of military manoeuvres with the children from the orphans' home; and to-day we'll do a little training so that we shan't disgrace ourselves. The Whiteguard headquarters will be there," he said, pointing to the woods on the right shore of the lake. "The plan is to get to the Whiteguard headquarters and capture their flag. The second and fourth groups will be the Whites, and their leader will be Shura Ogureyev, who will pretend to be Wrangel; Genka Petrov will be his chief-of-staff." "Why should we be Whiteguards?" Genka protested. "Our group's Red, we should be Reds." "That's right," Shura said. "It's not fair. What's more, the White-guards didn't have any chief-of-staff. He was called the quartermaster general." "All right," Nikolai smiled, "that means Genka will be quartermaster general. Now see you carry out the orders. As soon as you hear the bugle, stop the game and return to camp." Shura and Genka were terribly offended about the parts they had to play, and when the Whiteguard headquarters was captured, Wrangel and his quartermaster general disappeared. The search for them went on for a long time, the bugle was blown several times, but they did not show themselves. "Never mind," Nikolai said, "they'll turn up. Have your tea and then we'll go into the woods to gather dry branches for a big camp-fire." Sure enough, Shura and Genka turned up in the evening. Shura was in front and Genka dragged after him, his head bowed, and groaning and sighing as though he had just had a beating. They shambled up and stood without a word a few paces from Nikolai. "What do you want?" he asked them dryly. "We're surrendering," Shura announced importantly. "Why didn't you come when the signal was given?" Shura began to make an obviously prepared speech. "We decided to stick to the historical truth. Things have to be done the way they actually happened. Wrangel escaped from the Crimea, you know. Well, we too went into hiding." He paused, then added: "And if you think I've given a wrong interpretation of the role, then please don't make me play Wrangel any more." Nikolai turned away to hide his smile. "All right, but why have you come now?" Shura pointed at Genka. "My quartermaster general was taken dangerously ill." The "quartermaster general" actually did look pretty miserable. He was shivering, his face had a feverish flush, and there were red rims round his eyes. His whole body twitched painfully as if someone were sticking needles into him. "What's the matter, Genka?" Nikolai asked. Genka made no reply. "Serious damage to the skin," Shura replied loftily. Nikolai pulled up Genka's shirt and revealed the fact that his whole back

124

was blistered. "Did you smear yourself with anything?" "Y-yes," Genka stammered. "With what?" "N-nut oil." "Let's see it." Genka winced painfully as he drew the tin from his pocket. He handed it to Nikolai. "Where'd you get it from?" Nikolai asked after giving it a long inspection. "M-made it myself... according to a recipe." "What recipe?" "Borka's." "Huh! This is a mixture of zinc ointment and shoe-polish. A fine chemist you are!" The unlucky boy was smeared with vaseline and put to bed in one of the tents. Chapter 50 THE CAMP-FIRE In the evening the entire detachment gathered round the camp-fire blazing away on the shore. The moon threw 'a shimmering silver path across the lake. The little tents stood white against the black density of the sleeping woods. Only the twinkling stars, signalling as it were to each other, kept watch over the slumbering earth. Nikolai told the children about distant, foreign lands; about the little children working in the tea plantations of Ceylon; about the beggars dying in the streets of Bombay; about the toil-worn miners of Silesia, and about the Negroes of the United States of America who are deprived of all human rights. The leaping fire threw a dancing light on the tense faces of the children, their red ties, Nikolai's lean face and the lock of soft hair that lay across his pale forehead. The thin branches crackled and broke up into small red coals that burned with a small violet flame. Sometimes a hot cinder would pop out of the fire and one of the children would carefully push it back among the white-hot blazing wood. Nikolai also told them about the Communists in capitalist countries, about the gallant soldiers of the world revolution. Misha lay on his stomach with his chin cupped in his hands. His face glowed from close proximity to the fire, while his back and legs were cooled by the breeze coming from the lake. As he listened to Nikolai the resolute faces of fearless men and women rose before him in the darkness which encircled the fire. He pictured these people going to their execution or

125

courageously enduring torture in prisons and torture-chambers. He had a strong feeling that he wanted to do something heroic and he dreamed of leading a life like the men Nikolai was talking about, of serving the Revolution to his last dying breath.... Nikolai stopped speaking and ordered lights out. The drawn-out notes of the bugle stirred the air and echoed in the distance over the tops of the trees. The children dispersed to their tents. The camp slept. But Misha did not sleep. He lay at the side of the tent and watched the stars through the open flap. Long-legged Shura Bolshoi was stretched out beside him, his blanket pulled over his head. Next to him slept Slava who had his knees doubled up and was snuffling lightly. Then there was Genka, tossing and groaning in his sleep. The children lay on soft fir branches, their faces buried in grass pillows. Misha thought of Nikolai. How did he come to know everything? He must be doing a lot of reading. But how could he find the time for everything? He was working at a factory and studying at a workers' faculty; he was a Young Pioneer leader, and a member of the bureau of the Komsomol cell at the factory. Yes he was a real Young Communist! A branch cracked. Misha listened attentively. It was only the sentries. Low, muffled laughter came from the girls' tent. Most likely that was Zina Kruglova. Everything was funny to her.... For some reason he thought of Elena and Igor. He hadn't seen them for a long time, almost the whole summer. Where were they now, those wandering acrobats? Where was their donkey and cart? Thoughts of the cart never left Genka's mind; he wanted a cart like that to carry advertisements round the town and so get a free pass to the cinema. Odd chap! Misha could just imagine Genka pulling the cart round Moscow. Suddenly an idea struck him. A cart... cart.... Why hadn't he seen it before! Misha sat up in his excitement, then lay down again. What a grand idea! It would be simply smashing! He saw the whole picture clearly before him. By Jove, that's great! He wanted to wake Genka and Slava to share his plan with them, but changed his mind and decided to wait till the morning. The main thing now was to find the Bushes and then... Misha could not fall asleep for a long time, pondering over his wonderful plan. At last his eyes closed. The steps of the sentries faded, the laughter in the girls' tents ceased, and everything was still. The dying embers of the camp-fire left a black spot on the high moon-lit shore. For a long time tiny sparks glowed and faded alternately in the black ash, as though playing hide-and-seek among the burnt, charred logs. Ñhapter 51 MYSTERIOUS PREPARATIONS

126

August was coming to an end. The chilly boulevards were wrapped more closely in bright carpets of fallen leaves. The air was steeped in the soft scents of the departing summer. One day, after a Young Pioneer meeting, Misha, Genka, and Slava left the club and went to the Novodevichy Monastery. Jackdaws nested in the cracks of the high monastery wall. Their loud cries filled the deserted cemetery. The cheerless grass on the graves had withered and yellowed, and the metal railings quivered with every sharp gust of wind. "We'll have to wait," Misha said. The friends sat down on a low bench which rested on two tottering supports and sagged almost to the ground. "Half of the people here were buried alive," Genka announced, eyeing the graves. "Why do you say that?" Slava asked. "Well, it sometimes happens that a person who is thought to he dead is actually only in a lethargic sleep. He wakes up and finds himself in the grave. Try and get out then to prove you're alive." "It does happen, but very seldom," Misha said. "On the contrary. All too often," Genka objected. "You have to pass an electric current through the body, then you won't make a mistake." "A new theory by Professor Genka Petrov," Misha announced. "Reception hours from two to four," Slava added. "Go on, laugh," said Genka. "You'll know all about it when you're buried alive. You'll laugh the other side of your faces then!" He said no more, feeling very much offended. Then, changing the subject, he asked impatiently, "When are they coming?" "They'll come," Misha replied. "They promised, so they won't fail us." "Maybe it'd be better not to start the whole business?" Slava said with a look at his friends. "Why?" "We can go to the militia and tell them everything." "Are you mad!" Genka said angrily. "And let the militia get all the treasure and leave us right out of it?" "We can always tell the militia," Misha said. "But first we've got to find out everything, otherwise we'll look ridiculous." Misha had hardly finished speaking, when Elena and Igor appeared from the outside of the monastery wall. They greeted the boys and sat down beside them on the bench. Elena was in an autumn coat and wore a bright coloured kerchief. Igor was in a suit, collar, and tie, and a smart cap, looking grave as always. "I think we're on time," he said in a broken bass as he made himself comfortable and pulled out a pocket watch. Elena smiled at the boys. "Well, and how are you getting along?" "All right," Misha replied. "And you?"

127

"We're all right, too. We've just returned from a tour." "Where've you been?" "Oh, different places. Kursk, and Oryol, and the Caucasus...." "The Caucasus is a capital place!" Genka said. "Apricots grow there." "You seem to know everything," Slava remarked. "Well, what about it?" Misha asked, turning to Igor. "We've arranged everything," Igor said. "Yes," Elena confirmed. "We've arranged everything. You can have it. But what do you need it for? It's all broken." "And the tyres are rotten," Igor said. "That's not important," Misha replied, "we'll repair it." "But what do you need the cart for?" Elena asked. "Well—we want to do something," Misha replied evasively. "Do you know, boys," Elena said suddenly, "I'm sure you're hunting treasure." The boys looked at Elena in round-eyed confusion. "Why d'you think so?" Misha said, reddening. The girl laughed. "It's easy to guess just by looking at you." "Why?" "Do you want to know why?" "Yes." "Because people hunting treasure always look terribly stupid." "You've guessed wrong," Genka replied, "we're not looking for any treasure. You should realize that of all people wouldn't worry over such trifles." "But—seriously, joking apart, when can we have the cart and how much must we pay?" Misha asked. "You can have it any time you like," Elena said, "and you needn't pay anything. The circus doesn't need it any longer." "It's been written off by the book-keeping department," Igor added gravely. He rose and looked at his watch: "Elena, it's time to go." The boys saw the Bushes to the tram. Near the stop the kiosk salesman was stamping his feet and rubbing his freezing hands. His cap, with the name of the co-operative he worked for printed on it in gilt letters, was pulled over his ears. The boys bought some sweets from him and invited Elena and Igor to have some. A tram then took them on their way and the boys walked home along Bolshaya Tsaritsynskaya Street, across Devichye Polye. Chapter 53 THE CART In the deserted square the autumn wind frolicked with the withered leaves.

128

It caught them in a heap, whipped them round the bare trees, and tossed them against the granite steps of the church; it pitched them over the solitary benches, hurled them under the feet of pedestrians, and carried them in crumpled confusion along Ostozhenka Street where it rammed them under the wheels of a hand-cart with bright advertisements which stood at the corner of a small turning. Two sheets of plywood were joined on the cart forming a triangle; on them were posters advertising a new film—Brigade Commander Ivanov. Letters, cut out of plywood and spelling the words " 'Art' Cinema House," were fixed precariously along the top where the boards met. Pedestrians passing regularly along the street had become used to seeing the cart which had already been standing at the corner for four days. The bald old stamp dealer stormed at the lad who daily set the cart outside his shop, but the boy never replied; he merely put a stone against one of the wheels, and calmly walked away. One evening the boy kicked the stone from under the wheel, trundled the cart into a back-yard and went to the janitor's quarters. He found the janitor, a thin red-headed Tatar, sitting on a double bed, his bare feet on the floor.

"Uncle," the boy said, "my cart's broken down. May I leave it in the yard?" "What, again?" the janitor said, lazily looking out of the window, "not again?" He yawned, patting his lips with the palm of his hand. "All right, leave it ... it won't do any harm." The boy went back into the yard, carefully looked over the cart, touched the top support, lightly tapped the board, and went away. The court-yard emptied. Lights went out in the windows. When it was quite dark the old stamp dealer and Filin emerged from a backdoor. They stopped quite close to the cart.

129

"So everything's decided?" the old man whispered. "Yes," Filin replied irritably. "He can't wait any longer. You've been leading him up the garden a whole year." "The code's complicated," the old man muttered, "a lethory by the look of it. Try reading it without the key." "If only you knew what was written there," Filin hissed, bending close to the old man, "you'd read it fast enough." "I understand. But what can I do!" the old man said, throwing out his hands. "I can't do the impossible! Perhaps Valeri Sigizmundovich will wait a little longer. It'd be better to wait a bit." "He doesn't want to wait any longer. Have you got that into your head? He doesn't want to. See everything's ready by Sunday. I shan't come myself; I'll send the boy."

Filin went away and the old man stood looking after him for a long time, his toothless mouth working. Finally, he shuffled back through the door. His bent figure showed in a lighted window. He was moving slowly about the kitchen. He bent over the primus-stove, and long tongues of flame flared round the kettle, licking its sloping sides. Then the old man began peeling potatoes. He worked slowly and methodically, the peel growing longer and longer and finally dropping into a bucket. He then left the kitchen. In his living-room the old man bent over the table as if examining something. He remained in that position for some time, then raised his head and looked out of the window, in front of which stood the cart, and began to draw the curtain. He did this with one hand, in the other he held a sheath. It could be seen very distinctly. Black, made of leather, with a metal border at the top, ending in a little ball.... The janitor came out, scratched his head as he looked at the moon, yawned, and walked to the gates. Genka and Slava appeared just as he was

130

about to close them. "Take your cart," the janitor said. "I don't see anything wrong with it. Take it away." The boys pushed out the stones from under the wheels and trundled the cart out into the street. The janitor locked the gates.... Genka and Slava pulled it into a deserted turning, moved away the upper support and separated the two boards. Out sprang Misha. Misha returned home late that night. Mother was away working on the night shift. He undressed and went to bed, where he lay with his eyes wide open and pondered hard. This business with the cart had been a grand idea! Every day for a whole week they had kept the stamp shop under observation. Whenever the old man came to the door to see off any of his clients, he always stopped to chat with them near the cart, never for a moment suspecting that anyone was in it. At night they had kept the cart in the yard and in this way they had learned the habits of the old man. They had seen the sheath, too, several times. It opened like a fan when the metal border was taken off and the ball unscrewed. And there was some writing on the fan. The only thing he could not understand was why the old man had told Filin he could not decode the writing without a key. The key was in the sheath! What was he trying to decode then? The thing now was to get the sheath and find out everything. The stranger was called Valeri Sigizmundovich, and it was clear that he was Nikitsky. True, they had not seen him again, but the important thing now was to get the sheath. Misha was sure Nikitsky could be found later. It would all be easier now. They could easily fool Borka. The cart could be used as a decoyduck; he'd had an eye on it for a long time now. They'd have to part with the cart, of course. True, they had been getting passes to the cinema for carrying the advertisements, but the school term started on Monday, and they'd have no time for the cinema anyway. And it wasn't the sort of job for Young Pioneers to be doing. Misha's thoughts turned to the affairs of the detachment. Children's Communist Week was approaching, and their detachment had to write a letter to the Young Pioneers in Chemniz, Germany. Socialist-traitors like Scheidemann and Noske had become quite overbearing. Then he had a little bone to pick with Zina Kruglova. The girls were behind with their sewing for the children's homes. True, at the Young Pioneer meeting it had been decided that the sewing should be done by both boys and girls, that no difference should be made between male and female labour, but—it was better to let the girls do the sewing. Chapter 53

131

THE SHEATH Borka whistled gaily as he walked down the narrow turning, carrying a neatly tied package in his hand. Borka did not idle on the way. His father had told him not to stop anywhere but to bring the package safely home. This order would have been carried out to the letter if Borka's attention had not been attracted by the cart with the "Art" Cinema posters. It was standing near the churchyard with Misha, Genka, Slava, and Korovin round it. They were examining the cart and engaged in a heated argument. Borka walked over, curious to know what the boys were doing. "Take the tyres alone," Misha was saying, kicking the wheel with his foot as Borka came up, "they're worth a good price any day." "I've named my price!" Korovin sniffed. "Aw! Chuck it!" Genka exclaimed. "Five roubles for such a cart!" "Are you selling the cart?" Borka moved closer to the boys. "Yes. What's it to you?" Misha said, swinging round. "I just wanted to know. Can't I ask?" "Get out! Don't waste our time." "I might buy it!" "All right. Buy it!" "How much are you asking?" "Ten roubles." Borka squatted and began inspecting the cart. He put the package on the ground and felt the tyres. "Here, take your hands off," Misha said, seizing the shafts. "The wheels are on ball-bearings. Look how smoothly they run." He pushed the cart. "Hear that?" Borka moved along with the cart, listening to the hum of the wheels with the air of an expert. "It runs by itself. Try it," Misha offered. Borka gripped the shafts and pushed the cart. It certainly moved easily. Genka and Slava also followed the cart, carefully screening Korovin, who was sitting near the package. "And here's the chief attraction." Misha took the top support off and moved the plywood sheets aside. "See that? You can even sleep there." "You're just boosting it up," said Borka. "The rubber's all worn." "What? Use your eyes and read: 'Treugolnik Works, first grade'." "What do I care what's written. The paint's coming off it. Make it cheaper." "All right, Misha," Korovin called suddenly. He was still sitting near Borka's package. "I'll take the cart." Misha's enthusiasm to have Borka buy it quickly evaporated. "That's good. Take it.... You've lost your chance, Skinflint!" "I might give a higher price." "Not now, you won't." "Why?" Borka went up to his package and picked it up.

132

"Wouldn't you like to know!" Misha grinned. Borka looked at the boys, puzzled. They were all sniggering at him; only Korovin was grave as usual. "Oh well, if you don't want to," Borka said. "Only don't come running to me afterwards. I wouldn't give you twenty kopeks for it." He went away whistling. When he had turned the corner the boys went behind the church and Korovin pulled the sheath out of his pocket. Misha snatched it excitedly, turned it over in his hand, then carefully removed the border and unscrewed the ball. The sheath unfolded like a fan. For a minute the boys stared at it, and then exchanged surprised looks.... The inside of the sheath had dots, dashes, and circles written out in tables. Exactly like those on the scroll in the dirk. That was all.

133

Part V GRADE SEVEN Chapter 54 AUNTIE BROSHA When Alexandra Sergeyevna, the mathematics teacher, entered the classroom and began the lesson she found that there was no chalk. "Monitor, why isn't there any chalk?" she asked Misha sternly. "Isn't there?" Misha sprang up from his desk, his eyes wide open in feigned surprise. "There was some before the lesson began." "Well, I never!. So it's run away. Fetch it back." Misha dashed out of the class-room and ran to the cloak-room for the chalk. There he found Auntie Brosha, the attendant, weeping. "Why, what's the matter, Auntie Brosha?" Misha asked, looking at her searchingly. "What're you crying for? Who's upset you?" No one in the school knew exactly why she was called Auntie Brosha. Perhaps it was her real name, perhaps she got the name because of the big yellow brooch that was always pinned to her striped blouse, under her chin, or perhaps she really did look like a brooch—she was such a small, plump old woman. Auntie Brosha, with the sock she was always knitting, was a fixture in the cloakroom. It was said she could charm away sties. She would look into your eyes, mumble something and in two days the sty would be gone And here was Auntie Brosha sitting by the cloak-room, crying. "Tell me who's upset you?" Misha pleaded. Auntie Brosha wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and sighed

134

"I've worked here thirty years and never a bad word! Now I'm a foolish old woman, they say. That's all the thanks I get." "Who? Who said it?" "I'll have nothing more to do with him," said Auntie Brosha, indifferently. "Nothing." "That's neither here nor there!" Misha said angrily. "No one has the right to insult you. Who insulted you?" "Yura Stotsky. He came in late and I'm ordered not to let in late-comers. Go to the headmaster, I told him, he won't eat you. And he called me an old fool! He has good parents. His mother used to come here when it was a secondary school. Only Misha, my child," she whispered anxiously, "please don't tell anyone!" But Misha was no longer listening. He seized the chalk and ran up the stairs three at a time. Filya Kitov, nicknamed Kit, (Kit—whale—Tr) was sweating at the blackboard. Alexandra Sergeyevna's silence was ominous. While proving the equality of the angles in an isosceles triangle he had multiplied the square of the hypotenuse by the sum of the squares of the sides and now he was staring at the blackboard, taken aback by the result. This was Kit's second year in the seventh grade, and it was quite probable that he would find himself there a third year. He was always dreaming in class or hacking at his desk with a penknife, and he was such a glutton that he always cadged what he could from his classmates during break, and not at all because he was hungry. "Go on!" Alexandra Sergeyevna said in a voice that told him plainly he could expect nothing but trouble. Kit looked imploringly at the class. "Look at the blackboard," said Alexandra Sergeyevna. Kit again showed the class his fat helpless back and the bewildered tuft of hair on the crown of his towcoloured head. Alexandra Sergeyevna walked between the desks, looking severely at the children. She was small and thin, wore her hair piled high on her head, and had a long powdered nose. She noticed everything and never forgave the slightest misdemeanour. When her back was turned Zina Kruglova raised her hand, her fingers apart, to show the class how many minutes were left before the bell rang. Yura Stotsky's desk was near the wall and he was staring vacantly out of the window. Misha threw an indignant glance at Yura. "Miserable braggart! Goes around with bare knees to show he can stand the cold. Imagines he's Pechorin. (Pechorin is the central figure in A Hero of Our Times, a novel by Mikhail Lermontov (1814-1841), the great Russian poet. In speaking of him) And that's what he wrote in the inquiry form: 'I want to be like Pechorin.' I'll give him Pechorin when the lesson's over!" Misha cautiously tore a page out of his exercise-book and, shielding it with his palm, wrote: "Yura Stotsky called Brosha a fool. Brosha's crying. We'll have to call a meeting to discuss it." The letters were awry for he kept

135

his eyes on the blackboard as he wrote. He pushed the note across to Slava. Slava read it and nodded in agreement. Misha folded the paper, wrote, "To Shura Ogureyev and Genka Petrov," and threw it on to the next desk. Shura read it, pondered for a moment and wrote: "It would be better to put him on trial and show him up. I'll be prosecutor." He refolded the note and threw it to the Nekrasov sisters, but Alexandra Sergeyevna sensed something going on behind her back and turned her head quickly. All the children were sitting quietly except Zina Kruglova who just managed to lower her hand, her fingers outstretched. "Kruglova, go to the blackboard," Alexandra Sergeyevna said. Kit slowly returned to his desk. The Nekrasov sisters passed the note to Lyolya Podvolotskaya, who handed it to Genka. He read it and wrote, "Have to teach him a lesson he will remember." The note returned to Misha by the same route. He read Shura's and Genka's answers and showed them to Slava. He then took the note back and had just started writing on it when Slava kicked him under the desk. Misha paid no attention. Slava gave him another kick, but it was too late. Alexandra Sergeyevna was already standing over him and holding her hand out for the note. "What are you writing?" the author has in mind his egoism, scepticism, and contempt for other people. Misha crumpled the paper in his hand and silently rose from his seat. "Show me what you have in your hand!" Misha did not reply, but kept his eyes fixed on the board nailed to the wall for pinning up diagrams. "What were you writing during the lesson?" Alexandra Sergeyevna asked softly. She noticed a book under Misha's exercise-books and picked it up. "What are you doing with this?" she asked and read out the title to the whole class. "History, Descriptions and Drawings of Side Arms from Ancient Times to the Beginning of the Nineteenth Century. Why are you reading books that have nothing to do with the lesson?" "I wasn't reading it. I just had it on my desk," Misha pleaded. "And I suppose you weren't writing notes? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You're the class monitor, a Young Pioneer, and a member of the school committee. You will get this book back from the headmaster and, in the meantime, leave the room." Misha looked straight in front of him as he went out of the class-room. Chapter 55 CLASS MEETING Misha sat on the window-sill in the corridor. The window gave out on to the snow-covered school playground and Krivoarbatsky lane. Although it

136

was still early, two street-lamps on the opposite side of the lane were already burning. It was quiet in the corridor. Misha heard water dripping into a pail placed under the boiling water container, and the piano being played in the gym on the floor above him, tram-tam, tara-tara, tram-ta-ta, tram-ta-ta, and the measured tramp of feet, tram-ta-ta, tram-ta-ta.... He was in a fix, no doubt about that! Aleksei Ivanovich, the headmaster, was sure to ask about the book when he went to see him.... He'd want to know the whys and wherefores.... And you couldn't hide anything from him. He always dragged out the whole truth. His eyes seemed to bore right through you! And all because of that sneak Yura. Definitely a bourgeois type. The bell rang and the silence was broken by the slamming of doors, stamping of feet, shouts and laughter. Yura Stotsky came out of the class-room. "Why did you insult Auntie Brosha?" Misha asked, stopping him. ' "That's none of your business," Yura said with a contemptuous air. "Take that smug look off your face, or I'll teach you how to behave!" ' Their classmates surrounded them. "We don't like your habit of insulting the attendants, got that?" Misha continued. "You're not at home here. They aren't servants to be shouted at." "Don't waste your time talking, Misha," Genka said, pushing his way through the crowd of boys and girls standing around Yura. "Here's how you should deal with him!" He lunged at Yura but Misha held him back. "Stop it. Listen, Stotsky," he said to Yura. "You've got to apologize to Auntie Brosha." "What?" Yura raised his thin eyebrows in surprise. "You think I'm going to apologize to a cleaner?" "Yes." "I don't think so!" Yura sneered. "We'll make you," Misha said firmly. "And if you won't I'll raise the question at the class meeting." "I don't care a hang for your class meeting." "That's where you're wrong!" "We'll see about that!" "We'll see alright!" German was the last lesson that day, but before it started Genka rushed into the class-room and shouted: "Hooray! Alma hasn't come to-day. You can pack up your books!" "Wait," Misha stopped him and, turning to the class, cried out, "Quiet. We're going to hold our class meeting now." "What a fag!" Genka drawled glumly. "We could have gone home two hours earlier." "As though we couldn't have a meeting some other time," Lyolya Podvolotskaya grumbled. She was a tall, pretty girl with blond hair. "Misha's always thinking of something," Shura said.

137

"I'm not going to stay for any meeting," Kit announced. "I'm hungry." "You'll stay. You're always hungry. We're going to have a meeting, and that's that," Misha said, shutting the door. They all returned to their desks. "We're going to discuss Yura Stotsky," Misha announced. "Genka Petrov will tell you what's happened." Genka rose and began speaking, punctuating his words with gestures. "Yura Stotsky has disgraced our class. He called Auntie Brosha an old fool. It's a scandal! We're not living in tsarist days. If it were the headmaster he'd have been afraid to call him that, but Auntie Brosha's only the school cleaner, so she can be insulted. Is that it? It's high time these lordly airs were dropped. In any case the scouts support the bourgeoisie and I propose that we get Stotsky expelled from the school." Then Slava got up. He thought for a moment, then said: "It's time Stotsky began to reconsider his attitude. He's an individualist and keeps aloof from the rest of the class. It's no use his. trying to imitate Pechorin. Pechorin is a product of the decay of the society of the nobility. Everyone knows that. Yura must apologize to Auntie Brosha; as for expelling him, I think that's being too severe." Lyolya Podvolotskaya raised her hand. "I don't see why the Young Pioneers are attacking Yura," she said heatedly. "Genka's a thousand times more of a hooligan and yet he's a Young Pioneer. It's not fair. First of all we've got to hear Yura out. Perhaps nothing of the sort happened." Stotsky did not get up from his desk. He looked out of the window and said: "In the first place I'm not a scout any more. Genka ought to keep his trap shut about things he doesn't know. And he's not the headmaster to go about expelling people. He takes too many liberties. Secondly, I don't agree that the cloak-room should be closed. That restricts our freedom. Thirdly, I don't intend giving anyone an account of my conduct. I shan't apologize, and I don't intend humiliating myself before every cleaner I meet. You can decide anything you like." Shura Ogureyev took the floor. He went to the teacher's desk, faced the class, and said: "Comrades. We have to look much deeper into the incident with Brosha. What's the position, comrades? There are two facts. First: that a woman was insulted, which is intolerable. Second: that the word 'fool' was used. Words like that contaminate our language, our great, vigorous, splendid language, as Nekrasov said...." "Not Nekrasov. Turgenev," Misha corrected him. "No," Shura said authoritatively, "Nekrasov said it first and Turgenev repeated it. You ought to read more, then you'll know. I propose we prohibit the use of this and similar words." Shura was pleased with his speech. He walked back to his desk and sat down with an important air. "Who else wants to speak?" Misha asked, and, seeing that Zina Kruglova

138

could not make up her mind, said, "Speak up, Zina. What are you afraid of?" Zina rose. "Girls," she said, speaking quickly, "this is terrible! I saw Auntie Brosha crying. Yura doesn't deserve defending. And if Lyolya likes him, she should say so. Then Shura. He spoke very nicely about women, but during lessons he writes notes to the girls. That isn't right, either.... Then I'd like to say something about Genka Petrov. He always makes me laugh during lessons," Zina burst out laughing and sat down. Misha was the last to speak. "Stotsky insulted Auntie Brosha," he said, "because he considers himself above her. But what's so wonderful about him? Nothing. Auntie Brosha has worked in the school for thirty years and is performing a useful service to society, while Yura is still dependent on his father, has never done a lick of work in his life, and yet he's already insulting people who work. I propose that Yura Stotsky apologize to Auntie Brosha and if he doesn't want to, then the question will go before the school committee. Let the whole school judge his conduct." The meeting decided that Stotsky was to apologize to Auntie Brosha. Chapter 56 LETHORY After the meeting Misha went to the headmaster's room. Aleksei Ivanovich was sitting at his desk turning over the pages of a book; it was the one Alexandra Sergeyevna had taken from Misha. When Misha came in, the headmaster indicated a sofa and said, "Sit down." Misha sat down. "What were you discussing at your meeting?" the headmaster asked. Misha told him. "A decision is only the beginning. You have to see to it that Stotsky apologizes and make him realize where he is at fault." Aleksei Ivanovich paused. "You, Young Pioneers," he continued, "confine your activities to your detachment. That isn't quite correct. Your main work should be in school." He paused again. "Was your own conduct discussed at the meeting?" "I don't understand what you mean." Misha flushed. "Reading books that have nothing to do with the lesson and writing notes." "I wasn't reading it. It just lay on my desk. But I did write the note. "Tell me, Polyakov," Aleksei Ivanovich said, scrutinizing Misha's face, "why are you interested in side arms?" "For the fun of it," Misha replied, his eyes fixed on the floor. "And then," Aleksei Ivanovich went on as though he had not heard Misha, "you and your friends are interested in codes. That is all very well, but tell

139

me, what do you want it for?" Misha did not reply. Aleksei Ivanovich pretended not to notice his silence, and continued: "Your hobby may be very interesting, but does it achieve the desired result? If everything goes along well then continue, but if it doesn't, let me know. Perhaps I can help." Misha thought quickly. Should he show him the scroll? They had been at it for two months now and were not making any headway. The dirk and the sheath had the same signs and Misha and his friends could not make out where the key was. That meant Polevoy thought the key to the code was in the sheath and Nikitsky thought it was in the dirk. Actually neither the dirk nor the sheath had the key. Perhaps the best thing would be to show the headmaster. If Aleksei Ivanovich could not read it then nobody could. Misha sighed, pulled out of his pocket the scroll from the handle of the dirk, and gave it to Aleksei Ivanovich. "It's this, Aleksei Ivanovich. We can't decode it. I believe it's a lethory, but we don't know what a lethory is."

"Yes," Aleksei Ivanovich said, inspecting the plate, "this does look like a lethory. I'll explain what it is. It is a cryptogram which was used in ancient Russian chronicles. There were two kinds: simple and difficult. The simple one was also called the 'gibber' alphabet, from here we have the word 'gibberish.' It was a fairly simple code. The letters of the alphabet were written in two rows: the top letters were used for the bottom ones and the bottom letters for the top ones. The difficult lethory was a more complicated code. The entire alphabet was divided into three groups. The first group was substituted by dots. For instance 'a'— one dot, 'b'—two dots, and so on. The second group was substituted by dashes. For instance Ò—one dash, 'm'—two dashes, and so on. And, finally, the third group was substituted by circles. One circle for the first letter in the group, two for the second, and so on. These signs were written in columns. Now do you understand?" "Oh, but that's very easy," Misha said. "Now I understand how the scroll

140

ought to be read." "No, " Aleksei Ivanovich said, "it would have been easy if there had been ten signs to each column on this scroll, but the largest number of signs in the columns here is five." Aleksei Ivanovich fell silent, then said slowly: "If this is a lethory, then you only have half the text. The other half must be somewhere else." Chapter 57 A STRANGE INSCRIPTION So that was the whole trouble! Misha felt for the sheath in his pocket. Now he realized why the old stamp dealer had not been able to decode the signs. "The second half of the text must be somewhere," Aleksei Ivanovich repeated with a look of inquiry at Misha. Well, come what may! Misha pulled out the sheath, took the rim off, opened it like a fan, and laid it silently on the desk. "I see you believe in being cautious," Aleksei Ivanovich said with a laugh. He put the two tables together, and only now did Misha see that one had a convex end and the other a concave end, showing where they should be joined. Why hadn't he noticed that before? After fitting the two tables together Aleksei Ivanovich spread them out on his desk and put a paper-weight on them. "You see," he said to Misha, "we have a ten-sign lethory. Now we can try and read it." He got up and went to the bookcase, took down a book and laid it on his desk, then studiously turned over the pages. "Here it is," Aleksei Ivanovich said, closing the book over two fingers. "Get a pencil and paper and take down what I say." Misha took up a pencil, put a sheet of paper in front of him, and waited. "Write, V. Have you got that? T, 'n', 'd', 't', 'h', V. What does that make?" " 'Wind the'," Misha read. "Good," Aleksei Ivanovich noted. " 'Ñ', Ò, V, 'c', 'k'. What have you written?" " 'Clock'," Misha replied. Letter by letter Misha wrote the following: "Wind the clock with this reptile. The tower will turn by itself at the stroke of twelve." "A strange inscription," Aleksei Ivanovich said thoughtfully, "strange." He inspected the sheath silently, then looked at Misha. "What have you to say about it?" Misha shrugged his shoulders. "At any rate you know more than I do," Aleksei Ivanovich continued. "For instance: where is the dagger?" Misha stared at the floor.

141

"There is no rose without a thorn," Aleksei Ivanovich laughed. "Since there is a sheath, there must be a dagger." Misha took the dirk out and showed how the scroll folded into it. "Clever. It's like a dirk." "But it is a dirk," Misha said. Aleksei Ivanovich raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?" "Of course." "I'm glad to hear it," Aleksei Ivanovich said, inspecting the dirk. "A handle with a secret—they were very common in the Middle Ages. Well, this bronze snake is apparently the reptile in question. Consequently only the clock is missing. Now, Polyakov, tell me everything you know about this dirk." After Misha had finished his story Aleksei Ivanovich drummed his fingers on the desk for a few minutes. "All this is very interesting. I remember the sinking of the Empress Maria very well. The papers raised a noise about it at the time and I think that was about all. But this is really interesting. Nikitsky knew he could not kill a man with impunity. He counted on the explosion to cover up everything. Obviously he knew that the ship was going' to be blown up." Misha looked at Aleksei Ivanovich in surprise. He was right! Why hadn't he thought of it? That meant Nikitsky had something to do with the explosion. "What do you intend doing now?" Aleksei Ivanovich asked. "I really don't know," Misha replied. "We thought that after we'd decoded the writing everything would be clear; but it seems we were wrong." He looked inquiringly at Aleksei Ivanovich. "We have to find out who the murdered officer was." "That is right. Polevoy, of course, told you this officer's name." "Yes, but only his first name: Vladimir. He didn't know his surname. True. . ." Misha faltered. "What were you going to say?" "The fellows and I found out something about the dirk—" "Did some investigating?" "Yes." "Good," Aleksei Ivanovich rose. "I shall ask you to come to see me in a few days' time and you will tell me about your investigations." Chapter 58 THE WALL NEWSPAPER The boys told Nikolai Sevostyanov about Yura Stotsky. He approved of their conduct and told them there was a plan to have a Young Pioneer detachment in every school to unite all the Young Pioneers.

142

Among other things he advised them to publish a wall newspaper in their group. Some days later the first issue of the wall newspaper, which they called The Fighting Sheet, was posted on the wall in the corridor near the classroom. The newspaper began with an item by Misha under the heading An Unhealthy Attraction. AN UNHEALTHY ATTRACTION Some of our classmates are unhealthily attracted by people like Pechorin and Mary Pickford. Let us begin with Mary Pickford. Every film she acts in ends with her marrying a millionaire. Why try to imitate her when everyone knows there are no millionaires in our country.

Now about Pechorin. In the first place he was a nobleman. Secondly, he was an egoist. He made everyone suffer because of it: he ruined Bella, betrayed Mary (true she was a princess, but Pechorin was a nobleman), and looked down on Maxim Maximovich. Pechorin does not even conceal his egoism. He says: "I am not concerned with human misery or happiness." That means he has no respect for society and he is interested only in himself. From this we may conclude that a man who is not useful to society is harmful to it, because he disregards other people (this is illustrated by the case we recently discussed in our class). It is clear, therefore, that if everyone copies Pechorin and thinks only of himself we shall all be at each other's throats and will have pure capitalism. Polyakov This was followed by other items: DAMAGE TO FURNITURE

143

Some pupils like to carve their desks with knives. Kitov is especially keen on this, apparently thinking he has a piece of sausage in front of him. It is about time damage to school furniture was stopped. People who hack at the desks are adding to the ruin around them. Awl WHERE IS JUSTICE? Our school has its own circle for studying the theatre and cinema. The chairman is Shura Ogureyev, the greatest actor of our time. The circle is now six months old, but it has yet to have its first meeting. For all that, Shura has a free pass to the cinema and theatre. He goes regularly and does not let anyone else use the pass. Where is the justice of it? Spectator THE LONG BREAK Certain pupils try to remain in the class-room during the long break (we shall not mention names as everyone knows this concerns G. Petrov). By so doing they prevent the class-room from being ventilated and criminally use up oxygen, which is in short supply anyway. It's high time this stopped. And whoever wants to crib, let him crib in the corridor. Sharpeyes NICKNAMES The pupils in our class like to give nicknames to one another and to the teachers. Time to stop this survival of the old type of school. The nickname lowers one's dignity. Eldarov The entire school read The Fighting Sheet, and laughed and said that the note about Pechorin and Mary Pickford referred to Yura Stotsky and Lyolya Podvolotskaya. Yura sneered contemptuously when he read the item, and several days later another item appeared next to the wall newspaper. It read: WHO IS AN EGOIST? (A message from the nether world} Gentlemen, I am Grigori Alexandrovich Pechorin. A pupil of the seventh .grade named Mikhail Polyakov has disturbed my peaceful slumbers. I arose from my grave and for two weeks my invisible spirit was present in the classroom. Here is my reply. Polyakov asserts that I am an egoist. Let us assume he is right. But how

144

about Polyakov? He swots late every night to be first in the class. Why? To show that he is better and cleverer than all the others. And that is why he has undertaken various jobs in the school. He is group leader, monitor, member of the school committee, and member -of the editorial board. The question is: which of us is the egoist? Pechorin This item infuriated Misha. There was not a grain of truth in it! He did not swot; and was it egoism if he studied hard and was an .apt pupil? Everyone knew you had to study hard. Yura, too, was quite a good pupil, only his father always encouraged him by buying him something whenever he received good marks. And then, was it Misha's fault if he had been elected monitor and a member of the school committee? "There, you see," Genka said to him, "see what Stotsky's up to! I told you long ago that he should be given a lesson he won't forget." "You won't prove anything with fists," Slava objected, "you'll have to reply to this message from the grave in the next number of The Fighting Sheet." "It's not that he wrote about me," Misha said, "it's the principle of the thing: what is egoism? Yura's trying to confuse the issue. And it's our job to clear it up." The boys set to work preparing the next number of their newspaper, devoting it to a discussion of the question "What is egoism?" Chapter 59 THE REGIMENTAL GUNSMITH A few days later Misha, Genka, and Slava were called to the headmaster's room. A man in a great-coat and army cap was sitting beside Aleksei Ivanovich, reading a newspaper. When the boys came in he turned and looked closely at each of them. "Sit down, boys," Aleksei Ivanovich said. "Well," he added with a smile, "how do you like Pechorin's reply?" "But it's all not true," Misha said. "What isn't true?" "I don't swot, and anyway, that's not what egoism is." "What is it, then?" "Not that." "Yes, you are right," confirmed Aleksei Ivanovich. "A person is an egoist when he sets his own interests above the interests of society. Naturally, you cannot call a person an egoist for being a good pupil. By being a good pupil he is serving the interests of society. But a slacker is a drag on society. It is he who is the egoist. Is that what you wanted to say?"

145

"Yes." "Good." Aleksei Ivanovich fell silent, then asked, "Have you brought the dirk?" Misha looked indecisively at the man in uniform. "You may speak about everything in the presence of this comrade," Aleksei Ivanovich added. The man in uniform carefully studied the scrolls for a long time and when he placed the dirk on the desk, Aleksei Ivanovich said to the boys: "Well, we are ready to listen to you." He smiled at them. Misha looked at his friends, coughed and said: "We have found out that this dirk once belonged to a regimental gunsmith who lived in the reign of Anna Ioannovna, (1730-40.—Tr..) that is in the first half of the eighteenth century." Aleksei Ivanovich lifted his eyebrows in surprise, and the man in uniform watched Misha attentively. "Anna Ioannovna?" Aleksei Ivanovich asked. "Yes, Anna Ioannovna," Misha answered. "How did you establish that?" "It was easy." Misha picked up the dirk and pulled the blade out of the sheath. "First of all, the markings. There are three of them: wolf, scorpion, and lily. See them?" "Yes, yes," Aleksei Ivanovich said. "Go on with your story." "The wolf," Misha continued, "is the mark of the Solingen smiths in Germany. These blades were called 'wolf cubs'. They were made up to the middle of the sixteenth century." "That is correct," Aleksei Ivanovich smiled, "there is such a mark for weapons, a very famous mark, I must say." "Julian del Rei, a Toledo swordsmith," Misha continued more boldly, "engraved his blades with the head of a wolf or a dog." "He was a baptized Moor," Genka put in. "He lived at the end of the fifteenth century," Misha went on. "Now the scorpion. This was the mark used by the Milan sword-smiths. Finally, the lily. It was the mark of a Florentine sword-smith." "Paragini," Genka prompted. "Yes, Paragini. He, too, lived in the beginning of the sixteenth century. So that is what these markings mean," Misha concluded with a triumphant look at Aleksei Ivanovich and the man in uniform. "But which of them made this dirk?" Aleksei Ivanovich asked. "None of them," Misha replied firmly. "Why do you think so?" "Because all the books we read said that dirks appeared only at the end of the sixteenth century, while all these markings concern the beginning of the sixteenth century." Aleksei Ivanovich and the man in uniform exchanged glances and laughed. "That's logical enough," Aleksei Ivanovich remarked. "In that case what do these markings mean?"

146

"We don't know," Misha said with a shrug. "The boys are right," the man in uniform suddenly interrupted, and, taking the blade from Misha, held it to the light. Hardly perceptible wavy drawings in the form of intertwined roses covered the entire length of the blade. "D'you know what this is?" he asked Misha. "No.' "This is Damascus steel," the man said. "It used to be made only in the East. That means the markings of European swordsmiths have nothing to do with the blade. Obviously the swordsmith who made this dirk wanted to show that his blade was superior to the most famous ones. Possibly that prompted him to make the three markings. Now continue." Misha hesitated. He was confused because the man in uniform had determined at a single glance what it had taken the boys such a long time to find out. "Go on, go on!" the man in uniform encouraged him. "Well," Misha continued, "we decided to find out what dirks were used in Russia. There were three, three types. The first was a naval dirk, but it was four-edged, and this one's three-edged. That didn't suit. The cavalry dirk was 22.75 inches long, and ours is only fourteen inches. Finally, the third type was the dirk made by regimental gunsmiths in the reign of Empress Anna Ioannovna. It was fourteen inches long, the size of our dirk. It had three edges, ours has three edges, too. And other marks also coincide. That's why we settled that our dirk once belonged to a gunsmith who lived in the time of Anna Ioannovna." Misha finished speaking, stood still for a moment, then sat on the sofa beside Genka and Slava, excitedly waiting for Aleksei Ivanovich and the man in uniform to speak. "What do you think of this supposition?" Aleksei Ivanovich asked the man in uniform. "Sensible," the latter replied, "very sensible. All right, we'll try to find the owner." Aleksei Ivanovich picked up a big square book from his desk. On its thick cover Misha read: Naval Almanac, 1916. "Three officers named Vladimir died when the Empress Maria exploded," Aleksei Ivanovich said. "Ivanov—a midshipman, Terentyev—captain of the second rank, Neustroyev—lieutenant. The question is: which of them owned the dirk? Let us see." Aleksei Ivanovich turned over the pages, running his eyes over them. "Ivanov— young and so on and so forth. Neustroyev—a good officer...." Aleksei Ivanovich fell silent, evidently reading to himself, then said slowly: "This is interesting. I want you to listen: 'Tragic death carried away V. V. Terentyev, a prominent engineer of the Russian fleet. His outstanding ability and profound knowledge, acquired under the guidance of the immortal P. N. Podvolotsky, gave him every opportunity of becoming, for the armaments of the navy, what his famous ancestor P. I. Terentyev had been for the armaments of the land forces.'" "I think you've got it," the man in uniform noted. "Have you a military encyclopaedia, Aleksei Ivanovich?"

147

"Petrov," Aleksei Ivanovich said, "present my compliments to Sophia Pavlovna and tell her I want volume "F of the military encyclopaedia." When Genka brought the book, Aleksei Ivanovich turned over the pages and said: "Here it is. Please listen. 'Terentyev, Polikarp Ivanovich. 1701-1784. Prominent gunsmith in the reigns of Anna Ioannovna and Elizaveta Petrovna. (1741-61—Tr.) Served under Fieldmarshal Minikh. Fought at Ochakov, Stavuchany, and Khotin. Worked out the design for the first diving apparatus. Known as the author of a plan to salvage the frigate Trapezund, a scheme considered fantastic at the time.' " "You see," the man in the uniform said cheerfully to the boys, "your gunsmith has come in handy." Then he added thoughtfully, "Among other things I've just remembered that there was a Terentyev who also planned the salvage of a ship; not the Trapezund but the Prince. The Prince sank eighty years after the Trapezund." "Here's an interesting coincidence," Aleksei Ivanovich remarked. "The Professor Podvolotsky of the Naval Academy, mentioned in the necrology, is the grandfather of one of our girls." The boys exchanged glances. Lyolya! Here was something they had never dreamed of! "Well, boys," the man in uniform said, "you've been putting in some hard work." He rose. "Misha, I'll take the dirk for the time being. Don't worry, I'll let you have it back when we've finished with it. I see you, too, have a secret. Perhaps you'll tell us what it is?" "We haven't any secrets," Misha replied. "All we want is to find out the secret of the dirk." "That's right!" The man in uniform put his hand on Misha's shoulder. "I'll help you. I'll tell you everything I find out. And you keep me informed about what you're doing. Only," he laughed, "confine your activities to the library. Keep out of everything. You've done your job. My name's Sviridov. Well, shall we shake on it?" he held out his hand to Misha. It was as big and broad as Polevoy's. And Misha shook it. Chapter 60 A DRAWING LESSON "That's a new one," Genka stormed as the boys went downstairs. "We got the sheath, did some earnest investigating, wasted hours and hours in the Rumyantsevskaya Library, found out everything, and now, when all that remains is to put our hands on the treasure, he takes away the sheath." "He did the right thing," Slava said. "We may spoil everything." "We haven't spoiled anything so far," Genka muttered. "Naturally we mustn't hamper him," Misha agreed, "but why can't we find out about Terentyev? That wouldn't be hampering anyone."

148

The boys reached the class-room where the drawing lesson had already started. Instead of desks it had stools and easels. The walls were hung with the best drawings done by the school children. Most of them were sketches of decorations for school plays. The shelves under the drawings contained various still life objects: statuettes of Greek gods, animals, papier-mâché fruit. The class on this occasion was making drawings of a classical equestrian statue. Drawing lessons were always good fun. You could sit how you pleased, move about, and talk. The drawing master, Boris Fyodorovich Romanenko, or Borfyod, as the pupils called him, was a stocky, kindly middle-aged Ukrainian of average height, with a drooping Cossack moustache. He walked between the rows of easels, correcting the work of his pupils. Misha took a seat beside Lyolya Podvolotskaya. "I want to ask you something, Lyolya." "What?" the girl asked, comparing her drawing with the model. "Tell me, is your grandfather the Admiral Podvolotsky who is a professor at the Naval Academy?" "Yes. Why?" Lyolya asked, looking up at Misha in surprise. "Well, you see..." Misha stammered, "one of my distant relatives studied under him at the Academy, then he was listed as missing. What I'd like to find out is whether your grandfather knows anything about his whereabouts." "But Grandfather died long ago," Lyolya replied. "Oh, yes," Misha caught himself. "I forgot. But some members of his family are alive?" "Yes. Grandmother and Aunt Sonya." "D'you think they knew anything of your grandfather's students?" "I doubt it. I'm sure he lectured without Grandmother's help." "I know that," Misha replied, disappointed. "But it's just possible they knew some of his students." "I hardly think so." "What's the secret?" Yura Stotsky mocked behind them. Lyolya blushed. "You see, Yura," she mumbled in confusion, "Misha's asking me about Grandfather." "I see," Yura smirked, turned sharply on his heel and returned to his easel. Misha went over to Slava. "The grandfather's dead, but there's a grandmother and an Aunt Sonya," he whispered. "What if they knew Terentyev?" "Ask Lyolya. She'll introduce you to her grandmother." "I've spoken to her about it already," Misha said with a deprecatory gesture. "Just try and have anything to do with girls! Yura Stotsky came up and she blurted out everything." Misha wanted to tell Genka about this, but saw that he was busy teasing Kit. "Kit. I say, Kit!" "What d'you want?" "What ocean are you from?" Kit was used to these jokes and kept silent. Then Genka began to shoot

149

balls of chewed paper through a glass tube. He hit Kit on the is neck and Kit, not realizing what had happened, made as if he were brushing off a fly, to Zina Kruglova's immense amusement. Misha realized that, as monitor, he should stop Genka, but the way Kit was brushing off the non-existent fly was so funny, that Misha too choked with laughter. Meanwhile Kit continued feeling the back of his neck with one hand and trying futilely to draw a horse with the other. Boris Fyodorovich stood over him and shook his head reproachfully. Then he went to the blackboard and began to explain about proportion. "Kitov," Boris Fyodorovich said, drawing a horse with a piece of chalk, "you should take more interest in paintings and develop a taste for art. As far as I can see nothing interests you. Now, tell me the names of the great artists you know." Kit did not know the names of any artists. He sniffed and looked roundeyed at Boris Fyodorovich. "Well? You went to the Tretyakov Picture Gallery with us, didn't you? Try to remember the paintings you saw there and the names of the artists. Try, try." "Repin," Genka murmured behind Kitov. "Repin," Kitov repeated loudly. "Correct," Boris Fyodorovich said. "What did Repin paint?" "Ivan Grozny killing his son," Genka prompted. "Ivan Grozny killing his son," Kitov repeated sadly. "Good," Boris Fyodorovich said, dividing the drawing of the horse into squares. "Now tell me the name of another painter." "Romanenko drew a horse," Genka whispered, suffocating with mirth. "Romanenko drew a horse," Kitov said, sending the entire class, into a fit of laughter. "What? What did you say?" Boris Fyodorovich's hand stopped in mid-air. "He drew a horse," Kitov repeated. This caused another burst of laughter. "Who?" "Well—this—oh, what's his name—Romanenko," Kitov replied. No one laughed this time. Boris Fyodorovich's face grew livid, and his moustache bristled strangely. Then he threw his chalk on the desk and stamped out of the class. Chapter 61 BORIS FYODOROVICH "I didn't know his name was Romanenko," Kitov complained. "I thought it was Borfyod." "You thought," Genka teased him. "I was talking to myself and you go and repeat everything like a parrot. You've got into the habit of depending

150

on people to prompt you. Now don't you give me away. You've got yourself in the soup, get out of it as best you can." "You know, Genka," Misha said loudly so that all the class could hear, "that was a mean thing to do." "What's the matter with you, Misha?" Genka said flushing. "What have I got to do with it?" But before Misha could reply the door opened and they all rushed to their seats. Aleksei Ivanovich entered. He was tall, thin, and smooth-shaven. He stopped beside the teacher's desk and looked sternly at the hushed class. "I do not propose to discuss your shocking behaviour now," Aleksei Ivanovich began slowly, pronouncing every word distinctly. "That is not my purpose; neither do I intend speaking of your treatment of Boris Fyodorovich, who has given so much of his life to you children." Aleksei Ivanovich paused. The whole class watched him with bated breath. "I wish to speak to you about something quite different," he said impressively. "Something quite different," he repeated. He paused again and looked round the class. "I must admit," he raised his eyebrows, "that I never realized Kitov had a turn for making jokes. I always thought his interests and abilities lay in a somewhat different direction." There was a slight stir among the pupils. All of them knew to what ability Aleksei Ivanovich was referring and they all cast derisive glances at Kitov. "It seems," Aleksei Ivanovich continued, "that sitting two years in every class is developing in Kitov a sense of humour, but I must say that this humour is of a very low type. Kitov seems to think it funny to compare a great artist with a modest drawing master, but I do not see anything funny in it. And I shall tell you why. "As I see it, Kitov thinks Boris Fyodorovich did not become a great artist because he lacked the talent. I can assure you that is not so. Boris Fyodorovich is a very talented person; he graduated from the Academy of Arts and before him lay the broad road to fame, renown, to everything that in Kitov's opinion calls forth respect. But he chose to be a modest drawing teacher, in other words something which in Kitov's opinion is not worthy of respect and can serve as the object of his stupid jokes." Kitov sat like a statue, his eyes fixed on the desk.

151

"When he graduated from the Academy," Aleksei Ivanovich went on, "Boris Fyodorovich and certain other comrades who, like him, came from poor families, organized a free art school for the children of workers. They organized not one but several such schools. They looked for gifted children, drew them into the school, and taught them to love art. What made him choose this road? Well, I shall tell you. As a man of the people he had endured great privations in order to gain the right to study and work in art. That is what made him take this road. At that time art was accessible only to the rich, the well-to-do. Boris Fyodorovich's decision was a noble one. He has worked for one purpose all his life. He overcame thousands of obstacles, he knew hunger and cold, he gave up every comfort, and when he finally achieved his goal he rejected all the advantages that it could give him, and all for the sake of another, more difficult but noble task! ... Boris Fyodorovich decided to be a teacher. He decided to devote his entire life to bringing out the young talents of the people, thousands of which perish or are strangled by the whole loathsome system of capitalist society. That is what Boris Fyodorovich gave his life to. You and I understand, of course, that he was mistaken in many things. It was necessary to change the entire system, to create a society that would ensure the development of every man's abilities. That is what the October Revolution did. All the same, in appraising his life, we can say that it has been one of which he can be proud. He can be proud of his life because it has been guided by a pure and lofty purpose." Steps sounded in the corridor. The door opened and Boris Fyodorovich entered. "This is why I am telling you all this," Aleksei Ivanovich continued. "To be a great artist, a great scientist, a great writer—all that is very impressive. But the principal work in culture is inconspicuous, routine, and most of it is done by the teacher. He carries culture to the very heart of the people. And if any of you ever become great and famous, remember when you see a modest village schoolmaster, to treat him with respect and never forget that this small unnoticed toiler is training and shaping the best and the most beautiful

152

of nature's creations—Man." Aleksei Ivanovich stopped. The class continued to sit in tense silence. "That is what I wished to talk to you about," Aleksei Ivanovich said. "And now," he turned to Boris Fyodorovich, "please continue the lesson." He went out of the class-room. Genka stood up beside his easel and looked at Boris Fyodorovich. "Why are you standing?" Boris Fyodorovich asked, raising his head. "Boris Fyodorovich, please forgive me." "For what?" "I prompted Kitov. Forgive me, please." Boris Fyodorovich went up to Genka, put his hand on the boy's shoulder and looked steadily into his eyes. "All right," Boris Fyodorovich said simply, "get on with your drawing." Then he looked slyly at Kitov and remarked, "I see that even whales take the bait." He smiled into his moustache and went round the class, looking at the drawings of the classical equestrian statue, pinned to the easels. Chapter 62 GRANDMOTHER PODVOLOTSKAYA AND AUNT SONYA Lyolya, after all, gave Misha her grandmother's address; and the next evening Misha, Genka, and Slava, on the way to Lyolya's grandmother, took advantage of every icy slide along the pavements. A tranquil sheet of snow-flakes fell softly in the dim light of the rare street-lamps. Blue stars twinkled in the dark sky. The advertisement on the white-and-blue striped Confectionery Administration Building was studded with electric lamps that blinked over the words: "Your Taste in Confectionery Is Our Guide." As was usual with him lately, Genka was wearing skates tied to his felt boots with strings and tightened with sticks. His old overcoat was unbuttoned, and the ear-flaps of his peaked cap dangled on his shoulders. "They couldn't be meaner even if they tried!" Genka was saying angrily. "Before they only used to sprinkle sand on the main streets, and now they're doing it in the side turnings, too. What harm is there in letting a fellow skate? It looks like we'll have to do all our skating at the rink. Pity I haven't got a pair of Norwegian racers. If I had I'd show Yura Stotsky how much of a champion he is." They approached a small wooden house. "I don't think it'd be proper for all of us to go in," Misha said. "I'll go alone and you wait for me here." He felt his way up the dark, creaking stairs by the rickety banisters, reached the second floor, and struck a match. At the end of the cluttered-up landing he saw a door covered with torn

153

oilcloth and tape. Misha knocked carefully. "Kick the door," said a voice in the darkness. It was someone going up the stairs. "The old women there are deaf. Kick." Misha followed this advice, and soon heard steps and a woman's voice. "Who is it?" "I want to see the Podvolotskys!" Misha shouted. "Who are you?" "I'm from Lyolya Podvolotskaya." "Wait, I'll find the key." The steps faded and five minutes passed before Misha heard them again. A key scraped in the lock for what seemed an eternity, and, finally, the door opened. Misha almost tripped over some objects as he followed the woman in. He could not see her, only heard her shuffling steps and her murmured: "Careful, don't fall, careful." As though he could see anything in the pitch darkness of the corridor! The woman opened a door and let Misha into the living-room. A lamp threw a dim light on a small deal table with playing cards on it. Grandmother Podvolotskaya was sitting at the table, and Misha guessed it was Aunt Sonya who was ushering him in. Misha took stock of his surroundings. Chaotically furnished with cupboards, tables, stools, armchairs, and trunks, the room resembled a furniture shop. In a corner he saw the rounded contours of a baby grand piano. A pipe, suspended to the ceiling with wires, stretched from the iron stove across the entire room. The floor was strewn with potato peelings. In another corner a worn broom lay on top of a pile of rubbish, the accumulation of many days' sweepings. Near the door was a wash-stand and under it a bucket filled to the brim with water. "Come in, young man," the grandmother said and turned to her cards. "Come in. You'll excuse the disorder—we're rather crowded here." She mused over her cards. "We're saving ourselves from the cold." A pause. She moved the cards. "That's why we've moved into one room: firewood's expensive these days." "Mother," Aunt Sonya interrupted her as she gripped the handle of a pail with the obvious intention of carrying it out, "you haven't let our visitor sit down and you're already talking about fire-wood." "Sonya, don't you interfere," the grandmother replied, her eyes on the cards. "Did you put the key back?" "Yes. Only, for goodness' sake, don't touch it." Aunt Sonya put the pail down on the floor again, apparently weighing over in her mind whether it would hold more water. "Where did you put it?" "On the cupboard," Aunt Sonya replied irritably and straightened up. "Oh, can't you leave me in peace!" "I see I can't ask you anything," said the old woman. She shuffled the cards and began laying them out again. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself—in front of a stranger, too." Then the old woman addressed Misha. "Sit down. Only be careful. A plague on these chairs! The carpenter took

154

die money but did a poor job. They're all swindlers nowadays. Take last night. A man came here, well-dressed, wanting to buy the dressing-table. I wanted ten millions for it and he offered fifteen roubles. And laughed, mind you. Said millions had been done away with." The old woman moved the cards. " 'What?' I said to him: ''Do you know, my dear sir, when millions were introduced I didn't believe it for a year, and sold my things for the stable rouble, and now, well, you'll have to excuse me, if it's millions then millions I'll get'."

"Mother," Aunt Sonya again interrupted her. She was still standing indecisively beside the pail. "Who's interested in your stories? Ask him why he's come." "Sonya, don't teach me," the old woman replied impatiently. "Are you from the Abrosimovs?" she asked Misha. "No, I..." "From the Povzdorovs, then?" "No, I..." "From the Zakhlopovs?" "I'm from your grand-daughter Lyolya. Did you know Vladimir... Vladimir Terentyev?" Misha blurted out in one breath.

155

Chapter 63 LETTERS "What did you say?" the old woman asked. Misha repeated his question slowly and distinctly: "Did you know Vladimir Vladimirovich Terentyev? He was a naval officer and studied at the Academy under your husband, Admiral Podvolotsky." "Vladimir Vladimirovich Terentyev?" the old woman said thoughtfully. "No, my friend, I never knew him." "Why, you must remember him, Mother!" Aunt Sonya said. She had taken the pail up once more, but put it down again when she joined the conversation. "You must remember him! Why, he means poor Voldemar, Ksenia's husband." "Oh!" The old woman clasped her hands, causing the cards to fly off the table. Misha quickly bent down to pick them up. "Oh, Voldemar! Goodness! Ksenia!" She raised her eyes to the ceiling, saying in a sing-song voice: "Voldemar! Ksenia! Goodness, what a tragedy! Poor Voldemar." She turned to Misha. "Yes, but he was killed." "I know," Misha said. "But I want to know about his family." "Yes, I knew Voldemar," the old woman sighed. "And his wife, Ksenia Sigizmundovna. Only that was a long time ago." "Excuse me," Misha rose, "what did you say his wife's first name and patronymic was?" "Ksenia Sigizmundovna." "Sigizmundovna?" "Yes, Ksenia Sigizmundovna. She was a beautiful woman," the grandmother chattered, "as beautiful as a picture." "Did you by any chance know her brother?" Misha asked carefully. "Certainly," the old woman said sadly, "Valeri Nikitsky! He was a brilliant officer. And handsome. He, too, was killed in the war." She sighed. "I knew them all, but it was so long ago. "Voldemar's mother, Terentyeva—

156

oh, yes—Maria Gavrilovna—to tell you the truth I never liked her. An unpleasant woman, a commoner. But then," she compressed her lips with dignity, "I don't know your views. Commoners are in fashion these days." "You don't happen to know where they are now?" Misha asked. "I don't, my friend, I don't," the old woman shook her head. "What I don't know, I don't know. Their whole family was strange, mysterious. They always talked of secrets, legends, awful things...." "Could you possibly have their former address?" "I couldn't tell you that either. They lived in Petersburg, but I've forgotten the address." "I think we can find the address," Aunt Sony a suddenly remarked. She was- standing near the door with the pail in her hand. Misha turned to her. "His letters to father have the address on them," Aunt Sonya continued. "But it's simply impossible to find anything in this chaos!" "Won't you please find it," Misha said, turning a pleading look from the grandmother to Aunt Sonya and then back to the grandmother, "please, it's very important. One of my relatives is missing." He sprang up from his chair. "I'll help you, don't trouble yourself, just tell me what to do. Please!" "Find it for him, Sonya, find it," the old woman said benevolently and again turned her attention to the cards. Aunt Sonya wavered, but the chance to postpone taking the slop-pail outside was apparently overwhelming. She put the pail back in the puddle and showed Misha what to do. He moved a cupboard and a chest of drawers, climbed on the piano, pulled out a box, and after that a basket. It was heavy work, but Misha managed it. Aunt Sonya bent over the basket and took from it a big paper package on which was written in faded letters: "From V. V. Terentyev." "Thank you very much," Misha said gratefully, returning the basket to its place and putting on his cap, "thank you very much!" "You're welcome, young man, you're welcome," the grandmother said without looking up from her cards. "Come to see us any time you wish. Good-bye." Stuffing the packet of letters into his pocket, Misha ran to his friends, waiting for him in the street, and they quickly went home.

157

158

Part VI THE COTTAGE IN PUSHKINO Chapter 64 SLAVA

The letters were all in similar envelopes. The address on them was written in a neat hand: His Excellency Pyotr Nikolayevich Podvolotsky. Residence. Ruzheiny Lane, Moscow. From V. V. Terentyev, S. S. Vasilyeva Residence, Moika, St. Petersburg. The contents were also very similar. Saint's day congratulations, New Year and Christmas greetings. Only one postcard, dated December 12, 1915, was somewhat lengthier: "Dear Pyotr Nikolayevich," Terentyev had written, "I am writing from the railway station. The train is due to leave in thirty minutes and I regret this prevents me from having the honour of personally paying you my respects. I was held up in Pushkino and I must be with my unit not later than the 15th. Whatever happens to me I remain, "Sincerely yours, "F. Terentyev" "We must go to Petersburg," Genka decided. "The postcard also mentions Pushkino," Misha noted. "Why rack our brains when we have the exact address," Genka objected. "We must go." "These letters are eight years old," Slava said. "Perhaps the Terentyevs

159

aren't living there any longer." "We'll ask the address bureau first," Misha said, settling the matter. The boys composed a letter, put it in an envelope, but found they had no stamps. This circumstance made them postpone posting the letter till the following day. They were sitting in Slava's flat. Alia Sergeyevna was at the theatre, as usual, and Konstantin Alekseyevich hadn't returned from the factory. "Mm," Genka said dreamily, looking at the green envelope on the table, "mm—we're on the last lap. The treasure is sure to be ours now." "You still dreaming of treasure!" Slava laughed.

"Why not?" Genka said with a stubborn shake of his head. "I've found out everything. In the old days everyone was afraid of Biron (A court favourite and tyrant in the reign of Anna Ioannovna.—Ed) and hid their treasures from him. That I know for sure!" "What else did you find out?" Misha asked, teasing him. "And I found out," Genka continued imperturbably, "that the finder of treasure gets a quarter of the stuff. That means we must collect our share right away, or we'll be put off for a whole year," he added in a business-like manner. ' His friends laughed. "Naturally, I don't believe in treasures," Slava said, "but let's assume that we're actually on the track of treasure. We'll get a certain share if we find it. What'll we do with it?" "What?" Genka exclaimed. "I've decided that ages ago. We'll donate it to an orphans' home. So that an entire orphans' home will be built with the money. And then the newspapers will write about us." "Why the newspapers," Misha offered. "Right over the door: The Gennady Petrov Orphanage." "If we really find treasure," Slava said thoughtfully, "I'll give it to build a sanatorium for children. A big beautiful sanatorium somewhere on the shores of the Black Sea." "No, thank you," Genka shook his head, "you can do what you want with your share, but I'll dispose of my share as I see fit. Resorts, sanatoria! That's

160

for sissies! But seriously, we should use this money to build a big stadium right in the centre of Moscow, with a skating rink, a football field, tennis courts.... There. And make it free for children." "Have you distributed it all? Sure you haven't forgotten anything?" Misha asked derisively. "You see, Misha," Slava said with a smile, "none of this is serious. But just suppose we do find treasure, what would you use it for?" "I don't know," Misha replied, "I hadn't thought of it. But I don't believe there is any treasure." "But I do," Genka said. "And let me tell you we're going to build that stadium. As for resorts and sanatoria... that's all Slava's fantasy. You'll probably think of building some music school, too." "What's wrong with that?" Slava said, touched to the quick. "D'you think stadiums are needed more than music schools?" "What a comparison! Music schools! Why, you poor. . ." Then suddenly Genka said earnestly, "You know, Slava, you should give your future serious thought." "What d'you mean?" "Just this. If you want to be accepted in the Komsomol, you've got to think of your future seriously." "Why?" "As if you don't know. You're thinking of becoming a musician, aren't you?" "Suppose I am. What of it?" "Don't you see? You were at the meeting and you heard of the tasks the Komsomol has been set. What did Nikolai say? He said that the Komsomol's task is to build communism. Isn't that right?" "Yes, but what has music got to do with it?" "You are stupid! Everyone's going to build and you're going to push ivories. That won't do." "I can just see you building! A fine builder you'll make!" Slava said in an offended tone. "Of course," Genka said merrily, "of course. I'll go to a factory school after I finish grammar school. I'll be a metal-worker; a real worker. They'll take me into the Komsomol without probation. We've decided that long ago with Misha. Isn't that right, Misha?" Misha hesitated. At the last Young Pioneer meeting Nikolai had read them Lenin's speech at the Third Komsomol Congress in 1920. One place in that speech had struck Misha: "But the generation which is now fifteen years old will see the communist society, and will itself build this society. And it must know that the whole purpose of its life is to build this society." Misha had pondered over these words a long time. They directly concerned him, Genka, and Slava. The aim of all their lives was to build communism. Polevoy had told him the same thing when he said: "If you'll live for the people you'll sail on a big ship."

161

To live for the people and not for oneself was precisely what building communism meant. And what about Slava? Was he going to write music for himself? Weren't songs needed by the people? What about the Internationale? Misha looked at Slava. "Don't worry, Slava," he said, "I think they'll take you in the Komsomol." Chapter 65 KONSTANTIN ALEKSEYEVICH The hall door squeaked. The boys heard someone in the corridor begin taking off his coat and overshoes, and blowing his nose. Slava listened. "That's Father." Konstantin Alekseyevich came into the room, still blowing his nose into a big handkerchief. Always ruddy, his cheeks were now crimson from the frost. And there was the usual kind smile in his small eyes. "Oho, the Young Pioneers!" he greeted the boys. "Hello!" He shook hands with them, and when Slava's turn came he said, "We haven't seen each other to-day, you know." Dasha, the maid, followed Konstantin Alekseyevich into the room and busied herself laying the table. Konstantin Alekseyevich washed his hands, dried them on a towel which he threw over the back of a chair, and sat down. Slava took the towel to the bedroom and returned to the dining-room. "Well, my Young Pioneers, what were you talking about?" Konstantin Alekseyevich noticed the envelope, took it and read the address. 'Address Bureau, Petrograd.' Who are you looking for?" "Oh, someone," Slava said, taking the envelope from his father and hiding it in his pocket. "I see, a secret!" Konstantin Alekseyevich laughed, breaking off a piece of bread and putting it into his mouth. "Well, what were you talking about?" "We were talking about different professions, Father. Who'll be what," Slava replied. "Hm! Well, who's going to be what?" "We were just... sort of indefinite... just talking about it." "All the same," Konstantin Alekseyevich peppered his soup and tasted it. "All the same what did you decide?" "I'm going to be a musician—and they," Slava pointed to his friends, "let them tell you themselves. Genka says a musician can't be a Komsomol member." "I didn't say that," Genka protested. "You certainly did. Misha heard you." "Then you didn't understand what I meant." Genka looked at Konstantin Alekseyevich. "What I meant was that in addition to being a musician you've got to have another profession so as to be useful." Genka was aware that this

162

was a sore point between Konstantin Alekseyevich and Slava. "Good lad, Genka," Konstantin Alekseyevich applauded, "good lad! That's exactly what we often talk about with Slava. You must have a profession. In life you have to stand firmly on your feet. In your spare time you can be a canary if you want to." "Just the same I'm going to be a musician," Slava said. "Please yourself, who's stopping you! Borodin, too, was a great composer, but he was a chemist, you know. How do you like that? A chemist." "That's a matter of personal taste, Father." "Certainly." Konstantin Alekseyevich moved his plate away and wiped his lips with a napkin. "You don't have to be a chemist. You can choose another profession, something solid." "Isn't music, the theatre, painting, art in general, isn't that a profession?" Slava argued. "Yes, it's a profession, only—it's up in the air," Konstantin Alekseyevich twisted his fingers in the air. "Why d'you think it's up in the air?" Slava persisted. "Many men of art made Russia famous. Composers Chaikovsky and Glinka, the artist Repin, the author Tolstoy." "Well, my friend," Konstantin Alekseyevich drawled, "you're talking of giants. Not everyone has the gift." He fell silent, looked at Misha and smiled: "And what about you, Misha? What have you to say to all this?" "I agree with Slava," Misha said. "If he wants to be a musician, he ought to study and be one. You say he must learn a profession, to be something else besides. If he does that, he'll have to go to an institute, say, to be an engineer; but his heart won't be in the thing and he'll throw it up to be a musician as soon as he graduates. That would be wasting his time and the government's money. What's more, he'd be filling a place another fellow would gladly take. Our country hasn't many institutes as yet to let people go around taking up one profession and then dropping it for another." "M-yes—" Konstantin Alekseyevich crumbled a piece of bread thoughtfully, "yes—I see I can't agree with you. I'm of the old school, you know." He rose and began pacing the room. "This is the way I see it," he continued. "When I was young I, too, acted in amateur plays and very nearly became an actor. My wife's an actress. I understand, youth is always impetuous." He sighed noisily. "But this is a different matter." He walked silently across the room, pushed a chair closer to the table, smoothed the table-cloth, then walked up and down again. "I, too, was fourteen once," he went on. "I lived in a boy's world, had my hobbies, friends, relatives, books, dreams, while life went on around me. Life was a dense forest," he stressed, raising his finger, "it was interesting and at the same time frightening: you'd wonder how it'd be when you were all alone. Quite alone without relatives, comrades, or home! And my mother, I remember, was always sorry for me. She always worried about the time when I'd be alone, how I'd make my way. Make my way! What strong

163

words, too!" He cut the air with his powerful fist. "Make my way!!! I had to fight!!!... And he," Konstantin Alekseyevich pointed to Misha, "he's already counting the government's money. Why, says he, should the government waste its money.... When I was young I used to think: 'Oho, that's a good job, with a good income, how can I get hold of it.' And now, here's Misha saying: 'Slava, don't waste a place in the institute, someone else can study in your place....' Someone else. And who's this someone else? Ivanov? Petrov? Sidorov? Who's he? His relative? His friend? Nothing of the kind! He's never seen him, doesn't know and doesn't need to know him.... It's important to him that the government should get another engineer. That's what he cares about." "You think that's wrong?" Slava smiled. "I'm not saying it's wrong," Konstantin Alekseyevich said, still pacing the room. Then he stopped in front of Genka. "See, Genka, they've defeated us. Eh?" "Why 'us'?" Genka objected. "You, not 'us'." "How's that?" Konstantin Alekseyevich asked, truly astonished. "Only a minute ago you were supporting my point of view, I think?" "Oh," Genka drawled, "that was ages ago!" and moved to another part of the room. "I beg your pardon," Konstantin Alekseyevich said with a helpless gesture, "my only ally has gone over to the enemy. Well, and what are you going to be?" "I'm going to serve in the navy," Genka announced. "He keeps changing his mind every minute," Slava laughed. "Just half an hour ago he said he was going to a factory school and now he wants to be a sailor." "First to the factory school and then to the navy," Genka said coolly. "Well, well. What about you, Misha?" "I don't know. I haven't decided yet." "He also wants to go to a factory school," Genka shouted, "I know, and after that he wants to go to the Communist University." "Shut up, Genka!" Misha stopped him. "Yes," Konstantin Alekseyevich said, shaking his head, "you're aiming high. But I thought you intended finishing secondary school, Misha." "I don’t know," Misha replied unwillingly, "it's difficult for Mother." "They won't let him leave school!" Slava interrupted. "He's at the top of the class." "I can study in the evenings," Misha said. "Many Komsomol members work in the day-time and study in the evenings. We'll see how it works out." He looked at the clock. His glance caught the minute hand as it jerked and stopped at the figure 9. Quarter to twelve. The boys got ready to go home. "Well, well," said Konstantin Alekseyevich, beaming at them in approval as he shook hands with them. "A little argument isn't going to spoil our friendship, I hope. You know I wish you real success in everything you do."

164

Chapter 66 CORRESPONDENCE A week later the boys had a reply from the address bureau. "In reply to your request," it said, "we are informing you that inquiries must be accompanied by the year and place of birth of the party concerned." "Try and find out where and when this Maria Gavrilovna was born," Genka said. "We'll have to go to Petrograd." "There'll be time enough for that," Misha replied. "As for this reply, it's a piece of sheer red tape. We'll write to the secretary of the Komsomol cell there." The friends composed the following letter: To the Secretary Komsomol Cell, Address Bureau, Petrograd. Dear Comrade Secretary, Excuse us for troubling you, but the matter is very important. Before the war, in 1914, Vladimir Vladimirovich Terentyev lived in Petrograd with his wife Ksenia Sigizmundovna and his mother Maria Gavrilovna, at the S. S. Vasilyeva Residence, Moika Street. Would you please tell us if they are still living there. Not all of them, of course, because Vladimir Vladimirovich was blown up on a battleship; but his mother and wife are probably alive. We have already sent an inquiry, but your people want us to give them the year and place of birth of the Terentyevs, which is sheer red tape. As the secretary of the Komsomol cell you ought to give serious attention to this red tape and burn it out with red-hot irons. With Young Pioneer greetings, Polyakov, Petrov, Eldarov. They posted the letter and waited. Half the school year had almost come to an end. The boys were well up in all their subjects; only Genka lagged behind in German. "I don't see why they're filling us up with this deutsche Sprache." "What do you mean... why?" Misha replied. "What if we go to Germany?" "How'll we go there?" "Very simply: we'll just up and go." The boys studied specially hard during these days, and there was plenty to do in the Young Pioneer Detachment as well. That left them with hardly any free evenings. There was the work for the children's home that the detachment had taken under its wing, there were the classes in the workshops at the House of Young Pioneers, there were meetings of their Young Pioneer group, meetings of the school committee. Then by this time the boys never missed open Komsomol meetings, and there were the evenings they spent at the hobbies circle. Every Sunday morning there was

165

the Young Pioneer detachment meeting, and Misha's group had to keep up their correspondence with the Young Pioneers of the Orekhovo-Zuyevo district and with sailors in the Red Navy. And there was the skating rink at least two or three times a week. The friends would arrive at the skating rink in the evening, hurriedly change on the crowded benches, tie on their skates, and take their belongings to the cloak-room. The skates would ring hollowly on the wooden floor of the cloak-room, which would fill with clouds of white frosty air streaming in from the skating rink through the constantly opening door. Adult skaters changed in a separate room. They emerged from it in black close-fitting skating suits and caps. The boys would whisper admiringly: "Melnikov... Ippolitov... Kushin... " (Skating champions—Tr.) Pools of light from the arc-lamps illumined the snowy strips on the ice. The skaters circled round and round and their aimless skating made them appear grotesque. Although they moved in a mass, they either held themselves aloof or skated in pairs, overtaking each other. The beginners skated gingerly, lifting their legs high in the air, pushing off clumsily, and going forward awkwardly under their own momentum. All the boys had beginner's skates except Yura Stotsky. He had Norwegian racers. Dressed in a black knitted suit he skated only on the racing track, his body bent well forward and his hands behind his back. Every line of his face and body expressed whole-hearted contempt for all the other boys. Misha and Slava paid no attention to him, but Genka could not tolerate Yura's superior attitude, and one day turned into the track and tried to race him. Genka was a very good skater, the best in the school, but his skates were no match for Yura's. He disgraced himself by falling a whole half-circle behind Yura. After this "race" all Genka's friends began to tease him and ask when he intended competing with Yura Stotsky again. They suggested cutting off the rounded ends of his skates and sharpening the blades with a file. At the skating rink he always had a troop of boys in tow, egging him on. "Hey, felt boots, how about a new record!" Yura Stotsky basked in triumph. Genka, dispirited, stopped going to the rink and no longer skated in the streets. He went about very gloomy, but one day he surprised his friends by inviting them to his birthday party the following Saturday. "Is it going to be a Dutch treat?" "The treat's on me, but you'll bring the presents." "All right. We'll come and see what your hospitality's like." Chapter 67 GENKA'S BIRTHDAY PARTY

166

On Saturday evening the boys went to Genka's and their eyes popped with amazement at the sight of the festively laden table. At one end of it stood a steaming samovar, with a coloured tea-pot on top. In the middle of the table were plates filled with food: slices of pork, curd dumplings in cream, pies, and sweets. The table was laid for six. Aunt Agrippina was fussing round the table. "What a spread!" Misha drawled. "Good for you, Genka!" "Nothing special," said Genka carelessly. "Won't you sit down?" He made a theatrical gesture, inviting them to the table. "Why are you inviting them to the table so soon," said Aunt Agrippina. "Aren't you going to wait for the others?" "Who?" the boys asked in one voice. Genka flushed. "Mikhail Korovin, and no one else. Honest, no one else is coming." "And who's this for?" Misha pointed to the sixth plate. "That? Oh, that. That's just in case. You never know... someone might drop in." "Where'd you get the money for all this?" Misha asked. Genka smiled. "That's my secret." He turned to Aunt Agrippina but not in time to stop her. "His father sent it," she said, giving him away. "I told him: Gennady, there's enough food here to last us a month, but he wouldn't listen. Put it all on the table, he says, and be done with it. Just like his father!" she added; but though she said it reproachfully there was a note of admiration in her voice. "He even sent some sweets," Misha remarked. "No," interjected Aunt Agrippina. "Genka bought those himself. He sold his skates." "Auntie," Genka cried, "didn't I ask you not to say anything?" "I don't see why I shouldn't say it," said Aunt Agrippina, waving Genka aside. "It's better that way. Less wear and tear on your felt boots."

167

"If I had known you'd sold your skates for this," Misha said, "I wouldn't have come." "I'll manage without skates," Genka said shaking his head. "The ones I had were rotten anyway! I'll buy Norwegian racers when I start working. You sold your stamp collection, didn't you? Why?" "I had to," Misha replied evasively. "I know," Genka said, "you're saving for a leather jacket. You want to look like a real Komsomol member." "Maybe," Misha parried. "Slava sold his chessmen." "You didn't, did you?" Genka said in surprise. "Not the ivory ones? Whatever for?" "I had to," Slava said, also evasively. The bell rang three times. "More guests!" Aunt Agrippina announced and went to open the door. Mikhail Korovin walked in dressed in the school uniform and cap of the labour colony. (These colonies were first organized in Poltava by A. Makarenko, the remarkable Soviet pedagogue, with permission from the Public Education Department. Later Makarenko described them in his hooks The Road to Life and Learning to Live—Ed.) He shook hands with the boys, took off his coat, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, chose one and lit it. "How are things?" Misha asked. "Oh, all right. I passed the fourth-category examinations yesterday." "What will your wages be now?" "About ninety roubles," Korovin replied nonchalantly, pulling out of his pocket a watch the size of an alarm clock. He pressed it to his ear and said, "Can't find time to take it to the watchmaker's. Have to get it cleaned." "Let's see!" Genka took the watch and put it to his ear. "Runs smoothly enough." "Yes, it does," Korovin said, "fifteen jewels." He put the watch away in his jacket pocket and added: "They've organized a Komsomol cell at our place. I've already sent in an application." Ninety roubles a month and a watch the boys could just about tolerate. But the last piece of news was too much for them. They were still Young

168

Pioneers, were only dreaming of the day when they would join the Komsomol and here was Korovin, already handing in an application. "We shall join the Komsomol, too," Misha announced, "straight from the detachment." He gave Genka and Slava a sidelong glance. They maintained an important silence as though Misha had told the truth. "Guess who's been sent to our school?" Korovin asked. "Who?" "Borka the Skinflint." "Is that a fact?" "Uh-huh. His father almost killed him because of the sheath. He ran away and now he's with us." "Well, how is he?" "All right. Reforming." The bell rang again. Aunt Agrippina went to open the door. Genka stood in the middle of the room, embarrassed and silent. The door opened and Zina Kruglova entered.... So that was it! Misha and Slava exchanged meaning looks. Genka did not move from the spot, but held out his hand and mumbled: "Won't you sit down?" Zina giggled and everybody laughed. That brought Genka to his senses. He assumed the theatrical pose and announced: "Dear guests, thanks for your congratulations, and now I'll accept your presents! Please don't push. Keep your places in the queue!" Zina laughed till she was out of breath. She was so full of fun! Her present was a clown whose shock of hair made him look very much like Genka. "Wonderful!" Genka said. "Girls always do the proper thing. I wonder what the boys are going to gladden my eyes with?" "Oh, yes," Misha suddenly recollected, "I'd almost forgotten." He opened his schoolbag and took out a packet. His face was so serious as he opened it that everyone fell silent and watched the movement of his hands. Misha opened the packet slowly as though the silent anticipation of his friends had not communicated itself to him. When only the last wrapping remained and the outlines of some long object could be made out clearly, Misha stopped and looked around. Genka bent forward impatiently. Misha unfolded the last wrapping and the steel blade of one skate flashed in his hands.... A Norwegian racer! Genka carefully took the skate. First he looked at it without saying anything, then began feeling it, ran his fingernail along the blade, put it to his ear, snapped his fingers and finally said: "Oh, this is great! Where's the other?" Misha threw out his hands. "That's all there is—I couldn't get the second one." Genka pulled a long face. "Never mind," Misha sighed, "you'll manage on one for the time being." Genka wore such a sorry expression that even Zina did not laugh, although it was funny to think of Genka at the skating rink on one racer. Genka put his present on a stool, and sighed heavily. "Well, won't you please sit down," he said sadly.

169

"Wait a minute," Slava stopped him, "I've got a present for you, too." He put his hand into his briefcase, rummaged a long time and there was the second skate. "Fooled again!" Genka whooped. Then he stopped, and looked closely at his friends. "That means," he said slowly, "the stamp collection, the chessmen, the leather jacket...." "That's enough," Misha interrupted him, "let's forget it." Chapter 68 PUSHKINO The reply from Petrograd finally came. "Hello, boys! "Your letter reached me. We have many Terentyevs, but not the ones you want. Vasilyeva, the former landlady, whom I went to see personally, said that Terentyev and his wife lived in her house before the war and that the mother lived somewhere near Moscow. That is all I could learn. About the red tape you mentioned, I would advise you to go easy. Petrograd has thousands of Terentyevs and it is impossible to give their addresses without precise information. With Komsomol greetings, "Kupriyanov." "There," Misha said, "learn how to make use of the achievements of science and technique." 'Where does technique come into it?" Genka asked. 'Don't you see? Isn't the postal service a kind of technique? That's the way sensible people go about things, while thoughtless people fly all over the place.". "That answer about red tape let you down, didn't it?" Genka said caustically. "It did not," Misha answered, "but that's not the point. We'll go to Pushkino on Sunday and take along our skis." "Why skis?" Slava asked, surprised. "As a blind." The following Sunday the boys got off the train at Pushkino station. Each was carrying a pair of skis and sticks. Along the high wooden platform of the rickety railway station stood numerous kiosks piled high with snow. Beyond them, stretching in different directions lay several streets lined with dark fencing that enclosed each

170

square plot of land round the wooden country cottages with their glass green-houses. A little path, trampled hard by footsteps in the deep snow, led up to each cottage. The only sign of life in the seemingly deserted neighbourhood was the curling blue smoke rising from the chimneys. "Slava, you come with me. We'll do one side of the street, and you, Genka, do the other," Misha said. "The main thing is to look at every nameplate." "That'll take us a whole year," Slava remarked. "We'd do better to ask at the local Soviet." "That won't do," Misha objected. "This is a small neighbourhood and it'll make people suspicious." "Who've we got to be afraid of?" Genka argued. "The old woman'll be happy when we find the treasure." "You've never seen her and you're already arguing," Misha said. "Come on." They searched all day but did not find the cottage Terentyeva lived in. "We shan't get anywhere like this," Slava sighed when the boys returned to the station, "half the houses have no name-plate. We'll have to ask at the local Soviet." "But I've already told you we can't do that," Misha said, getting angry. "Have you forgotten what Sviridov said? This is a very delicate matter. We'll come back next Sunday and continue the search." The boys took off their skis. When they reached the ticket window, someone called out to them. "Hello, boys!" They turned round and saw Elena and Igor. Elena was smiling in a friendly way. Her flaxen locks escaped from her little fur cap and fell on the collar of her coat. Igor, as usual, looked serious. "Haven't seen you for ages," he said gruffly as he shook hands with them. "Been out skiing?" Elena asked. "Why didn't you come to see us?" "We didn't know you lived here," Misha replied. "Yes, we live here. We have a cottage in the neighbourhood. Won't you come?" "It's late," Misha said, "we'll come next Sunday." "We'll be here, never fear," Genka added mysteriously. "We have business here." "What business?" Elena asked. "Oh, nothing much," Misha said with a fierce look at Genka. "Do tell me," Elena insisted. "I'm looking for my aunt," Genka announced suddenly. This surprised Elena. "Isn't your aunt living in Moscow?" "Yes, but this is a different one. Can't I have two aunts?" "And you didn't find her?" "No, we lost the address." "What's her name?" The boys did not answer.

171

"What's her name? Have you lost that, too?" "Her name's Terentyeva, and she's called Maria Gavrilovna!" Misha said unexpectedly. "Do you know her?" "Terentyeva, Maria Gavrilovna? I know her. She's our neighbour. Come on, we'll show you." Chapter 69 NIKITSKY "Remember," Misha said on the way, "you mustn't tell Genka's aunt that he's looking for her." "Why not?" "That's a long story. She thinks Genka's dead and she has to be prepared. If we drop on her out of the blue she may have a stroke and die of happiness. She's an ailing woman, and... well, you know what a 'nephew' she's got!" "We hardly know her," Elena replied. "She doesn't see anybody." "On the whole," Misha continued, "don't mention this to anyone. And don't tell your father." "Father's dead," Elena said. "I'm sorry, I didn't know." After a moment's silence he asked, "How are you getting along now?" "We live by ourselves. Igor and I work at the circus." They approached Elena's home. "This is where she lives," Elena pointed to a neighbouring cottage. Behind the tall fence they saw only the roof, with a porous crust of snow along its edges. "What's this street called?" Misha asked. "Yamskaya Sloboda," Igor said. "Our number's eighteen, and Terentyeva's twenty." "Is that how well you looked?" Misha rebuked Genka. "I can't understand how I missed it," Genka mumbled, averting his eyes. "This side hasn't even a ski trail," Slava noted. "That can't be," Genka muttered, looking at the path. "What's happened to it? It's got rubbed out! That's all. Look how much traffic there's been!" He pointed to the deserted street. "Come in for a moment," coaxed Elena. "True, we haven't been home for three days, but we'll get the stove going in a jiffy and it'll soon warm up." The cottage was small and quiet. The windows were heavily frosted over. The wall clock ticked rhythmically. The floor-boards creaked slightly as the friends entered the house. Brightly coloured rugs lay on the well-scrubbed floor, and a big paraffin lamp hung over the table that was covered with a flowered oilcloth. On the wall were large framed portraits of a man and woman. The man had a thick moustache, and his hair was neatly parted. His smooth-shaven chin rested on the bent corners of his stiffly starched collar.

172

"Just like Grandfather's portrait in Revsk," Misha thought. Elena changed into an old coat, put on felt boots, and tied a kerchief round her head. This made her look like a village girl with her laughing blue eyes and straight little nose. "Let's fetch the fire-wood," she called to Igor. "We'll bring it," the boys shouted. "Show us where it is." They trooped into the back-yard. Elena opened the shed and Misha and Genka began chopping the wood. Slava and Igor carried it into the house, and while the boys were busy Elena went for water, rattling the pails as she went. Genka worked with a will. "We'll chop up the lot," he muttered, swinging the axe. "Why bother each time you want wood." But one of the logs did not yield to his efforts. "Chuck it out and take another," Misha advised. "No." Genka was red in the face and his peaked cap had slipped to the back of his head. "This log's stubborn, but so am I." Soon both stoves in the house were crackling with a bright flame. The youngsters sat round the stove in the little kitchen; Elena and Slava on chairs and the others on the floor. "This is how we live," Elena sighed, taking up her knitting. "We only come here on our day off, when we're not performing." "We must move to Moscow," Igor said gruffly. "I shall be sorry to leave," Elena objected, "Mother and Father lived here."

The flames roared up the pipe and bright flares flickered on the floor. "We'll be here all the week," Elena said. "It would be fun if you'd come down for a visit." "I don't know if we can manage it," Misha replied. "We'll be very busy this week. To-morrow there's a meeting to decide whether to recommend us for the Komsomol. If they decide to recommend us, then we'll have to go to the cell bureau, then to the Komsomol cell Committee, and then to the district committee of the Komsomol. "You're going to be Komsomol members already?" Elena asked in surprise. "Yes." Misha was silent for a moment, then asked, "Tell me, have you got an attic?"

173

"Yes." "Can you see the Terentyev garden from it?" "Yes. But why do you ask?" "I'd like to take a look." "Come on, I'll show you." Misha and Elena went out into the cold corridor and climbed the steep staircase to the attic. "Give me your hand," Elena offered, "you might stumble." They went across to the window. The whole neighbourhood lay before them, its streets dividing it into squares. Beyond it were the woods, severed by the railway line. Houses, sheds, and fences threw long shadows on the snow. It was almost as light as day. Elena stood beside Misha. The moonlight made her face look quite transparent, only her thin eyebrows and curled lashes stood out black against it. She held Misha by the hand and both were silent.... Misha looked into the Terentyeva's back-yard. It was large and deserted. There were some logs and wooden buildings near the fence. Somewhere an engine whistled and suddenly broke off again. Misha was still watching the back-yard when the door of the cottage suddenly opened. A tall man emerged with a short fur jacket thrown over his shoulders. He stood with his back to Misha smoking. Then he threw the stub on the snow and turned slowly. Misha squeezed Elena's hand with all his strength. The man was Nikitsky.

Chapter 70 ABOUT FATHER

174

The friends returned to Moscow late that night, and when Misha reached home it was already midnight. Mother was sitting at the table reading a book. When Misha entered she turned and shook her head in silent reproach. "You see, Mother," Misha said quickly, "we met some friends in Pushkino and that's why I'm so late. We had supper there, so don't worry." He looked over her shoulder. "What are you reading? Oh, Anna Karenina. His mother felt the note of indifference in his voice. "You don't like it?" she asked. "Not specially. I prefer War and Peace." Misha sat on the bed and began undressing. "Why?" "Why?" Misha thought for a moment, then said, "In War and Peace all the heroes are serious: Bolkonsky, Bezukhov, Rostov.... But here you can't understand what they are. That Stiva's an idler. A man of forty and acting the baby all the time!" "Not all the heroes are so carefree," Mother objected. "Take Levin, for example." "Yes, Levin, of course, is a little more serious. But then he's not interested in anything except his farm." "You must understand," Mother said, slowly choosing her words, "that these people were typical of their time, of their society...." "I understand all that." Misha was already under the blanket and his arms were folded under his head. "That was high society. War and Peace, too, shows us this high society. But look at the difference. There the people have aims and aspirations, they recognize their duty to society, but in your book you can't understand what they live for. Vronsky and Stiva, for instance. Tell me: a person must have some aim in life, mustn't he?" "Naturally," Mother said, "but I think every hero and heroine in Anna Karenina has an aim. True, their aims are personal: for example, personal happiness, life with the person one loves. Little aims, but they're aims all the same." Misha raised himself on his elbow. "D'you call that an aim, Mother? If we reason that way then every person has an aim. Then a drunkard also has an aim: to get drunk every day. And the bourgeois aims at making a fortune. But that's not the sort of aim I mean." "What sort of aim do you mean, then?" "Well, how can I put it. One's aim ought to be lofty, you understand? Noble." "But you haven't told me yet what you mean." "Well, for example, I spoke with Slava's father the other day. He told me himself. In the old days he worked only for money. He went where they'd pay him most. That meant he hadn't a lofty aim. And if he's working all day now and wants to restore the factory so that our country will have lots of goods, that means he has a noble aim. Perhaps my example isn't a very good

175

one, but that's how I understand it." "How can he be blamed? You know very well that he couldn't have set himself that aim before. He worked for a capitalist and of course he wasn't interested in anything except his salary." "Well, he shouldn't have done," Misha replied decisively. "Father didn't work for capitalists." "That isn't quite true," Mother shook her head. "Father, too, had to work for capitalists." "But that's altogether different. He worked to earn a living. But that was not the main thing in his life. He was a revolutionary. And he gave his life for the Revolution. That means he had the most lofty, most noble aim." They were silent. "You know, Mother," Misha said, "I can picture Father quite well. It seems to me he was never afraid of anything." "No, he wasn't," Mother replied. "He was very courageous." "And then," Misha continued, "I think he never thought about himself, his own well-being, and that he placed the interests of the Revolution above everything." Mother did not reply. Misha knew that to think of Father always made her sad and he did not ask her any more questions. Then Mother, closed her book, turned off the light, and went to bed; but Misha lay a long time with his eyes open, looking at the moonlight slipping into the room. His talk with Mother had disturbed him. Perhaps it was only now when they were speaking about aims in life, that he was distinctly feeling for the first time that his childhood had ended and that he was now on the highroad of life. In thinking of his future he did not wish for any other life than the one lived by his father and people like his father, who had given their lives to the great cause of the Revolution.... Chapter 71 GENKA'S BLUNDER On the morning after the trip to Pushkino Misha told Comrade Sviridov that he had seen Nikitsky, and Sviridov ordered the boys to wait and not to go to Pushkino again. Meanwhile our friends were occupied with other affairs. The detachment council had decided to recommend a group of Young Pioneers for the Komsomol, and the group included Misha, Genka, Slava, Shura Ogureyev, and Zina Kruglova. Their own Komsomol cell had already accepted them and they were now preparing to appear before the reception commission of the Komsomol District Committee. Misha was very worried. He could not believe that he would soon be a Komsomol member. Was it possible that his cherished dream was coming

176

true? He looked with secret &envy at the Komsomol members filling the corridors and rooms at the district committee. What cheerful, confident youngsters they were! It would be interesting to know what they had experienced when they had faced the reception commission? Most probably they, too, had worried. But for them all that was a thing of the past, while he, Misha, was standing in front of a big door covered with posters, timidly waiting for his turn. The commission was deliberating behind this door and there his fate would soon be decided. Genka was called first. "Well what?" his friends surrounded him when he came out of the room. "Everything in order. I answered all the questions." He told them the questions he had been asked and the answers he had given. One of the questions was: what is the probationary period for school children? "I said six months," Genka said. "That's the wrong answer," Misha objected. "A year." "No, six months," Genka insisted. "That's what I told them and the chairman said it was right." "But how could that be?" Misha was perplexed, "I read the Rules myself." Misha's turn came. He went into the big room. The commission was in conference at one of the tables, at the end of which sat Nikolai Sevostyanov. Misha sat down shyly, nervously waiting for the questions. The chairman, a fair-haired young man in a Russian shirt and leather jacket, hurriedly read Misha's application form, putting in "I see," after every word. "Polyakov—I see, Mikhail Grigoryevich—I see, pupil—I see." "One of our active members," Nikolai Sevostyanov smiled, "group leader and member of the school council." "Don't praise your own people," the chairman cut him short, "we'll do our own examining."

Misha replied to all the questions. The last was about the probationary

177

period. Misha knew it was a year, but Genka. . . "Six months," he said indecisively. "Wrong," the chairman said. "A year. You may go."

After they had all been called before the commission the boys hurried to keep their appointment with Sviridov. He said he would expect them at ten o'clock. On the way Misha and Slava upbraided Genka. Slava, too, had given the wrong answer. "We'll have to begin all over again," Misha was saying. "They'll accept everyone except us. We'll be a disgrace to the whole school!" "But he is a howling success at the skating rink!" Slava smirked. "Wastes whole days there, doesn't even read the papers-" Crushed by all that had happened, Genka did not reply, but breathed fiercely on the heavily frosted window of the tram-car. However, his silence did not help. His friends continued upbraiding him and the thing that hurt most was that they spoke of him in the third person, without even addressing him. "Everything in order," Misha teased him. "You can't beat us fellows! We know how to look after ourselves, we can do everything." "And we're the boys for an easy victory," Slava added. "He dreams of treasure all the time," Misha said unappeased, "treasure, treasure. Just look at the treasure-hunter!" "He wants to be a millionaire," Slava added in a kinder tone. He was evidently beginning to feel sorry for his crestfallen friend. They arrived at a tall building. On the ground floor they were given passes to Comrade Sviridov in room No. 203. "Is this how you keep an appointment, my friends?" Sviridov asked sternly when the boys entered his office. "We were held up at the Komsomol District Committee. The reception commission, you know," Misha replied. "Is that so?" Sviridov raised his eyebrows. "Then may I offer my congratulations."

178

The boys sighed dejectedly. "What's the matter?" Sviridov asked, looking closely at them. "Anything wrong?" "We flopped," Misha said, averting his eyes. "Flopped?" Sviridov said in astonishment. "On what?" "On the question about probation." "It was my fault," Genka said glumly. "Did you give the right answers to the other questions?" "We think so." "Keep your chins up!" Sviridov laughed. "They won't reject you for one wrong answer. Who wants to be and is worthy of being a Komsomol member will surely be one. Take my advice and don't worry. And now boys, let's get down to our business. Listen carefully. Nikitsky insists his name is Sergei Ivanovich Nikolsky. Moreover, he's named some witnesses, including Filin," Sviridov smiled, "although they all quarrelled after they lost the sheath. Filin's blaming the stamp dealer and the stamp dealer's blaming Filin. By the way," he scrutinized the boys, "they moved those boxes from the cellars in time— someone had obviously frightened them." The friends flushed and stared at the floor. "Yes," Sviridov repeated with a hardly perceptible smile, "someone frightened them. However, they did not succeed in hiding them far." He looked again at the boys and burst out laughing. "I know what's bothering you. You want to know what that storehouse contained. I'll satisfy your curiosity later, but in the meantime I've arranged to confront each of you with Nikitsky. You must say all you know. Reply truthfully to all questions. Don't make anything up. Now go to the next room and wait. I'll have you called when you're wanted. And another thing," Sviridov drew the dirk out of a drawer and gave it to Misha, "when I ask why Nikitsky murdered Terentyev, you, Polyakov, show the dirk." Chapter 73 FACE TO FACE WITH NIKITSKY Slava was called first, then Genka, and finally Misha. When Misha came into the room, in addition to Sviridov, there was a middle-aged man in a naval uniform sitting at the table, a pipe in his mouth. Genka and Slava were sitting gravely .near the wall, their caps on their knees. A sentry with a rifle in his hand stood by the door. Nikitsky sat on a chair in the middle of the room, facing Sviridov. He wore an officer's jacket, blue riding breeches, and top boots and had adopted a careless pose, one leg crossed over the other. His dark hair was combed back neatly. Sparkling dots of sunlight flashed about the room. It was only then that Misha noticed a hardly visible scar on Nikitsky's cheek.

179

As Misha entered, Nikitsky shot a keen, rapid glance at him. But this was neither Revsk nor the plate-layer's hut. Misha looked steadily back at Nikitsky, and as he looked he recalled Polevoy, knocked about and covered with blood, the wrecked railway line, the green field with the riderless horses galloping frenziedly up and down. "Do you know this man?" Sviridov asked, pointing to Nikitsky. "Yes." "Who is he?" "Valeri Sigizmundovich Nikitsky," Misha replied firmly, facing Nikitsky. Nikitsky did not move. "Tell me in detail how you came to know him," Sviridov said. Misha described the raid on Revsk, the attack on the troop train, Filin's store-room. "What have you to say to this, citizen Nikitsky?" Sviridov asked. "I've already told you," Nikitsky replied calmly, "that you have more serious testimony than the inventions of this child." "Do you insist on alleging that you are Sergei Ivanovich Nikolsky?" "Yes." "And that you lived in the home of Maria Gavrilovna Terentyeva on the grounds that she knew you served under her son, Vladimir Vladimirovich Terentyev?" "Yes. She can confirm this." "Do you continue to allege that Vladimir Vladimirovich Terentyev was killed in the explosion that sank the Empress Maria?" "Yes. Everyone knows that. I tried to save him. I, myself, was picked up by a launch." "So you tried to save him?" "Yes." "All right. Now you, Polyakov, tell me," Sviridov spoke very slowly and watched Nikitsky intently. "Do you know who shot Terentyev?" "He did," Misha replied firmly and pointed to Nikitsky. Nikitsky continued to sit motionless. "Polevoy told me, and he saw everything himself." "What have you to say to this?" Sviridov asked Nikitsky. Nikitsky smiled lamely. "I've never heard anything more absurd. After all that, would I be living in the home of his mother? If you like to believe such nonsense, then that's your affair." "Polyakov, can you produce any proofs?" Misha took the dirk out of his pocket and placed it in front of Sviridov. Nikitsky glued his eyes to the dirk. Sviridov pulled the blade out of the sheath, drew out the handle and extracted the metal scroll. He then slowly put the dirk together again. Nikitsky followed the movement of his hands. "Well, citizen Nikitsky, are you familiar with this object?" Nikitsky leaned back heavily in his chair. "I've never seen it before."

180

"Being stubborn won't help you," Sviridov said calmly and placed the dirk under some papers. "Let us proceed. Bring in the witness Maria Gavrilovna Terentyeva," he ordered the sentry. A tall old woman came slowly in. She was wearing a black coat, and strands of grey hair escaped from under her black shawl. "Will you please take a seat." Sviridov indicated a chair. She sat down and closed her eyes wearily. "Citizeness Terentyeva, will you please tell me the name of this man," Sviridov said. "Sergei Ivanovich Nikolsky," Terentyeva replied quietly without raising her eyes. "Where, when, and under what circumstances did you come to know him?" "He brought a letter from my son during the war." "What was your son's name?" "Vladimir." "Where is he?" "He was killed." "When?" "October 7, 1916, when the Empress Maria blew up." "Are you sure he was killed in the explosion?" "Of course," she raised her eyes and looked at Sviridov in consternation, "of course. I was officially notified." "Were you sent his things?" "No. How could they be sent? Who could have saved them?" "That means all your son's belongings were lost?" "I think so." "Will you please come up to the table." Terentyeva rose heavily and slowly approached the table. Sviridov drew the dirk from under the papers and held it out to the woman. "Do you recognize this dirk?" he asked sharply. "Yes," Terentyeva said, examining the dirk. "Yes." She looked at Nikitsky in dismay, but he made no movement. "Yes, it's our... it's his dirk. It's Vladimir's." "Aren't you surprised that all your son's belongings were lost, yet this dirk was saved?" Terentyeva did not reply. Her fingers trembled on the edge of the table. "You have nothing to say," Sviridov said. "Then tell me, and I'm asking you for the last time, who is this man?" he pointed at Nikitsky. "Nikolsky," she said, her voice hardly audible. Sviridov rose. "All right," he announced, "I have to tell you, then, that this man," Sviridov raised his arm in Nikitsky's direction and Terentyeva followed it with a perplexed look, "that this man is the murderer of your son!" Terentyeva swayed and her trembling fingers clutched at the edge of the table.

181

"What?" she whispered in a choked voice, "what did you say?" Without looking at her Sviridov said in a dry, official tone: "On October 7, 1916, Lieutenant Nikitsky shot and killed Captain of the Second Rank Vladimir Vladimirovich Terentyev. The murder was committed with intent to steal this dirk." The room became quite still. The sentry shifted his weight from one foot to the other and his rifle butt hit the carpet faintly. Nikitsky sat without moving, his eyes fixed on the toe of his boot. Terentyeva stood motionless looking at Nikitsky, and her long, dry fingers gripped the edge of the table. "Valeri—Valeri," she kept repeating feebly. Then she reeled and began to fall. Sviridov and the man in the naval uniform sprang to her assistance. Chapter 73 THE TERENTYEV FAMILY A big car sped along the Yaroslav Highway. In it sat Sviridov, the sailor, Terentyeva, and our friends. The small houses of the Moscow suburbs flashed by; soon these gave way to pine woods, fields covered with grey, melting snow, and numerous villages. "This dirk," Maria Gavrilovna was saying, "once belonged to Polikarp Terentyev, a famous gunsmith who lived one hundred and fifty years ago. It is said that he got it during one of his Eastern campaigns." Misha nudged his friends and significantly raised a finger. "During the reign of Empress Elizaveta Petrovna," Maria Gavrilovna continued, "Polikarp Terentyev drove out to his estate and built a secret hiding place in his house. Apparently the circumstances of those disturbing times made this necessary. The house still contains some of the things he made: a casket with a secret, special pulleys, a hoist, even a clock of his own design. His greatest hobby was deep-sea diving. But all his designs for diving apparatus and plans to salvage some sunken vessel or other were, of course, fantastic for his time. All the same, diving and salvaging became a tradition in our family. Polikarp Terentyev's work was continued by his son and grandson, and by my son Vladimir. The family was always fitting out expeditions to distant countries. Vladimir's grandfather even spent some years in Ceylon trying to salvage a vessel. And Vladimir's father collected data about the Prince. But all this work was enveloped in mystery." "Interesting!" Sviridov said. "A feature of the secret hiding place," Maria Gavrilovna went on, "was that it was known only to one person in the house—the head of the family. The code indicating the whereabouts of the secret was put into the dirk by the old man. My son was the last of the Terentyevs. His father gave him the dirk in December 1915 and Vladimir came to Pushkino specially to get it. It

182

was then that he quarrelled with his wife, Ksenia. She wanted him to leave the dirk with her and show her the secret hiding place. Ksenia's brother, Valeri Nikitsky, played a big role in that quarrel. Possibly he thought that the hiding place contained valuables. He was mistaken, of course. If that had been the case, Vladimir would have undoubtedly left the dirk in my keeping before he left." Misha and Slava gave Genka a mocking look. "Last year," Maria Gavrilovna continued, "Valeri came to me and assured me that the hiding place contained some documents compromising Vladimir. He said that Vladimir had died in his arms and that before he died he had asked him to destroy these documents and save his honour. Valeri assured me that this was why he remained in Russia and was forced to go into hiding." The car turned into Pushkino and stopped in front of Terentyeva's house. It was an old brick house with columns in front of it. The numerous outhouses in the grounds were neglected and partly in ruins, but the house itself was preserved. The smooth snow near the right wing of the house and the frost-covered windows showed that only the left wing was occupied.

They went into the dining-room in the middle of which stood a long table with round legs. One corner of the table-cloth was turned up, and on the oilcloth were three small mounds of buckwheat: someone had evidently been sorting it. "We have many clocks in the house," Maria Gavrilovna said, "and I don't know which one is indicated." "Most likely the one you spoke about," Sviridov remarked. "That one is in the library." A big clock in a wooden casing stood in an alcove in the library. Its face was yellow behind the glass. Near the opening for the winding key there was a hardly perceptible slit. Sviridov opened the clock face. The pendulum swayed slantwise and clattered.

183

Sviridov moved the hands to one minute to twelve, inserted the bronze serpent from the dirk into the slit, and, carefully turning it to the right, wound the clock. Everyone waited in tense expectation. Genka stood with his mouth wide open. The minute hand trembled and moved—a little door opened above the face and a cuckoo hopped out. It sang out "cuckoo" twelve times, then the clock whirred, the cuckoo jerked forward, and the whole tower of the clock moved forward leaving the upper part of the clock-case open. The clockcase had double walls. The cunning part about the hiding place was that the clock-case appeared to be made of a solid piece of wood. It was only when the clock was wound up by the serpent that the tower rose and revealed the hiding place, which consisted of a deep square box filled with papers. There were blue-prints with frayed edges rolled and tied with thread, folders packed tightly with sheets of paper yellowed with age, note-books and a large morocco-covered writing-pad. Sviridov and the sailor carefully lifted out the documents, laid them out on the table, and began studying them attentively, exchanging a brief sentence every now and again. The boys pressed close to the table, also trying to see. "Everything's arranged according to seas and oceans," the sailor said. "There, even the Indian Ocean." On the cover of one folder he read: "Grosvenor, an English vessel. Sank in 1782 near Ceylon. Cargo: gold and precious stones. Betsy, a brig...." "Let's take a look at our own seas," Sviridov interrupted. "All right." The sailor sorted the folders and untied one which had the words Black Sea written on it. "Here is the title: Trapezund, a vessel belonging to Devlet-Girey, the Khan of the Crimea. The Prince sank in November 1854 in the Bay of Balaklava after striking rocks during a storm. Why, here's a whole list!" He turned over the papers, shaking his head. "This is very valuable! Precise co-ordinates of the location of sunken vessels, testimony of witnesses. A whole reference book, no less...." "Yes, it's wonderful," Sviridov said. "All this will be useful for our new salvage organization." "Yes," the sailor nodded, "very useful indeed." Chapter 74 NEW MEMBERS OF THE KOMSOMOL Again the car sped along the Yaroslav Highway, this time in the direction of Moscow. Misha, Genka, and Slava were sitting comfortably in the back seat. Sviridov and the sailor had remained behind at Terentyeva's house, but the boys had been sent back as they had to hurry to school for the meeting to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Red Army.

184

"I love riding in cars," Genka said, as he leaned against the soft back with an air of importance. "A habit," Misha remarked. "He was a nasty old man, all the same," Genka began. "Who?" "Polikarp Terentyev." "Why?" "He was too stingy even to leave some cash in the hiding place." "So that's it," Misha laughed. "Here, tell us some more about the thread." "What has thread got to do with it? You think I didn't know even then that the storehouse contained weapons? You can bet your boots I did. Only I told you it was thread on purpose. I wanted to have a secret of my own. Honest! And I realized that Nikitsky was a spy. You just see, in the end he'll confess that he blew up the Empress Maria." "Wasn't it remarkable," Misha said. "Nikitsky was still hiding in Pushkino, yet Sviridov already knew everything, so they'd have caught him at the frontier anyway." "Misha, what about the letter?" Slava asked. "Oh, yes!" Misha said remembering suddenly. He took a letter out of his pocket. Sviridov had handed it to him with a mysterious air. On the envelope someone had written neatly: To Mikhail Polyakov and Gennady Petrov. Personal. "See that?" Genka mocked Slava. "You're not even mentioned here." "Don't rush on," Misha stopped him, "we must read it first." He opened the letter and read aloud: Hello, dear Misha and Genka, Guess who this letter is from. Guessed? Well, of course, you guessed. That's right! It's me, Sergei Ivanovich Polevoy. Well, how are you getting along, Mikhail Grigoryevich? All right? Eh? Comrade Sviridov wrote to me about your affairs. Good for you! I never thought you would succeed in bringing down Nikitsky! It made me feel a little ashamed of the bit of cudgelling he gave me back in Revsk. You can have the dirk as a keepsake from me. I hear you have a third friend, so I'm giving it to the three of you. When you grow up and meet together, you'll look at it and recall the days of your youth! About myself I can tell you that I'm again serving in the fleet. Only I'm on a new job now. We're salvaging ships, repairing them, and sending them out to sail the high seas. This brings my little note to an end. I would like you to grow up to be real Communists and true sons of our great Revolution. With communist greetings, Polevoy. ... The car was already in the city and the Sukharyev Tower loomed before

185

the windscreen. "We're going to be late for the meeting," Misha said. "Perhaps we shouldn't go at all," Slava suggested. "It's not so interesting to watch other people getting Komsomol membership cards...." "That's the very reason why we have to be at the meeting," Misha declared, "otherwise we'll be ridiculed." "Here we are," the chauffeur announced. The boys scrambled out of the car and entered the school building. The meeting had already started. The staircase was quiet and deserted, only Auntie Brosha was sitting near the cloak-room with her everlasting knitting. "I'm not supposed to let anyone in," she said, "so that everybody should learn to come on time." "Oh, Auntie Brosha, dear," Misha pleaded, "for the sake of the anniversary." "Only for the sake of the anniversary, then," said Auntie Brosha. She smiled and took their coats. The boys went upstairs, tiptoed into the crowded hall, and stood just inside the door. Far down the hall they could see the table covered with a red cloth standing on the platform and the members of the presidium sitting behind it. The red streamer across the wall above the wide windows bore the words: "Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic Revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win." Misha could hardly read the words. The pale round February sun shone through the windows with such a strong light that it hurt his eyes to look at it. Nikolai Sevostyanov was finishing his speech. He shut his notebook and said: "Comrades! The solemnity of this occasion is enhanced for us by the fact that to-day, by decision of the Bureau of the Khamovniki District Committee of the Komsomol, the first group of the best Young Pioneers of our detachment have been accepted into the Komsomol." The faces of the three boys became flushed. Genka and Slava stood with their eyes on the floor, but Misha, though it hurt his eyes to do so, looked fixedly at the sun; it seemed to him that the entire horizon was covered with thousands of tiny shining suns. "Here are the names," Nikolai continued, and again opened his note-book, "Margarita Voroninay Zina Kruglova, Shura Ogureyev, Slava Eldarov, Misha Polyakov, Genka Petrov...." What was that? Had they heard right? The friends looked at each other, and Genka, in a burst of delight, slapped Slava on the back. Slava wanted to return the blow, but Alexandra Sergeyevna, sitting near them, raised her finger warningly, and Slava contented himself with just kicking Genka. Then everyone rose and sang the Internationale. Misha sang in ringing tones with an unexpected quaver in his voice. The shining disc beyond the windows grew brighter and brighter. Its rays

186

widened out and spread to the entire horizon with its outlines of houses, roofs, belfries, and Kremlin towers. Misha looked steadily at this disc. And before his eyes there rose the troop train, the Red Army soldiers, Polevoy in his grey army great-coat, and the muscular worker breaking with his sledge hammer the chains fettering the globe.

187

SOVIET LITERATURE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE ANATOLY RYBAKOV

THE BRONZE BIRD

188

FOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSE

Moscow ___________________________________________________ OCR: http://home.freeuk.com/russica2

189

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY DAVID SKVIRSKY DESIGNED BY V. ALEXEYEV ILLUSTRATED BY I. ILYINSKY

CONTENTS Part I. FUGITIVES Part II. PURSUIT Part III. GOLIGIN BRUSHWOOD ROAD Part IV. MUSEUM OF REGIONAL STUDIES Part V. THE SECRET OF THE BRONZE BIRD

190

Part I

FUGITIVES Chapter I

THINGS YOU CAN'T FORESEE

Genka and Slava were sitting on the bank of the Utcha. Genka, his red hair sticking out in all directions, his pants rolled up above his knees and the sleeves of his striped singlet above his elbows, was eyeing the tiny boat station with a disdainful expression on his face. "Call this a station!" he said, dangling his feet in the water. "They stuck a life belt on a hen-coop and think they've got a station!"

Slava was silent. His pale face, with its slight, rosy tan, looked thoughtful. Chewing a blade of grass in a melancholy way, he was reflecting on a distressing thing that had happened in the camp. Why did it have to happen just when he, Slava, had been left in charge? True, it was a duty he shared with Genka, but Genka never gave a hang for anything. Here he was dangling his feet in the water without a care in the world. That indeed was exactly what he was doing. "A station!" he commented. "Three broken-down tubs! I can't stand show-offs! And there's nothing to show off about! They should simply have written: 'boats for hire,' or 'landing.' That would have been modest and to the point. But 'station'!" "I'm sure I don't know what we're going to say to Kolya," Slava sighed. "What's there to say? We're not to blame. And if he starts lecturing I'm going to tell him straight, 'Look, Kolya, you've got to be objective. Nobody's to blame. Besides, life's full of things you can never foresee.'" And with a

191

philosophical air he added, "Yes, life would not be worth while living without them." "What are you talking about?" "Things you can't foresee." "You've got no sense of responsibility," Slava said, scanning the road leading from the railway station. "'Sense,' 'responsibility'!" Genka said with a contemptuous wave of his hand. "Beautiful words.... Everyone answers for himself. Back in Moscow I said we shouldn't take any Young Pioneers to camp with us. I warned them, didn't I? But nobody listened." "It's no use talking to you," Slava replied indifferently. For some time they sat in silence, Genka dangling his feet in the water and Slava chewing his blade of grass. It was baking hot in the July sun. A grasshopper was chirping tirelessly in the grass. The river, narrow and deep and hidden in the shadow of the shrubbery overhanging its banks, wound its way through fields, hugged the foot of the hills, carefully skirted round the villages and disappeared in the forest, hushed, dark and cool. The wind brought the sounds of a rural street from a village nestling at the foot of a mountain in the distance. The village looked like a haphazard heap of iron, plank and thatched roofs lying amidst the greenery of orchards. Near the stream, by the ferry, the bank was criss-crossed by a dense network of footpaths. Slava kept his eyes on the road. The Moscow train had probably arrived and Kolya Sevastyanov and Misha Polyakov would be here any minute. Slava sighed. "Sighing?" Genka smirked. "Those ohs and ahs! How many times have I told you...." "There they are!" Slava rose, shading his eyes with his hand. Genka stopped dangling his feet and climbed to the top of the bank. "Where? Hm. It's them all right. Misha's in front. Behind him.... No, it's not Kolya. Some chap or other. It's Korovin! 'Pon my word, it's Korovin, remember the chap who was a waif? And he's got a sack on his shoulders." "Books, probably." The boys gazed intently at the small figures moving up the narrow path across the fields. And although they were still far away, Genka spoke in a whisper: "Only bear in mind, Slava, I'll do all the talking. Don't interfere or you'll spoil everything. I'll pull it off, don't you worry. Especially as Kolya hasn't come. What's Misha? I know how to handle him even if he is the assistant leader." For all his bravado, Genka felt decidedly uncomfortable. There was an unpleasant talk ahead.

192

Chapter 2

UNPLEASANT TALK Misha and Korovin put the sacks down on the ground.

"Why are you here?" Misha demanded. He was in a dark blue cap and a leather jerkin, which he wore even in summer, believing that it made him look like a real Komsomol activist. "Just like that." Genka felt the sacks. "Books?" "Yes." "Where's Kolya?" "He won't be coming. He's been called up. He's going to the Navy." "I see," Genka drawled. "Who are they sending instead?" Misha did not reply at once. He took off his cap and smoothed his black hair. "Who are they sending?" Genka asked again. Misha did not reply at once because he had been appointed leader of the troop and did not know how to break this news to his friends in a way that would preclude their thinking he was putting on airs and make them immediately accept him as their leader. It was not easy to give orders to fellows you shared the same desk with. On the way Misha had thought of a phrase or two which he hoped would help him out of the difficulty. Diffidently, with exaggerated nonchalance, he said: "For the time being I've been put in charge." He had placed great hopes on the phrase "for the time being." Indeed, who should temporarily substitute for a leader if not the second in command? But the unassuming and shy "for the time being" did not make the impression he thought it would. "You?" Genka said, goggling his eyes. "But what weight will we carry in the village? Everybody, even the old folk, had a high opinion of Kolya." That forced Misha to draw upon the second of his prepared rescue phrases. "I turned down the appointment, but the District Committee confirmed it." Feeling the authority that the mention of the District Committee gave him, he asked sternly, "Why did you leave the camp?" "We left Zina Kruglova in charge," Genka put in hastily. That, Misha told himself, was the fruit of a little sternness. Slava, meanwhile, an apologetic tone in his voice, said: "You see, Misha...." But Genka cut him short: "How are you, Korovin? Have you come to pay us a visit?" "No, I'm here on business," Korovin replied, inhaling noisily through his nose. Thick-set, stocky, he looked fat and clumsy in his labour commune uniform. Beads of sweat shone on his face and he kept brushing the flies

193

away with his hand. "You've certainly put on weight at the commune," Genka noted. "The food's pretty good," Korovin said in his artless way. "What brings you here?" Misha explained that the children's home where Korovin lived was being converted into a labour commune and that it was taking over the local manor and estate for the purpose. They were expecting the headmaster tomorrow. Korovin had been sent on ahead to make inquiries. Out of modesty, Misha did not tell his friends that properly speaking this had been his idea. He had met Korovin in the street on the previous day and had learned from him that the children's home was looking for a place near Moscow in which to establish a labour commune. Misha said he knew of a place that he thought would be suitable. Their camp, he said, was in the former estate of Karagayevo. True, it was in Ryazan Gubernia, but that was not far from Moscow. The estate was untenanted. Nobody was living in the huge manor-house. Altogether it was a wonderful place, in fact the best that could be found for a commune. That same day Korovin had passed the information on to the headmaster, who told him to go with Misha, promising to follow on the next day. That was how Korovin really came to be here, but Misha did not tell his friends the whole story so that they would not think he was boasting. All he told them was that there would be a labour commune here. "Boy!" Genka whistled. "I can just see the countess letting them in!" "Who's that?" Korovin asked with a questioning look at Misha. "The estate," Genka explained, sawing the air with his hands> "belonged to a landlord, a certain Count Karagayev. He beat it after the Revolution, taking everything with him, except the house, of course. There's only an old woman, a relative of the count's or a hanger-on, living in the place. We call her the countess. She's looking after the manor and won't let anybody in. And that goes for you, too." Korovin again inhaled through his nose, but with a shade of injury this time: "How d'you mean she won't let us in? The estate belongs to the government." "Exactly," Misha hastily interposed. "The countess has a safeguard for the house only because it's a historical monument. Either Tsaritsa Elizabeth or Catherine II once stayed in it. And the countess thrusts that safeguard into everybody's noses. But judge for yourself, if all the houses the tsars and tsaritsas stayed in are to remain empty, then where are the people going to live?" And considering the question settled, he said, "Come on, chaps! Korovin and I've been hauling these sacks all the way from the station. You carry them now." Genka quickly lifted one of them. But Slava made no move. "You see, Misha," he said, "yesterday Igor and Seva...." "Oh yes," Genka said, interrupting him and lowering the sack to the ground, "I was going to tell you, but Slava shot his mouth. You're always doing that, Slava. Well, you see, Misha," he faltered, "the thing is.... How to

194

put it ...." "Stop beating about the bush," Misha said angrily. " 'You see,' 'you understand'!" "Hold your horses. It's like this. Igor and Seva have run away." "What! Where to?" "To fight the fascists." "What's all this nonsense!" "Here, read this yourself." Genka gave Misha a note. It was very short: "Good-bye, chaps, we've gone to fight the fascists. Igor. Seva." Misha read it a few times. "What utter nonsense!" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "When did this happen?" "Yesterday, I mean today," Genka began to explain. "Yesterday they went to bed the same time as everybody else, but when we woke up this morning, they were gone. We found this note. Last night I thought they were acting suspiciously when they suddenly began to polish their boots as though it were a holiday. It made me want to laugh." But Misha did not think it was a joke. "Have you looked for them?" "Everywhere. In the woods and in the village." "Fine deputies you are," Misha said with a deprecatory gesture of his hand, giving Genka and Slava a withering look. "What have we got to do with it?" Genka and Slava cried in unison. "Plenty! Nobody ran away before!" Genka pressed his hand to his breast. "I give you my word of honour." "You can keep your word of honour," Misha stopped him. "Let's go to the camp!" Genka and Slava shouldered the sacks and followed Misha. Chapter 3

THE MANOR

The path twisted and turned across fields. Genka chattered without stop, but when he spoke he had to wave his hands and so somehow, without anyone noticing it, the sack returned to Korovin's shoulders. "Even if you outwit the countess," Genka rambled on, "it won't be easy to organize a labour commune here and get things going. In fact, I'll say it's impossible. There's nothing in the estate, only the house. Not a thing else. No harrow, plough or cart. And don't think for a moment that the peasants got them. They were all pinched by the kulaks. I can swear to that! The kulaks they've got here have got all the others beat. You can't imagine what they're doing."

195

"What?" Korovin asked. "You are a numskull! We came here to organize a Young Pioneer troop, but look at the odds against us. First, the kulaks. Second, religion. Third, lack of understanding by the parents: they're not letting the kids join. When we put on a show, we get a full house, but the minute we announce a meeting, they all scatter." "I know all about that," Korovin observed meaningfully. "Exactly," Genka went on. "And the village kids themselves.... They're steeped in superstition! Wood-goblins and devils are all they talk about. Try and organize them!" "So you're finding it difficult, what?" "That's not the half of it," Genka said in a mournful voice, but the next moment he added boastfully, "but we've done harder things. And we'll get this job done too. Here, we've brought them books," he tapped the sack Korovin was carrying for him, "we're giving shows and we're helping to stamp out illiteracy. You'll see, we'll organize the first Young Pioneer troop. Isn't that right, Misha?" Misha made no reply. He was thinking how unhappily his duties as troop leader were starting. Two Young Pioneers had disappeared on the very first day. Where could they have gone? They could not go far without money or food. They might get lost in the woods, drown in the river, or get run over by a train. Should he inform their parents? No, not for the time being anyway. Why worry them for nothing? The boys would be found sooner or later. Besides, their parents would raise the alarm throughout the whole of Moscow. And in the village, people were now probably saying that the Young Pioneers were running away, that children should not be allowed to join the troop. That was what Igor and Seva had done. They had undermined the troop's prestige, setting all its labours of the past month at naught! These gloomy thoughts were interrupted by Genka, who cried out: "There's the manor!" The boys stopped. A two-storeyed house surrounded by trees stood before them high on a hill. It seemed to have several roofs and many chimneys. A big, semicircular verandah with banisters resting on small, white, brick posts divided the house into two equal halves. Over the verandah there was a loft with windows on either side and a recess in the middle. A broad avenue led across the garden to the house. The first, smooth earthen stretch gave way to sloping stone steps that gradually formed a staircase running round the verandah on both sides. "Like it?" Genka asked, clicking his tongue. "The important thing is what it's got," Korovin said, inhaling noisily. "Nothing," Genka assured him. Indeed, the estate looked neglected. The orchard was overgrowing with weeds, and the pond was covered with filthy-green slime. Every thing looked dead, lifeless, cheerless. It was only when the boys had penetrated deep into the orchard that the

196

oppressive silence around them was broken by resounding young voices. There were white tents beyond a broken fence. That was the camp. The troop came running to meet Misha. Zina Kruglova was in front. She ran the fastest on her stubby legs. Chapter 4

THE TROOP

Properly speaking, this was not the whole troop but only a group of 15 of its eldest members. Nine were Komsomols. The others were due to be accepted as Komsomols in the autumn. But they called themselves a troop, and why not? Three tents stood beneath trees along the edge of a glade, in the middle of which was a tall flag-staff with a pennant fluttering on it. A fire was burning nearby. Over it was a charred stick supported by two tripods. The children on kitchen duty were busy cooking dinner. There was a strong smell of burnt milk. "Everything is in order," Zina said, speaking very quickly. "We've sent off the letter to the sailors of the Red Fleet and held an illiteracy-abolition class yesterday. Eight people turned up instead of twelve. I suppose they," Zina nodded in the direction of Genka and Slava, "have already told you about Igor and Seva." At the mention of Igor and Seva, everybody began to talk at once. Borya Baranov, nicknamed the Bleater, made himself heard above the din. In stature he was smaller than the others, but he was a fierce champion of justice. He thought that had it not been for him, falsehood and injustice would have reigned unchecked in the world. And he shouted the loudest of all: "They ran away because of Genka!" "That's a lie, you miserable Bleater!" Genka cried indignantly. But Misha ordered the Bleater to tell him what had happened. With his usual solemnity whenever he fought for justice, the Bleater began: "I'll tell you the whole truth. I've got no reason to add or invent anything." "Cut out the preliminaries," Misha hurried him; the Bleater's introduction could very well drag on for half an hour at least. "Well," the Bleater went on, "when we went to bed we had a talk. That was after the play Death to Fascism. Igor and Seva said that instead of staging plays we should fight the fascists so that they would not kill Communists. Genka began to deride them, saying, 'You go and fight the fascists and we'll see what happens.' Igor got mad and said, 'If we make up our minds, we'll go.' Then Genka said, 'Start making up your minds, start making up your minds!' That's how it was. And in the morning when Genka woke up, he said, 'What, you still here? I thought you had run away to fight the fascists.' After that the first thing that Genka asked them every morning was, 'How many fascists have you killed today?' He went on teasing them until in the end they ran away. That's what happened. I've got no call to lie. I

197

never lie." "Genka, is that the truth?" Misha demanded. "It's true, it's true!" cried the children of Genka's section. "He's always teasing people," grumbled Filya Kitov, or Kit, (Kit—the Russian for whale.—Tr.) as he was called by his friends. He had a passion for food and was always chewing something. "Genka, is that the truth?" Misha repeated. Genka shrugged his shoulders. "What relation does that have? All right, so it's true. I teased them a little. You know why? So that they would put that silliness out of their heads. But like fools they ran away. They couldn't take a joke. Makes me laugh." "It makes you laugh, does it?" Misha shouted. Flaring up, he suddenly tore the cap off his head and threw it on the ground. All eyes were fixed on him. He remembered that he was now the leader of the troop and had to control himself. He picked the cap up and put it on. "All right. First we'll find them and then see who's to blame. Have your dinner quickly and we'll begin to look for them." Genka brightened up. "That's right. We'll find them in double-quick time. You'll see, Misha." At dinner Misha questioned the boys who had been on duty, but they swore they did not see anything. Yet Igor and Seva had taken with them all their belongings, even their mugs and spoons. And nobody had noticed it! They could have gone home. But before sending after them to Moscow, Misha decided to make a thorough search in the vicinity. It struck Misha that the manor was the most probable place where the boys could have hidden themselves. He decided to go there with Korovin and send the rest of the troop to scour the woods. "Comb the woods," he said. "Genka and his section—from the direction of the village, Slava's section—from the river, and Zina's— from the park. Form a chain and keep calling out to each other. Be back -by seven o'clock." Genka, Slava and Zina lined up their sections and marched them at the double to the areas assigned to them. Misha and Korovin went to the manor. Only Kit stayed behind in camp. He was always ready to take somebody's turn at kitchen duty. Licking his lips, he began to cook supper. Chapter 5

THE MANSION AND ITS INHABITANTS

To avoid meeting the "countess," Misha chose not the central walk but took Korovin along one of the side avenues. "First let's find out if she's in," he said. "How will you know that?"

198

"You'll see," Misha replied mysteriously. Reaching the central walk through the shrubbery, the boys stopped and drew aside the branches of a tree. The old house was directly in front of them. The plastering had peeled off here and there, baring strips of splintered lath and pieces of tow. The broken windows were carelessly boarded up with plywood cut with an ordinary saw, which left the edges uneven. Some of the windows simply had planks of various thickness and size nailed to them. "She's at home," Misha whispered in a disappointed tone of voice. In reply to Korovin's inquiring glance, he indicated the loft with his eyes. In the recess was a big bronze bird with outspread wings, an exceedingly long neck and a great hooked beak. With sharp claws it clung to a thick bough. The huge, round eyes with long, almost human-like eyebrows, gave the bird a strange, terrifying expression. "See that?" "Yes," Korovin whispered, overwhelmed by the sinister-looking bronze statue. "It's an eagle." "I don't think so," Korovin shook his head doubtfully. "I've seen eagles on the Volga." "You get different kinds of eagles," Misha whispered. "On the Volga they're one kind, here another. But that's not the point. Look closely. See the shutters behind the bird? They're open, aren't they?" "Yes." "Well, whenever they're open, it means the countess is at home. She closes them when she goes to town. Understand? Remember this is a secret which I don't want anyone else to know." "It's all the same to me," Korovin replied indifferently, "because we're going to take that house over anyway. It's got room for at least two hundred kids, while here she's occupying it all by herself. Is that just?" "Of course, not," Misha agreed. "I hope you take the estate soon. Here's what! Let's look for Igor and Seva in the sheds. They're probably hiding there and laughing up their sleeves at us." Keeping to the shrubbery, the boys skirted round the house, went up to the back wall of the stables and clambered into them through a small broken window. There was a musty smell of rotting logs and boards and old manure. The partitions between the stalls had been taken down and there were holes in the ground where the supporting beams lay. The boys drew back in fright as a flock of sparrows rose suddenly and flew out of the stables on swishing wings. Stepping carefully across the broken floor, Misha and Korovin made their way through the stables to a shed. It was darker there. There were no windows and although the gates had been taken off their hinges they had been leaned snugly into the gate frame without leaving any chink through which light could penetrate. It smelled of mice, fusty hay and stale flour-dust. Misha seized hold of a rafter, pulled himself up and climbed into the

199

hayloft. Then he helped his lumbering friend up. The decayed rafters bent beneath their weight. There were bumble-bee nests all over the underside of the roof. The blue sky could be seen through the slits. The friends looked round the hayloft, then climbed into the next shed through the dormer. But there was no trace of the fugitives. As a matter of fact, only Misha was looking for them. Korovin was more concerned with the strength of the beams. He was smacking his lips to show his disappointment at finding everything so old and in disrepair. The boys returned by the same route, intending to look into the machine-shed, where formerly agricultural machines had been kept. It stood apart from the other sheds and to get to it the boys had to run across a piece of ground in full view of the house. Misha was about to slip out of the shed when suddenly he jumped back, nearly knocking over Korovin, who was standing behind him. Korovin wanted to see what had alarmed his friend, but Misha grabbed him by his arm and nodded in the direction of the house. A tall, thin old woman in a black dress and a black shawl was standing at the top of the staircase. Her grey head was bowed, her face furrowed by long wrinkles, her sharp hooked nose bent like the beak of a bird. In the deathly stillness of the neglected estate there was something dismal and weird about this black, motionless figure.

200

The boys stood as if rooted to the ground. Finally, the old woman turned, took a few slow steps as though she walked without bending her knees, and disappeared into the house. "See that?" Misha whispered. "I could almost feel my blood freezing," Korovin replied, breathing heavily. Chapter 6

WHAT IS TO BE DONE NOW?

The whole troop was assembled when Misha and Korovin got back to camp. The search had been fruitless. Disappointed, anxious about their lost comrades, tired and worn out, they sat down to a cheerless supper. On top of everything, Kit announced that their food supply was running out and that he doubted if there was enough for the next day. "Don't judge by your own appetite," Genka remarked. "You can check for yourself," Kit said in a hurt tone of voice. "There's practically no butter left. Nor biscuits. Cereals...." "Don't worry," Misha said. "Genka and the Bleater will go to Moscow in the morning and bring back supplies." This time it was Genka who spoke in an injured tone: "Why should I do all the donkey work? You think I like dragging a sackload of provisions in this heat: Besides, the stuff's got to be begged from parents! Some mayn't be at home, others mayn't have prepared anything." "I'm sending you because you've got experience." "You can bet your boots I have," Genka said with a self-contented grin, stuffing porridge into his mouth. " 'Your Yura's putting on weight. He's got a wolf's appetite. Yesterday he chewed the tail off the landlord's sheep!' That's the kind of

201

approach that makes them cough up. Oh, hell, if only we could have some rich patron! Say a confectionery." "I'd prefer a sausage factory," Kit sighed with visions of sausages sizzling on a frying-pan. He even screwed up his eyes at the thought. After supper everybody remained sitting round the fire. Those on kitchen duty were washing the dishes. Moving his lips, Kit was counting the packets of flour and slices of bread. There was a preoccupied look on his face as was always the case when before him there were edibles he could see and feel. Genka and the Bleater were getting the sacks ready for the provisions. To be more exact, the Bleater was doing the work and Genka was issuing instructions and at the same time examining his famous brief-case. Although badly battered, it was real and made of leather with numerous partitions and with shining, nickel-plated locks. Genka was very proud of it. He always took it with him when he went to Moscow for supplies because he thought it impressed the parents he went to see. To make that impression stronger, he would put it on the table while he spoke and keep clicking the locks with an important air. "Works like magic," he said. "If it weren't for this brief-case, the troop would have died of hunger long ago." On these expeditions to Moscow, Genka confined himself to swinging his brief-case, while his companion had to carry the sack. "Look here, Genka," Misha said, "say nothing to Igor's and Seva's parents, but try and find out diplomatically if they have been to Moscow." "I'll find out, don't worry." "Only be careful or you'll alarm the parents." "I told you not to worry, didn't I? I'll ask incidentally like." "How will you ask?" "I shan't even do that, but sort of say: your Igor was planning to come home." "What for?" "To go to the baths." "Who'll believe you?" "You think so? Then I'll say he was planning to come to Moscow for books." "That's better." "What if he should be in Moscow," Genka continued, "and his mother says that he's at home? I'll pretend I'm surprised and say that he must have got there before me. If she tells me he's playing in the yard, I'll thank her, of course, but I'll go out and give that Igor a punch he'll remember for a long time." "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Slava remarked. "No, of course not," Misha agreed, "but they'll have to be taught a lesson. I would have gone myself but," he gave Slava a withering look, "there's nobody I can trust to remain in charge here. So let Genka and the Bleater go." "I'll go," the Bleater suddenly declared, "but I'm warning you that if Genka makes me carry the sack while he goes about waving his brief-case,

202

I'll chuck everything and come back. So there! I'm telling you straight." "When have I ever made you carry anything without helping you?" Genka demanded hotly. "That's always your game!" shouted everyone who had ever gone to town with Genka. "Not so much noise," Misha said. "You'll carry the sack by turns. Only see that you don't miss the train. Tomorrow," he continued, addressing the troop, "we'll all go to the village. Time we finished the club." For some time nobody spoke. They were all tired after the excitement of the day. The dry branches crackled and burned brightly, throwing up sparks that lost themselves in the darkness. "Listen!" Zina whispered suddenly. Everybody fell silent and turned in the direction of the woods. A branch cracked. There was a movement in the trees as though a breeze were rustling the leaves. A deep sigh was heard. Signing to the troop to remain seated, Misha got up and peered into the darkness of the woods, listening to the strange sounds. Had Igor and Seva finally returned?

203

Chapter 7

VASKA LONGSHANKS

But it was neither Seva nor Igor. The lad who approached the fire was Vaska Longshanks. He was wearing a white shirt and narrow hempen pants that barely reached his thin, angular knees. He was tall for his age, very thin and scraggy. He lived with his mother and elder brother, Nikolai, in a ramshackle hut on the very edge of the village. His father had been killed in the German war. Of all the boys in the village, Longshanks was on the friendliest terms with the Komsomols. And in their turn they liked him. He was kind and always ready to lend a helping hand. True, he believed in devils and stuff like that, but he knew the woods and the river and could tell fascinating stories. His elder brother was a carpenter and was helping the troop to fix up the club.

"Oh, it's you," Misha drawled with disappointment. "It's me, all right," Longshanks said, sitting down by the fire with a goodnatured grin. In. the dancing shadows cast by the fire, the fair, unevenly cut locks (they must have been cut with blunt scissors) on his big head looked even more entangled than usual. He raked up some coals with a twig and said: "In the village they're saying that two of your Young Pioneers have disappeared." "Rubbish," Misha replied with forced indifference, "they'll turn up." Longshanks shook his head doubtfully. "I wouldn't say that. They might never come back if they've wandered into the Goligin Brushwood Road." Their interest aroused, the children crowded closer round the fire. "What's this road you're talking about?" Zina asked. "It's a path in the woods made of brushwood. Sometimes you get log-paths," Slava explained. "And they're usually laid across swamps." "That's right," Longshanks said. "This one was laid across a swamp, too. Only that was long ago and nobody uses it now." "What was it you wanted to say about this brushwood road?" Genka asked impatiently. "The Goligin road? Only that if your chaps have gone there they may never come back." "You mean they'll drown?" Zina Kruglova asked. "No," Longshanks shook his head, "but they'll see the old count and die." "There you go with your fairy stories again," Genka said with a smirk. "Don't you ever get tired of inventing them?" "I'm not inventing anything," Longshanks replied gravely, "it's true, every word of it. Any of the old folks will tell you that the count and his son are buried there, right under the brushwood road. A Tsaritsa came to these parts long ago, long before Napoleon. Well, she came and put them to death. And she did not allow them to be buried, but had them thrown into the mud,

204

under the brushwood road, so that people would drive over them. That's how they lie there to this day." "How does it concern our chaps?" Misha asked. "Listen then. As I said, the old count and his son lie buried there, only not in the usual way. And their souls are in torment because they can't go either to heaven or to hell." "This is killing!" Genka shouted. "Old wives' tales!" "Let a chap finish," Korovin remarked irritably. "As I said, their souls are in torment," Longshanks continued sternly, with a note of sorrow in his voice, "and they are groaning under the brushwood road, groaning and groaning. I've been there myself and I've heard them. The old count groans in a muffled sort of way; he groans and stops, groans and stops. But his son groans loudly, as though he's weeping, give you my word!" "How awful," the Nekrasov sisters whispered and cast a furtive look at the woods; but that only frightened them more and they drew closer to the fire. "And at midnight the old count rises from under the road," Longshanks went on monotonously, imitating old men. "His beard reaches down to his knees and his hair is all white. He rises and waits. If he sees a passer-by, he says to him, 'Go to the tsaritsa and tell her to give us a Christian burial. Do us that favour.' He begs, with tears in his voice. Then he bows. Instead of a cap, he takes off his head. He holds it in his hands and bows. That's enough to give anyone the creeps, to put lead into your feet. And bowing, with his head in his hands, the old count goes up to you. The most important thing for the passer-by is to stand stock-still. If he doesn't move, the count will come right up to him and vanish. If he turns tail and runs, he will drop dead on the spot and the count will drag him under the brushwood road." "Has he done that to many people?" Misha asked with a smile. "In the .old days, yes. But nobody goes there now. There was a party from Moscow. They dug up the road but naturally you wouldn't expect them to find the old count and his son. When the militia left, they lay in ambush again." "What were they executed for?" somebody asked. "Nobody knows! Some say for treason, others—that they had concealed a hoard of gold from the royal treasury." "I should have known there'd be treasure in this," Genka observed ironically. "That's in the ordinary run." "Were you telling us about the local counts?" Misha asked, waving his hand in the direction of the manor. "Yes," Longshanks nodded, "about their ancestors. The count who fled across the border is the grandson of the one buried under the brushwood road." "Stories!" Misha said, yawning. "No," Longshanks protested. "It's what the old folk say." "Not everything they say is true." Misha shrugged his shoulders. "Look at the miracles they used to ascribe to relics of the saints, but when they began

205

to confiscate valuables from the church for the famine relief they found nothing in these relics. It was just a pack of lies. They're clouding your brains, that's what!" Misha looked at his watch. It was a pocket-watch remade to wear on the wrist and was so big that it showed from under the sleeve of Misha's shirt. It was half past eight. "Play lights out," Misha ordered the bugler. The loud notes of the bugle pierced the silence of the night. "We'll come to do the club in the morning," Misha said to Long-shanks as the latter took his leave. "I want you and the other chaps to go to the woods and cut some fir branches to decorate the club with." "All right," Longshanks agreed. "Will you bring any books?" "Definitely. And ask Nikolai to come, too. We need his help to finish the stage and the benches." "He'll come," Longshanks replied confidently. His shirt gleamed white among the trees and disappeared. There was a crackle of branches. Then all was still. "Isn't he brave to walk alone in the woods at night?" Zina said. "What's so brave about that?" Genka said boastfully. "I'll go anywhere you like at night. Even to that silly brushwood road." "You'd better turn in," Misha said, "or you'll be late for the train tomorrow." The troop dispersed to the tents. For some time there was the sound of bustle and laughter. Misha made his last round of the camp and checked the posts. Stopping at each tent, he said loudly, "Cut the racket. Sleep." At last, Misha, too, went to bed. Quiet reigned. The moon lit up the sleeping camp. But not everybody was asleep. The sentries paced their beats across the glade, meeting at the flagstaff and parting again. Misha lay and thought where Igor and Seva could have gone to and what ought to be done tomorrow if they should not prove to be in Moscow. Slava was tortured by the thought that Igor and Seva had run away when he was left behind as acting leader. The girls listened to the silence of the dark woods and, remembering Longshanks' story about the Goligin Brushwood Road, timorously drew the blankets closer about them. Korovin lay awake, thinking that on the whole the estate was suitable for a labour commune. As for the old woman, terrible as she was, Boris Sergeyevich would soon tame her. Genka fell asleep the moment his head touched his pillow. The Bleater grew indignant at the thought that Genka would walk ahead and swing his brief-case in his hand and force him, the Bleater, to carry the sack of provisions. He searched his mind for a just and proud reply to Genka and gloated at the thought how Genka would be taken aback when he saw that he, the Bleater, had taken along two sacks instead of one. Kit tossed and turned the longest. He thought of the food Genka and the

206

Bleater would bring from Moscow tomorrow and what dishes he would be able to cook. At last, with his mind on the morrow's breakfast, Kit, too, fell asleep. Chapter 8

NIKOLAI, LONGSHANKS' BROTHER

When Misha woke up, the rays of the early morning sun were struggling through the holes in the tent. There was a smell of dry fir branches, which served the children for beds. Misha thrust his watch beneath the tent flap. What? Only half past four! Perhaps the watch had stopped? He brought it up to his ear and heard the measured ticking. He tried to go to sleep again and drew his blanket closer up to his chin. But disquieting thoughts kept entering his mind, and of all the worries that now beset him as the leader of the troop the greatest concerned Igor and Seva. After an ineffectual attempt to fall asleep, he got up and picked his way out of the tent, stepping carefully over his sleeping comrades. The glade was bathed in clear, cold morning light. The twittering of birds came from the tops of the trees. Yura Palitsin, one of the sentries, was walking near the flag-staff, lazily dragging his feet. The second sentry, Sasha Cuban, was sleeping against the trunk of a tree. Just as he had thought—they were sleeping by turn! On duty! Fine sentries they were. Misha stole up to Cuban and gave him a fillip on the head. Cuban jumped to his feet and stared wide-eyed at Misha. "Sentries don't sleep," Misha whispered impressively. Then he went round the camp. Everything was in order. It wanted two hours before reveille. He could still put in some sleep. But since he was already up there was no point going back to bed. A swim would be just the thing to dispel his drowsiness. The air over the river was moist and cold. The sharp-tipped, closed lily buds were sticking out of the water amid broad green leaves. The bank was wet with dew. Misha undressed, dived into the icy water and swam to the other bank. He swam across the narrow but deep river three times before he got warm. But when he climbed out on to the bank, he felt cold again. With teeth chattering, he hopped about on one leg for a long time, trying to get the other leg into his trousers. Looking up he saw two men approaching the river. They were Nikolai Ribalin, the brother of Longshanks, and Kuzmin, an elderly, sullen-looking, bearded peasant from the village. The men were walking to the tiny cove where a few simple village boats were resting motionless on the water. Nikolai's face broke into a smile when he saw Misha and he gave him a friendly wave of his hand. About twenty-five years of age, tall, thin and bony, he had an old, strapless army greatcoat thrown across his shoulders.

207

But his face, which was also thin and bony, with prominent cheek-bones, a long sharp nose, and thin, pale lips, was good-natured and friendly. "The water's probably cold for a dip," Nikolai remarked. "It is," Misha admitted. For want of something better to do, Misha followed the men to the boats. Kuzmin had some trouble with the lock. Nikolai rolled a cigarette and silently contemplated Misha. For some reason he was smiling, perhaps because he had met Misha or because the day promised to be fine. "Nikolai," Misha said, "remember, you promised to help us today at the club." "Yes," Nikolai said. "I'll be there, but first I have to go to Khalzin Meadow with Sevastyanovich here." "Don't let us down." Kuzmin finally opened the lock and threw the chain down on the bottom of the boat. Nikolai got into the boat and said: "Is there any reason why I should let you down? That wouldn't do, would it?" Kuzmin followed him into the boat and with his foot against the seat pushed off with an oar. Kuzmin was in a shirt without a belt, hempen trousers, and short, worn boots that resembled overshoes. That was how Misha remembered him—a sullen-looking, bearded, dishevelled peasant with one foot on the seat of the boat, pushing away from the bank with an oar. "We'll be waiting for you at the club," Misha called out. Nikolai smiled again to show that he would keep his word. Chapter 9

IN THE VILLAGE

After breakfast Genka and the Bleater set out for the station. Korovin went with them—to meet Boris Sergeyevich, the headmaster of the children's home. Zina Kruglova's section, which was detailed for kitchen duty that day, stayed behind in the camp. The rest of the children, headed by Misha and Slava, went to the village. The village sprawled at the foot of a mountain, close to the riverside. The log houses with their board or thatched roofs stood on either side of a long, wide street. White willows grew around the gardens. The rich peasants lived in two-storeyed houses resting on redbrick foundations, while the house of the kulak Yerofeyev was built of brick. Tall, mighty oaks grew here and there in pairs or in groups of three. Yellow shavings were strewn about on the ground near the frameworks of new houses built of fresh-hewn logs. With the bugler in front, the troop marched down the street and halted before the Village Soviet. Behind it was a long, empty shed. That was the

208

future club.

Attracted by the bugle and the marching troop, village boys and girls came running from all directions. The older children edged in closer, the younger ones kept at a distance; sucking fingers and goggling their eyes, they watched the Young Pioneers, although this was not the first time they had seen them. Inexplicably, Longshanks was not among them. "Why haven't you cut any fir branches for the club?" Misha asked. "We went to the woods in the morning, but he frightened us off with his whirring and chirring," replied a small, black-haired boy who went by the nickname of the Fly. "Who do you mean?" "The wood-goblin, of course." The Young Pioneers burst out laughing. The Fly looked about him fearfully, then said: "Don't laugh. It's a sin to laugh." "You're not afraid to go to the woods for firewood, brushwood or mushrooms, I suppose," put in Kit, who had had to let somebody else do kitchen duty this time. The Fly nodded. "But that's another matter. The wood-goblin does not get angry when we do that and keeps silent. But, you see, he won't give, that is, doesn't allow us to take anything for the club." "We'll do it without his permission," Misha said. "Slava, take your section to the woods and bring back some fir branches, and in the meantime we'll open the library." They were kept busy for a long time. Some of the children returned the books they had read, others ran home to fetch books, and still others wanted to borrow new books and keep the ones they had already borrowed a little longer. They took even more time choosing the books. Each leafed through his book, then through the one chosen by his neighbour and of course

209

wanted his neighbour's book. Picture-books were in the greatest demand. Two more boys came up. One of them, fat, big-faced, with a tiny nose, was Senka, son of the kulak Yerofeyev. The second was a tall, lumpish, sixteen-year-old lad known in the village as Blockhead Akimka. He was Senka Yerofeyev's devoted friend and flunkey although he was a poor peasant's son. "Ah!" Senka shouted. "Young Pioneers, heads full of iron, bodies full of lead, godless devils!" Then with a smile that was at once ingratiating and impudent, he addressed Misha: "How about letting me have something to read?" "If you like. But not that one. Vera's taking it." Misha coolly took the book from Senka's hands and returned it to Vera. "Think I care, snotty-nosed little girl!" Senka sneered. Then he asked spitefully, "Why are there so few of you? Have the others run away?" "They're in the camp," Misha replied. "We've heard that story before," Senka said, turning to Blockhead Akimka. "I'll tell you where they are, they've gone home. You'll never get them back." "And that makes you happy," the Fly noted reproachfully. "You shut your mouth!" Senka snarled at the Fly. "You'd better give me back my raft or I'll tear your head off!" "I never took your raft." "You're lying. You and Longshanks took it. You don't have your own, so you steal other people's, you bunch of thieves!" Beginning to guess a thing or two, Misha asked: "What's this raft you're talking about?" "Longshanks and the Fly stole my raft," Senka said angrily. "They stole it, the blackguards, and won't say where they're hiding it. Thieves!" "Why do you think they did it?" "Who else? Longshanks is a thief. His brother killed Kuzmin. Murdered him. He'll sweat for it in gaol now." "What brother? What Kuzmin?" Misha asked, unable to understand what Senka was saying. With the joyful surprise of a gossip, Senka stared at Misha. "Haven't you heard?" "No, I...." "Well, then, Nikolai, that is, Longshanks' brother, murdered Kuzmin," Senka said, making a terrible face. "Kuzmin was from our village. He was shot. How is it you haven't heard about it? The whole village's been there already. And the doctor came and the militia. They've been taken to town, both the dead Kuzmin and Nikolai, that bandit." "When did this happen and where?" Misha asked with inexpressible concern. "This morning. In Khalzin Meadow. Nikolai shot him there and hid the boat somewhere. And he an activist! All of them, activists, are bandits!" "But where's Longshanks?"

210

"Search me. At home, I suppose. He's probably ashamed to look people in the eyes and is hiding at home. And you, Young Pioneers and Komsomols, don't know a thing. Come on, Akimka." They walked away with a waddling gait, chewing sunflower seeds. Stunned by what he had just heard, Misha watched them in bewilderment. Could Senka have lied to him? But the Fly murmured dismally: "It's all true. Nikolai's been arrested and they've taken him away to town. In a cart." Misha told Slava to take the troop into the club and ran to Longshanks' home. Chapter 10

MURDER

Only now did Misha notice the excitement in the village. People were standing in groups and there was a big and noisy crowd near the co-operative shop. By the general animation it was obvious they were discussing the murder. People found it hard to believe that the murderer was Nikolai. There was something mysterious about the whole business. They felt that this kind and friendly young man could not have killed Kuzmin. Misha had seen Nikolai and Kuzmin only a few hours ago and had spoken to them. In his mind's eye he saw them now: Nikolai in the old strapless army greatcoat, Kuzmin in his worn boots pushing off with an oar. The morning had been so peaceful, with the first rays of the sun, a fresh breeze on the river, lilies between green leaves.... Misha was sure that Nikolai was not guilty. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Nikolai certainly could have had no motive for killing Kuzmin. Misha could not believe it. He remembered how Senka Yerofeyev had gloated over the words, "All activists are bandits." The Ribalins lived on the edge of the village in a rickety hut with a thatched roof. The ends of the thin rafters stuck out criss-cross over the roof. Two tiny windows gave out on a mound of carried earth. The door, made of boards roughly nailed together, led into a cold passage where hung yokes and bridles although the Ribalins, the poorest of the poor peasants, had neither a horse nor a cow. "Good morning," Misha said, entering the hut. Longshanks' mother, Maria Ivanovna, a thin woman with an emaciated face, was lighting a fire in the stove on which stood a black, cast-iron pot. Without straightening up, she turned her head at the sound of Misha's voice, gave him a blank stare and again gave her attention to the stove. Longshanks also gave Misha an apathetic glance and looked away. The hard-packed earthen floor bore traces of a broom. The rough deal table was marked with white lines left by the knife it was scraped with. Along the walls there were dark, worn, smooth benches, which had seen

211

service for many a decade. A small, faded icon with two dry twigs beneath it hung in the front corner. On the opposite wall were a portrait of Lenin and a placard depicting a Red Army soldier running his bayonet through all the Whiteguard generals at once: Denikin and Yudenich, Baron Wrangel and Admiral Kolchak. The soldier was a giant of a man, while the generals were puny and evil-looking and they dangled crazily on the bayonet. "Why aren't you at the club?" Misha asked, sitting down beside Longshanks. Longshanks looked at his mother and made no reply. "Let's go," Misha said, indicating the door with his head. "Our Nikolai's been arrested," Longshanks said, his lips trembling. "So I heard," Misha replied. "I saw Nikolai and Kuzmin this morning. They were getting into their boat." Maria Ivanovna, who had been turning the pot with oven prongs, suddenly said: "They might have quarrelled for all I know. But I don't believe Nikolai killed him. He never harmed a fly. And they had nothing to quarrel about. Nikolai never had a revolver." She let the oven prongs drop on the floor and covered her face with her hands to hide her tears. "He was in the army for four years. Just as life was picking up.... And now this terrible thing, this terrible misfortune." Shaking with grief, she repeated, "This is terrible, terrible." "You must go to town and see a lawyer," Misha said. Maria Ivanovna wiped her eyes with her apron. "Lawyers cost money. Where are we to get it from?" "You don't need money. You can get free legal advice in town. At the House of the Peasant. Besides, I'm sure Nikolai will be acquitted. You'll see." Maria Ivanovna sighed heavily and again turned to her pots and oven prongs. Misha gazed at her hunched back, the thin, weary back of a woman farm labourer, at the silent Longshanks, at the humble furnishings in the poor hut, and his heart contracted with pity and compassion for these people who had been struck unexpectedly by such terrible grief. Although Misha did not for a moment doubt that Nikolai was innocent and that he would be released, he realized how difficult it was for Maria Ivanovna and Longshanks. They were alone in the world, ashamed to face the people in the village. "The militiaman," Maria Ivanovna said, "asked Nikolai, 'Did you kill him?' 'No, I didn't.' 'Who did?' 'I don't know.' 'Strange you don't.' 'I don't, that's the truth. We measured the meadow and then I left.' 'Why did you go off alone?' 'Because Kuzmin went on to the Khalzan.'" "What's this Khalzan?" Misha asked. "A small river," Longshanks explained. "More like a creek. And the meadow is called Khalzin." "Well, and Nikolai," Maria Ivanovna continued, "says to him, 'Kuzmin went on to the Khalzan. He's got some fish-baskets there. I had almost

212

reached the village when I saw people running to fetch me. They said Kuzmin had been killed. I ran back with them and indeed there was Kuzmin lying dead.' 'Who shot him?' 'I don't know.' 'Where's the boat?' 'I don't know.' And instead of finding out what's what the militiaman says, 'You're clever at making up stories.' " Misha tried to picture the meadow, the dead Kuzmin, Nikolai, the crowd milling round them, the militiaman. Perhaps bandits were lurking in the woods. Misha thought of Igor and Seva. Had they been killed too? He put the thought out of his mind. Misha did not want to leave Longshanks and Maria Ivanovna alone, but Korovin and his headmaster had probably come from the station already. He had to return to the camp. "The main thing is not to worry," he said, getting up, "everything will clear up. Nikolai will be back in a day or two. I'm sure he was only taken to town as a witness." "No," Maria Ivanovna sighed, "you won't prove the truth so quickly." Chapter 11

THE "COUNTESS"

The headmaster of the children's home, Boris Sergeyevich, turned out to be quite a young man. Tall, round-shouldered, he was in a Red Army tunic, cavalry riding-breeches and dusty brown boots. But what surprised Misha was that a military-looking man like him should wear glasses. That jarred somehow. The glasses made the young headmaster appear stern, even crusty, He cast a sidelong and, as Misha thought, disapproving glance at the tents, as though he did not like the camp and everything about it. That touched Misha to the quick. His appointment as leader had made him testy. It seemed to him that adults treated him with a patronizing manner and not at all as though he were a real troop leader. Avoiding Boris Sergeyevich's eyes, he went on reprimanding Zina for allowing her section to be late with the dinner. Boris Sergeyevich might be a headmaster, but he, Misha, was a leader, the leader of the troop and the head of this camp. On the way to the manor, Misha became convinced that nothing the headmaster saw here pleased him. Boris Sergeyevich missed nothing and his silence was so meaningful that Misha felt as if he were to blame for the neglected state of the manor grounds. They saw the "countess" the moment they turned into the central walk. She was standing motionless on the porch, her head held high, in the same poise Misha and Korovin had seen her when they had watched her from the stables. She seemed to be waiting for them and it certainly required nerve to go up close to that statuelike figure. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs. But the old woman made no move to come down to them. Thus they stood silent and motionless: the old

213

woman at the top of the stairs, the headmaster and the boys at the bottom. Calmly and with the disapproval that Misha had come to recognize, Boris Sergeyevich gazed at the old woman, at her face framed in grey hair, aquiline nose and ash-coloured eyebrows. Misha saw that the "countess" was beginning to quail before that stare, that her big round eyes were filling with alarm and hatred. The longer Misha watched this scene, the more he came to like Boris Sergeyevich's self-assurance and composure. The strange part of it was that Korovin, too, comported himself as though this woman was not there at all.

At last, the old woman asked: "What can I do for you?" "Would you please come down," said Boris Sergeyevich in the tone of a school-teacher who knows he will be obeyed. The old woman went down a few steps and stopped, two or three steps above Boris Sergeyevich and the boys. Then she haughtily said: "I am listening." There was no reply. Boris Sergeyevich did not seem to see her. Misha was delighted with his self-control. This was what a real leader should be like! Says nothing, not a word, only gives orders. This was a model to take after! Boris Sergeyevich spoke only after the "countess" had taken a few more steps and was on the same level with him. "I am the headmaster of Children's Home No. 116. Would you please tell me who you are?" "The curator of this estate." "Splendid. We are planning to establish a children's labour commune here. I should like to see the house." The old woman suddenly shut her eyes. Misha felt his heart miss a beat because he thought she would drop down dead. But nothing of the sort happened. She kept her eyes closed for a few moments, then opened them and said: "This house is a historical monument. I have a safeguard for it."

214

"Let me see it," Boris Sergeyevich said dryly. The old woman drew a paper from under her shawl, held it for a moment, then handed it to Boris Sergeyevich. He took it and, wrinkling his brows as was his wont, began to read. Craning his neck over Boris Sergeyevich's shoulder, Misha glanced at the paper. In the top left corner it had a large overspreading seal that looked like a blot made with violet ink. The text was typewritten. SAFEGUARD was printed in capital letters, and below that, in ordinary letters, it read: "This is to certify that as a historical monument the manor in the former estate of Karagayevo is under the protection of the State. No organization or individual may use the manor without special permission from the Gubernia Department of Public Education. Violation of this safeguard will be regarded as damage to valuable state property and will entail punishment in accordance with the laws of the Republic. Serov, Deputy Director of the Gubernia Department of Public Education." "All correct," Boris Sergeyevich said, returning the paper, "but a commune will be organized here all the same." "You have no business ordering me around," the old woman said with a toss of her head, "and I would ask you not to bother me again." She turned, went up the stairs and disappeared behind the tall oaken door. Boris Sergeyevich walked round the manor, then inspected the sheds, the stables, the pond and the fields beyond the manor. Korovin, too, gazed long and attentively at the fields. Then Boris Sergeyevich said: "Landlords near Moscow in the sixth year of the Revolution. Amazing!"

Before leaving the grounds, Boris Sergeyevich turned and looked at the manor again. The boys stopped too. In the dazzling rays of the setting sun, the bronze bird shone as though it were made of gold. If looked down with round, wicked eyes and seemed ready to tear off its perch and swoop down on them. "A very striking bird," Boris Sergeyevich observed.

215

"Just an ordinary eagle," Misha said. "You think so?" Boris Sergeyevich replied with, as it seemed to Misha, a shade of doubt in his voice. Chapter 12

PLANS

Boris Sergeyevich and Korovin took the train to Moscow. Genka and the Bleater were due in an hour. Although Misha still hoped they had found the fugitives in Moscow, he could not help feeling that it was Igor and Seva who had taken Senka's raft and gone down the river on it. Still, you could never tell. Genka and the Bleater arrived and announced that Igor and Seva were not in Moscow. Genka pretended he was very tired though it was the Bleater who had carried both sacks. He had shouldered one of them only when they were nearing the camp to show that he had done his share. The boys had brought quite a lot of bread: quarter and half loaves and even two whole loaves. "I insisted on outside pieces," Genka boasted. "When anybody tried to give me the middle, I said I couldn't take it because the bread was not properly baked and could cause stomach trouble." He accompanied his words with theatrical gestures. Kit, who was inspecting the contents of the sacks, drew out a few bags of groats, a packet of dried fruit and some flour. The flour brought him visions of pancakes. "These groats will last us for a long time," Genka held forth. "Sparingly used, they'll last us till the end of the summer if Kit doesn't eat them raw. Our weak point is sugar. Nobody coughed up with that. But there are some sweets." Misha ordered the sweets, which had got stuck together, to be counted and rationed out two a day to each member of the troop: for the morning and evening tea. Meanwhile Kit, who was continuing his inspection, produced a piece of pork fat, a packet of herring, butter wrapped in wax-paper, and about two dozen hard-boiled eggs. In addition, Genka handed Misha a sum of money—thirty-eight roubles. "Quite a good haul," Misha noted approvingly. "So you see, Genka, what it means to send you." Genka wanted to announce whose parents had given what, but Misha stopped him. "This is a pool and it is not important to know who contributed to it. The moment the supplies are in the sack they belong to the troop. Better tell us what you learned at Igor's and Seva's." "We went to Seva's mother," Genka began, "and after we had said good

216

morning I told her that we had come for supplies. She wanted to know how Seva was doing and I said that he was all right and having a lot of fun. Then she asked, 'When is he planning to come home?' I said he'd be home very soon. She seemed surprised so I told her he would be coming for books. 'Very well,' she said, 'give him my love.' We said good-bye and left. About the same thing happened at Igor's." "About, but not the same," interjected the Bleater, the fighter for truth and justice. "Here it comes," Genka muttered. "What happened at Igor's?" Misha demanded, suspecting that Genka had got into some sort of trouble. "As soon as we left Seva's mother," the Bleater began, "Genka said, 'There's something fishy about the way Seva's mother spoke to us. I have a feeling that Seva is at home, hiding from us, and that he told his mother to keep mum about it. We'll be cleverer at Igor's. They won't take us in so easily.' I warned him that he'd spoil everything. I warned you, didn't I ?" "Get it off your chest and be done with it," Genka said gloomily "I'll have my say later." "Well, then," the Bleater went on, "when we arrived at Igor's only his grandmother was in—his mother was away at work. 'Now watch me twist her round my little finger,' Genka whispered to me. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen and said, 'Hello, we've come to see Igor.' The grandmother replied, 'Igor is not at home, he is in the camp.' Then Genka winked at her and said, 'Don't be afraid of us. We've run away from the camp, too. We must see Igor and plan what to do next.' The grandmother stared at us, obviously not understanding what Genka was talking about, but he kept on, 'Now tell us quickly where we can find Igor, we're in a hurry.' The old lady became speechless, gulped, then began to wail, 'Good gracious! That means our poor little Igor has run away from the camp! Where has he gone to? Where is he? What are we to do? His mother must be told right away! We must run to the militia!' Isn't that right, Genka, isn't that how it was?" "Yes, yes, go on with the story." "When Genka saw what he'd done, he naturally lost his nerve and said he had made it all up. I, too, tried to persuade her that Genka had meant it as a joke, saying that if Igor had really run away we wouldn't be asking for his share of the supplies. Between us we managed to calm the old lady down. But I'm sure she'll tell Igor's mother. You'll see!" "You've got no sense of responsibility, Genka," Misha said with exasperation. "You can't be trusted with anything. As though it were not enough that Igor and Seva have run away because of you, you had to go and get their parents worried. And you were warned not to do it! This is the last straw! We'll first find Igor and Seva and then demote you." "That's not fair," Genka grumbled plaintively. "I am a Komsomol and I've been appointed...." "All the more that you are a Komsomol. It's disgraceful! You make a mess of everything you're asked to do."

217

Chapter 13

THE ANARCHIST

Misha was sure the fugitives were somewhere along the river, for now there could no longer be any doubt that they had gone on Senka's raft. Downstream, naturally, for there was no sense in going against the current. The problem now was to get a raft or a boat. There was no raft available and even if there were, a raft was too slow. The alternative was to find a boat. They could get one at the boat station, but the boatman would be sure to ask a price they could not pay. Some of the people in the village had boats, but it was useless to ask them. One of the boats had caught Misha's eye. Although a pair-oar affair and absurdly painted, it was not very big and was fast and light. It belonged to a strange person, an artist, who lived in the village with his mother and called himself an anarchist. Misha did not know what his anarchism consisted in. He had seen him once or twice in the street and on those occasions the artist had been drunk and had shouted some unintelligible words. He was a short, blue-eyed man of about thirty, always unshaven and always in a state of intoxication. Longshanks, Misha felt, was the only person who could help get the boat from the artist. Misha decided to see if he could enlist Long-shanks' help especially as he had made up his mind to take him along in the search for Igor and Seva. No one knew the river, the woods and the surrounding villages better than he. Besides, Longshanks would want to go, for they would pass Khalzin Meadow and nobody could tell what might happen: they might even get on the track of Kuzmin's murderers. If they did, Nikolai would be released. That argument won Longshanks over. He agreed to accompany Misha and go to the anarchist to ask for the loan of the boat. "His name is Kondraty Stepanovich and he is an artist," Longshanks said. "He has any number of pictures and his whole hut is covered with paintings. If he's tight he won't give us a chance to say a word, if he's got a hangover— he'll chase us away, but if he's sober— there is a' chance he'll let us have the boat." The first thing that struck Misha in the hut of the village artist was the mixed smell of sheepskins, drying oil, oil paints, home-made vodka, pickle, and cabbage soup which had turned sour. The hut was quite roomy, but it was full of things peasants usually did not have: an easel, boxes of paint, and ancient furniture that had probably been brought from Moscow. But the most amazing thing was that the hut itself and all the objects in it were painted so fantastically that it was bewildering.

218

The walls were of different colours: one was green, another was yellow, the third blue and it was hard to define the colour of the fourth. The stove was covered with multi-coloured little squares, rhombuses and triangles. The floors were painted yellow, and the ceiling—red. The benches along the walls were brown. The window-frames were white. Even the oven prongs were painted in different colours, while the poker had a coat of red paint. The city furniture alone retained its natural colour, but it was evident that it too would come in for a taste of the artist's enterprising brush. The artist himself was sitting on a bench and whittling something with an air of concentration. His hair was thinning at the temples but it was long at the back of his head and hung in red shaggy locks on the dandruff-covered collar of his velveteen Tolstoyan shirt. The shirt was quite threadbare and was smeared with paint of every conceivable colour. Around his neck was a dirty cloth tied in a bow. When the boys entered he raised his dull, blue eyes for a moment and then resumed his work. "We've come to see you, Kondraty Stepanovich," Longshanks said. "What for?" the artist demanded in a low, rumbling bass which was unexpected in such a small and puny-looking man. "This is the leader of the troop," Longshanks said, pointing at Misha. The artist again raised his head. His eyes stopped on Misha's Komsomol badge. "A Komsomol?" "Yes," Misha replied. "Do you know who I am?" "An artist." "I'm talking about my political convictions." "I don't know," Misha replied, doing his best to stifle his laughter. "By conviction I am an anarchist-maximalist," Kondraty Stepanovich declared pompously. "We wanted to ask you to lend us your boat for two days," Misha said.

219

"Anarchist-maximalists," Kondraty Stepanovich said, "do not recognize authority. We are neutral so far as Soviet rule is concerned. We do not believe in experiments, but we do not hinder them. So that's that." He had nothing more to add about his political views, so he repeated, "That's that," and returned to his whittling. "But will you let us have the boat?" Misha asked. "What do you want it for?" "We have to go downriver," Misha replied evasively. ""Anarchists disapprove of property," Kondraty Stepanovich said floridly. "What made you think the boat was mine?" "That is what people say," Misha replied with a shrug. "They don't know what they're talking about. They are saying that because they are so used to property. Everything belongs to the community." "Does that mean we may take the boat?" "Take it," Kondraty Stepanovich said without looking up. "Thank you!" Misha cried joyfully. "We'll return it intact." "Ask for the key," Longshanks whispered, nudging Misha. "Please may we have the key to the boat," Misha said. "The key? Now that's a different matter." "Why?" Misha asked worriedly, beginning to realize that it was not so simple to get the boat as it had seemed at first. "The key is my private property." "I don't understand." "The boat is common property and you may use it, but the key belongs to me and I am in my rights if I choose not to give it to you." "Then what are we to do? Break the lock?" "That would be ex-pro-pri-ation!" Kondraty Stepanovich said, shaking his head sadly. "It must be done in public." "We'll have the whole troop down as witnesses," Misha said quickly. "The militia will arrest you." ' "But you don't recognize the militia," Misha noted. "We don't recognize them," the artist said in a cheerless tone "but they recognize us." "If we had the money, we'd pay you for the boat," Misha admitted. Kondraty Stepanovich energetically shook his head. "Anarchist-maximalists do not recognize bank-notes." After a pause, he added, "But barter would be all right." "Barter?" "Yes. I shall give you the key and in return you will give me your contract to paint the club." "What contract?" Misha asked in surprise. "For the club you are fixing up. It has to be painted. Well, I shall do that." "But we're not getting paid for what we're doing." "A pity." The artist's head drooped. "Labour must be remunerated." "But you've just said that anarchists don't recognize money, " Misha said. "I did not say paid but remunerated," the artist explained. "The fellows will weed your potato patch for you, Kondraty

220

Stepanovich," offered the practical Longshanks. "That would be exploitation," the artist said, thoughtfully moving his lips. "Nothing of the sort!" Misha protested. "You invested your labour in the boat and we'll help you with our labour." "Put that way, I suppose it's all right," Kondraty Stepanovich mused aloud. "When will you weed the patch? It will have to be done soon." He looked out of the window which opened on a weed-overgrown kitchengarden. "As soon as we return," Misha replied. "In about two days." "All right then, but I want you to reconsider what I said about the club. If I do the job, it will be the envy of all the clubs in Moscow." He took a rusty key off the wall and gave it to Misha. "All right," Misha said happily, putting the key in his pocket. "We'll think about it." "The oars!" Longshanks again nudged him. "Where are the oars?" Misha asked. "The oars . . ." Kondraty Stepanovich said sadly. Misha thought with fright that the artist would again begin a discussion about private property and would not give them the oars. "The oars and the row-locks. Otherwise the boat will be useless to us," Misha said resolutely. "And the row-locks." Kondraty Stepanovich sighed. He very much wanted to continue the conversation, but evidently remembered about the weeding and about the club and only sighed again and said: "They are in the shed. See that you put them back." Chapter 14

ALWAYS PREPARED! Misha decided to leave Zina Kruglova in charge of the camp. Genka could not be depended upon, Slava was irresolute, but Zina, though she was only a girl, was respected and even held in awe by all the children.

But not to offend Genka and Slava, Misha told them they would go with him. Together with Longshanks that would make four; two at the oars, one at the rudder, and one on the bow as the look-out. Returning to camp, Misha ordered Genka to get all the equipment and Slava to see to the supplies. "We'll be gone for two days," Misha said. "Genka, look the boat over and see that there's no leak and that the oars fit into the row-locks. Make a pole and take a spare oar. Take a pair of fishing-rods. Don't forget a compass, an axe, rope, a pail, a pot, a torch with spare batteries, and two signal flags. Each of us will need a whistle." "What about a tent?" "We shan't need one. We'll sleep in the open. Yes, and don't forget

221

matches. That's about all. Have you written it down?" "Yes," Genka said, underlining every item on the list. Misha turned to Slava. "Now you, Slava," he said, "Divide the supplies into two bags in case we'll have to separate. Take a mug, a spoon and a knife for each. Now about the supplies. A loaf of bread, noodles for two meals, groats for two meals, some butter, tea and eight sweets. That's all, I think." "We'll starve," Genka grumbled. "What do you say we take some eggs and pork fat?" "No. We'll leave that for the troop. We'll catch fish on the way. And don't forget salt." "I think we could take some potatoes," Slava suggested. "That's an idea," Misha agreed. "But remember: no paper packets. Use sacks. In general, everything's got to be packed so that nothing creaks or clatters and, what is most important, so that nothing tinkles or bangs. Understand? Genka, grease the row-locks and take some sacking in case we have to muffle the oars." "Don't worry, Misha," Genka said, "I'll see to everything." "Naturally, we'll follow your orders," Slava said soberly, "but, honestly, I don't think anything will come of all this." "You're always doubting," Genka said angrily. "Seva and Igor have two days' start over us," Slava insisted, "and we'll never catch up with them." "Not catch up with those lubbers?" Genka shouted. "In the first place," Misha said, "they're on a raft, while we have a boat, which is three times as fast. Second, they have to stop frequently to buy food, find out where they are, and will probably sleep until midday. Third, you don't suppose they'll stay on the river for ever. They must stop somewhere and change to a train. That means they'll leave the raft. We'll find it and it will be the starting point for our search." "Does that make it clear to you now?" Genka said in a mocking tone. "If not, stay behind and help Kit cook porridge." The preparations were finished by evening. The supplies were stowed aboard the boat, which had been given a check and brought closer to the camp. Two of the boys were detailed to guard it. The departure was set for four o'clock in the morning. Longshanks remained to spend the night in the camp so as not to be late. In the evening, when the troop were sitting round the fire, Misha appealed to their consciousness, exhorting them to obey Zina. "We're living in difficult times. I'll say nothing about the international situation, everybody knows about that. But even here the situation is disturbing. Seva and Igor have run away. And then there is this mysterious murder. For all we know there may be bandits in the woods. And the manor with that old woman in it is also very suspicious. We must be vigilant. Above all, we must have discipline."

222

To strengthen the impression made by these words Zina Kruglova added: "That old-regime countess might take it into her head to set fire to the manor to prevent the commune from getting it." "And very simply, too," Misha said with the sole purpose of sustaining Zina's prestige. He did not believe the old woman would burn the manor down. "To think that one person is occupying a huge house like that," Genka shouted. "There's room for two hundred kids. It's a shame!" "True," Slava agreed. "But how does that concern Igor and Seva? The manor, the murder of Kuzmin—what have Igor and Seva got to do with all that?" "By the fact that there's a class struggle going on," Misha said didactically. "Understand? People are not killed for nothing. And the countess, I'm sure, is waiting for the landlords and counts to come back. She's looking after the estate for them." Slava shook his head sceptically and said: "I don't think anybody is hoping the old regime is re-established." "That's where you're wrong," Misha said. "The kulaks in the village," Longshanks interposed, "say all sorts of things. Now this English lord what's his name...." "Lord Curzon," Misha prompted. "That's the man. Well this Curzon sent Lenin a letter." "An ultimatum." "The kulaks are saying that that will put an end to Soviet power." "Stuff and nonsense," Genka cried. "Your kulaks will never see Soviet power overthrown. Neither will the countess, nor her White émigré count!" "Curzon presented insolent demands," Misha said. "He went too far. He wants us to recall our representatives from Iran and Afghanistan. The cheek of the man! The English capitalists are afraid their colonies will no longer want to be colonies. Get it? The peoples of the East! Here, Slava, read us what it says in the newspaper Genka brought from Moscow today." Slava opened the newspaper. In the left-hand corner were the words: "Workers of all countries, unite!" and in the right-hand corner: "Read and pass it on." Slava read aloud the reports about the Curzon ultimatum and about the demonstrations of protest against the ultimatum under the slogan "Hands Off Soviet Russia!" "You see? We have the support of the workers throughout the world," Misha explained. "And nothing the capitalists do can harm us." "They're also saying that Lenin is very ill," Longshanks said pensively. "What of it if he is ill? He overworked himself and so fell ill. Listen...." Misha took the newspaper from Slava and read aloud: " 'Resolution of workers of the State Administration for the Issue of Bank-Notes.... Allow Vladimir Ilyich three months' leave and demand that he implicitly obeys his doctors' orders so that he should recover his health for the weal of the working people.' Is that clear?" Misha said, folding the newspaper. "Lenin will rest and recuperate. So let your kulaks stop rejoicing. You know what?"

223

he suddenly cried as the thought entered his head. "Everybody is writing to Lenin. Why shouldn't we write a letter too?" Surprise was expressed on every face. What could they write Lenin? But Misha was carried away by his idea. Forgetting that he had resolved to be as calm and imperturbable as Boris Sergeyevich, the headmaster of the children's home, he sprang to his feet and, waving his arms, said: "We'll write and tell him to get well quickly." "That's right," Genka seconded him. "Everybody is writing." "Even if Lenin doesn't read our letter," Zina said, "he'll be told about it. It'll be pleasant for him to know that everybody is thinking about him, loves him and wishes him health." Whooping and interrupting each other, the children finally composed a letter to Vladimir Ilyich Lenin: "Dear Ilyich. We Young Pioneers and Komsomols send you our heartfelt proletarian greetings. We want you to get well quickly. We want to fight for the workers' cause as you have fought all your life. We are always prepared to defend and strengthen Soviet Russia. Get well quickly, our dear Ilyich."

224

Part II

PURSUIT Chapter 15

THE BOAT STATION

With one foot against the bank that was slippery with dew, Misha gave the boat a shove, jumped into it and scrambled to the bow. They were off! A white mist shrouded the river. The banks were barely visible. The broom shrubs reached out almost to the middle of the river, their thick branches nearly touching the water. Genka and Slava just missed scraping their oars against them. But Longshanks, who was sitting in the stern, skilfully steered the boat along the narrow, meandering river. Misha took note of the time. Eight kilometres an hour would bring them to the mouth of the river towards evening. It was seventy or eighty kilometres away. With these thoughts running through his mind, Misha kept a sharp lookout. At this early, predawn hour, it was hard to recognize the landmarks. Everything had become huge, bottomless, mysterious, eerie: the trees, whose crowns could not be seen, looked unexpectedly tall, the shrubbery seemed to be impassable. Misha could not tell if they had passed the little promontory beyond which the boat station stood. Had he missed it in the darkness? He raised himself. Just then they went round the promontory. At once it grew brighter. Misha saw the tiny boat station. At the same moment, he noticed a woman approaching the hut. He recognized her. It was the "countess." What was she doing there at such an unearthly hour?

225

"Quiet! Stop rowing!" Misha hurriedly whispered. Genka and Slava feathered oars and the boat slowed down. Misha seized hold of a branch and pulled the boat into the shadow of a nut-tree. From there he had a good view of the boat station. The mist still hung in the air. The people near the hut looked like vague shadows. The silhouette of a horse harnessed to a heavy cart loomed beyond the hut. And perhaps because the hut was so tiny, the horse and cart seemed to be enormous. On the bank were the "countess" and the kulak Yerofeyev, a short, misshapen old man in a black cap and iron-rimmed glasses. The boatman, Dmitry Petrovich, was doing something in the boat, then he straightened up and climbed to the bank. He was about thirty, of medium stature, agile and strong. Not that Misha was afraid of him, but whenever he was with him he felt uncomfortable: even though the man always smiled when he saw Misha there was something insincere and sly about him. He walked about barefoot, in a sateen shirt without a belt. But his face was closely shaved, well-cared for and quite unlike a peasant's, with a narrow, sharp-tipped moustache. Yerofeyev and the boatman went to the cart. Somebody hopped down from it. The boys peered into the gloom—it was Senka. Yerofeyev took a bast mat down from the cart. Then the three of them dragged two heavy sacks to the boat. Dmitry Petrovich stepped into the boat and Yerofeyev gave it a shove. The boat rolled, moved away from the bank and, caught by the current, turned towards the middle of the river. Dmitry Petrovich steered it downstream. Everybody watched the boat: the boys—from their hiding-place, the old woman and Yerofeyev—from the bank, and Senka—from the cart. The boat disappeared behind a bend. Yerofeyev said a few words to the "countess" and went to the cart. Taking the reins, he turned to the "countess" and again said something. The old woman silently nodded. The cart started off up the path along the bank leading to the village. The old woman retraced her way across a field to the manor. Her black shawl bobbed up and down amid the tall wheat. Then she was lost to sight. Chapter 16

ON THE RIVER

Genka was the first to break the silence. "I wonder what they took away in that boat?" he said under his breath, rising to his feet and looking hard into the distance although both the boat and the boatman were no longer to be seen. "I always thought there was something fishy about the boat station. I said so to Slava only yesterday. Didn't I tell you I had my suspicions, Slava?" "It wasn't yesterday, but the day before yesterday," Slava corrected him.

226

"So far as I'm concerned, I can see nothing suspicious. There are all sorts of things that people have to transport by boat." "'Transport,' aha!" Genka teased him. "So early in the morning and in this slinking way. Besides, this kulak and usurer Yerofeyev and his son Senka are mixed up in it." He turned to Misha. "I vote we put Slava ashore." "What for?" "If we don't he'll keep putting us off the track with his doubts. He'll whimper all the time." Misha silenced him with a gesture. But what did it all mean? What brought the "countess," the boatman and Yerofeyev together? They were taking something away at night, secretly.... "The old woman might be sending off things from the manor so that the commune would not get them," he suggested. "What things?" Longshanks said. "There's nothing in the manor." "What's in those sacks then?" "How should I know?" "All right," Misha decided. "We've got to go downstream anyway. We'll look for Igor and Seva and at the same time keep an eye on the boatman. Only be careful not to let him see us. Push off!" Longshanks sent the boat downstream with a push against the bank. Genka and Slava bent to their oars. Misha kept the binoculars glued to his eyes but could see no sign of the boatman. He comforted himself with the thought that they would catch up with him in the end. The little river twisted and turned through a deep and narrow valley. The high bank on their right was washed bare—porous yellow limestone rocks overhung the water and there were fantastically shaped white chalk crags. On the low-lying left bank were narrow flood-meadows and peat-bogs. The slimy bed of the river could be seen through the turbid water only where it was very shallow. The ripples forming on the surface here and there showed there were springs on the bottom. The boys went past the village and the ferry, but still there was no sign of the boatman. Were they no match for him with their two pairs of oars? Misha signed to his friends to pull towards the bank. He got out of the boat and climbed to the top of a hillock in the hope of catching sight of the boat from there. A wide panorama of the valley spread out before him: unbounded fields, dark woods, peaceful copses, solitary windmills, white belfries, and carts with their thills sticking skyward on the fields lying closest to him.... The sun was rising slowly and its slanting rays were pushing the gloom into the distance and tinting the countryside with bright colours. But the dark, winding waters of the river were hidden from view by the hills and the overgrowth. Misha returned to the boat. He and Longshanks relieved Genka and Slava at the oars. Genka took charge of the tiller and Slava settled down in the bow with the binoculars. "Let's see if we can't make the boat go faster, Longshanks," Misha said, pulling his oars with all his strength. "You, Genka, be careful how you

227

steer." "Don't worry, this isn't my first time," Genka replied promptly. He made a picturesque figure in his singlet and rolled-up trousers and with the tiller oar in his hands. "Slava," Misha continued, "keep your eyes peeled. Watch out not only for the boatman. Our chief task is to find Igor and Seva. Watch for the raft or anything else that might put us on their trail." "There's nothing to see so far," Slava replied, "neither the boatman, nor the boys, nor the raft, nor anything else." For half an hour they rowed with might and main and Misha was about to get Genka and Slava to take over, when Slava, who was sweeping the river with the binoculars, suddenly said: "Quiet, chaps! I think it's the boatman." "Where?" Misha and Longshanks feathered oars. Genka half-rose, staring intently ahead. "I've lost him," Slava said, turning the binoculars. "I saw a boat just beyond that bend. Ah, there he is again." "How far away?" "About a kilometre," Slava said indecisively. "We're nearing Khalzin Meadow," Longshanks said in a troubled tone. "To the bank!" Misha ordered quietly. When he and Longshanks climbed on to the bank and surveyed the river, they saw that the boatman was not rowing. His boat was rocking on the water and he was gazing at the bank. "He's looking at Khalzin Meadow," Longshanks whispered, turning as pale as a sheet. "What's eating you? There's nothing to be worried about." The boatman, his eyes fixed on the bank, was steadying his boat with his oar from time to time. It looked as though he was afraid to draw near to the spot where Kuzmin was murdered. The strain of waiting was more than Genka could bear and he joined his friends on the bank. Now the three of them, like the boatman, gazed at Khalzin Meadow. Grown over with bright-green grass and flooded with sunlight, the meadow stretched between the left bank of the Utcha and the right bank of the tiny and nearly dry Khalzan, which drained into the Utcha. There was so much peace and quiet in the green monotony of the meadow that the boys thought they heard the tiresome buzzing of gnats and the sharp chirping of the grasshoppers. The meadow was quite devoid of cover. The foliage of a few solitary trees hung low over the ground. Only on the riverside was there a fairly thick overgrowth of shrubs. From where had Kuzmin been shot? Why had Nikolai not heard the shot? Who had stolen his boat? Strange.... At last, the boatman dipped his oars and his boat moved on. The boys scrambled down the bank and started off in pursuit. Genka and Slava rowed, Misha sat in the bow and Longshanks in the stern.

228

They followed at a distance that allowed them to keep the boatman within range of their binoculars even when he went round one of the numerous bends. He rowed facing the boys and they had to be very careful to keep out of sight. Just before every bend, Misha leaped ashore and watched the boatman through his binoculars. In the excitement of the chase they forgot the purpose of their journey. "We're approaching the most densely wooded places," Longshanks said. "I'll show you a path that leads to the Goligin Brushwood Road." "You mean the road where the dead count is buried?" "Yes." "I never thought it was so far away." "By river yes, but not if you go through the woods." A long twist with a thick overgrowth again hid the boatman. Afraid to lose sight of their quarry, Misha told Genka and Slava to row faster. The boys plied their oars with a will. When their boat swung round the bend, Misha saw that he had been too hasty. About three hundred metres away from them the boatman, knee-deep in the water, was dragging his boat into a tiny cove near two white rocks. What saved the boys was that the boatman had his back to them and the water splashing about his feet prevented him from hearing the noise made by their oars. The boys quickly drew alongside the bank and hid behind a tall tree whose branches came down to the very surface of the water. Unseen themselves, they could see the boatman. "The path to the Goligin Brushwood Road starts from those two rocks," Longshanks whispered. Misha signed to him to keep still. The boatman pulled his boat out of the water, threw the chain round one of the rocks and turned into the woods. The silence that followed was pierced by the treble scream of an owl. Chapter 17

THE BOATMAN

It was a small and shallow cove. The thick foliage of a mighty oak sheltered it from the sun and that was why it had not dried up. From two white rocks a short path led to a nut-grove and disappeared into the woods beyond. The boatman stood on the bank listening attentively. The boys also listened. From the depths of the woods an owl screamed in reply. Hiding behind a tree, the boys waited to see what would happen next. Bright flowers grew thickly on the edge of the woods. In the dazzling rays of the early morning sun, the tall buttercups, erect clusters of pale-yellow monkshood, white gillyflowers and gay forest bluebells merged in an iridescent carpet which looked so restful, joyous and inviting that suddenly Misha felt his suspicions were absurd. It seemed to him that if he were to go

229

up to the boatman, the latter would talk to him amiably, with his usual mocking, unpleasant and noncommittal smile. But this feeling of tranquil trust died as quickly as it was born. The scream of an owl again came from the woods, much nearer this time. The boatman went up and down a stretch of the bank to make sure that it was deserted, then turned to the woods and, with a gesture of his hand, beckoned over whoever was concealed behind the trees. Two young men with sleepy faces and dressed in peasant's winter clothing emerged from the woods; one wore a torn sheepskin jacket and the other—a long, shabby homespun coat 5 both had crumpled army caps on their heads. The men carried the sacks into the woods. The boatman said something to them but they made no reply. He again spoke to them when he was back in his boat, but the wind carried away his words. As soon as the boatman got into his boat, Misha realized that he and his friends had to leave their shelter. The boys quickly rowed upstream for about half a kilometre, then they turned back to meet the boatman, pretending they were out for a row. Misha hid his binoculars under his seat. The boatman came into sight the moment they turned their boat downstream. He rowed slowly, pulling his oars well back, and each time he bent forward his sharp shoulder-blades could be seen spreading and drawing together again under his shirt. The splashing of the boys' oars made him stop rowing and turn his head. His boat rocked on the water, swinging round gently, and by the time the boys came abreast of it, it was already in midstream, blocking their way. To avoid hitting it with their oars, the boys also stopped rowing. Cocking his head, the boatman looked distrustfully at the boys, then unexpectedly smiled and asked: "Going far, comrades?" The smile spread no farther than his lips. The ends of his sharp, narrow moustache bristled diabolically, while his cold blue eyes regarded the boys fixedly, with suspicion. The boatman's smile had always repelled Misha, but now it was particularly repulsive. "No, just taking a ride," Misha replied calmly. With the smile still on his lips, the boatman seized hold of the boys' boat and slowly pulled it towards him. Misha soon saw that the boatman wanted to reach the chain, so he pinned it firmly to the bottom with his foot. His smile seemingly fixed on his lips, the boatman cast an evaluating glance at the boys. Before him sat four strong and to all intents grown-up lads. His expression showed that he was deliberating his next step. "So Longshanks is also with you, eh?" he said. Misha kept silent. Nobody said anything for a full minute. The boatman held the boys' boat fast by its bow. "I seem to know this boat," he said. "You probably do," Misha replied. "It belongs to Kondraty Stepanovich." "Is that so?" he said derisively, at last seizing the iron ring to which the

230

chain was attached. "Kondraty Stepanovich you say?" he asked, and Misha felt the chain being pulled slowly. He pressed it harder with his foot. "Yes, Kondraty Stepanovich," he repeated, not understanding what the boatman was driving at. "Interesting," the boatman drawled in a mocking tone of voice. "Kondraty Stepanovich went on a fishing trip this morning. In his own boat, I saw him myself." Misha could of course have reminded him who he actually saw this morning. But that was out of the question, and he said: "I don't know who you saw, but Kondraty Stepanovich let us use his boat and this is it." Still smiling, the boatman shook his head. "I see.... You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, comrades, ashamed. I would never have expected it of Komsomols." He gave the chain another tug, but Misha held it firmly pressed to the bottom with his foot. "What do you mean?" Misha frowned. "Why should we be ashamed of ourselves?" "It is a bad thing when young people are liars," the boatman said reproachfully. "It's wrong to shield a criminal. I know whose boat this is." "Whose?" Misha challenged. "This boat belongs to Kuzmin, who was murdered here yesterday. His brother killed him," the boatman said, pointing at Longshanks. "The militia's looking for it and here you're hiding it.... Bad. Very bad." The accusation was so ridiculous and Misha was so amazed that he forgot about the chain. Just then the boatman jerked the chain with all his strength. Misha fell and in falling tried to catch hold of the chain, but missed. With a satisfied grin, the boatman wound the chain round a hook on the stern of his boat and pushed off. The chain grew taut. To get it back the boys now had to scramble into Dmitry Petrovich's boat. "Bad, bad," the boatman repeated superciliously. "Longshanks naturally wants to help his brother—I can understand that, but it does not become you Komsomols. I'm afraid, my dear friends, that you shall have to return to the village." "What right have you got?" Misha cried, trembling with anger. "It is everybody's duty to help the law," the boatman replied mockingly. Meanwhile, though the current was slow, it carried both boats towards the bank. That was what Misha feared the most. If Dmitry Petrovich succeeded in wedging their boat against the bank, he might by some means or other call his men from the woods and the boys would be at their mercy. There was not a moment to be lost. The boats came to rest against the bank. Misha jumped to the bow. "Let go, do you hear!" "I'd be glad to, but I can't," the boatman laughed. Misha did not let him finish. He jumped into the boat and seized the

231

chain.

"Keep your hands off!" the boatman roared, springing to his feet and raising his oar. With a single movement, Misha tore the chain off the hook and threw it back into his own boat. Then he straightened up. "Hit me! Just try!" Dmitry Petrovich stood in his boat with oar raised high, his pale face convulsed with fury. He would have hit Misha, but Genka and Slava were already climbing into his boat. Genka leaned all his weight on the side so that the boat took a list. The boatman nearly lost his balance. "Back, you scoundrels!" he shouted. He bent towards Genka, trying to reach him with his oar, but Slava, quiet, timid Slava, tackled him from the other side, grabbing his legs and jerking them towards him. Dmitry Petrovich tumbled into the water. "Back!" Misha cried. The boys hurriedly climbed into their boat. Dmitry Petrovich made after them, cursing loudly. Longshanks, who was shaking with fear, stared wildly at him. "Row! "Misha yelled. Hurriedly, getting their oars entangled again and again, Genka and Slava began to row. The boatman was almost upon them. He stretched out an arm for the stern but missed. Genka and Slava struck the water once, twice.... The boat began to pick up speed. The distance between it and the boatman rapidly widened. For some time, Dmitry Petrovich stood in the shallow water, then turned and waded back to the bank. The boys went faster and faster, turning round one bend, then another. They passed the tree beneath which they had concealed themselves to watch the boatman. Then they left the two white stones behind them. The next bend was followed by a long straight stretch extending away from the

232

woods. Now they were safe from pursuit. Chapter 18

WHAT IS THE MATTER?

Nevertheless, they went on rowing with might and main, breathing heavily and glancing back. It seemed to them that the boatman would again appear from behind the bend, and that he would not be alone but with the two young men he had left in the woods. The fear that had at first given Genka and Slava strength, began to pass. They suddenly felt completely played out and declared that they could not row another stroke. Misha and Longshanks relieved them. Once he found himself sitting in the stern, Genka broke the long silence. He gave Slava a look that was at once friendly and derisive, and said: "What do you think of Slava, eh? The way he tackled the boatman. Never thought he had it in him." There was no reply. "But our Longshanks went into a blue funk," Genka continued. "His heart slipped down to his boots." "What did you have to worry about?" Longshanks said, flushing red. "You'll go back to Moscow and forget all about it, but my mother and I have to live here." "What of it?" "They may cut our throats, that's what!" Longshanks replied with conviction. "Rubbish," Genka scoffed. "It is not. This is not Moscow. They'll knife you in no time. It won't be the first case, either." "Who are you talking about and who have they killed?" Misha asked. In reply, Longshanks sniffed and rowed with greater vigour. "I can't understand why the boatman worried us," said Slava, who was sitting in the stern. "Does he really think this is Kuzmin's boat?" "What a dunce you are!" Genka cried. "Do you imagine he doesn't know whose boat this is?" "Kuzmin's has two oars and this is a four-oar boat. There isn't another like it in our village," Longshanks said. "You see!" Genka put in. "There's something deep in this, I tell you." "What?" "He was afraid we would go into the woods and see those two men with the sacks. That's what he was afraid of. No wonder the boat station seemed crooked to me." "That would be correct under only one condition," Slava said. "What condition?" "That there's something secret in those sacks." Genka lifted his arms in a theatrical gesture. "You're impossible! We're on the track of a gang of bandits and yet you're

233

doubting! That man wanted to drown us, but to you it seems that nothing has happened. I can't understand you." "What bandits can there be now?" Slava said. "Listen to him!" Genka shouted. "'What bandits'! In the flesh, the real thing. And I bet they're the ones who killed Kuzmin." Longshanks stopped rowing and looked at Genka with fear in his eyes. "What makes you think they killed Kuzmin?" Slava asked. "Who else? His brother?" Genka nodded in Longshanks' direction. "Tell us, Longshanks, did your brother kill Kuzmin?" "No, he did not," Longshanks muttered, pulling at his oars again. "Then who did?" "I don't know." "But I do," Genka said, stubbornly sticking to his point. "Bandits." Misha kept out of the conversation. All that had just happened was so bewildering, so hard to believe. The boatman had of course lied about Kuzmin's boat. It had only been a pretext to detain them. The boatman, if anybody, knew every boat in the village. Then why had he lied? Because of those two men? That was unlikely. Those men had vanished into the woods long before the boatman saw Misha and his friends. Yet all this might have a direct bearing on Kuzmin's murder. You could see by the boatman's face that he was the murderer. He had looked frightened when he saw Longshanks in the boat and realized that the lad was trying to get on the trail of the real killer. That was why he had wanted to turn them back. What if.... Misha felt a cold shiver run down his spine. What if this was connected not only with Kuzmin's murder, but also with the disappearance of Igor and Seva? Something had probably happened to them and that explained the boatman's action. Perhaps Igor and Seva had accidentally witnessed the murder or had run into those men in the woods and the latter, afraid of being exposed, had killed them. Anything could happen in times like these. A struggle was going on in the countryside. Every now and then you'd hear of a rural correspondent or activist being killed. There was no telling what mess the boys had landed in. What was to be done? They were in his charge, whatever way you looked at it. At that moment, Genka cried out: "Hut to starboard!"

Chapter 19

AN EXTRAORDINARY MEETING

On the bank, in the shade of a tree, stood a tiny hut made of branches and leaves. A fire was burning near it and by the fire sat a man and a woman. "Let's ask them if they've seen Igor and Seva," Misha suggested. The boys rested their oars on the sides of the boat and it slowed down. Misha cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted:

234

"Hello! I say there, on the bank!" The man and woman looked round. Both wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. "Could you tell us," Misha shouted, "if you saw two boys go by here on a raft?" The man and woman exchanged glances. Then, as though at a signal, they turned their heads to the boys, but made no reply. "Are they deaf, or what?" Misha said under his breath, then shouted again, "Did you see two boys on a raft?" Once more the man and woman exchanged glances. Then the man rose to his feet and shouted: "No understand." The boys stared at him. "A foreigner," Genka muttered in confusion. Before them there was indeed a foreigner—a middle-aged, thickset, baldheaded man in horn-rimmed glasses, a shirt with short sleeves and golf pants reaching down to just below his knees over grey and obviously foreign-made stockings. There was no doubt at all that the man in the golf pants was a foreigner. "No understand," the foreigner repeated, bursting out laughing and shaking his big, bald, round head. "Should we go and talk to them?" Misha said indecisively. "Why not?" Genka backed him up. The boys rowed to the bank, climbed out of their boat and went up to the hut. The man, a broad smile creasing his face, was looking at the boys. The woman was sitting by the fire and stirring something in a pot with a spoon. She gave the boys an attentive glance. Misha and his friends sniffed at the air: an aroma of chocolate was rising from the pot. "You shout from far and we no understand Russian well," the foreigner said. On the ground near the hut were two rucksacks with belts and shining clasps, two cameras with thin straps attached to them, a tin with a bright label, two thermos flasks and some other small articles of foreign origin. "They're foreign tourists," Misha decided. "You repeat question," the foreigner said. The man was not as bald as the boys had thought when they first saw him from a distance. There was hair on his head, but it was sparse and fair, like fluff. On the whole, this fat, rosy-cheeked man looked like a big, well-fed boy. "Did you see two boys pass by on a raft?" Misha said, repeating his question. "Raft? What is raft?" "Something like a boat," Misha explained, and drew a picture with his hands, "only it is square and made of logs." The foreigner nodded happily. "I see, I see!" He turned to the woman and said something to her, then he

235

nodded his head again. "Raft, I understand. I understand. Here two boys were, Young Pioneers, tie." He touched his neck. "Young Pioneers, good Young Pioneers. They here were." "When?" "They sleep. Not last night, but before that night. Yesterday morning they swim away on raft. They fix raft and go." Misha sighed with relief. At last! Igor and Seva were alive and well. Nothing had happened to them. Further questioning revealed that on the evening before last, Igor and Seva had stopped and spent the night with the foreigners and that before noon yesterday they had mended their raft and had gone downstream. That meant that yesterday, on Wednesday, when Kuzmin was murdered, Igor and Seva were sitting here, talking with the foreigners, and had in no way been affected by the happenings in Khalzin Meadow. That was wonderful! So far as they were concerned then, everything was all right. Now it was only a matter of time before they would be overtaken. They had had a start of two days, and now that had been shortened to only one day. Misha was sure he'd find them by nightfall. An appetizing aroma of chocolate was filling the air. The boys cast hungry glances at the pot and sniffed at the air unblushingly. Genka was simply trembling with greed. The woman said something to the man. With a smile he turned to the boys. "Drink cocoa?" Misha shook his head and was about to refuse politely, but Genka stopped him with a whisper: "Let's have a bite, eh, Misha?" Now that they had had news of Igor and Seva, there was really no hurry. Besides, they would have to stop for a meal just the same, and if they set about cooking it, they would lose more time. So Misha gave his consent. The boys sat down round the fire. Longshanks alone remained standing. He felt very shy, for he had never seen foreigners before, and it was only when Misha ordered him to sit down that he squatted down on his haunches. Nevertheless, he kept at a respectful distance from the fire. The woman poured the steaming cocoa into metal cups, which she produced one from another. From a leather dressing-case she took tiny spoons and a pair of sugar-tongs. She did all this quickly, but she neither spoke nor smiled. Her reddish hair was streaked with grey and she wore it bobbed. Around her eyes there was a network of fine wrinkles. Her arms were thin and sunburnt, but on her wrists there were white lines. "Probably because she wears bracelets," Misha thought. Thin slices of bread, with a brown paste spread on them, lay on a table-napkin. Slava and Misha each took a sandwich and gave one to Longshanks. Genka, meanwhile, attacked the sandwiches and could not find it in him to tear himself away from them. In a minute, there was nothing left on the napkin. Slava nudged Genka a few times, but he seemed as though he were possessed. It was not that he was a glutton like Kit; he was simply famished.

236

As a matter of fact, they were all hungry as wolves. And that tiny sandwich, which resembled cigarette paper, it was that thin, only whetted their appetites. The boys threw to the winds the tact that was necessary in relations with foreigners. They ate the sandwiches as fast as the woman could make them. The man opened another tin of meat, then sardines and finally a tin of condensed milk. The boys made short work of all that, falling especially on the bread. People say foreigners eat little bread, but the boys were no foreigners. By the embarrassed way the foreigner glanced into his rucksack and finally turned it inside out, the boys realized that all the eatables had been devoured. But they had already had their fill and were feeling languid and sleepy. In the camp, they had grown used to their after-dinner nap. Misha glanced at his "alarm clock" and said: "We'll rest for about twenty minutes and then move on. Besides, it would be impolite to just walk away without warning." Heavy with food, they lay down round the fire, and even Long-shanks made himself more comfortable. Chapter 20

THE RUMANIAN WOMAN AND THE CUBAN

"Komsomol," the foreigner smiled, pointing to the boys' Y.C.L. badges. "C.Y.I.* International...." (Communist Youth International) "Yes," Misha replied not without a note of challenge in his voice and mispronouncing his words carefully, probably thinking that in that way the foreigner would understand him better, "we Komsomol."

"Good, good, Komsomol, that is good. International, that is good." "Are you travellers? Voyage?" "Oh, yes, yes," the foreigner nodded, "we travellers. Walk, ride. Russia good country, beautiful country." "You like it here?" Genka asked, patting his well-filled tummy. "Yes, yes, we like very much. Very good." "How is your Lord* Curzon getting along?" Genka asked pertly. The foreigner wrinkled his face squeamishly. "Oh, Lord Curzon.... He bad—Lord Curzon very bad. Poh, Curzon.... Curzon, he is bad." "So you say Curzon is bad?" Misha asked. The foreigner nodded. "Ultimatum, Tory.... Imperialism...." "Is Mussolini good?" "Mussolini," the foreigner shook his head energetically, "worse than all. Fascist.... Communist, Socialist, he kill.... Dictator.... Worse than all." "Why do you have people like Curzon and Mussolini?" Misha asked and, seeing that the foreigner did not understand him, waved his arm emphatically, "Curzon, Mussolini, get out! Down with them!"

237

The foreigner nodded happily. "Oh, yes. Of course. Down with Mussolini, down. Curzon— down." "Then throw them out," Misha said. The foreigner thoughtfully nodded and then, slowly choosing his words, said: "Time. Revolutions we not make, revolutions come." With a serious and meaningful expression, which was somewhat strained because of the necessity of having to remember Russian words, he continued, "Crisis, unemployment, war. For proletariat— not good. Communist—agitation.... Capitalist him throw in prison." He suddenly laughed and seized himself by the wrists. "Shackles, prison!" Wrinkling his face in a funny way, he added, "Not good— prison." While the man spoke, Misha glanced at the white lines on the woman's wrists. The foreigner intercepted his glance, laughed and pointed to the woman's hands. "Shackles—three years. Prison—ten years." The woman was washing the cups. The boys did not at once grasp what the foreigner meant. Ten years of prison? Three years of shackles? What did the man mean? Slava was the first to regain his speech. "Are you a Communist?" he asked the woman. Smiling, the foreigner repeated Slava's question in a language the boys never heard before. The woman laughed, jabbed a finger at her chest and said: "Communist." Then pointing to the man, added, "Communist," then again pointing to herself, she said, "Rumanian. Cuba, America," she nodded in the direction of her companion. Stunned, the boys fell silent. These people were probably delegates to the Comintern. There had just been a congress. They wore workingmen's clothes. The man had a kind, clever face, a friendly smile, a strong chin. The woman's face also showed will-power. And she had grey hair and wrinkles. "That means you're from Cuba?" Misha asked. "Cuba, Cuba," the man burst out laughing. "Capablanca," Genka said. "Oh, yes, yes. Capablanca, champion." "Is it good in Cuba?" "Good, very good." The Cuban pointed to the ground. "Walk on ground good." Then he ran his hand around his neck as though tracing a loop, and pointed to a tree. "Hang on tree, bad very bad." He laughed. "I must hang, I run away." The boys gazed at the Cuban with admiration. This stout, merry man, who looked so ordinary, had been condemned to death, had escaped from the hangman's noose and had managed to reach Russia. What fortitude, what courage he must have! And yet here he was sitting on the bank of the Utcha, opening tins and laughing as though all that was nothing. These were real people! The boys would have liked to stay longer and talk to them, but they had to go and look for Igor and Seva. They rose to their feet and began

238

making their farewells. "Good-bye," they said, shaking hands with the Cuban. "If you follow the bank, you won't miss getting to our camp," Genka added. The Cuban did not understand what Genka said and only smiled merrily in reply. The boys showed special regret as they shook hands with the Rumanian woman: there had been shackles on those hands. Then they went down the bank to their boat.

Nobody told them what to do, but each knew what should be done. They put their entire stock of food into one bag, leaving only the bread for themselves: foreigners hardly ate it. The Cuban and the Rumanian woman stood watching from the bank, without grasping what the boys were about. Misha hurried his friends: perhaps the Cuban was smiling because he and his friends had so much food and had left after eating all that he and his companion had. At last, the bag was ready and Misha carried it out of the boat and placed it at the feet of the Cuban and the 'Rumanian woman. At first the foreigners did not understand what the boys were doing, but when they realized what their intention was, they began to wave their arms in protest. "We not need, not need. Take back, we not need." But Misha had already pushed off the boat and jumped into it. The Cuban lifted the bag and holding it out to the boys walked along the bank after the boat. Genka and Slava pulled hard on their oars. The boat rapidly nosed its way to the middle of the river. The Cuban stopped at the riverside with the bag still in his hands. He was smiling confusedly and shaking his head. The small, red-haired Rumanian woman stood motionless, attentively gazing after the boys with a serious expression on her face. The slanting shadow cast by a white birch fell across her thin shoulders. Misha raised his arm and cried:

239

"Red Front!" Silently, the woman raised her arm with the fist clenched. The Cuban laughed, put the bag on the ground and also raised a clenched fist. "Red Front! Good-bye! Red Front!"

240

Chapter 21

THE RAFT

The Rumanian woman, the Cuban and their tiny hut disappeared from view and once again the boat moved past woods, fields, meadows, glades, gullies and windmills. Misha raised himself and yelled: "There's the raft!" On a small sand-bank lay a raft, a broken-down structure of short, thin logs held together with bark, torn rope and rusty wire. The fastenings had snapped and the logs had scattered in different directions. In the state it was in, the raft was useless. "It's Senka's raft," Longshanks said. "Are you sure?" "Yes. I gave him that wire. And that stake was taken from a fence by Akimka. It's Senka's raft all right." The boys went ashore. A woods extended to the right of them, and to the left there was a village. A railway embankment loomed beyond the fields, about a kilometre away. A freight train was crawling along the track, leaving behind it a long tail of smoke. The boys discussed the situation. Igor and Seva had left the raft here. That was plain enough. But where had they gone to? "To the station," Genka said. "Or to the village," Slava suggested. "What for?" "For ropes. They probably want to mend the raft and continue on their way." "On that wreck!" "Now listen to me," Misha said. "Genka, take Slava with you and go to the station. Longshanks and I will take the boat on to the village. What's it called, Longshanks?" "Grachyi Viselki." "Well, that's where we'll go. We'll find out if Igor and Seva have been there. If not for ropes, then at least for food. Go to the village from the station. We'll wait for you there. Only don't be long." Misha looked at his watch. "Oho, it's already half past four! There's another day gone!" Genka and Slava set out for the station. Misha and Longshanks pushed off and made for the village of Grachyi Viselki. Before long they saw some village children swimming in the river near the bank. They said that two Young Pioneers had been in their village on the previous evening, that they had come in a boat, asked what village it was, and moved on. "In a boat?" Misha asked, surprised. "Could you describe these Young Pioneers?"

241

The description fitted Igor and Seva. One was thin, dark, with a hooked nose, the other was fair and plump. Where did they get the boat from? What nonsense was this? "What kind of a boat did they have?" Misha asked. The children explained that it was an ordinary boat, but nobody in their village had one quite like it. They had never seen it before. "They won't get past Frolkin Ford," Longshanks said, "the river there is clogged up with log bridges and beyond them there is a mill with a dam." "How far is it to the ford?" "Three or four kilometres," Longshanks said uncertainly. "We ought to make it before dark." "But we've got to wait for Genka and Slava," Misha muttered cheerlessly. "By the time they'll get back it'll be night." The sultriness of noon gave way to the coolness of evening. Swarms of midges appeared over the water. A mist began to settle on the river. Long shadows stretched across the water. Only beyond the distant hills were there the bronze reflections of the sunset. At long last, Genka and Slava returned from the station, tired, angry and dusty. The station had proved to be quite far away. Added to that, while they were passing through the village they had been attacked by a pack of dogs. And the station itself was not really a station but only a tiny siding and only one train, the ten o'clock, stopped there. They had made inquiries, but nobody had seen Igor and Seva. Misha quickly explained the situation. The boys took their places in the boat and moved on. Immediately past the village, their way was barred by cows. The animals were standing in the water along the whole width of the river. The boys rowed carefully. Slava, who was in the bow, fiercely waved his arms, but the cows only gazed at him watchfully, showing not the slightest inclination to move out of the way. "Whoa, get going, what are you standing there for!" Slava yelled. "Who are you saying 'whoa' to? They're not horses," Genka said. "The word to use is 'allez.'" "Allez!" Slava shouted trustfully. But that too made no impression on the cows. Genka rolled with laughter. It was only after the boys raised a terrible din and began to wave their oars that the cows finally moved aside and let them through. For some time they rowed without further adventures. The last lights of the sunset grew dim. A hush at once descended upon the river. The boys were silent. Everything around looked so deserted and dreary. "Where's that Frolkin Ford of yours?" Misha asked. "We'll be there soon," Longshanks replied. Swiftly, it grew dark. The banks began to lose their outlines. There was no help for it but to stop for the night, otherwise they might miss Igor and Seva in the darkness.

242

Chapter 22

THE JOURNEY CONTINUES They found a big hay-rick, brought all their things, dragged the boat out of the water and chained it to a tree. All they had for supper was bread soaked in water from the river.

The rays of the dying sun were illumining the tops of the trees, but the trails in the woods were in deep shadow. The birds' chorus fell silent. The bumble-bees and flies disappeared as if by magic. Fire-flies were already twinkling in the shrubs and grass. New sounds came to life in the woods: an eagle-owl laughed shrilly, an owl screamed repulsively, now crying pitifully like a child, now whistling or simply hooting. And that cry instantly reminded the boys of the boatman. They were terrified. Something rustled in the hay. Genka suggested it was a snake. But Longshanks assured them that there were no snakes in these parts. The owl screamed again. "Damn nuisance!" Genka said. "Isn't it fed up with itself?" "Wood-goblins sometimes scream like that," Longshanks said. Genka fidgeted in the hay and laughed. "That's right, you haven't said a word about wood-goblins today." "There are goblins in woods," Longshanks insisted, "and in swamps. In water there are water-goblins and mermaids. And in houses, there are housegoblins." "Have you seen any of them for yourself?" Genka said, yawning loudly. "Don't be silly," Longshanks laughed quietly. "Only a magician or a witch can see them. They're never seen by ordinary folk. But if you go into a woods, a goblin will take hold of you and make you go round and round in circles. You'll find yourself coming back to the same spot every time. Do you know why that happens? Well, I'll tell you. Because goblins make you walk in circles." "That's not the reason," Misha said. "Then what is?" "The reason is that people make longer steps with their left leg than with their right. That is why they walk in circles. Get it?" "Wait a minute." Genka raised himself on his elbows. "You mean to say that if I'm on the left side of the road I'll gradually find myself on the right side?" "No," Misha said, "when you walk on a road, the road itself gives you your bearings and you keep correcting the length of your stride without noticing it. But you can't get your bearings in a wood and therefore you do not correct your step. Am I right, Slava?" In reply he heard a light snore. Slava was sound asleep. "Let's follow his example," Misha said. "We have to get up early."

243

With the first rays of the sun Misha opened his eyes and began to wake his friends. Longshanks was on his feet in an instant. Slava did not want to get up, but he made himself rise and, yawning, dragged himself to the river for a dip. Genka, meanwhile, had dug himself so deep into the hay and was curled up so fast that it was almost impossible to get at him. He was asleep even when his friends half-carried him to the river. He woke up and fought free only when they started swinging him preparatory to throwing him into the water. "You had no call waking me. I would have gotten up in time for breakfast." But they had nothing for breakfast and so, tightening their belts, the boys took their places in the boat and continued their journey. After they had covered about two kilometres, Genka suddenly sniffed once or twice and said: "I smell porridge!" His friends sniffed at the air. Indeed, there was a smell of slightly burnt millet porridge. It was so strong, savoury and appetizing that it brought tears to the boys' eyes. "It's from the right bank," Misha said in a businesslike tone. "Longshanks, head for the bank, and you, fellows, pull hard!" Urged on by the mounting smell of porridge, the boys pulled with all their strength. Misha stood in the bow, turning his nose now in one direction, now in another. Soon on a hillock they saw the white tents of a Red Army camp. Horses were stamping their hoofs at a picket rope, a long row of wash-basins, hanging from a cross-piece between two trees, glittered in the sun, red streamers with slogans printed on them fluttered in the wind, target boards stood in the shooting range, and there were ditches and embankments. But the camp was deserted. The men were probably training. On the bank, steam was rising from a field-kitchen. That was where the smell of porridge was coming from. A Red Army man, his face red with heat, was wielding a huge ladle. Another soldier was on his knees splitting firewood and feeding it into the fire. The boys edged up to the kitchen. The cook gave them a sidelong glance and turned his head without saying a word. Misha and his friends made no move to go away although they realized that it was silly to stand like this. They were terribly hungry but they did not know how to go about getting something to eat. Finally, Misha said: "Please, comrades, could you tell us if two Young Pioneers, two boys in a boat, passed by yesterday evening? We're looking for them." The cook paid no attention. But his assistant said: "We didn't see them. They might have gone by, but we didn't see them." There was another silence. Genka gave the cook an ingratiating look. "You don't need any help?" he said. The cook squinted angry eyes at him, turned away and barked:

244

"Ignatyuk, plates!" The soldier got to his feet, went to an awning and came back with four big aluminium plates. With his huge ladle the cook filled the plates with porridge, then with a smaller one poured butter over it. Genka ran to the boat for spoons. Scalding themselves, the boys fell upon the porridge. For some time the only sounds were a loud smacking of lips and the squelching of the porridge. When the plates were empty, the cook again turned his red, angry face to the boys and, after looking each of them in the eyes, hit the pot with his ladle. "Ignatyuk, more!" Ignatyuk collected the plates. The cook ladled out more porridge into them, smaller portions than the first but exactly what was needed. He certainly knew his job, the cook did, in spite of his being so taciturn. "Ignatyuk," he said, "dry rations—bread!" Ignatyuk went to the awning again and came back with four big pieces of bread, which he gave to the boys. "A-about tur-rn, quick mar-rch!" the cook commanded without turning round. "Thank you!" the boys cried happily and ran to their boat. In the boat, Misha took the bread from his friends, put it in a bag and, raising a finger, pronounced meaningfully: "The world's not without kind people!" Satiated and happy, the boys rowed briskly. They were not far from Frolkin Ford. According to Longshanks, that was as far as Igor and Seva could go. "Well, here we are. This is Frolkin Ford," Longshanks said. Two logs, supported by piles driven into the bank, spanned the narrow river. This was Frolkin Ford. A booming sound could be heard in the distance. "That's the water at the windmill," Longshanks explained. "The dam is near from here." A boat with its bottom side up was lying on the bank. With an effort, the boys righted it. "Do you know this boat?" Misha asked Longshanks, sudden anxiety filling his voice. Stuttering with excitement, Longshanks said: "It belongs to Kuzmin, the man who was murdered." "Can't be!" Genka cried. But Longshanks could not be mistaken. It was Kuzmin's boat. This was staggering news. The boys exchanged frightened looks. Again Kuzmin. Again that mysterious murder. And it looked as though Igor and Seva were somehow mixed up in it after all. How did they get Kuzmin's boat? Where had they taken it from? When Kuzmin and Nikolai went to Khalzin Meadow, Igor and Seva were with the foreigners, that is, they were far below Khalzin Meadow. And they had left their raft on a sand-bank, which was also past Khalzin Meadow.

245

"They found this boat accidentally," Misha said at last with a note of uncertainty in his voice. "They had no idea it belonged to Kuzmin. Longshanks, are you sure this is Kuzmin's boat?" "Positive!" "Let's suppose it is," Misha continued, "but those silly asses did not know that and they could not know it. They simply found it drifting in the river and dragged it on to the bank so that the owner would see it and take it." "It's a disgrace!" Genka exclaimed. "They ran away from the camp, stole a boat...." "Wait," Misha stopped him. "At any rate, one thing is clear: Nikolai did not take or hide Kuzmin's boat. That's very important. We'll find the chaps and get to the bottom of this. See, the boat's still wet. That means it was taken out of the water a short while ago. Perhaps even this morning. Is there a village nearby?" "Stukolovo," Longshanks replied. "About three kilometres from here." The boys went to the village, leaving Longshanks behind to guard the two boats. Chapter 23

THE FUGITIVES

At first, the road followed the river-bank, then the fringe of a woods, and then swung sharply into a field. On the fringe of the woods, a boy cowherd, with a whip slung across his shoulders, was walking behind a herd of cows. Two small dogs began to bark furiously when Misha and his friends came into sight, but when they ran up to the boys they began to wag their little tails fawningly. "Will we get to the village by this road?" Misha asked the cowherd. "Yes," the cowherd replied and then for a long time followed the boys with his eyes. It seemed that the village was still asleep. There was not a soul in the streets, locks hung on all the gates and the dogs did not bark. The boys went past the village shop and saw a big house with a sign reading: Stukolovo Village Soviet. The doors of the Village Soviet were ajar. But there was nobody inside. A shiny, timeworn table, with the drawers open, stood by its lonesome self. On one of the walls hung a telephone. The open window banged to and fro. The floor-boards squeaked underfoot, and there was paint only along the walls; in the middle it had worn away. Coming out of the Village Soviet, the boys saw an old watchman in a sheepskin coat holding a rattle in his hand. He looked suspiciously at Misha and his friends. "What do you want?" The boys explained that they were from a Young Pioneer camp and were looking for two of their number, who had come here the day before in a boat.

246

The watchman listened in silence. He seemed to be either chewing something or simply moving his lips. "Come along with me," he said sternly. "Where to?" "They'll decide. Come." Completely bewildered, the boys followed him. The watchman, hobbling in a funny way in his huge, patched felt boots, kept throwing queer and comically suspicious glances at the three lads. In this manner they reached a big, two-roomed hut. "Go in," the watchman said sternly and followed the boys in. In the dark passage, Misha felt for the door-knob and pulled it. The door opened. The boys entered the hut, stopping in amazement on the threshold. At a big square uncovered table sat Igor, Seva and a militiaman — an ordinary militiaman in uniform. His cap and belt with the pistol in the holster were on the bench beside him. The mistress of the house was bustling at the stove. The back half of the room was partitioned off by a chintz curtain, from behind which came the squeals of children. Igor, Seva and the militiaman were eating potatoes and pickled cucumbers as if they had not a care in the world. But Misha quickly realized that the boys were under arrest. And that explained the surprise of the cowherd and the fussy sternness of the watchman. "Here, comrade," the watchman said to the militiaman, "I've brought you three more. They were looking for this pair." A fair head, then another, showed from behind the curtain. In something like a minute, six children, all with fair, uncut hair, in long shirts, lined up in front of the curtain and stared at Misha, Genka and Slava. At the sight of their friends, Igor and Seva stopped chewing and half-rose from their bench. But a warning gesture from the militiaman made them sit down again. "Who are you?" the militiaman asked with an air of importance.

247

Misha told him who they were and why they had come. "I see," the militiaman said, throwing a potato from one hand to the other and blowing on it. "Have you got any papers to show your identity?" The boys had their Y.C.L. cards with them, while Genka, in addition, had cards showing that he was a member of the International Aid Organization for Revolutionary Fighters and of the Voluntary Society for the Promotion of the Air Force. All these they placed on the table in front of the militiaman. The latter squinted at the cards and then returned his attention to the potato. He ate it slowly and everybody silently watched him. Even the old watchman, who should have gone back to his post, gazed open-mouthed. Igor, a swarthy, nervous boy with a shock of wiry hair and a sharp nose, anxiously moved his eyes from the militiaman to his friends and back again. Seva, a fat, phlegmatic-looking boy, sat with his head bowed, then, without looking up, stretched out for a cucumber and began munching it so loudly that the sound filled the whole hut. At last, the militiaman wiped his lips and hands and bent over the cards. He was so long examining them that Misha began to doubt his literacy. But the militiaman called out his name, then Genka's and Slava's and even noticed that Genka was behind with his membership dues at the International Aid Organization for Revolutionary Fighters and the Voluntary Society for the Promotion of the Air Force. However, the cards did make some impression and the militiaman took a sheet of paper and a pencil from his satchel and began writing a protocol. To the question whether he knew the boys he was "confronted with," Misha replied that he knew them and gave their surnames and their Moscow addresses. The militiaman checked that with the depositions given by Igor and Seva and found that it tallied. To the question when and why Igor and Seva left the camp, Misha replied that they left three days ago over some stupid joke as a note written by them showed. With a detached air, the militiaman pinned the note to the protocol. When the militiaman finished writing the protocol, Misha signed it. Everything in it was correct, but there were quite a few spelling mistakes. "Why have you detained them?" Misha asked. "On suspicion," the militiaman replied, tightening his belt and adjusting the holster. "On suspicion of what?" "Complicity." "In what?" "In the murder of Citizen Kuzmin." "What!" Misha cried. "There must be some mistake." "We have evidence," the militiaman said, putting on his cap. He turned to the watchman. "Akim, I'll go and put a call through to the uyezd centre. You keep an eye here," he nodded significantly towards the boys. The watchman closed the door behind the militiaman, moved up a stool and sat down with an air that showed he was firmly resolved not to let anyone out of the hut.

248

The boys now had an opportunity to talk. "Satisfied?" Genka asked. Igor and Seva hung their heads. "Now tell us what happened," Misha said. "We didn't do anything," Igor replied in a trembling voice. Seva began to sniffle, but added nothing to what Igor said. "Why were you detained?" "Word of honour," Igor whimpered, "we did not do anything. Our raft broke. There was an empty boat on the river and we took it and came here. But nobody believes us." "Did you find the boat at Peschanaya Kosa?" Misha asked. "Yes. But how did you know?" "That's my business," Misha replied in a tone which implied, to Igor and Seva at least, that this was not the only thing he knew. "It'll teach you how to run away from the camp!" Genka added. "When did you meet the foreigners and when did you leave them?" Amazed that he was so well-informed, Igor and Seva told Misha that they came across the foreigners on the very first day, that is, on Tuesday, and left them on the following day, that is, on Wednesday. They had found the boat shortly after that and had taken it. They were detained here. "Did the soldiers feed you?" "Yes." "Aha! Then why did you say you came straight here? You've got to be exact, but you're confusing things. That's why they don't believe you." Igor and Seva bowed their heads again. "We'll help you out, of course," Misha continued, "even though you don't deserve it." "This should be a lesson to you," Genka interposed. Igor and Seva hung their heads still lower. "Of course, you don't deserve to be helped," Misha continued, "and what we really ought to do is to let you try and get out of this by yourselves. But we'll help you only to save the honour and reputation of our troop. You, of course, don't give a hang for either." Igor shook his head in protest. Seva considered that for a moment and reached out for another cucumber. "There you are," Misha went on, "you don't give a hang. If you did you wouldn't have run away. All of Moscow is saying that we have no discipline or order in our troop. Of course, you don't care. What's the troop to you? But we care about the troop's reputation and that is the only reason why we'll help you. We'll get you clear of this, take you back to the camp and let the troop decide what to do with you. We'll see what you'll have to say...." Misha would have gone on in this vein indefinitely had not the militiaman returned and announced that he had been ordered to take Igor and Seva to town, to the investigator. "We'll also go along," Misha declared. "We'll not let you take them alone."

249

"Nobody is restricted in his movements," the militiaman replied. Misha told Slava to go back to the camp with Longshanks and not breathe a word about Igor's and Seva's misadventures. If their parents came, he was to tell them that they had turned up and would soon be back in the camp. Slava went back to the boat. The militiaman took Igor and Seva to the station. Misha and Genka followed them. Chapter 24

AT THE INVESTIGATOR'S

The investigator was not what Misha expected he would be like. Misha's idea of an investigator was a tall, sombre man with a concentrated, watchful and penetrating look, smart, taciturn and distrustful. But before him sat a short man with the most ordinary kind of face, grey eyes, with an absent-minded and, as it seemed to Misha, inattentive look. The table, piled with folders, was covered with a torn piece of green cardboard stained with ink and filled with illegible handwriting and meaningless drawings. The investigator walked out of the room a few times, leaving papers on the table. That surprised Misha, for so far as he was concerned these papers were confidential. On the whole, everything was done so openly here, men spoke loudly and people walked in and out. That greatly shook Misha's respect for this institution, where, in his mind, a secret, dangerous and selfless struggle was being waged against crime. Misha's impression was that the investigator paid no attention at all to what Igor and Seva said. He was busy writing something that had nothing to do with the case. He gave what he wrote to a colleague with the words: "Put this in the Kochetkov file," and at once got down to writing on another sheet. When Misha began to tell him about the boatman attacking him and his friends and about the men in the woods, the investigator was so inattentive that Misha fell into a hurt silence. Continuing to write, the investigator finally asked: "Do you think you can show me the place where you found the boat?" "Of course," Igor replied. "We found it at Peschanaya Kosa." "How far is that from Khalzin Meadow?" Misha replied to that question: "About seven or eight kilometres." The investigator raised his head and, tapping on the table with his pencil, said: "Eight kilometres. How did the boat get there? It could not have drifted that far. The river's narrow and crooked. The boat would have got stuck somewhere to the bank. That means somebody took it. Who? Ribalin? But what sense was there for him to take the boat so far away and then come back on foot? Let's suppose the murderer is not Ribalin, but somebody else.

250

And that somebody else took the boat. Why? By doing that he leaves a trail which proves he was in the meadow. What he would normally do was to cover up his tracks and let Ribalin take the rap. The third possibility is that the boat was taken by a stranger. But Kuzmin was murdered yesterday morning and you found the boat on the same morning. Consequently, it was taken right after the murder. That stranger could not help seeing what took place on the bank or, at least, Kuzmin's body." He thought for a moment, then continued: "Ribalin flatly denies having anything to do with the murder. The evidence against him is heavy, but the circumstances still need clearing up. One of them, and the most puzzling of all, is the taking of the 'boat. Had the boat been at Peschanaya Kosa it would have made our task easier. But you took it and made a muddle of things. Now everything is much more complicated." Igor and Seva, feeling very guilty, sat without raising their eyes. "Are you sure that all you have told me is the truth?" the investigator asked and for the first time gave the boys a look which, in Misha's opinion, was exactly in line with an investigator's job. It was penetrating and stern. "Word of honour!" Igor and Seva cried in unison. Misha declared that he could vouch for the boys. "I believe you," the investigator said, "but I may want to see you again. You'll have to stay in town for a day or two. Have you got any friends you could stay with?" The boys said that they had no friends in town. "That makes it a little difficult," the investigator said. "Now here's what we'll do. I'll give you a note to the Gubernia Department of 'Public Education. They'll put you up for two days in an orphanage and then we'll send you back to your camp." He wrote a note and gave it to Misha. "Who are we to ask for?" "Let me see.... The person to see is Comrade Serov. He's in charge of the children's establishments." Serov, Serov.... Who was he? The name sounded familiar. Of course, he was the man who had signed the safeguard for the manor. "You'll not detain them long?" Misha asked in parting. "Two days at the most," the investigator replied. Chapter 25

SEROV

Serov wore the usual dress of a gubernia official: riding breeches, top boots and a khaki service jacket with laid-on pockets. He headed the economic department and had a private office where he sat at a big desk with round, carved legs. At first sight, Serov reminded Misha of a geometry lesson when he drew

251

cubes and circles. Only at the lesson the cubes and circles had been in rows, while here there was one circle sitting on one cube: on the short, square body was a big, round, completely bald head. There was no neck, just a few folds of fat between the head and the body. Fat lips, small, quick hazel eyes, and a self-satisfied smile gave Serov the look of a man who had just risen from a well-set table and would not mind returning to it. His square body, thickened by the laid-on pockets on his fat chest, was motionless in the armchair, while the head kept turning in all directions like a doll's, which can be turned or even twisted round several times. "This note mentions two boys, but there are four of you," Serov said, his quick eyes lighting on each of the boys in turn. "It's about them," Misha said, pointing to Igor and Seva. "What does the investigator need them for?" Misha told him about Kuzmin's murder. "What Karagayevo?" Serov asked.

"There's a big manor there." "I know," Serov nodded and meaningfully raised a short fat finger. "A historical monument." Then in detail he asked about the murder, the camp, the village, and how Igor and Seva went down the river and took the boat. As he listened to Misha, he nodded his head approvingly. The boys could not tell what exactly he approved of. When Misha came to the part about the boatman, Serov threw up his arms and on his face there appeared an expression which seemed to say: "Just look at the things that happen in this big wide world of ours." Then he suddenly laughed in the shrill way that girls sometimes do and began to tell the boys about the manor and its value as a historical monument. It was the pride of the gubernia, Serov said, and its furnishings were in the local Museum of Regional Studies, in the Life of the 18thCentury Gentry section. As self-respecting Komsomols, it was the boys' duty to look after the manor and refrain from touching or spoiling anything. The

252

manor, Serov said, was the property of the people and it was the duty of real revolutionaries to preserve and guard what belonged to the people. He spoke rapidly and his quick hazel eyes darted from one boy to another. But the boys badly wanted to sleep. To keep awake, Gen-ka fidgeted in his chair, Igor blinked his eyes, while Seva shook his head which kept falling on his chest. Misha wanted Serov to stop, but he found it impossible to put in a single word. In conclusion, Serov said: "Now about the boys. I can't put them up at the orphanages. They are full and we do not have extra rations." Misha looked at Serov with surprise. Why had he kept them for a whole hour if that had been the case. Evening was close at hand and quarters were still to be found for Igor and Seva. "That's a how d'you do!" Genka said. "Do you expect them to sleep in the street?" Serov thought for a moment. "Have you any friends here?" he asked. "No." "Not a single one?" "No." "This is what I can do," Serov said suddenly. "I can let the boys stay with me for two days. You're right, we can't very well let them sleep in the street." He shook his bald head sadly. "Fine people they have at the Criminal Investigation Department, summoning youngsters and then leaving them to their own devices. That's how you get waifs. We're righting that, while they're fostering it." He rose from his armchair. It turned out that though broad-shouldered and stout, he was quite short, in fact, no taller than the boys. "So that's that," he said. "The boys will stay at my house for two days. I'll see that they're properly fed." Chapter 26

BORIS SERGEYEVICH

Outside the offices of the Gubernia Department of Public Education, the boys ran into Boris Sergeyevich, the headmaster of a Moscow children's home, who a few days ago had inspected the manor with Korovin and had spoken with the "countess." Hearing that Misha and his friends had been to see Serov, he asked: "Ordered you to leave the manor grounds?" "No, why?" Misha was surprised. "We went to see him about something quite different. I would have told you what about, but," he pointed to Igor and Seva, "I've got to take them to Serov's place." "I'll go along with you," Boris Sergeyevich said. On the way, Misha told him what had happened in the past few days.

253

Genka added colourful comments. "There are two orphanages in this town," Boris Sergeyevich said, shrugging his shoulders. "Both are half empty. I wonder why Serov didn't send the boys to one of them? I can't understand it." "He probably thought that Igor and Seva would be more comfortable at his place," Genka said. "A family home, you know." "Serov might have thought that," Boris Sergeyevich replied, "but what he actually said was that the orphanages are full, which is not true." "We couldn't very well refuse," Misha said. "Igor and Seva have to sleep somewhere." "Yes, of course," Boris Sergeyevich agreed. "That's my idea, too," Genka put in. "At Serov's they'll be fed and given beds. Those dumbclucks have all the luck! They ran away from the camp, made everybody anxious, got into a ridiculous muddle and came off scatheless. What they need is not a down mattress at Serov's but a day or two at the militia." "How do you know Serov's got down mattresses?" Igor protested. "I know. You can see by his face." "What penetration!" Boris Sergeyevich laughed. Serov lived on the outskirts and to get there they had to walk from almost one end of the town to the other. "What a town!" Genka prattled. "Hasn't even got a tram. And look at the names of the streets: Streletskaya, Storozhevaya, Pushkarskaya, Soldatskaya (Streltsi, tsar's bodyguard instituted by Ivan the Terrible. Guards', Cannoneers', Soldiers' . . . respectively).This town must be very old. Must have been a fortress or

something." "It is an old town," Boris Sergeyevich confirmed, "and was founded long before Moscow." "Did you come here about the labour commune?" Misha asked. "Yes," Boris Sergeyevich frowned. He said nothing further, but asked the boys to tell him all they knew about Kuzmin's murder. In reply to Misha's assurances that Ribalin was innocent, Boris Sergeyevich said:

"It's difficult for me to judge. I do not know the details. But the guilty party is the one who wanted Kuzmin to die." They reached Serov's house. It was a small, single-storey cottage with a small porch and three windows with white curtains. Over the fence, painted a bright red like the cottage and bristling along the top with long, sharp nails, could be seen the crowns of apple- and pear-trees. Near the door, a bell-pull dangled on a piece of wire. "I'll wait while you finish your business there," Boris Sergeyevich said and slowly walked away down the road. The boys climbed the steps to the porch. Misha tugged the bell-pull. The boys heard a metallic clatter, then footfalls. "Who's there?" a woman's voice asked. "We're from Comrade Serov," Misha replied.

254

A bolt rattled. The door opened. On the threshold stood a tall, handsome woman in a bright dressing-gown with green and yellow flowers printed on it. "We were sent by Comrade Serov..." Misha began. "I know," the woman said quickly, her thin lips curving haughtily. "Which are the boys?" Misha indicated Igor and Seva. "These." The woman took a step back and opened the door wider. "Come in.» Igor and Seva irresolutely entered the house. The woman banged the door shut after them. A little put out by such a reception, Misha and Genka remained standing on the porch. "I was hoping we'd get supper," Genka muttered, despondently. "Supper! Fine hope!" Misha replied. "You'll have to wait a long time for that." He looked indignantly at the door: they had not even been given an opportunity to say good-bye to their friends. But who did the woman remind him of? Her face looked very familiar. Perhaps she looked like one of their neighbours in Moscow? ... "I swear," Genka said, "if we don't get something to eat soon, I'll die of hunger." Chapter 27

LIFE OF THE GENTRY

Genka did not die of hunger. An hour later saw the boys and Boris Sergeyevich walking out of a Food Commissariat canteen, where they had a satisfying meal of cabbage soup and rice pudding. During the meal, Boris Sergeyevich told Misha and Genka that the labour commune idea was not progressing. Serov was against it and he had the backing of one of the local officials. His grounds were that the manor was a historical monument. They, Boris Sergeyevich said, had therefore to upset that version. The task was not impossible. He had already found out a thing or two in Moscow. His intention now was to go to the local Museum of Regional Studies where he hoped to find facts to support his case. "Serov also spoke about the museum," Misha said. "May we go with you?" "If you like." "What an idea!" Genka said with a wry face. "What makes you want to go to that dump? What's so interesting about it? I bet they have mammoth tusks there. Every museum you go to, you find mammoth tusks. All want to prove that mammoths lived in their gubernia. I don't see that that's important even if they did." "What if suddenly, besides mammoth tusks, there's something else and

255

that something is really interesting?" "No," Genka maintained, "you'll find nothing except mammoth tusks and, perhaps, a shrine with the relics of some saint, which is really nothing but trash and opium for the people." "You don't have to go if you don't want to," Misha said. "You can wait for me at the railway station." "Oh, no, rather than hang around the station I'll go to that museum," Genka announced. Genka was right. The first things they saw when they entered the museum were the tusks of a mammoth. Curved, yellowish, they hung as an ornament in the museum's small vestibule, testifying to the fact that so far as mammoths went this gubernia did not lag behind the others. A long suite of rooms extended from the vestibule along the circumference of the museum. Each room was a "section." Fauna, minerals, the vegetable kingdom, handicrafts, farming, history of the region. The history of the region, be it said, occupied a few rooms. On the door of one of them hung a plaque with the inscription: Life of 18th-Century Gentry. The furniture from the manor was in this room. The display was of a drawing-room. Behind a rope was mahogany furniture: a table, a divan, armchairs and chairs upholstered with dark-red satin, a fire-place screen with Chinese birds drawn on it, a big harp with torn strings, two tall mirrors with candelabra on either side. There also were three wardrobes. In one, bearing the inscription: Clothes of the Gentry, stood mannequins in ancient dress clothes with medals, Orders, stars and blue bands across the shoulders. In the second {Leisure of the Gentry}, were pipes, chibouks, playing cards and ivory billiard balls and chessmen. In the third {Recreation of the Gentry), there was, for some reason, a dinner set with huge pistols and other ancient weapons ranged around it. Genka commented very deprecatingly on the life of the gentry. "What did they want such long pipes for? How is one to smoke them? Try and carry one like that about with you! Or that caftan! Don't tell me that it's comfortable to wear. And the gowns.... Rags! Who wants all this? Leisure of the gentry, recreation of the gentry —as though anyone cares? We haven't got any counts or landlords, so why make a show of all this?" But Misha was not listening to Genka. His attention had been immediately caught by a bronze bird. It was a small replica of the one on the manor. It stood on a marble rest and gazed at the boys with round, irate eyes. "Look, Boris Sergeyevich," Misha said, "exactly the same eagle as on the manor." Boris Sergeyevich was examining some charts hanging on the wall. He turned round. "This bird is on the family coat-of-arms," he said, "but I can't tell why it's been sculptured in bronze. Possibly just a whim." And he went back to the charts. Misha suddenly felt sleepy. It was always like that! The moment you step into a museum you begin to feel drowsy. Even in the Tretyakov Picture

256

Gallery. Why did museums make you sleepy? You always felt like running through the halls as quickly as possible and going out into the street again. But Boris Sergeyevich's presence made Misha fight his sleepiness. He forced himself to continue looking at the pictures and charts showing the wealth of counts and portraying their life. One of the pictures showed a serf being flogged. He was lying on a bench with his hands and feet tied. On either side of him was a man in a red shirt, with a switch in theatrically uplifted hands, while some distance away stood the landlord himself in a gown. In his teeth he had a pipe reaching down to the ground. A big map of the uyezd showed that the Karagayev counts had owned as much land as did two thousand peasant households. The peasants' land was painted red, and the count's—black. It stretched in a huge mass along both sides of the Utcha up to the Khalzan River, where Kuzmin was killed. Boris Sergeyevich spent a particularly long time in front of this map and even made a copy of it. He explained to Misha that after the Revolution almost all of the Karagayev land had been given to the peasants. What was left had been taken by the village kulaks. If the labour commune was organized, the kulaks would have to return that land. "What a hope!" Genka smirked. "Try and get something out of Yerofeyev." There was another map. It showed what wealth the Karagayev family had had in Russia. In addition to Karagayevo, they had three other estates and, besides, mines in the Urals. "It's outrageous!" Misha was indignant. "One man had everything, while others had nothing. That was not fair. Is it true that he had diamond mines in the Urals?" "Yes," Boris Sergeyevich said. "The old count stubbornly looked for diamonds in the Urals. But from what I can gather he did not find anything valuable. Of course, you know that only big diamonds are valued, and he did not find any big ones. But the entire history of this family is connected with some mystery about precious stones. Somebody had murdered somebody and somebody else had gone mad. On the very eve of the Revolution, the old count was deprived of all civil rights and the property went to his son. On the whole, it was a filthy business." "To the devil with them," Genka said. "Let's go. It's nauseating even to stand here!" As they went through the door, Misha looked back. And as at the manor, he thought the bronze bird had a sinister look as it followed them out with its fixed gaze....

257

258

Part III

GOLIGIN BRUSHWOOD ROAD Chapter 28

SENKA YEROFEYEV

In the camp, life returned to its normal course—reveille, morning line-up, raising of the flag, work in the village, games, discussions round the fire. But the feeling that there was some mystery in the air never left Misha. Nikolai Ribalin's guilt had not been proved, but he was still in custody. On the other hand, the boatman was walking about as though nothing were the matter. Whenever he met Misha, he grinned as though that incident on the river had never happened. Once he even winked. The "countess" was associated with him. She was sending something to the woods. And the kulak Yerofeyev was in concert with them. Hm.... He had to get to the bottom of this, for an innocent man might suffer. But how was he to go about it? Ought he to go to the woods and find out who those men were? But where was he to look for them? Besides, it was dangerous. He would have gone if he had been alone. But what about his friends? Anything could happen and the blame would fall on him. That meant that there was only one thing to do—to find out what the boatman took to the woods. That could be found out through Senka Yerofeyev. He had helped to carry the sacks to the boat. Naturally, he would not come out with it on his own, but it was worth while trying. He might let out a hint. Genka supported this plan. "But it would not be the thing for you to do it," he said. "You are the

259

leader of the troop, and the chaps are shy of you. But I'll get Senka to talk, you may be sure of that." "You'll blunder somewhere," Misha said doubtfully, "and that'll spoil everything." But Genka assured him that he would be careful and wary. After all, was this his first important assignment? Genka had no plan of action. As always, he banked on luck. The important thing was to start a conversation. When that happened he'd see how things shaped out. The Young Pioneers were fitting out the club with the help of the village children. Senka and Akimka were the only ones who kept aloof. They sat on a pile of logs, chewing sunflower seeds and, lazily swearing, playing a game of cards. Genka stopped near them and> watched the game, pretending he was interested. "Join us," Senka invited, shuffling the cards. "I don't play cards, but I don't mind watching," Genka replied, sitting down on a log. "Don't be afraid," Senka said with a leer. "We're not playing for money. Only for fillips." "It's best not to play with me," Genka said importantly, "I'm rather good." "Is that so?" "It's the truth. Give me the pack." Genka took the pack, shuffled it and showed a trick. The trick was simple, but Senka and Akimka were impressed. At least, that is what Genka thought. There was no mistaking the village lads' wonder. : Pleased with his success, Genka, with feigned indifference, said: "That's nothing. Just by looking at a person I can tell what he did today, yesterday or the day before yesterday." "Whose leg are you trying to pull?" Senka said. "I can prove it." "All right, tell me what I did yesterday?" "You're fast! Catch me telling you." "Of course you won't, because you can't." "I can't?" "You can't!" "I can't?" "No." "What if I can?" "Then tell me." "Now listen," Genka said impressively, "if I tell you what you did yesterday, you'll tell me what you did the day before yesterday." "It's a bargain." "Yesterday," Genka said, "you were at the windmill." "True," Senka muttered. "You could very well have seen me." "From where? I never go to the windmill. All I did was to look at you and guess. Now tell me what you did the day before yesterday." Senka gave Genka a sullen look. "Think you're the only one who can guess?" "What has that got to do with it? We made a bargain and I guessed right. Now you tell me what you did the day before yesterday and I'll judge if you're telling the truth or not."

260

"Cunning, that's what you are! Think you're tops at guessing? Others can do it just as well." "I can guess anything you want," Akimka said hoarsely, tracing a figure in the sand with his toe. "What for instance?" Genka asked derisively. "Anything you like." "He can, too," Senka put in. "Akimka can guess anything." "What?" Genka pressed. "Anything," Senka replied and turned to Akimka. "Akimka, we'll hide something and you'll look for it. Think you can find it?" "Why not?" "All right. Go somewhere you can't see us." Akimka shuffled off towards a shed. "Don't look back," Senka called after him. Akimka buried his face against the side of the shed. "Here," Senka whispered and produced an egg from inside his shirt, "this is an ordinary egg. See? Let him find it. He'll look for it till doomsday." Genka regarded Senka suspiciously. What if there was an agreement between him and Akimka? They were friends, after all. They might be pulling his leg. All right, let them try! "Let's hide it under that log," he suggested. "No." Senka shook his head. "He'd find it at once. This is what we'll do. We'll hide it under one of our caps. Let him look for it then. He'll never find it." Before Genka could reply, his cap was in Senka's hands. He carefully put the egg in it, put it back on Genka's head and pulled the peak well down on his forehead. "What a lark!" Senka whispered. "He'll never find it in a million years. We'll give him five hot ones." "All right," thought Genka to himself, "let the egg stay in my cap. But they'll never cheat me." "Finished?" he asked. "Yes." "All right," Genka said, "but only on condition that we turn our backs to him. Let him look for the egg that way." "Why?" "So that you won't be able to make a sign." "Suits me," Senka agreed. They sat down with their backs to Akimka. "Ready, Akimka!" Genka shouted. "If you say just one word to him, I'll quit." "All right, all right," Senka muttered. They sat without turning round. They heard Akimka's footsteps and his snuffling. "Why are you sitting like this?" he asked. "Go on, search," Genka said with elation in his heart. He had the whip hand now! They had apparently worked this thing before. Senka had to show Akimka where the egg was hidden by a prearranged signal. They had never counted on being forced to turn round. Let him search.

261

Genka watched Senka out of the corner of his eye, fearing that the latter would give Akimka a secret sign after all. But Senka sat quietly with his hands clasped on his knee?. There was no way he could make a sign. He had fallen into Genka's trap. Now he would have to tell what he did the day before yesterday. With their caps low over their eyes, the boys sat on the log without turning round. Akimka walked back and forth behind them and snuffled. "Guess and be quick about it," Genka said. "I'm not going to wait a year!" "Don't rush me," Akimka replied. He was snuffling somewhere quite close to Genka's ear and before Genka knew what was happening he hit him on the cap with all his might. That same instant a sticky, stinking mass oozed down Genka's freckled face into his eyes. Mad with rage, Genka sprang to his feet and tore the cap off his head. The mass flowed more freely and pasted up his eyes. The egg was rotten. To Genka it seemed that an unbearable stench was rising from him from head to foot. "And you said he'd never guess," Senka said, rolling with laughter. With his usual downcast look, Akimka was drawing something in the sand with the crooked nail of his toe. Using the edge of his shirt and a tuft of grass, Genka wiped his face and head (as always, he had left his handkerchief in the tent) and said: "All right, you win. But next time you'll hot get away with it." "We'll see," Senka cut him short. "You think too much of yourself." Then, altogether spitefully, he added, "Komsomols, think I care!" Chapter 29

THE NAIL

It was a gloomy and downcast Genka that returned to the club. There, work was in full swing. The boys and girls were covering the holes in the walls with boards, levelling the earthen floor, building a stage, fixing up the wings, hanging up curtains, putting in glass panes, and making benches. Some of the youngsters were writing slogans, drawing posters, arranging firs along the walls and hanging fir and paper flag garlands on the ceiling. "Well, find out anything?" Misha asked. "Not yet," Genka replied darkly. "You didn't let the cat out of the bag?" "No." "What are those yellow spots on your face?" "Where?" Genka ran his hand across his cheek. "Nothing. They took me in with the egg trick." "And you fell for it?"

262

"I didn't know." "You didn't know? You're a fine one!" "Why didn't you warn me?" "How could I know that you'd fall for such a cheap trick?" Genka was hurt. "That's no reason to laugh! All right, I fell for it, so what? At any rate I was careful. Senka doesn't suspect anything. So you needn't worry." "That is the main thing," Misha said in a conciliatory tone. "Don't take it to heart. We'll find out all we need. Meanwhile, take this poster and nail it to that wall." Crestfallen, Genka took the poster, put a ladder up against the wall and with four nails in his mouth and a hammer in his hand climbed up. As he drove in the nails the thought of the rebuff he had suffered never left his head. Everything had been running so smoothly. But now Senka would laugh at him. In front of everybody. A pleasant thought, indeed! { Rubbing salt, into his wound in this fashion, he drove in one nail, then another. When he took the third nail out of his mouth, he found that he had lost the fourth nail. Where could it have gone to? He knew he hadn't dropped it. He counted the nails in the poster—there were exactly two, plus the nail in his hand. Then, with his tongue, he carefully felt along one cheek, then the other. No, the nail wasn't there! A shiver ran down his spine: had he swallowed it? They were small nails and could be easily swallowed. Slowly, Genka came down the ladder and carefully searched the floor. Perhaps he had dropped the nail? No, it was nowhere to be found. Genka straightened up and as he did so he felt a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach.... It lasted only for an instant. As he had thought—he had swallowed the nail. What would happen now? His eyes wide with terror, he frantically clasped his hands to his chest, then to his stomach. He thought he could feel the nail slowly sliding down his gullet. He felt a shooting pain now in one place, now in another. He was terrified that the nail would get stuck at some turning and pierce his gullet and stomach. "What's the matter with you?" Slava asked. Genka gulped and, hardly breathing, whispered: "I—I—swallowed...." "Swallowed what?" "A—a—nail." This terrible news was passed on to Misha, who came up, followed by Zina Kruglova, Kit and the Bleater. In a few moments, Genka was surrounded by the whole troop. "How did it happen?" Misha demanded. But Genka went on gulping air and with his hand showed the path of the nail in his stomach. "Perhaps you didn't swallow it?" Misha asked hopefully. Genka spread out four fingers and whispered: "I had four, only three remained."

263

"Slap him on the back," Zina Kruglova suggested. "Not on your life!" the Bleater shouted. "That would only make it worse: the nail would get stuck in his intestines. An emetic is the only thing that'll help." "An emetic?" Kit exclaimed, horrified. "You're crazy! D'you think the nail can be got out as easily as all that? It'll get stuck, you can bet on that. I remember once I swallowed a bone...." "You and your bone," Misha interrupted him. "This is no time to talk about a bone!" "What if we put him on his head and shake him by the legs?" suggested Sasha Cuban. "That ought to get the nail out." While all these pleasant suggestions were being made, Genka turned his head now to one of his friends, now to another. "Take him to the district," Longshanks advised. "What's that?" ' "The district hospital. It's in the next village." "He'll never manage it." "Get a horse. Ask the chairman for a cart." Misha and Longshanks ran to the chairman of the Village Soviet. In a little while they returned with a cart. Genka was sitting in a chair and moaning, every now and then clutching at his stomach or his chest. It seemed to him that the nail was moving about his whole body, now up, now down, now to the right, now to the left.... He was carried to the cart. The artist-anarchist, Stepan Kondratyevich, was sitting in it with the reins in his hands. The chairman of the Village Soviet had told him to take Genka to the hospital. Misha went along. Before leaving, he ordered the troop to return to the club, to be careful and under no circumstances to take nails in their mouths. Chapter 30

THE HOSPITAL

All the way to the hospital Genka groaned, squirmed, clutched his stomach and shook his head. Every jolt caused him agonizing pain. He looked up at Misha so piteously that the latter's heart tore with sympathy. He was afraid Genka would die at any moment and thought that Stepan Kondratyevich was driving too slowly and was more occupied with his own reflections. "You needn't worry about the nail," he said. "It will be digested and that will be the end of it. What's a small nail? Nothing. I remember when I lived in Moscow and was painting the Bolshoi Theatre with a friend...." "You painted the Bolshoi Theatre?" Misha asked doubtfully. "I certainly did," Stepan Kondratyevich replied imperturbably. "We painted the Bolshoi Theatre and signed up the actors, conductors—the whole works. Well, that friend of mine swallowed a spike. It was about two

264

inches long. No joke that." "What happened to him?" "Nothing. He digested it. Drank two bottles of vodka a day to help get it digested. A small nail is nothing. If I were you, I wouldn't trouble a doctor over it. You're inconveniencing a lot of people and that's all." "Are you sorry you're helping a sick person?" Misha asked in an offended tone of voice. "I don't mind helping if a person is really sick. But this is just nonsense." "Then why did you go?" "Authority." "But you don't recognize authority." "Compulsion." Misha remembered the boat. "When we were on the river in your boat, the boatman Dmitry Petrovich attacked us and wanted to take it away from us." "Fool!" the artist replied shortly. "Who's a fool?" "Dmitry Petrovich. And an adventurist to boot." "Why do you call him an adventurist?" "Because he's looking for buried treasure. These things have gone out of existence a long time ago." Misha looked at the artist with surprise. "Everybody has forgotten about these treasure-troves," Stepan Kondratyevich went on, "but he keeps on looking. He's mad. And so is Sofya Pavlovna." "Who is Sofya Pavlovna?" "The woman who lives in the manor. The house-keeper." "So that's who she is," Misha drawled. "I thought she was a countess." "Countess, my foot!" the artist exclaimed and lashed the horse painfully with his whip. The hospital was on the edge of the neighbouring village. It was a big log house with a few verandahs and entrances and there were many carts around them. Peasant women were sitting on the steps of the porch or simply on the grass. Children of all ages were running about, fighting, crying and making a general uproar. Moaning and writhing with pain, Genka climbed down from the cart and, supported by Misha, dragged himself to the hospital. Disregarding the annoyance of the people in the long queue, they went into the surgery. The doctor, a stout man with silver-streaked hair and a tousled beard, in pince-nez with a black ribbon that he wore over his ear, was bending over a man lying on a trestle bed. All that could be seen of the patient were his legs in huge boots. The doctor turned his face towards the boys and asked sternly: "What's the matter?" Misha pointed to Genka. "He's swallowed a nail." Genka could scarcely walk. He thought that all this—the doctor and the hospital—was only a mirage and that he had quitted

265

the world of men long, long ago.

The doctor told the man in the boots to get up, wrote out a prescription and let him go. Then, from under his pince-nez, he gave Genka a scrutinizing look. "When did this happen?" Genka mumbled something that was quite unintelligible. "About an hour ago," Misha replied. "He was nailing up a poster at the club, had the nails in his mouth and swallowed one of them." "A big nail?" "No." The doctor again looked at Genka. Genka read his death sentence in that look. "Undress." Genka began with his Young Pioneer tie. With a habitual movement of one hand he tugged at one end of the tie, holding the knot with his other

266

hand. As his hand closed round the knot, he felt a cold metal object in his palm. Could it be the nail? Dumbfoundedly, Genka stared at the doctor. "Undress quickly," the doctor said, writing something in his notebook. "In a minute," Genka mumbled. The metal object was in the palm of his hand but he could not make up his mind to see what it was. He was quite sure it was the nail. It could not be anything else. There was no help for it. He would have to undress. Irresolutely, he closed his hand round the object and the last of his doubts melted. So that's where it was! He had not swallowed it after all. He had dropped it and it had got stuck in his tie. A pretty kettle of fish! There was nothing wrong with him. But how was he to admit it? Clenching the nail in his hand, he undressed slowly. When there was nothing but the underpants left on Genka, the doctor told him to lie down. Still clenching the nail, Genka lay down on the cold sheet. The doctor sat down on the edge of the couch and put his fingers on Genka's stomach. The cold fingers made Genka shiver. He saw the eyes of the doctor looking closely at him through the pince-nez. Did the doctor suspect that he had not swallowed the nail? Genka shut his eyes and lay still, holding the nail tight in his fist and making an effort to hide the fist under his back. The doctor pressed his stomach lightly. "Pain?" "No." The doctor pressed other parts of his stomach, but all Genka felt was the cold of his fingers. "Raise your arms slowly," the doctor ordered, "and if you feel a pain in your stomach, say so." Genka slowly raised his arms. To avoid suspicion, he clenched the other fist as well. His arms were already in a vertical position. He slowly began to lower them backwards. There was no pain. Automatically, he did everything the doctor ordered, realizing that the deception would be exposed sooner or later. It would have been better if he had swallowed that nail. "Unclench your fists," said the voice of the doctor which seemed to come from afar. Genka unclenched one fist and vainly tried to get the nail somewhere between the fingers of his other hand. He could not do it and did not unclench the fist. "Unclench your fists," the doctor repeated, "both of them!" Genka suddenly got up and announced: "I've found the nail." Both the doctor and Misha looked at him with astonishment. Then he opened his fist. "Here it is." "Hm. Where was it?" the doctor asked. "In my tie. I found the nail when I began to untie it. I suppose it dropped

267

out of my mouth into the knot." "Why didn't you tell me at once?" "I wanted to make sure that it was the same nail." "Are you sure there's no pain anywhere?" "Yes," Genka replied happily, but he did his best not to look at Misha, who was standing grim-faced near the door. "All right," the doctor said quite peaceably. "Bend your knees a few times." Genka did as he was told. Then, on the doctor's orders he made a few other movements, bending and turning in different directions. He obediently did all this without understanding what the doctor wanted, for he was certain the nail was not in his stomach. The doctor went to the wash-basin and washed his hands, then told Genka to dress and sat down at his table. He wrote down Genka's name and said: "I am sending you to the hospital in the town." "What for?" Genka asked, open-mouthed. "To be X-rayed." "But there's no nail in my stomach!" cried the unhappy Genka. "You said you wanted a check." "But there's nothing wrong with me." "That makes no difference. You may have the nail where you can't feel it. Temporarily, of course. There might be complications." The doctor turned to Misha. "Where is your camp?" "In Karagayevo." "In the village?" "No, in the manor grounds." "I see," the doctor said, giving Misha an amused look. "Looking for buried treasure?" "What treasure?" Misha asked in surprise. "We're not looking for anything at all." "All right, you may go. See that you take him to town today. Understand?" "Yes," Misha replied. In silence they walked out of the hospital and stopped on the porch. Genka looked about him nonchalantly as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Misha gazed at him reproachfully. "Do you realize what you did?" "What?" "You've still got the cheek to ask!" "What have I done? I thought I swallowed a nail. What would you have done in my place? Kept your mouth shut? Said nothing about it and waited until it went right through you? I went to see a doctor. No harm in that, is there?" "Can you tell me why you are always the one who :gets into hot water?" Misha shouted at him. "It never happens to anyone but you. Now one thing, now another. You gave everybody a fright, forced us to ask the chairman for a horse. And all for nothing! You've made a laughing-stock of us. I've had

268

enough of your tomfoolery. You'll go to town and let them X-ray you." Chapter 31

RURAL PAINTING

Genka went for the X-ray examination. But nothing was found in his stomach. He returned from town and reported to Misha. That same evening Seva and Igor came back to the camp. They had been to Peschanaya Kosa and shown the investigator where they had found the boat. After that the investigator had allowed them to go home. They felt they were heroes and strutted about, the camp as though they had done something extraordinary. They had not carried out their chief plan, which was to go to Italy and fight the fascists, but through their part in the Ribalin case they had put themselves in a special and exceptional position. Although they were chock-full of pride and boasted, there was nothing important that they could tell Misha. At Peschanaya Kosa they had shown the investigator the place where they had found the boat. The investigator had measured it with a tape-measure. After that he went to the village and then to the railway station, but neither Igor, nor Seva knew why he went. Misha was disappointed. He felt the investigator did not know his job. Why had he gone to Peschanaya Kosa instead of to the woods where those two men were hiding? Together with the boatman they had murdered Kuzmin. Misha did not doubt that for a minute. As regards .Serov, they could ,not say that he had treated Igor and Seva badly. The boys had slept on the hay in the shed. True, Serov's wife had not been very kind to them. She did not let them into the house, saying they would soil the floor. But Serov went to see them in the evenings and had questioned them closely. "What did he ask you about?" Misha said, pricking up his ears. "About everything the investigator wanted to know." "Did you tell him?" "Of course. He's a responsible official, you know." The blockheads! He could not have expected anything else of them. They ran away from the camp, stirred up trouble and still had the nerve to strut about like peacocks! "I'd come down a peg if I were you," Misha said. "You've made such a mess, that in your place people would have been as quiet as mice. Instead, you're proud of nobody knows what. Silly! Don't think you'll get off scotfree. I'll see that you don't wriggle out. At our next self-criticism meeting you'll know all about it. You'll know what all of us, think of you." But Misha was in no hurry to set a date for the meeting. A self-criticism meeting never took less than two days. They could ill afford to spare so much time. The club had to be completed. They had finished furnishing it and now all that remained was to get it painted. The troop felt that the painting should be entrusted to the artist-anarchist Stepan Kondratyevich.

269

He came to the club and for a long time stood watching the troop-at work. Then he went to Misha and asked: "Shall I start?" "Yes. How are you planning to go about it?" Stepan Kondratyevich traced a circle with his arm. "It has to be painted. All round." Misha remembered the artist's absurdly painted cottage. For a moment the fear that he would spoil the club crept into Misha's heart. But he could not show his distrust of a person who was volunteering his services. In general, Misha felt that the assistance of the local population should be enlisted. All the same, he asked: "How will it look?" "Magnificent," the artist said, throwing a dull gaze at the walls, of the shed, "in the latest style. We did the Bolshoi...." "We can't pay you anything," Misha warned. "You'll have to do it free of charge." "Yes." The artist sighed. "And there's not enough paint." Stepan Kondratyevich sighed again. "I'll throw in some of mine. There's a little left. I gave what I had to the forester, but you can't get anything back from him now." "What forester?" "Kuzmin. The man who was murdered." "You say he was a forester?" "Yes. Before the Revolution. He worked for the count. A trusted employee." So that's what it was! Kuzmin had worked for the count. As a forester, he knew the woods well.... Again the woods. The very woods where those men disappeared with the sacks brought by the boatman. There was some mystery about those woods. And then that legend about the Goligin Brushwood Road and about the beheaded phantoms—had it not all been invented to keep people away? There was something in that. It was now clear to Misha that, he had to go and see the Goligin road for himself to find out if those men were still there and if so what they were doing. Misha's thoughts were interrupted by Stepan Kondratyevich, who declared that he would paint the club that night. Nobody would disturb him, there would be no dust and on the whole it was his habit to work at night., But he would need the help of two boys. Misha appointed the Bleater and Seva to help him. The next day, when the troop approached the club they saw a large crowd in front of it. What had happened? The youngsters quickened their pace. But by the smiles on the faces of the peasants, by the laughter and jokes, Misha realized that something funny rather than tragic had happened. And when he stepped inside the club he was so taken aback by what he saw that he did not know whether to cry or to laugh. The club was painted in the wildest way imaginable: curved lines, circles, stripes, triangles, and simply splashes of colour, some shapeless, others

270

reminiscent of the faces of wild animals. The benches were striped like zebras. The curtain looked like the apron of a house-painter. One of the beams was black, another was red and the third— yellow. A slogan was painted on each of the beams: "Anarchy is the mother of order." "Long live pure art!" "Down with the ten capitalist-ministers!" Misha was horrified. Stepan Kondratyevich was pacing up and down the club with a proud and independent bearing. The Bleater and Seva looked as proud and independent. They were quite serious when they told Misha that this was the latest style in art. That, they declared, was how people the world over painted. That was how Mayakovsky had painted when he was an artist. He had stopped painting like this because he had become a poet. The Bleater even made an attempt to explain the meaning of some blot, but got entangled in what he was saying and ended up without explaining anything. In one of the groups of villagers standing in front of the club were Yerofeyev and the chairman of the Village Soviet, a young man who had recently been demobilized from the Red Army. Everybody called him Vanya, but Yerofeyev called him by his name and patronymic—Ivan Vasilyevich. He was a good man, who came from a middle-peasant family, but he did not feel sure of himself in his job and was for that reason, so it seemed to Misha, timid before the kulaks and let them do what they liked. Misha had been at one of the meetings when the chairman had spoken passionately and firmly about the common meadow where the livestock grazed. Yerofeyev had supported him at the time, but later turned everything round to suit himself and embarrassed the chairman so much that in the end Vanya gave in to him. That was what happened now. At first, the chairman laughed at the way Stepan Kondratyevich had painted the club, but Yerofeyev said: "It may be funny, but the money is from our pockets. How can we show this to the comrades from the gubernia or uyezd? It will all have to be redone and that means more expense. We can't afford to throw money about like that." "It's not a lot of money," the chairman protested. "That may be so, but it's public money," Yerofeyev said. "It's gone and there's no use crying about it," the chairman frowned. "That wasn't what I meant," Yerofeyev declared. "You're right, it's gone and we can't do anything about it. What I meant was that you can't trust children with this sort of thing. Can we blame Stepan Kondratyevich? He likes to paint houses, we all know that. But in this case, the Komsomol is the responsible party. They should have come to the Village Soviet and asked if Stepan Kondratyevich could be given the job. I should say the young people bit off more than they could chew. That is the bad part of it." It was always like this. At first the chairman argued with Yerofeyev and tried to prove his point. What Yerofeyev said evidently impressed him so much that without realizing it he changed his mind. Yerofeyev was the stronger personality and the chairman could not help being influenced by him. After what happened at the club, the chairman began to scowl at the troop

271

and even went so far as to reprimand Misha for needlessly taking the horse for Genka. Right after that there was another unpleasantness and all because of a childish game called "flowers." Chapter 32

"FLOWERS"

A childish game, really! You always had to carry something green about you. Whenever somebody said, "Flowers," you had to show that bit of greenery. If you didn't, you had to pay a forfeit. It was silly, but terribly catching. It developed into an epidemic disease, into mass hysteria, particularly among the girls. At the mention of "flowers," even the older girls, half of whom were Komsomols, acted like half-wits for whom nothing existed except this game. When any of them lost, she fulfilled the forfeit no matter how stupid it was. The boys, too, became infected. Misha noticed that Genka and Slava carried a tuft of grass about with them. Things reached such a stage that one day even Misha, quite against his will, suddenly said to Zina Kruglova, "Flowers!" Zina gazed at him with astonishment and pulled a green ribbon out of her pocket. Misha recalled himself immediately and scornfully said, "Aren't you ashamed of this childishness?" He made believe that he had only said, "Flowers!" in order to catch her at this foolish game. And here is what all this led to. One day, while Misha was at the Village Soviet, the telephone rang. It was a message from the uyezd centre requesting the chairman to send somebody to the neighbouring village of Borki to tell the chairman of the Borki Village Soviet that he was urgently wanted at the centre. The chairman said, "Very well," and hung up. As everybody was out in the fields, he asked Misha to send one of his boys. Misha went back to the camp and ordered Genka to take the message. Genka had no intention of going, but he said he would go. Catching the Bleater without "flowers," he passed the buck on to him. But the Bleater, not to be outdone, walked about the camp for a whole hour asking everybody for "flowers" until finally he trapped one of the Nekrasova sisters. The girl lost no time in passing it on to Natasha Boitsova. Natasha caught Genka and he found himself holding the bag again. Genka's second victim was Seva. To make a long story short, the message was passed on interminably until, finally, when it was already growing dark, Lara, the smallest girl in the troop, found herself obliged to take the message to Borki. She went some of the way, but the darkness frightened her and she sat down to think what she should do. In the end, she returned to the camp. In this way, nothing was done about the chairman's request. On the next day, Misha tried to find who was to blame but soon realized that he was tackling a hopeless task. Everybody blamed everybody else. Some of the

272

children had had the message on their hands a few times and it was utterly impossible to sort out the muddle. Meanwhile, the message was not delivered. Nobody went to the uyezd centre from Borki, and Ivan Vasilyevich, the chairman of the local Village Soviet, was taken to task. He was very offended. "I thought you'd be of some help to me," he said to Misha in a morose tone of voice, "but now I see that I was wrong. You took a horse on a wild goose chase. You spoilt the club. You let me down in such a small matter as this and it's brought me trouble. Your boys took that boat, made it hard for the militia to find the track of Kuzmin's murderer and because of that everybody in the village is being questioned. I call that bad." Misha had no reply to that. The chairman was right. But was their work in the village simply a round of mistakes? Had they not done a big job? All right, they had bungled with the painting of the club, but nobody could deny that there was a club! What about the discussions they had arranged for the village children? The village would soon have its own Young Pioneer detachment. What about the work they had put in to abolish illiteracy? Twelve people were now able to read by syllables. At first, nobody had wanted to attend the classes. People were ashamed of their illiteracy and had to be persuaded to come or to be fetched. In these conditions, it had been extremely difficult to hold the classes. But they had been held and had yielded results. In the face of all that it was really unjust to reproach them for the club and for not having taken that message to Borki. But Misha did not try to excuse himself. It would not do to flaunt his troop's achievements, but at the same time he was not prepared to dodge the responsibility for any blame. "Yes, it is bad," Misha agreed, "but we'll redo the club ourselves and punish those who are to blame for this Borki business. So far as the boat is concerned, all I can say is that that is the affair of the investigator and it is too early to talk about it." That seemed somewhat to calm the chairman. But it was not1 a matter of whether he had calmed down or not. The thing was that discipline had grown loose in the troop. Take the game of "flowers," the painting of the club. The Bleater could have reported that the anarchist was spoiling the club. Then the escapade of Igor's and Seva's. And Genka's nail. Discipline was lax, there was no denying it. He would have to tighten up on it. It had to be done now, at once. That evening, Misha announced that there would be a self-criticism meeting in two days' time. Chapter 33

WHAT IS SELF-CRITICISM?

At a self-criticism meeting, a Y.C.L. cell discusses its members. It is a general meeting of the cell when anybody can get up and §ay what he thinks

273

about the member up for discussion. He can speak about his merits or demerits (mostly demerits, naturally), his worth as a Komsomol and comrade, how he carries out his assignments, and his moral qualities: whether he is upright, courageous, selfless. Whoever is being spoken about has to keep silent. No protests can be made. You have to listen to what your comrades say about you, take account of their criticism and correct your ways, otherwise there will be more criticism at the next meeting. It was not very pleasant, of course, to sit and have yourself hauled over the coals. The ones at the top of the list get it the hottest. Most of the ardour is usually spent on them. But then those at the tail-end don't .come off much better: the members who have already been criticized, heave a sigh of relief and attack the members last on the list. But no personal scores are allowed. The moment it was felt that so much as a hint of a personal account was being paid off, there was a cry, "Personal score! Personal score!" They were very sensitive and irreconcilable to deception, insincerity, injustice. Besides, nobody would dare to lie here, at a meeting, in front of his comrades. Even the best and most irreproachable members were a little afraid of these self-criticism meetings. Even those who felt they had not done anything that could be criticized. Even Misha, Slava, Zina Kruglova and Natasha Boitsova, a very kind and just girl. It was a period of anxiety for everybody. Each knew his shortcomings and each realized that his comrades knew not only these shortcomings but also many others of which he had not the slightest suspicion. Before a meeting, each behaved in a different way. True, some remained their old selves, but others changed beyond recognition. Take Genka. It was simply amazing to see how he changed into an innocent sheep the moment he learned there would be a self-criticism meeting. He became kind, generous, attentive and obliging. He made a special effort to get into the good books of those from whom he expected criticism. But he was usually criticized by everybody and so he tried to win everybody's favour. He had a smile for everyone, was careful not to raise his voice, and if anybody committed an offence he was quick to come to the rescue, saying, "Everybody makes mistakes. You must be patient with other people's shortcomings." At the same time, he would give the guilty party an ingratiating look as if to say: remember, I defended you. He made up even to the glutton Kit, giving him his portion on two occasions with words to the effect that he was not hungry. He completely dropped his imperious tone. He gave the Young Pioneers in his section no orders whatever, only saying, "If I were you, I'd do it like this...." or "It's your business, of course, but in your place I'd do this...." The gentle and well-wishing "if I were you" was now an inalienable part of his speech. And this was Genka, bold, self-confident Genka! Nothing ever daunted him, but he was afraid of his own comrades, mortally afraid of being censured by them. He was particularly anxious to please the Bleater, the fighter for justice.

274

He walked about arm in arm with him and tried to get him medicines (the Bleater was in charge of the sanitation in the camp) and to make all the slovens obey him. But it was from the Bleater that Genka got his biggest wigging at the meeting.

275

Chapter 34

SELF-CRITICISM

After supper, the troop arranged themselves on a lawn in the shade of trees. Slava was elected chairman: he was fair and could be trusted to conduct a meeting calmly and tactfully. Misha made a short introductory speech. He dwelt briefly on current affairs, said a few words about the Republic's complicated international position and about the odious intrigues of the capitalists and imperialists and, in this connection, pointed to the necessity of: increasing the responsibility of each individual member of the Y.C.L. before the collective and his own self, before his revolutionary and Komsomol conscience. The purpose of self-criticism, Misha said, was to help each Komsomol and Young Pioneer to perfect himself, to see his own defects and to rid himself of them as quickly as possible. The more so, Misha added, that in the past few days there had been cases of flagrant irresponsibility. At this point, Slava interrupted him, pointing out that by speaking in this way Misha was setting the tone as to how certain comrades should be criticized. Therefore, as chairman, he suggested that Misha confine himself to general remarks and be as brief as he could. He could come forward with concrete remarks when one or the other of the comrades was discussed. Slava's firmness was loudly applauded. Misha never expected Slava to make such a remark to him, the leader of the troop (after all, there was his prestige to think about), but inwardly he could not help acknowledging that Slava was right: such were the rules and you had to abide by them. Grudgingly, he agreed and moved that Genka's section be discussed first. Slava put this motion to the vote. It was adopted by a clear majority, the Young Pioneers of Genka's section being the only ones to vote against it. But they were in the minority and the discussion began. Genka was the first on the list. The Bleater asked for the floor. "Lately, Genka and I have become close friends," he said gravely. "But precisely because I am his friend, I must speak frankly about his shortcomings. His greatest fault is that he is not steady. He cannot keep himself in hand. He does and says things even when he knows they are wrong. A Komsomol ought to consider and weigh the pros and cons of his actions. Genka does not know how to consider or weigh what he does. That is why he gets into scrapes."

276

The Bleater reminded the meeting of the scrapes Genka had been in because of his lack of self-control, and, in conclusion, said: "Genka has many faults, there's no getting away from that. But the shortcoming I spoke of is the biggest and he must try and overcome it. The faster he does that, the better for him." Not a soul got up to defend poor Genka. Even Zina Kruglova, the only girl he was friendly with, jumped to her feet and lashed out at him: "Genka is undisciplined. How can a person like him be a deputy leader? Instead of setting an example, he takes advantage of his position to break rules. We all know what his teasing of Igor and Seva led to. Then remember what happened in Moscow with Igor's grandmother? What about that stupid business over the nail?- It is high time Genka gave a thought to his prestige." "Genka is rude," said Nadya Nekrasova. "Genka is flighty," added Vera Nekrasova. "Genka likes to tease people," cried Igor and Seva. "Genka is a chatterbox and never lets anybody say anything," declared Kit. With regret Genka thought of the two portions of porridge he had given Kit. When Natasha Boitsova's turn came, she said: "Genka is much too conceited and takes a lot upon himself. He is boastful and never loses an opportunity to take the credit for things. It is disgraceful to act like that. It is not modest and shows more than anything else that he is an individualist." The last to speak about Genka was Slava. "I think Genka's chief trouble is that he is too impulsive. He does things without thinking, that is to say, impulsively. In whatever we do, we must be guided not by impulses but by sober calculation." Here Slava entered upon a lengthy discourse about will-power, the character, impulses, and found his way to Kant's "categorical imperative," about which he had read in some book on philosophy. He did not understand

277

the book but the words "categorical imperative" caught his fancy. In the end, Slava climbed out of the maze of philosophical reasoning and closed the discussion about Genka with the words: "Genka faces the serious task of remaking himself. We all know that he is a good Komsomol and that he is devoted to the cause of the Revolution, but his faults prevent him from giving society the benefit that he could otherwise have given. Genka must earnestly consider what has been said about him today." Some of the Young Pioneers of Genka's section were discussed in approximately the same spirit. When it came to Kit's turn to face the meeting, the speakers pointed out that his gluttony was no longer a physical but a moral defect. "What can you expect from a person who thinks of nothing but food?" Igor said. "He subordinates everything to the interests of his stomach. In time, he will develop into a Philistine-glutton, whose only care will be his own welfare. Think of the Komsomols of the time of the Civil War!" he exclaimed with fervour. "Think of the Komsomols in the capitalist countries, particularly in fascist Italy! Are their minds on food? Let us suppose that there is somebody like Kit among them and that he falls into the clutches of the fascist police. They question him and torture him by not giving him food. Could Kit endure that kind of torture? Tell us, Kit, do you think you could?" Kit hung his head. Slava, as the chairman, noted that questions were out of order. If Igor wanted to criticize Kit he could, but if he started asking questions it would give rise to a squabble and to unnecessary argument. "No, Kit could never endure that kind of torture," Igor went on bitterly, "and that means his craving for food is stronger than his convictions. A person like him has no business being a Komsomol. Now when Seva and I decided to go to Italy to fight the fascists... Slava stopped him again, telling him not to speak about himself. Others would soon do that and then if he wished he could explain why he ran away from the camp. But when Igor and Seva came up for discussion, neither the one nor the other showed any desire to offer an explanation. When you came to think of it, what was there to explain? They had roused everybody's indignation. Were they children? Did they not realize that they would never have got to Italy and would not have licked any fascists? The whole idea was preposterous. It came from a desire to show off, to pose as heroes. Was that the quality of a Bolshevik? "It's the kind of thing you'd expect from Socialist-Revolutionaries," Misha said. "It's petty-bourgeois individualism. It's as much as saying: I do what I want and the others can go hang themselves! What do I care about my comrades, my parents! Let them worry, let them be anxious, but I'll do what I want and that's all I care! What it boils down to is that a whim is dearer than friends and parents. They place their personal interests above the interests of society. And the name for that is egoism, and egoism is the most despicable belch of bourgeois ideology. That is what Igor and Seva must

278

think about!" Chapter 35

SELF-CRITICISM

(Continued) The next day, the meeting was resumed in the morning so that it could be finished by nightfall. They began with Slava. He turned his functions as chairman over to Misha, naturally only for as long as he was discussed. Genka rose to speak first. "Slava is a good Komsomol, nobody will deny that. He is honest, just and conscientious. But," Genka frowned, "somehow he's irresolute. He can never make up his mind quickly. He doubts everything. His usual questions are: Why? What for? Is it necessary? That kind of thing won't do!" Genka waved a fist. "In everything you do you need to be firm, bold and quick. Where is Slava's will-power? His greatest drawback is that his reaction is slow," Genka looked round triumphantly. "But when there's a need, he too can come out with a high-sounding word. So there. He has to train his willpower. What should he start with? I say, physical culture. Yes, yes, don't laugh! Slava does not go in for sports and even shirks morning exercises. In this connection it is said that a healthy body makes for a healthy mind. That is what you find in books. And it should be remembered." But all the other speakers praised Slava. He was liked in the troop. Misha, too, praised him, but added that Slava was a flabby intellectual. True, he was growing up in an intellectual family, his father was a "specialist." But he had to re-educate himself, to acquire proletarian, workingmen's qualities. "So far as I am concerned," declared Zina Kruglova, "I don't understand what these special workingmen's, proletarian qualities are. A person is a person regardless of whether he is a worker, an office employee or an intellectual. Ideologies can be different, but human qualities do not depend upon that. You get workingmen with human qualities inferior to those of intellectuals. So I think social origin has nothing to do with it." "What d'you mean?" Genka cried. "Don't you know that a man's way of life determines his consciousness? The working-class consciousness is different from that of the bourgeoisie. The intelligentsia is an intermediate stratum and it is wavering." Slava was hurt. "Does that mean I'm an intermediate stratum?" "You—no," Genka replied conciliatorily, "you are living in Soviet years. I was talking about the old intelligentsia." But Zina Kruglova insisted on her point: "I disagree. Like all other people, Slava has his shortcomings, but his intellectual origin cannot be taken into account. Look at Genka. His origin is proletarian, but he has incomparably more faults." Genka sprang to his feet and declared heatedly that the discussion about

279

him had been closed and there was no reason for returning to it. As regards the role of the intelligentsia, he fully concurred with what Misha said. Naturally, you could not fit everybody into one and the same pattern—Slava, for instance, was one of the boys— but that did not change the social essence of the intelligentsia as an intermediate stratum. As Slava was offended, Misha considered it necessary to explain what he meant. "Now here is what I had in mind," he said. "What does proletarian psychology boil down to? To the fact that the proletariat have nothing to lose except their chains. The bourgeoisie, meanwhile, own property and are holding on to it. That is why the proletariat are for the common cause and the bourgeoisie are against it. In their hearts, the intelligentsia support the proletariat, but because of their position they are tied up with the ruling classes. That is the cause of their wavering and hesitation. I naturally did not mean Slava, but spoke generally. Slava's psychology is one hundred per cent proletarian, but in his character he still has some traits of the flabby intellectual. As a matter of fact, I am only stating my own opinion and it is entirely up to Slava to take it or not." The meeting continued. Most of the troop had already been discussed. There was just criticism of everybody, even of the fighter for justice himself—Baranov, otherwise known as the Bleater. The criticism against him was that he plumed himself on his fight for truth. He was transforming that fight into an end in itself. He was not so much revolted at injustice as he was attracted by the pose of a fighter for justice. It was pointed out to him that injustice should be fought with a view to abolishing it and not in order to acquire fame as an irreconcilable fighter for justice. Misha, like everybody else, took part in the discussion. But all the time his mind was occupied with the thought whether he himself would be discussed. The crux of the matter was that when Kolya Sevastyanov was the leader of the troop, he was never discussed. That was only natural—he was the senior.... Now the leader was Misha. That meant he ought not to be discussed. But on the other hand, he was not an adult, but a Komsomol like the others. Actually, this was sooner a small Komsomol cell rather than a troop. Had Kolya Sevastyanov been with them, Misha would have been discussed like all the others. But how was he to act under the circumstances? He had no particular desire to be discussed, not that he was afraid of being criticized but the mere fact of being discussed would show that though he was the leader of the troop he was not of the same calibre as, say, Kolya Sevastyanov. On the other hand, he did not see how he could prevent himself from being discussed. That would not be democratic and the troop would take it as conceit. The best course would be to let them decide themselves. They might not be intending to discuss him at all, for it was an unwritten rule that leaders were never discussed. Even if they decided to discuss him, there was nothing, he felt, they could criticize him for. He was fair to everybody and had no favourites. And if he had been exacting at times, it had been his duty as leader.

280

But the anticipation that he would not be criticized was not justified. When the discussion was over, Slava said: "Comrades, we have come to the end of our list. There's only Misha left. He is our leader and, as a rule, we don't discuss the leader of the troop. But Misha is one of us, our class-mate and a member of our Komsomol cell. What shall we do? What do you think, Misha?" "Let the troop decide," Misha replied, not without the secret hope that everybody was tired and would be glad to have the meeting closed. But everybody except Kit, who was ravenously hungry and wanted his supper, was in favour of discussing him. Kit was afraid to speak openly of his hunger after having been criticized for gluttony and so he proposed that Misha should not be discussed. But the others were against that and Kit threw a sad glance at the mess-tins lying near the dead fire. Zina asked for the floor first. "I had not planned to speak about Misha," she said, "but his lack of modesty surprised me." Misha turned an amazed look at the girl. "He was asked whether he thought he should be discussed," she went on. "I expected him to say, 'Of course. I am no different from the others.' Instead, he said, 'Let the troop decide.' With those words, he put himself in a special position, detached himself from the collective. I call that immodest. Misha must realize that though he is the leader of our troop, he is a Komsomol like the rest of us. And there is no reason at all why he should put himself above us." Misha gave a wry smile, but in his heart he knew that the accusation was just. He knew he should have said unreservedly that everybody should be discussed. But he had tried to dodge criticism. That showed he had to weigh every word he said. You could not put anything over the troop. The Bleater took the floor after Zina. "We have known Misha for a long time," he said. "We know him well, both his good points and his drawbacks. We now see him in a role that is new for him—in the role of leader of our troop. On the whole, we must admit that he is coping with his duties quite satisfactorily. He neither puts on airs nor shows off. But he has one big shortcoming and that is that he likes to have secrets with Genka and Slava. This conspiring estranges him from the collective, places him above it. We all know that last year, Misha, Genka and Slava solved the riddle of the dirk, but that does not mean they have to have secrets now as well." "They're always conspiring at meetings of the active," Kit grumbled. "And then he makes allowances for some people." "Who, for instance?" "Genka, that's who." "Well...." Misha got up and said: "Now, look here. Kit is wrong about Genka. I never make exceptions, the more so in Genka's case. About the secrets—there is some truth in that. But

281

to be frank, it's hard not to have secrets. Think back to that business over the dirk. If I had not kept it secret I'd never have discovered anything." "That was different," Natasha Boitsova cut in. "At that time none of us were Young Pioneers or Komsomols. But now the situation has changed." "That is true again," Misha agreed, "and that is why 1 shall let you all in on the secret the Bleater spoke about. My sole condition is that it must be treated as a secret." He looked round and lowered his voice. "You all know why Igor and Seva went to Peschanaya Kosa with the investigator. The fact is that we're trying to save Longshanks' brother. We believe that he is innocent," Misha's voice fell to a whisper. "We have grounds for suspecting the boatman. There must be a reason why he attacked us. But everything has to be checked. That is why you must not breathe a word of this to anyone. It is our secret. I repeat, it is now the secret of the whole troop and nobody else must know about it." Misha straightened up and continued in a normal tone of voice, "Now that the self-criticism meeting is over, we must all take account of what has been said about us and try to turn over a new leaf. Each of us must aim to be a real Communist, a real Bolshevik, and if we do not train ourselves for that now, we shall never attain our goal. Scientists say that a person's character takes final shape by the time he is eighteen. That leaves us with not much time to re-educate ourselves and we must hurry. At this meeting we criticized each other. But all of us are members of one Komsomol family, and those of us who have not yet joined the Y.C.L, will do so in the autumn." Chapter 36

THE INVESTIGATOR COMES TO THE CAMP

Misha did not tell the troop everything. He only shared his suspicions about the boatman, saying nothing about the "countess," Serov and the bronze bird. But what he said was sufficient. Now everybody burned with the desire to help Nikolai and to expose the boatman. But at the moment there was nothing they could do for Nikolai, so they transferred their solicitude to his family—to Maria Ivanovna and Longshanks. The troop helped them in every way they could. They worked in the field and in the vegetable plot and helped about the house. They spoke of clubbing together to buy a cow, but that proved to be beyond their means. They shared their meagre rations with Maria Ivanovna, while Longshanks began to take his meals regularly with the troop. The girls did most of all this work, but to make up for that the boys dogged the boatman's footsteps. They got to know everything he did. Significance was attached to wherever he went or whatever he did and Misha found himself receiving continuous reports about the man's movements. In the end Misha got so fed up with this that he forbade the boys to go anywhere near the boatman or the boat station. But try to stop youngsters! That was doubly impossible because soon the investigator arrived and that sent a thrill of excitement through the

282

entire village. The investigator went to the Village Soviet and summoned quite a few people for questioning: the boatman, Yerofeyev, some of the peasants and even the artist Stepan Kondratyevich. Then he went to the camp, allegedly to have a talk with Igor and Seva. Allegedly, because he hardly asked anything. His only question to Igor was: "How are you keeping?" To which Igor replied that he was keeping very well. Seva was feeling ill and was lying in one of the tents. The investigator looked in for a moment and walked away from the tent with the words: "Since he is ill, let him sleep," although Seva had no intention of going to sleep and had sat up when he saw the investigator. The investigator stayed in the camp for a long time. Misha told him that its territory was confined to a small lawn, but he went round the whole park. He stayed around the camp for such a long time and asked for so many details about it that the thought crossed Misha's mind that he suspected some of the troop of murdering Kuzmin. The investigator asked about the troop's routine: when they got up, when they went to sleep, when they went for their walks and games and who stayed behind 5 whether anybody was on duty at night and what the route of the rounds was. Misha took him over the route. On the whole, this little man behaved very strangely: he carefully inspected all the paths, examined the bushes and, so it seemed to Misha, even sniffed at the trees. Misha could not understand what interested him here. The boatman was with his boats and those men were in the woods, but here he was nosing out goodness knew what. "Perhaps you'll go over the woods as well?" Misha asked sarcastically. "It's a big woods," the investigator replied calmly, "and you can't very well look it over." "That is exactly why it is easier to hide there." Continuing his inspection of the path, the investigator said: "But they are only your suspicions." "What do you mean?" "Your suspicions about the boatman and the men in the woods." "But you only suspect Nikolai Ribalin and yet you've arrested him." "There is evidence against him but none against the people you suspect." "All the same, Nikolai is not guilty," Misha declared. "Nobody says he is. We have evidence and that is why we are holding him." Then he added mysteriously, "Perhaps it's better for him that we're holding him in town. Meanwhile, those men you're talking about are digging in the woods. Let them go on digging." "What are they looking for?" Misha asked, astonished that the investigator knew about the men. The investigator laughed. "They're probably looking for what people usually look for in a woods: buried treasure. I was born in these parts and as long as I can remember there has always been somebody digging for treasure. At one time the ground was dug up to such an extent that the peasants did not have to plough

283

it. The count was a rich and eccentric man. He owned diamond fields in the Urals, so people began to say that there is hidden treasure here. Nobody has ever found anything. But the belief persists." "Perhaps Kuzmin knew where the treasure was hidden and was killed because he would not tell," Misha suggested. "That was not the motive," the investigator said. "On the contrary, if he knew they would have protected him in the hope that sooner or later he would share his secret. The only thing is that there is no buried treasure here." "Then why did the boatman attack us?" "It's difficult to say," the investigator said, shrugging his shoulders. "He claims he did it because he thought you had Kuzmin's boat. He's lying, of course. But that is neither here nor there. We know the boatman for an old offender. He specializes in foreign currency and precious stones. But he is not a murderer. No, I don't think he'd kill anybody, especially as he's just out of gaol." Misha did not know what to think. He was disconcerted. Here was a known, thief and confirmed criminal at large and nobody seemed to care. As though reading Misha's mind, the investigator said: "The law is the law. At the moment there is nothing to put him into prison for. But tell me, did you see a stranger, a man of middle age, not a local inhabitant, on the estate grounds?" "I don't think so." "Think," the investigator urged. "Perhaps you did see somebody who'd fit that description—accidentally, just a glimpse. Here, on the river or in the village. Perhaps some of your troop saw him?" Misha searched his memory, but he knew for certain that no stranger had been seen by him or any of his troop. "No, nobody saw a stranger here. We know all the local people." "Well, all right," the investigator said, cutting short the conversation. "I just thought I'd ask." Chapter 37

THE BOYS FIND THEY HAVE TO GO TO THE WOODS

When the investigator left, Misha told Genka and Slava of the conversation he had had with him. Genka said that the investigator was not worthy of his calling and should confine himself to catching poachers and not murderers. He was of the opinion that they should pay no attention to the man and try to unravel the mystery themselves, prove Nikolai's innocence and get evidence to convict the boatman and his accomplices. In short, they had to go to the woods. But Slava was of a somewhat different opinion. "Our trouble is that we are not going about this thing scientifically. Remember how it was with the dirk? We went to a library, did some serious

284

research and figured it all out. But what are we doing now? I'll tell you. We are letting ourselves be guided by rumours: the count was very rich, he owned mines in the Urals, people believe there is treasure buried in the woods, and so forth. But these are only rumours. We need scientific proof. Who were the Karagayev counts? What did they really own in the Urals? What started the rumour about the hidden treasure? That is what we have to find out. We have to turn to primary sources. Then we shall not walk about in the dark as we're doing now." Misha thought for a moment and said: "One thing does not preclude the other: we'll learn what we can from books and find out what those men are doing in the woods. So, Slava, go to Moscow and get all the materials you can at the Rumyantsev Library. Incidentally, it is time we sent to the parents for supplies." Slava was not particularly keen on going for the stores. "I can't be at the library and collect supplies at the same time. I can't tear myself in two." "That's all right. Take Kit along. He'll help. While you'll be in the library he will go round for the supplies." "I suppose I'll manage with Kit," Slava agreed. "That's settled then. Meanwhile, Genka and I will go to the woods. Not now, but when you return from Moscow. Of course, we could take the whole troop and prove that there are no phantoms, no headless counts. But if we do that we might scare the bandits away. They'll only go somewhere else and we'll never find out anything. So what we must do is to let one or two of us go. And we must take Longshanks with us. Nobody else knows the way to the Goligin Brushwood Road. He will, of course, refuse to come, but we'll persuade him." Slava and Kit took the train for Moscow, while Misha went to see Longshanks. Longshanks was at home, squaring stakes and propping up the fallen wattle. "Doing chores?" "I have to." "Any news from your brother?" "What news can there be? He's in gaol." "Listen, Longshanks," Misha said, "I have another plan. If we carry it out we'll prove that your brother is innocent." "We've already tried to do that," Longshanks sighed, "and went down the river in a boat. But nothing came of it." "Still, we proved that somebody had taken Kuzmin's boat. The investigator himself says that the evidence against Nikolai is questionable. And now, if you help us, we'll be able to prove much more. You'll see." "What do I have to do?"

285

"Did you know that Kuzmin had been employed as a forester by the count?" "How could I know that?" "Well, I'll tell you. He was a forester on the Karagayevo estate. I know that for certain." "What of it?" "If he was a forester, that means he had some relation to the woods. Isn't that right?" "I suppose so." "Now then, who's hiding in the woods? The men the boatman brought the sacks for. Right?" "I suppose so," Longshanks repeated, trying to concentrate in order to understand what Misha was driving at. "That means," Misha concluded, "that there is some connection between the murdered forester and the men in the woods." Although the effect and the premise were poles apart, Longshanks thought the argument convincing. Perhaps it was because he knew nothing about logic. "That's true," he said, opening his mouth in wonder. "There, you see," Misha said, hurrying to strengthen the impression he had made, "that means we have to find out if those men are really in the woods and, if they are, what they are doing there. If we do that we'll clear everything up." "How will we find out?" "Very simply. By going to the woods at night." "You mean to the Goligin Brushwood Road?" Longshanks asked, terrified. "What makes you think that? No, we'll not go as far as that." "Not for anything!" Longshanks declared. "Nothing in the world will make me go. Let's not talk about it any more." Misha had been prepared for this. But he knew that it was hopeless going

286

to the woods without Longshanks. He would only lose his way at night. "I never thought you'd refuse to get your brother out of a hole," he said. "If I knew that that would help him. But I don't know." "It's a dead certainty," Misha insisted. "Just think. Here's your brother in danger of being sentenced to death and you don't want to lift a finger to help him. I'm an outsider and yet I want to do something—I'm not afraid to go to the woods at night. But you're his brother and you're showing the white feather. Aren't you ashamed?" Longshanks was silent. "Think of your mother. Look how she's wasting with grief. She is, isn't she?" "Yes," Longshanks replied dismally. "There, you see! And him only under investigation. What'll happen if they condemn him? She'll go mad with grief. Aren't you sorry for her? Oh, you!" "I'm not saying I won't go," Longshanks said, "but I won't go further than the brushwood road. That's as far as I'll go." "That's fine. You get us there, we'll do the rest ourselves." "Who else is going?" "Genka. Only don't tell anybody." "Why should I?" "Not even your mother, understand?" "Yes." "We'll go tonight." "Tonight?" "Why put it off? Be at the camp in the evening. We'll start out as soon as everybody is asleep." "All right, I'll be there," Longshanks promised and returned to his chores. Chapter 38

SLAVA'S INVESTIGATIONS

Slava returned from Moscow late in the afternoon. "The counts Karagayev," he said, "were related to the famous Demidov family. There lived in Tula a blacksmith named Demid Antufyev. His son was gunsmith to Peter the Great. For that, Peter gave him concessions in the Urals, raised him to the rank of the nobility and gave him the name of Demidov. The daughter of one of the Demidovs married Count Karagayev." "Who's interested in that?" Genka said, making a face. "Shut up and listen. The Demidovs were the richest family in Russia. Even princesses were given in marriage to them. Anatoly Demidov married one of Napoleon's nieces." "You're stretching it there." "I swear I'm not. To be equal to the honour, Anatoly Demidov bought the principality of San Donato in Italy and came to be called the prince of San Donato."

287

This was something even Misha could not believe, although he knew that flights of fancy were not a weakness of Slava's. But there was the possibility it was the invention of some author and Slava was now passing it on as authentic data. How could a person buy a whole principality, a kingdom, one might say? But Slava insisted on this. "If you don't believe me," he said in an offended tone of voice, "go to the Urals. You'll find a railway station called San Donate." "You needn't feel sore about it." "I'm not. But if you had spent a whole day at the Rumyantsev Library in this heat, you'd also feel hurt." "All right, go on with the story," Misha said in a placating tone. "Well then. The Demidovs were very rich. They owned factories and mines in the Urals. And they were terrific cranks. One of them, Prokofy, for example, threw a party in Petersburg at which there was such hard drinking that five hundred people died." "Another tall story!" Genka squealed and slapped his knees. "It's the truth. While on a visit in England, this Prokofy took offence at something. He went back to Russia and bought up all the hemp so that the English would not get it. Hemp was their main item of import from Russia, and in this way he taught them a lesson." "On his own money." "What was money to him? There was another Demidov, Pavel, who in 1835 gave Nicholas I a diamond worth exactly half a million roubles." "He must have been a famous toady," Misha noted. "A little stone and worth half a million roubles in gold?" Genka said, voicing his disbelief again. "A bit too expensive that!" "Yes, half a million," Slava continued. "It was the famous Sansy diamond and it has an interesting history. It was brought from India about five hundred years ago and belonged to Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy. Charles was killed in battle and the diamond was picked up by a Swiss soldier. The soldier did not know what the diamond was worth, thought it was simply a beautiful stone and sold it to a priest for one guilder, one rouble, in other words. This priest was no fool and sold the diamond to Antonio of Portugal. Besides being a king, Antonio was also an astute businessman and unloaded the diamond for a hundred thousand francs on the French Marquis de Sansy. Since then it has been known as the Sansy diamond. Now listen to what happened after that. Sansy's servant, who was taking the diamond to his master, was attacked and killed by robbers. But before he was killed, he swallowed the diamond. Sansy had the corpse opened and found the diamond in the stomach." "A merry story!" Genka noted, putting his hands on his stomach and feeling it. "After that," Slava went on, "kings began to profiteer with the diamond again. Sansy sold it to James II of England, James II sold it to the French king Louis XIV, then it passed on to Louis XV. It was sold and resold many times until finally Pavel Demidov bought it as a present for Nicholas I in 1835. That's the story of the diamond."

288

The boys fell silent. Then Misha said: "I can see that you did some serious study. But how does this tie up with the estate?" "By the fact that one of the Demidov girls married Karagayev." "Well, what of it?" "The Sansy diamond may have been part of her dowry." "But you've just told us that Demidov gave the diamond to Nicholas I." "He might have given him an imitation. In those days, you must remember, everything was based on fraud." Genka whistled. "You're wrong there. Nobody ever pulled a fast one on Nicholas I and his Benkendorf." "You see, Slava," Misha said, "of course, it is difficult to suppose that the diamond found its way to the count. But let's assume that that was the case. What does it show?" "Don't you see?" Slava said, feeling hurt. "Quite possibly, it is what the men are looking for. Everybody says that people have been looking for buried treasure in these parts for years. Perhaps they're hunting for treasure now as well." "Perhaps," Misha agreed. "And that only shows that we have to go to the woods. Whether it is for this stone or not, it is a fact that they're looking for something. And when people look for treasure they don't stop at murder. For us it is important to find out who killed Kuzmin and thereby prove Nikolai's innocence." "I wasn't objecting. I only told you what they are looking for." "Well, that's fine," Misha said. "That means we're going to the woods tonight." Chapter 39

THE CAMP-FIRE

Naturally, it was impossible to conceal their plans from the rest of the troop. But everybody was aware that this was more than a secret: if it reached the boatman that Misha, Genka and Longshanks were going to the woods he might follow and kill them. He and those men of his were quite capable of that. Hadn't they killed Kuzmin? The expression on the faces of all the youngsters was at once grave, mysterious and even a little solemn. It was the kind of expression people wear when they are faced with an important and, especially, dangerous undertaking. The troop comported themselves at their best and everybody endeavoured to please Misha and Genka, for nobody knew in what shape they would return or whether they would return at all. Misha grew so tired of their pitying glances that he went to the riverside and sat in his favourite spot. He liked to sit there in the evenings and watch the flaming sun set behind the distant hills.

289

Moreover, Misha had another secret, a tiny secret that belonged to him alone: he wrote poetry. It was something he had started recently. At one time he thought poetry was a frivolous occupation. It was different when it was written by real poets, say Pushkin, Lermontov or Nekrasov. Or by modern poets like Mayakovsky and Bezymensky. That was real poetry. What youngsters wrote was nothing but rhymed words, and badly rhymed at that. Misha's attitude to school poets had always been one of irony. It was a different thing when poetry was written for the wall newspaper or to commemorate a famous date, for the wall newspaper could do without poetry. He appreciated the need for popular verse for the Blue Blouse—it sharpened criticism of shortcomings. But he could not stand "mood" poetry, just as he could not stand the "moods" themselves. Morally unstable chaps, who kept away from social life, usually had "moods." As a matter of fact, you got cases of "moods" among Komsomols as well, but they were rare. A fellow with a "mood" went about looking sad and dispirited, with a hangdog air about him. He looks at everything sceptically and everything he sees seems petty, insignificant and uninteresting. To such a fellow even life itself does not seem to be worth while living. His speech is full of philosophical sayings like "life is short and dull," "everything is transient," "everything repeats itself," and "we've got to take all life can give us." On the whole, all that was stuff and nonsense. Such a "despondent" usually talked about loneliness, about people never understanding him and recited decadent verses. Besides, he wrote decadent verses himself—about the world being enigmatic, about the transience of life and other things of the same sort. Alexander Ivanovich, the headmaster of Misha's school, once said that "moods" were the inevitable companions of adolescence. Alexander Ivanovich was, of course, a clever man and an experienced teacher,-but some of his ideas were old-fashioned. What was this adolescence?5 It was an age like any other. Misha was firmly convinced that "moods" were nothing but a manifestation of moral instability. That was why decadent verses were written. As soon as a person began to write poetry, it meant he was getting "moods." Then, quite unexpectedly to himself, Misha began to write poetry. To be exact, he started writing one poem and he was still at it. He could not find the rhymes for the last two lines. Naturally, it was not decadent but genuinely revolutionary. It came to him when he was sitting on the bank of the Utcha. The crimson sun slowly disappearing behind the hills in the distance brought back the memory of the tiny railway station where the adventure of the dirk ended, the lights of the disappearing troop train, Red Army soldiers, Polevoi, and the poster depicting a worker breaking with his sledge hammer the chains fettering the globe.... Suddenly, one rhyme, then another formed in his mind.... After almost two weeks' labour, Misha produced a poem which he knew was inferior but which he liked very much. He hoped that in due course he would finish the

290

last two lines. Try as he would, he could not make those last two lines fit. He could not get the rhyme. He hunted for the rhyme in the evenings, when he sat by the camp-fire. That evening, the camp-fire was unlike any other. The usual conversation could not get started. Nobody joked, nobody told funny stories. Zina Kruglova told the troop of an amusing answer a peasant woman had given at the abolition of illiteracy class, but nobody laughed. The troop was conscious of how responsible the moment was. Misha found himself in a solemn, romantic mood and longed to recite his poem. At the same time, he felt ashamed: a troop leader writing silly verse. But the poem was on the tip of his tongue and at last he could contain himself no longer and said: "I have a feeling that we'll find something very important on the Goligin Brushwood Road. It will help us not only to clear Nikolai but also to solve a mystery. That feeling brought the affair of the dirk to my head: Polevoi, Nikitsky and all the others. And somehow without my knowing it I composed a poem. If you like, I'll recite it for you." There was unanimous approval. Misha rose to his feet and, a little nervous and afraid that he would forget a line, recited his poem. The troop listened in silence, a silence that reigned for some time after Misha had finished his recitation. "But where's the end?" asked Genka, who was the first to speak. "There's no end yet," Misha replied. Suddenly he felt terribly ashamed. It seemed to him that his verses were bad, faulty, inartistic. He saw that the metre was wrong. And the rhyme was dreadful. It was stiff, high-flown and altogether unemotional. He shouldn't have recited them! What made him do it? What? He was not intending to be a poet. And all his friends were silent. They knew that the verses were bad but were not saying so out of respect for him. Why had he started all this! His hand stole into his pocket and tore the slip of paper with the poem into tiny pieces. "It's not bad at all," Slava said. "Only there's no end and in places the metre is wrong. The first and third lines do not rhyme." "That isn't necessary," Zina remarked. "But desirable. Another thing—each line has a different number of syllables." "But the idea is good," Genka said. "The minute I heard it, I remembered the railway station, the troop train and Commissar Polevoi. The reason you are criticizing it, Slava, is because you did not see it all. But Misha and I did. Ain't I right, Misha?" "Yes," Misha said. "But you don't know why I wrote the poem. All of you looked so glum that I decided to liven you up a bit. I know the poem is thirdrate, but I wanted to cheer you up and put some life into our dull camp-fire. So I composed the poem on the spur of the moment." "You mean just now?" Genka asked sceptically. "When do you think? I composed it as I went along." Misha stood up. "That's that! Turn in now, everybody, to your tents. And remember: nothing

291

is going to happen to us. We'll be back soon. See that there's no panic. If we're not back by morning, you can look for us in the woods, near the Goligin Brushwood Road." Chapter 40

DANGEROUS EXPEDITION

The camp grew still. Misha, Genka and Longshanks crept silently out of their tents and quickly made for the woods. A full moon was shining down on the sleeping camp. It was so light that Misha could distinctly see the crowns of the trees. The sky above them was blue and the stars were out. "How do you want to get to the woods: by the river-bank or across the meadows?" Longshanks asked in a whisper. "The river-bank, past the boat station," Misha replied, also speaking in a whisper. The small figures moved along a field path leading from the camp to the river. Longshanks was in front, with Misha following him and Genka bringing up the rear. Genka had fallen asleep in his tent and now he was dragging behind his friends, yawning and looking 'very miserable because he was feeling drowsy. He was a brave lad, but he loved to sleep. . Some distance away from the river, Misha told his friends to wait and stealthily crawled up to the boat station. It was bathed in moonlight. The boats were floating on the water, looking like black, sleeping fish. But there was nobody around. It was quiet. No voices, nor splashes could be heard. Misha crawled back to his friends and they moved on. ! It was about five kilometres to the woods. The road at first hugged the river-bank and then went across fields. The light from the moon made everything look fantastic and mysterious. Something rustled in the wheat. Furtive little animals darted across the road. Two green eyes appeared in front and then vanished. "It's a hare," Genka whispered, shaking off his drowsiness.

292

"A hare or a cat," Longshanks said. The woods loomed up before the boys—unexpectedly black, sombre and huge. "Where to now?" Longshanks asked in a trembling voice. He was still hoping that Misha's ardour would cool and he would turn back. But that was the farthest away from Misha's thoughts. "Take us to the swamp, only not by this path but by another. Make as little noise as possible." Following Longshanks, the boys skirted round the fringe of the woods and entered it. At once it became dark. Moonlight was struggling through the leafy tops of the trees and trickling on to the path in slender beams. The knotty roots of the trees lying across the path looked like black snakes rolled up in deep slumber. The woods were alive with nocturnal sounds. Unseen birds—nightjars or bats—were flying between the trees. Every now and then the boys heard the crackle of ,a dry branch, as though somebody were creeping up to them. Each time they heard that sound, Misha and Genka stopped instinctively. But Longshanks marched on and Misha and Genka moved after him. They knew that so long as Longshanks did not stop there was no danger. They walked on in this fashion for quite a long time. Misha had completely lost his bearings. Without Longshanks, they would never find their way out. It was beyond Misha how Longshanks knew where to go. In the meantime, the woods were getting sparser, the trees lower and shorter. Finally, the boys found themselves in a clearing. Longshanks stopped and turned to Misha. In the moonlight his face looked deathly pale. "The swamp's a minute's walk from here and the Goligin Brushwood Road is there," Longshanks whispered, his voice shaking. "Will you go?" Misha asked quietly.

293

Longshanks shook his head. "All right. Stay here and wait for us. You're not afraid?" Longshanks nodded. "Which way must we go?" Longshanks pointed to the right and whispered: "Keep to the edge of the woods. When you get to the four oaks, turn to the left. You'll find a cutting and it will take you right up to the swamp. That is where the brushwood road begins. I'll wait for you here." He sat down by the trunk of a birch and leaned back against it. ! Misha and Genka moved on, carefully keeping close to the trees so that they could not be seen. The moon was shining from the direction of the clearing and the boys' shadows merged with the shadows of the trees. Suddenly, Genka seized Misha by the arm. "Quiet! Can you hear?" Flattening themselves against a tree, the boys looked round. Misha too thought he heard someone creeping up towards them. They listened. There was no further sound. But the moment the boys started off they again heard something moving behind them. They stopped. A branch crackled softly underfoot. It seemed to Misha and Genka that the woods were teeming with mysterious beings, who were furtively closing in on them. They felt lonely, surrounded by enemies. Genka pressed closer to Misha. Misha heard the thumping of Genka's heart. He was a deal frightened himself and had it not been for Genka, before whom he could not betray cowardice, he would have taken to his heels. So they stood, barely breathing, and listening hard. They thought they heard weird sounds, rustling, cautious footsteps, the crackling of boughs, the whispering of people, and it seemed to them that they saw shadows moving across the fields, on the fringe of the woods, between the trees. "Let's go back," Genka said, forcing the words through his teeth. "Scared?" Misha whispered back. Genka nodded. "Yes." With gladness in his heart, but with a look which showed he was yielding only because Genka was afraid, Misha shrugged his shoulders and noiselessly began to make his way back. But hardly had he made a step than he saw the outline of a man standing behind a tree. He froze in his tracks. The figure emerged from the shadow of a tree. It was Longshanks. So that was who had been creeping after them! What a nut! He had made their hair stand on end for nothing. "It was frightening to sit there all alone," Longshanks said in a low voice. "But why the hell…." Genka began irately, but in actual fact he was tingling with joy to have someone to blame his fright on. Misha silenced him with a sign. He too was mad at Longshanks, but this was neither the time nor the place to speak about it: they might be heard. The boys now felt more confident. Now that Longshanks was with them both Misha and Genka felt they could not afford to show the least sign of fear. Misha again led the way to the Goligin Brushwood Road. Genka and

294

Longshanks kept close behind him. As before, they moved in silence, keeping in the shadow of the trees. They reached the cutting and if Longshanks had not been with them, Misha would never have guessed that it was a path, so thickly Was it overgrown with young firs. With a gesture, Misha ordered Longshanks to go forward and show the way. The latter glanced plaintively at him, but obeyed, and although he felt Misha's breath behind him, he kept glancing back as if to make sure that Misha was there. When they had covered another kilometre, the woods gave way to a sparse thicket of low trees. The smell of decay coming from the swamp grew stronger. The ground grew miry and yielded underfoot. Longshanks suddenly stopped and looked closely at the ground. Misha and Genka also bent forward. There was a deep hole about a metre wide and two metres long with a mound of fresh earth around it. The boys peered into the gloom. Some distance away they saw another hole, then a third. Longshanks lifted his hands to show that the holes were not here before. A short walk brought the boys to the end of the cutting. Longshanks halted and pointed with a quaking hand. "The brushwood road." The moon was illumining a dark, undulating swamp. What looked like logs or cut-down trees were sticking out here and there. A milky mist hung over the swamp, forming uncanny moving figures. Now and then the boys caught sight of moving lights—green, blue, yellow. Although Misha knew that they were only swamp lights and the milk-white figures resembling shrouded corpses was just the evaporation rising from the swamp, he shuddered with alarm. Genka and Longshanks shivered so violently that they could hardly keep on their feet. The boys stood in dead silence, petrified by the terrifying picture of the swamp at night. They felt that one of these white, shifting phantoms would draw near to them at any moment and they would see the dead count with his ghastly bearded head in his hands. Suddenly, from only a short distance away, a hollow thumping came at regular intervals. It was as though somebody were hammering under the ground. A new spasm of fear shot through Longshanks and he dropped to the ground, hiding his head between his knees. Misha and Genka also sat down. It was not terror, as they later recounted, that made them sit down, but a fear that the people making these sounds might see them. They were positive that they were human beings, for neither Misha nor Genka believed in ghosts. The thumping started again. Misha listened. After he got over his first fright he quickly realized that the thumping was not coming from under the ground or from the swamp, but from somewhere to the right, from the woods just a little away from them. Pressing a finger to his lips, he signed to his friends not to move and then, bending close to the ground, crept in the direction of the strange sounds. But

295

Genka crawled after him and Longshanks followed. Nothing could now make Longshanks remain behind. The boys covered some two hundred paces. The thumping grew louder. It was now quite clear to them that somebody was digging nearby. A moonbeam shone between the trees. Carefully, Misha parted the branches. Before them the boys saw a tiny glade in the middle of which was a hole. There were two mounds of earth along its edges. Near the hole sat two men. They were smoking. Misha and his friends were only a few paces away. It was amazing that the men had not heard them approaching. They smoked in silence. Although it was hard to recognize people in moonlight, Misha instantly saw that they were the pair to whom the boatman had turned over the sacks. What were they digging for in the woods? Possibly, the holes Longshanks had stumbled across had also been made by them. Then one of the men spat on his stub, threw it away, stood up, took his spade and resumed digging. The other man did the same. Neither said a word. Once again the stillness was broken by the thumping of the spades. Misha made a warning sign to Genka and Longshanks and noiselessly began to crawl back. Genka and Longshanks inched along after him. In a few minutes, three small, nimble shadows were darting along the edge of a path leading back to the camp.

296

Part IV

MUSEUM OF REGIONAL STUDIES Chapter 41

YEROFEYEV

The youngsters exulted at the success of their expedition. The two strangers were in the woods. The suspicion that there was a gang in the woods had proved to be right, otherwise why were the strangers hiding. The boatman was, undoubtedly, their leader. And, of course, they were the people who had murdered Kuzmin. True, they were digging for something all over the woods. Perhaps it was treasure that they were looking for, after all, but the investigator, the doctor and the artist had scoffed at the very idea that there was any buried treasure. That made it all the more probable that they were the murderers of Kuzmin. All that now remained was to prove it. But how? The investigator paid no attention to what Misha and his friends said. It might be that he wanted to prove Nikolai's guilt at all cost? That was hard to believe, but certain circumstances tended to strengthen Misha's suspicions that that was so. When the investigator came to the village he had had a long talk with Yerofeyev. Oh the next day, Misha had seen Yerofeyev in Long-shanks' home. He was sitting on a bench, every now and then drawing from a hip pocket a large flower-patterned handkerchief that looked more like a small tablecloth and wiping first his red, wrinkled neck, then his forehead and, lastly, his glasses. Without the glasses, his eyes were small, red, helpless. Then he put on his glasses and said:

297

"Maria Ivanovna, we must think as God commands and as He commands we must live. The community will help you and you must help the community." "What can a poor woman like me do?" Maria Ivanovna said sadly. She was sitting at the table with her head resting on her hands. "You can go to the prison and talk to your son. Why is he putting innocent people in an awkward position?" "Is he accusing anyone?" "No, but neither is he admitting his own guilt," Yerofeyev said sternly and impressively. "That is why they are looking for other people to pin the charge on. Before you know it an innocent man may be convicted. We had the investigator here wanting to know who took the boat. Who can tell? Some boy, perhaps. But suspicion has fallen on the whole village, on all the people here. It is not the boat, but the fact that a man was killed, that matters." "Perhaps my Nikolai never killed him," Maria Ivanovna said despondently. "Then who did? They were alone." Yerofeyev sighed. "No, he committed a sin and he must confess. It is evil. He has brought trouble to the whole village, to all of us. Is that the right thing to do? Most likely they had an argument and Nikolai did not know what he was doing. They won't be very strict with him, especially as he's a poor peasant. Soviet power is lenient to poor folk. In a year's time he might be pardoned." "How can he take somebody else's sin upon himself?" Maria Ivanovna said. "It will be a sin if he does not repent," Yerofeyev said. "Innocent people are being worried because of him. Investigators are running loose, searching. Naturally nobody is afraid of that because their consciences are clear, but it is unpleasant just the same. It is not the thing to do. The community is a force to be reckoned with. Is it right to go against the community? The community helps people in need or in misfortune. Your Nikolai will be sentenced anyway, because he is guilty. You have to live here among people. My advice to you is to think how people will look at you when your son is letting the community down." Maria Ivanovna stared dully at the corner of the table. Misha was surprised that in his presence Yerofeyev was so openly and cynically demanding Nikolai confess to something he was entirely innocent of. As though guessing Misha's thoughts, Yerofeyev added: "Of course, it would be different if Nikolai was innocent. But if he is guilty he must confess. The law must not be cheated. And it is no use fooling the investigator. He is a busy man and must be told nothing but the truth. We must not deceive our Soviet government." Misha winced at this hypocrisy. Of all people, Yerofeyev was the least expected to show such solicitude for Soviet rule. "The Soviets gave us land," Yerofeyev continued. "There are rumours that this land may be taken away and given to a colony of delinquents, but I don't think the government will allow it. It will never leave the peasant

298

without land." Misha felt he could no longer keep silent. "Nobody is taking land away from the peasants," he said. "It will have to be returned only by people who unlawfully own hundreds of acres and exploit the peasants and labourers." "We have no exploiters in our village, young man," Yerofeyev said in an oily tone of voice. "We're living as one community without kulaks and without beggars—everybody is equal." Yerofeyev got up and put on his cap. "My advice to you, Maria Ivanovna, is to think of what I've told you." He paused, then added, "Send your boy to me this evening. I'll find some flour for you. Now about Nikolai— think. Everybody in the village is asking you to do that." Yerofeyev walked out. His boots and long coat flowed past the low windows, for a moment plunging the hut into darkness. "Don't even so much as think of listening to him! Do you understand, Maria Ivanovna?" Misha said. Maria Ivanovna made no reply. "Can't you see through him?" Misha exclaimed. "He wants Nikolai to take the blame. He's afraid that Kuzmin's real murderer will be found. Don't even think of telling Nikolai all this. And don't take any flour from him." "But we have to live," Maria Ivanovna said unhappily. "Can't you manage without the kulak's help? We'll give you everything we can." "I don't mean the flour," Maria Ivanovna said sadly. "I can't go against the community. Our home is here. Vasya," she pointed to Longshanks, "has got to be put on his feet.""Yerofeyev—the community?" Misha cried indignantly. "He doesn't represent the community. The kulaks have laid their hands on everything here. You're afraid of them. The government is supporting you and yet you're afraid of the kulaks. It's disgraceful! I'm warning you, Maria Ivanovna, if you try to persuade Nikolai to shoulder the blame I'll tell everybody that Yerofeyev made you do it. Please, don't forget that. As for you, Longshanks, don't you dare go to Yerofeyev. What a guardian angel he's making himself out to be! He wants you to sell your son for a measure of meal. Whatever you may think, Maria Ivanovna, but we'll not allow it. Not for anything!" Chapter 42

THE CLUB

Afraid that Maria Ivanovna might after all send Longshanks to Yerofeyev for the flour, Misha took him along with him to the club. Zina Kruglova was explaining the rules and customs of the Young Pioneers to the village children. "A Young Pioneer is courageous, honest and truthful," she was saying.

299

"What does that mean? It means that a Young Pioneer is not afraid of anything or anybody, never lies, always tells the truth. That is what it means. Do you understand?" The children were silent. "Do you understand what I said?" Zina asked again. "What about our parents? Mustn't we be afraid of them, too?" the Fly asked. "Of course." "That's asking for a thrashing," the Fly said decisively. "If you don't do anything that's bad why should you be afraid of them?" "They won't stop to find out .if you're wrong or right," the Fly said. "They'll give you a thrashing. Try and prove you were right after that!" "Parents should not be feared but respected," Slava explained. "Now do you understand?" Nobody replied. "Has it penetrated?" Zina said, uncertainly. "What about thunder or lightning, for instance?" Longshanks asked. "Tell me, we're not to be afraid of that? What if it kills you?" "Cowardice and prudence are two different things," Zina said. "Naturally, a person must be wary of lightning and take precautions. That is why we have lightning rods. But it's not something to walk in fear of. To be afraid of lightning will not save you." "Do lightning rods help?" Longshanks asked with a smile. "Of course." "I say they don't." "Why not?" "Here's why! What is thunder? It is Elijah the prophet riding across the heavens in a chariot and driving demons before him. The demons hide from him in trees, in animals and even in human beings. Elijah shoots thunderbolts at them. If a demon hides in a tree, that tree will be struck by lightning. If he hides in a human being, lightning will strike that human being. To prevent a demon from hiding in you, you must pray. If you pray during a thunderstorm, you can be sure no demon will try to hide in you and nothing will happen to you. There is no other way of saving yourself." That started a furious argument. The Komsomols argued that there was no Elijah the prophet and that in general there was no God. Longshanks and the Fly led the opposition. That was how it happened every time. Whatever they spoke about, they always brought the conversation round to God. "Calm down," Misha said. "We're not talking about God, but about the rules and customs of the Young Pioneers. We'll talk about God some other time. Meanwhile, you have to understand the rules and customs. Otherwise how can you hope to become Young Pioneers?" Just then Senka Yerofeyev and Akimka came in. Hearing Misha's last words, Senka said: "Who wants to become a Young Pioneer?" He faced the children sitting on the benches and aggressively repeated, "Who? I'd like to see!" Nobody moved. They were all afraid of Senka. Longshanks was the only one who was not in awe either of Senka or Akimka. Although he had no

300

intention of joining the Young Pioneers because he believed in God (a belief that was badly shaken after the expedition to the Goligin Brushwood Road), he said: "Suppose I do? What's that to you?" "You just try!" Senka muttered threateningly.

"We'll try. We're not going to ask your permission," said the Fly, emboldened by Longshanks' example. Misha did not intervene. He wanted the children to give Senka a rebuff themselves. Let them feel their strength, let them understand that together they could defy Senka and Akimka. Otherwise, the detachment that was being organized in the village would fall apart in the winter. Senka and Akimka would see to that. Senka shook his fist at Longshanks and the Fly. "You'll be sorry!" The youngsters felt they could not let that threat go by. Genka went up to Senka and stopped in front of him. "What are you shaking your fists at us for? Go on, get out of here!" "Hey, hey, careful!" Senka replied, but there was no longer a sting in his voice. "Who are you telling to get out? Think you own the place, or what? Is this club yours? I'll bash your teeth in!" He raised his fist. "I'd like to see you do it!" Genka said, advancing on Senka. "Go on, try!" The children jumped up from their seats. Senka looked wildly about him. Akimka edged towards the exit and halted on the threshold, ready to slip away at the first sign of danger. "Well, what's stopping you?" Genka said, still advancing on Senka. He was getting excited and was now spoiling for a fight. At last he would settle the score for the egg that was smashed on his head! But Misha could not allow a fight in the club. He stepped between the two boys. "You know what, Yerofeyev? If you don't like it here, go away and don't bother the others. And bear in mind that nobody is afraid of you. We are

301

many and you are one. You can't lick everybody." Senka swept the hall with an angry glance, turned on his heel and strode to the door, followed by the merry laughter and jeers of the village children. The downfall of the omnipotent Yerofeyev was for them an unexpected and pleasant event. At the door, Senka looked back and again shook his fist. That brought a fresh burst of laughter. The fist came down on Akimka's neck. "What's that for?" Akimka asked plaintively. "Next time you won't turn tail, that's your what for!" Chapter 43

THE STRUGGLE FLARES UP

The day after Senka and Akimka had been chased out of the club so ignominiously, somebody cut down four apple-trees in the manor orchard. None of the troop had ever so much as seen these trees, but the chairman and two peasants took Misha to the orchard and showed him the damage. "The handiwork of your boys?" the chairman demanded darkly. "No," Misha replied firmly, "none of the boys could have done it." "Then who did?" "I don't know." "There's nobody else who could have done it. Were there any strangers around here?" "No." "Exactly," the chairman said. "There neither were nor could be any strangers here. That means one of you chopped the trees down." "No," Misha replied heatedly. "None of us would do such a thing." The chairman shook his head. "But the fact is that the trees have been chopped down." Misha called an emergency meeting of the troop. He told them about the trees and sternly demanded to know who had cut them down. The only reply he got was a bewildered silence. Misha closely scrutinized the faces around him, but in none of them did he see so much as a shadow of guilt. He knew perfectly well that none of his troop was capable of such a dastardly act. But why were they being accused? The answer came a few days later. The uyezd newspaper printed three short articles in succession that were respectively titled Fine Club Organizers We Have, Stop Destroying Public Property and Is This How Elders Are Helped? They were signed by a person calling himself The Awl. The gist of the articles was that a Komsomol named Misha Polyakov went about his duties irresponsibly, allowed discipline to slacken among the Young Pioneers and turned them into a gang of hooligans. Instead of helping the Karagayevo peasants to fit out a club, Misha had taken up with a local drunkard, threw public money to the winds and spoilt the club. The young

302

people in his charge were cutting down trees in the estate which was the property of the people. Member of the Y.C.L. Misha Polyakov refused to help the local authorities, the example being the message for the chairman of the Borki Village Soviet. Moreover, he had suspicious connections with the family of a person charged with a crime. That was a blow nobody expected. It virtually took the wind out of their sails. What humiliation to be reproached in public, in the press. It was all so unjust and untrue. "We must send a denial," Slava said. "Do you think the newspaper will print something against itself?" Zina Kruglova protested. "We'll make them!" Genka shouted, rolling his eyes. "I'll go to the editorial office myself. Let them try not to print it!" "You'll not scare anybody," Misha noted reasonably. "Besides, what are we going to deny? We can't deny that business about the club and about the message. The only thing that's not true is about the trees. Our denial will look flat. The club had to be repainted. We did not carry out the chairman's request. But we did not chop down the trees. After a denial like that people will laugh at us more than they're doing now." But who was the man who signed himself The Awl? How could the editor allow things like that to be printed? Undoubtedly, he was a bad, ill-natured person. This formal disgracing of a whole collective and nullifying of their work without rhyme or reason was so unfair! Misha boiled with anger. Perhaps they ought to write a denial in spite of everything? Not to this but to a metropolitan newspaper. Pravda or Izvestia, for instance. After all, there was justice in the world. Why had things like this never happened when Kolya Sevastyanov was in charge of the troop? There had never been any incidents. Everything had always been in order. While under him, Misha, things went wrong. Seva and Igor ran away from the camp, then a mess was made of the club. Perhaps he really was much too young to be the leader of the troop. But then what had he done that was wrong? The youngsters trembled with shame. In the village they walked about with downcast eyes. They thought everybody had read the paper and was now censuring them. But the truth of the matter was that nobody censured them. Senka Yerofeyev alone maliciously declared : "They made it hot for you in the papers! Wait, that's not the last of it." What Senka threatened came to pass. A few days later, the chairman summoned Misha to the Village Soviet and handed him a paper from the Gubernia Department of Public Education, requesting the troop to quit the estate grounds forthwith "in view of systematic damage to the grounds." The paper was signed by Serov. They were being driven out. What a disgrace! But how could they go? To go meant admitting their guilt. What kind of memory would they leave behind in the village? How could they throw up everything? The Young Pioneer detachment that was about to be organized, the illiteracy-abolition class and the club, now that it had been repainted.

303

How could they drop all that? Because they had been slandered! The only reason for the slander was to drive them out of this neighbourhood. That meant they were in somebody's way. No, they would not surrender so easily! They would prove their innocence. It was decided that Misha and Slava would go to town and try to get Serov's order waived. The more so that the "countess" had already gone there and would most certainly fling more mud at the troop. Genka was appointed to act as leader in Misha's absence. "Look, Genka," Misha said to him, "until I return you're not to leave the camp under any pretext. No matter who orders you." "Don't worry," Genka replied, "nobody will evict us." Then, with a theatrical gesture, he added, "Only over my dead body." Chapter 44

THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES The freight-and-passenger train crawled painfully along, stopping at every siding. From the window of the carriage the landscape was monotonously familiar: railway guards' huts, telegraph posts, flocks of sparrows on the wires, lowered turnpikes with the switchman holding up a rolled-up yellow flag, the village on the hill-side, the pond with an embankment and ducks swimming in it, a bearded man with a small shining milk-can in his hand standing on the station platform, workers with crowbars and spades repairing the track, an old woman with a small flowerpatterned bundle walking slowly along a path, vacationers on bicycles.

However, Misha and Slava could not enjoy the landscape: they were stealing a ride. Misha knew of quite a few ways of travelling in this fashion. The simplest was to find a seat in the middle of the carriage and, as soon as the inspector appeared, to dart over to the opposite side and merge with the merry throng of other stowaways. Of late, the inspectors had caught on to that trick and now entered the carriage in pairs, one from each end. That was why this time Misha chose the most difficult method. While the train was in motion, he stood on the steps, but the moment it pulled into a siding he hopped down, waited until he saw what carriage the inspectors boarded and acted accordingly. At first, he made his way from one end of the train to the other, then he got off at the first stop, ran to the carriage where the inspectors had checked the tickets and calmly sat down. He had become so adept at this that he could tell exactly when the inspectors would appear in one carriage or another. In this fashion, he and Slava reached the town. Slava was not a coward, but he was touchy and timid. It seemed to him that everybody was aware that he was a stowaway and that feeling made him ashamed. Misha was also ashamed. But, as was always the case when there were difficulties, he gave theoretical grounds for what he did. "Of course, it isn't right to steal rides," he said, "but stowaways are phenomena of the period of rehabilitation. When our country will be rich

304

nobody will ride trains without tickets." "If people were to reason like that, nobody would buy tickets. You mustn't forget that the railways are supposed to be self-supporting," Slava protested. Discussing this problem, the boys manoeuvred, changing from one carriage to another, because this time there were many inspectors on the line. They kept changing carriages until one circumstance drew their attention. They saw the "countess." The carriage was crowded. The only place where people were lying was on the luggage rack. On the upper berths they were sitting with their feet dangling before the noses of the people sitting below them. It was hot and stuffy. The "countess," pressed into a corner, was dozing. She was sitting by an open window and the black coal-dust was settling on her face. The boys knew that the "countess" was also going to town, and because of that they did not attach any importance to the fact that she was in the same train. But in another carriage they saw the boatman. Why were the two of them going to town? And in different carriages? "It's possible that this is simply a coincidence," Slava suggested. Misha shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "We'll watch them and see if they're going there separately or together." When the train came to a stop in the town, the passengers filled the wet platform. There had just been a short summer rain and the raindrops were glistening on the railings, the rubbish cans, on the station girders. "I'll shadow the boatman," Misha whispered, "and you follow the 'countess.' Only keep your eyes peeled." Without losing sight of the "countess" and the boatman, the boys slowly made their way through the crowd. The "countess" and the boatman walked separately: she in front and he following at a considerable distance. The boys had a good view of him, but the "countess" kept appearing and disappearing in the crowd. For a short time the square in front of the station teemed with the stream of people from the train. The cabbies, sitting in their tall, clumsy cabs, called out for passengers. Whenever one of the cabs moved off along the cobbled road, its black, folding, harmonica-like back bobbed up and down. Watersellers rushed about with big bottles of tap-water coloured with cheap syrup. There were hawkers with trays on their chests. Waifs, "the last of the Mohicans," lay in the shade of the station, apparently dreaming but actually keenly watching for an opportunity to snatch a piece of luggage. The "countess" disappeared, but the boys kept the boatman in sight. He turned into one of the streets and the boys went after him, keeping at a respectful distance. Soon they again caught sight of the "countess." It did not take them long to see that the boatman was sticking doggedly to the "countess." He did not try to get near her, but kept close to the walls of buildings and very ingeniously hid behind the pedestrians in front of him. When the "countess" stopped at a street corner to let a cart train pass, the boatman also stopped, hiding behind the porch of a house and making

305

believe he was rolling a cigarette. The boys barely managed to conceal themselves behind a newspaper kiosk. Thus they progressed—the boatman behind the "countess" and the boys behind the boatman—until they reached the street where stood the Museum of Regional Studies, which Misha had visited in company with Genka and Boris Sergeyevich. It was a quiet, little-frequented street. From behind a corner, the boys saw the "countess" entering the museum and the boatman lurking behind a projecting wall and watching her. Then the boatman crossed the street and lay down on a lawn in the shade of a tree. For some time, the boys stood in their hiding-place. Then they went to a side-street, where they conferred on what to do next. "Who knows how long the 'countess' will be in the museum," said the sober-minded Slava. "She might be there all day. Then why stay here? We've got more important things to do." But Misha did not agree. He was not prepared to let a chance like this slip through his fingers. It would have been a different matter if the "countess" had come here alone. In that case, the explanation would have been that she had come to take a look at the manor-house furnishings. But why was the boatman, her faithful servant and accomplice, following her? There was something, something very important in this. "I'll go and see Serov alone," Misha said, "and you stay here and try and find out why the countess came to the museum and why the boatman is shadowing her." "But..." Slava tried to protest. "No buts," Misha said. "Find out everything. And wait for me here. I'll be back soon." Chapter 45

AT SEROV'S AGAIN

Once again Misha found himself in front of the grey building-housing the Gubernia Department of Public Education. There was a troubled look in his eyes as he gazed at it. How would Serov receive him? He wished Boris Sergeyevich, the headmaster of the children's home, were here. He would support them. He would never allow the troop to be sent away. Well, never mind, if nothing came of this visit, he, Misha, would go.... Where would he go? To the Gubernia Komsomol Committee, of course. If they refused to help him, he would go to the Gubernia Party Committee. That was where he would go! Serov received Misha as an old friend. He waved his hands and shook his head sadly, saying: "I know, I know. I know all about your bad break. I managed to hush things up. It could have been worse." Misha was dumbfounded.

306

"What things?" "A terrific row was raised about you here," Serov said, shaking his head and gesticulating. "They wanted to report to Moscow. But I told them, 'It happens. The lads are young and inexperienced and so could not get on with the local population. Are you going to hang them for that? They will go somewhere else and that will be the end of it.' " "But why should we go somewhere else?" A note of gentle and friendly persuasion crept into Serov's voice: "Is it so hard to take your tents to another place? Think for yourself.... What difference does it make where your camp is? You'll only rid yourself of trouble." "It isn't hard to move the tents," Misha said, "but why must we go away at all? It's not fair." Serov threw up his hands in disappointment. "This won't do at all.... Have you read the papers ?" "There's no truth in those articles," Misha replied. Serov sadly screwed up his eyes and said in a grieved tone of voice: "How can you say such a thing? You are a Komsomol and this is your attitude to our Soviet press!" "Not to the press but to the person who wrote the articles," Misha replied, knitting his brows. Unexpectedly, a note of sternness crept into Serov's voice: "The editorial office," he said, "does not print anything without checking the facts. And you must remember, the newspaper is headed by Communists, by your senior comrades. I'll have you respect them, if you please." The argument was forcible, especially so far as Misha was concerned. But for all that he could not back down. "It's all wrong and unfair," he persisted. "We'll see what the Gubernia Komsomol Committee has to say about it." For an instant Serov shut his eyes. In that moment, the lowered eyelids, swollen and unnaturally big for such small eyes, made his face look like a thick, immobile mask. When he opened his eyes, they no longer darted from object to object, but were fixed coldly on Misha. "So you are intending to complain?" "Not to complain, but to report the matter." "Hm.... And do you know how it will end for you?" "How?" "You'll be expelled from the Y.C.L." "What for?" Misha asked in surprise. "For the trouble you have brought people," Serov said roughly. "At first I wanted to put the matter before the Gubernia Komsomol Committee, but I was sorry for you. This is my advice to you: take your tents and go away. Without noise. The Y.C.L. will not pat you on the back for what you've done. So see that there is no row. Don't start any trouble." "I am a member of the Y.C.L.," Misha replied proudly, "and I will never shirk my responsibility. I am always ready to answer for what I do."

307

"The culprits who cut down the apple-trees must be punished," Serov threatened, "and they will be punished. And you'll be made to pay not only for the apple-trees, but also for the paints and materials spoilt at the club. I can imagine how pleasant that is going to be for you when your school and Komsomol Committee will get to hear about it. Therefore, I repeat, your best recourse is to leave without noise or scandal. To slip away in time. Understand?" Serov added that Igor and Seva's escapade was another point against him. He was a bad leader if his Young Pioneers were running away! Running away, getting mixed up in murders, and stealing boats. It was still not very clear if they had simply stolen the boat or if there was something graver behind it. Yes, yes, he had the impression that the matter was not as simple as some people were trying to make it out to be. He had learned a thing or two while Igor and Seva stayed at his house. That was how all this was turning out, young man. It was a pretty piece of business all round. You must think of your future. Your life is only beginning and you cannot afford to have any slurs cast on your character. The best thing for you is to go away while the going is good. Misha listened with bowed head. Serov's interpretation of everything made it look as though the boys had committed a heinous crime. How had it happened? No doubt, people would believe Serov. Then there were those articles. What a blemish that would make on the troop! "Have we come to an understanding?" Serov asked, looking closely at Misha. In his voice Misha caught a note of anxiety. "I'll think about it." "Very well," Serov said with satisfaction, putting both his hands, palms down, on his desk. "Our gubernia is big, there's room everywhere. It'll do you good to travel about, to get to know more about the region where you were born. You'll return to your camp today, and early tomorrow morning you'll pack up and...." Misha walked out of Serov's office. Contradictory feelings took possession of him. What was he to do? Serov was a scoundrel. That much was clear. He had no friendly feelings for Misha and he wanted the troop to leave Karagayevo. People would listen to him rather than to Misha. Even Boris Sergeyevich, the headmaster of the children's home, was powerless against Serov and could not take over the estate. Serov could very easily prove to the Gubernia Committee of the Komsomol that Misha and his friends were in the wrong in everything. He was the type who would cunningly take advantage of their mistakes, both real and imaginary. And it could all end in the troop finding themselves in really hot water. What could he do to avoid trouble? Return to the camp, pack up and move away from the estate? Throw up everything? The club, the village children, the illiteracy-abolition class, where people could already read by syllables? To leave Nikolai Ribalin, Long-shanks and his mother to their fate? To do nothing to help Boris Sergeyevich organise his labour

308

commune? In general, to run away from the fight, to admit he was wrong? To run like a coward from the tribunal of his comrades? No! That was not the way of Komsomols! He could not surrender! Whatever happened, they were not guilty of any crime. They had blundered, but they were honest Komsomols and were not afraid to answer for what they did.... Was it possible that the people at the Gubernia Komsomol Committee would not be able to sort things out? Chapter 46

VICTORY!

Misha found the secretary of the Gubernia Committee coming down the stairs. He was a fair-headed lad in a leather jerkin, bell-bottomed trousers and a grey cap. "What do you want?" he demanded when Misha stopped him. Walking at his side, Misha started telling him why he had come. But people kept claiming the secretary's attention, once or twice he stopped and called to someone himself, and in the end said that he had understood nothing. "I haven't the faintest notion of what you're talking about. Here, let's sit down and you tell me everything from the beginning." They sat down on a window-sill. Misha began his story all over again. This time the secretary understood and said: "They'll solve this murder without your help. They've already found the track. About the manor-house, the museum, the bird— all that is fantasy, romance." He made a scornful gesture with his hand. "You've been reading too many adventure stories. You young people like secrets, adventures and things of that sort. But you don't get all that in real life. What you tell me boils down to this: there's an old estate, its former owners are holding on to it and arc refusing to turn it into a children's home, while Serov imagines he is a connoisseur of antiquities and is objectively helping the former landlords. I happen to be informed about it. The director of a children's home in Moscow has been here to see me. We promised to help him and are going to keep our promise. They'll get the estate. But that mystery of yours and everything else—that's all bosh! As regards your troop, Serov is taking too much upon himself. Imagines he can throw his weight about! If your troop does anything, you, as the leader, will be held responsible. Not by Serov, but by the Komsomol. That is how the issue stands. Now tell me yourself what useful work you have done and what mistakes, in your opinion, you have made." Misha listed all that his troop had done in the village. He mentioned the incident with Igor and Seva as one of the shortcomings, but quickly added that it could have happened in any troop and that Igor and Seva were sorry for what they did. Another mistake, Misha said, was that they let the artist paint the club,

309

but they had repainted it themselves. It was true that they had not passed on the Village 'Soviet chairman's message, but that had never happened before and the troop did and was doing all it could to help the Village Soviet. And they knew nothing about who chopped down the apple-trees. "Are you sure?" The secretary gave Misha a keen glance. "Yes," Misha said in a hurt tone of voice. "I've got no reason to lie. Serov advised me not to come here and said I should take the troop and go away. But I came here myself, nobody forced me. "All right," the secretary said, rising. "You're a good lad, I can see that, and I believe you. Don't move your troop anywhere. Got that? And continue with your work in the village. But you must tighten up on your chaps. You must have discipline." "What if Serov again tells us to get out?" Misha asked. "Let him talk until he's blue in the face," the secretary answered in a carefree tone, "you're not taking orders from him. He's got to stop his stupid bungling. In case anything happens, you tell him that you've got orders from me. About those articles—we'll look into the matter. Got it? Ail right then, scat! I've got a mountain of work as it is." "Tough chap," thought Misha as he left the Gubernia Committee. "Good thing I went to see him. I deserve to be kicked in the pants for almost letting Serov frighten me. If I had listened to him I would never have forgiven myself...." The secretary fellow had taken a load off Misha's mind. He would, of course, have to tighten up on discipline, take the troop in hand and put an end to slackness, silly games like "flowers," and Genka's tricks. But the troop was not going anywhere and would finish the work it had started. He couldn't have managed it better! He strode along the street with chest proudly stuck out. The troop would now prove its worth. Since they were staying, they would do all the things they had planned. It would be a good idea to look in at the investigator's and find out about Nikolai.... But that could be put off for the troop was waiting anxiously for news and he had to hurry back to calm them.

310

Let everybody in the village find out that they were not leaving the manor grounds. And let the chairman find out. For by now everybody was probably thinking they were a gang of criminals. Chapter 41

IN THE MUSEUM AGAIN

Slava was waiting where Misha had left him. "Well, what?" he asked. "It's all settled," Misha replied. "Serov, of course, would not hear of it. Tried to persuade me to move the camp somewhere else. But I refused to budge. I went to the Gubernia Committee of the Komsomol and spoke to the secretary. He told me we could stay and that nobody has any authority to throw us out." "Just like that, without checking?" "What is there to check? He's no bureaucrat. I told him everything. He knows Serov well and has his number. To make a long story short, we're staying. What news have you got? Did you see the 'countess'?" Slava looked about him and mysteriously opened wide his eyes. "I went into the museum, to the Life of the Gentry room, the one you spoke about...." "What about the boatman?" "He left and I took advantage of that.... There I was in -the room and saw the 'countess' coming. I pretended I was interested in some old costumes. There was nobody else in the museum. She went past me slowly and though I was standing with my side to her, almost my back, I saw her looking at me suspiciously. I did not move. She went by and then, evidently going round the museum, reappeared in the same corridor. I went over to another showcase. She gave me another impatient and suspicious look and passed into the next room. I saw I was in her way. So I hid behind a curtain. It was a little

311

frightening and terribly dusty...." "I can understand the dusty part of it, but why was it frightening?" "What if she suddenly decided to see if anybody was behind the curtain?" "Were you afraid she'd eat you?" "No, but I'd feel awkward. Besides, I was afraid I'd sneeze: it was very dusty and when you're afraid you'll sneeze you can bet you will sneeze.... Well, then, there I was behind the curtain and I could see everything through a hole. The old woman came back, saw there was nobody there and remained. At first she made believe she was looking at the show-cases, but after a time she went up to the rope—you know the one that's around the furniture." "Yes, yes...." "She lifted the rope and went up to the bronze bird. I could not see what she did there because she had her back to me and was blocking the bird. She stayed there for about a minute. To me it seemed hours, but actually it was not more than a minute. Then she replaced the rope and went away." "It's clear to me now," Misha said decisively, "that there's a hiding-place in the bronze bird. I'm quite certain of it." "And you know," Slava continued, "there's a drawing showing the genealogy of the counts. It shows that they were related to the Demidovs." "That isn't important now," Misha said. "We're not worrying about the Demidovs. The hiding-place is the chief thing now. Come on!" "Where to?" "The museum. We'll take another look at the bronze bird." The boys went into the museum and slowly, casually, so as not to arouse the suspicions of the attendant, passed through the suite of rooms. When there's some mystery in the air, you always imagine that everybody is watching you. That was how it was with Misha. To him it seemed that the attendant sat down on a stool near the entrance with the express purpose of watching him and Slava. Waiting for him to go away, the boys gazed at the exhibits. The attendant, who was also the watchman, dozed on his stool. He nodded drowsily and shook his head erect at regular intervals. At last, he shook himself awake, looked round with sleepy eyes, rose to his feet and dragged himself off. Slava stayed in the corridor to act as look-out, while Misha went up to the rope, resolutely lifted it... when suddenly Slava signalled a warning. Misha quickly lowered the rope, turned to the wall, pretending to look at the pictures showing the life of the 18th-century gentry. Two girls, who looked like students, in glasses and with bobbed hair, came into the room. Glancing at the exhibits hanging on the walls, they made notes and paid no attention at all to the two boys. Misha and Slava had to wait until they went into the corridor and turned round the corner. When they disappeared, Misha returned to the rope, but the attendant came into view. His huge, torn felt boots shuffled along the floor, and with a rag he wiped the dust off everything that he saw in front of him. But as he kept to the corridor, without going into any of the rooms, there was little that

312

required his attention. The boys again pretended they were looking at the exhibits. For the sake of conspiracy, Misha began to tell Slava about the peasant reform of 1861. He had had the subject for his homework in the spring and had forgotten most of what he had known about it. As a result, what he said was just a string of words like allotment, redemption, Stolypin, pre-Reform Russia, post-Reform Russia, compensation, homestead, community, exploitation.... He pronounced these words so loudly that the attendant told him to lower his voice. Finally, the attendant hobbled his way round a corner. Slava took up his post. Misha lifted the rope, went to the bronze bird and began to feel for the hiding-place. But there was no sign of it. Then, carefully, he began to touch the bird's head, wings, neck and legs, trying to find if any of these parts could be screwed off or opened. But nothing opened and nothing could be screwed off. Misha twisted, pulled, pressed, but nothing happened. Then he tried to lift the bird—perhaps the hiding-place was in the pedestal. But the bird was fixed securely to the pedestal. A bell rang. It was closing time. Misha feverishly pulled the bird, but without result. Slava again made a warning sign. Misha barely managed to jump clear of the rope. The girls.... When they passed by, Misha again lifted the rope, but another warning signal came from Slava. There was really no need for the signal because Misha heard the shuffling footfalls of the attendant. "We're closing," he said and stood waiting for the boys to go. There was nothing they could do but go out. Groaning and sighing, the attendant closed the door behind them. Chapter 48

THE BOATMAN AGAIN

It was already dark when the boys left the museum. It had certainly been a full day for them. And they had accomplished a lot. First, they had saved the camp. Second, they found that the boatman was spying on the "countess." Then they had discovered that the old woman was using the bronze bird in the museum as a hiding-place. They had not found the hidingplace, but that was now only a question of time. Another trial or two and they would find it. True, they had missed their train. Now they had to wait for the morning train, but that was no trouble at all, for it was summer and they could find a bed beneath any shrub. Animatedly discussing the events of the day, they walked to the end of the street and stopped. Misha proposed going to the town park and spending the night on one of the benches. "I don't like the idea," Slava said, "after all, we're not tramps." "What do you suggest?"

313

"That we sleep in the railway station." "First, it's dirty there; second, they won't let us in. If you don't want to go to the park, we can go to the cathedral. There's a little garden near it and we can sleep there." "All right," Slava agreed. Just as the boys turned to go, they saw the boatman standing before them. "Ho!" he said, smiling his hateful smile. "Greetings to old friends!" "How do you do," replied Slava, polite even to the man whom only a few days ago he had thrown out of a boat. Misha was silent, glancing sullenly at the boatman. "Been taking the day off?" the boatman asked, still smiling. "What business is it of yours?" Misha snapped at him. The boatman shook his head disapprovingly. "Ai-ai-ai.... Why so rude? I meet fellow villagers, you might say, and the least I can do is to come up and say hello. Or are you nursing a grudge against me?" "We've got no grudge," Misha muttered. "I thought you had. Glad I'm wrong. No reason why you should bear a grudge against me. You gave me a bath in the river, but, you see, I've got no hard feelings." He laughed, but there was no mirth about his laugh. His eyes regarded the boys watchfully. "Going back to the camp?" "Yes." "But the last train has gone." "There's an additional, night train," Misha lied. "Is that so?" the boatman said with mock surprise. "I didn't know. I thought I'd have to spend the night in town. Fine! That means I'll go home." Together with Misha and Slava he strode off towards the railway station. The boys had no idea how they were going to shake him off. But the railway station was the only place they could go to. There was no night train. Even if there were, they would never have gone together with the boatman, for that would have meant going with him from the siding to the camp through the woods at night. He'd put a knife through you before you'd realise what was happening....

314

The only people in the dimly-lit station were a few passengers, who were dozing on the wooden high-backed benches, clutching their bundles, bags and suitcases. "It looks as though there's no train after all," the boatman said, grinning faintly to show that he had not been fooled: he had known all the time that there was no train. "Looks like it," Misha said imperturbably, sitting down on a bench. Slava sat down beside him. "We must think of something," the boatman said with affected anxiety. "I'll tell you what: I have some friends living nearby. They'll be pleased to let us stay overnight." "We're quite comfortable where we are," Misha replied firmly. The boatman made an effort to persuade them, now promising a good dinner and a soft bed, now warning them that the station would anyway be closed at midnight and they would have to sleep in the street. But the boys flatly refused the boatman's offers and it was clear that they would not go anywhere. The boatman showed no intention of leaving the station without them. The clock struck nine, then ten, eleven. Dmitry Petrovich tried to question them about their troop and camp, but the boys, resting against the wooden back of the bench, dozed or pretended to be dozing. Now and then an express or a freight train rumbled through the station. Red and green lights flicked past the great windows and the white lights of hand-lanterns could be seen swaying. They head the sharp whistles of the guards and the answering, drawn-out whistles of the engines. At twelve o'clock, a station attendant in an ill-fitting black coat went round the hall, shaking the sleeping passengers awake and telling them to leave the hall. But nobody rose from his seat. The militiaman on duty in the hall turned away with an air as though this was no concern of his.

315

A few weary hours passed. Through their drowsiness, the boys felt the vigilant gaze of the boatman. Whatever he was doing at the moment, sitting on a bench, pacing up and down the hall, or going out into the square or to the platform, the boys knew that he never let them out of his sight for a minute. It was growing light outside, though the hour was not yet four. They saw people on the platform—greasers, weighers.… The station gradually filled with passengers. The train which Misha and Slava had wanted to take was due to leave at six o'clock. But they changed their minds about taking it, preferring to stay longer in town rather than go with the boatman. There would be another train an hour later and they would go on it. The hour hand drew near to six. The boatman grew more and more restive. Hidden by the tall, straight back of the bench, he watched the entrance, sometimes getting up and looking at the station square from a window. "He's waiting for the countess," Slava said quietly. "I think so too," Misha nodded. The "countess" came into the station, crossed the hall and went out to the platform. The boatman followed her without her noticing it. Probably to see what carriage she would get in. Soon he returned. "Come on, lads!" he said. "Have you got return tickets?" "We don't need them," Misha replied. "Stowaways," the boatman laughed. The first bell rang. "We're not going. We have business here," Slava said. The boatman frowned and looked at the boys distrustfully. "You're not going? Why?" "We're not going, that's all," Misha said. "And in general, why do you want to know? Why are you bothering us? You have to go— well, go!"

316

The boatman stood in front of them, frowning. The second bell went. "As you like," he said and turning on his heel went out to the platform. Chapter 49

SEVA PROPITIOUSLY FALLS ILL

The troop was jubilant. The attempt to evict them had failed. Misha's prestige soared.... It was generally felt that he had done something heroic: he had been to town, talked to people in various places.... And the people he had spoken to had treated him as a real, adult leader. Misha grew in stature in his own eyes as well. He adopted a good-natured patronizing attitude towards the troop. Copying Kolya Sevastyanov, he spoke with them with the tolerant smile an adult reserves for the pranks of children. He stopped arguing and losing his temper, and patiently explained things as adults do when they deal with children. At the same time, he would put a patronizing arm round the shoulder of the boy or girl he was talking to at the moment, just as he had seen Kolya Sevastyanov do hundreds of times. True, Kolya did that because he was very tall, but not so in Misha's case, though he did think he was not doing it so badly. That was not how everybody looked at it. Zina Kruglova called Genka and Slava aside to the woods and said with alarm: "Look, chaps, have you noticed that there's something wrong with Misha?" Genka and Slava hung their heads: they had noticed it before Zina. "He's giving himself airs, making out he's a big noise," Genka said. "He's showing signs of high-handedness," Slava added. "But that might tear him away from the collective," Zina said, hurriedly. "Very easily, too," Genka agreed. "High-handedness," Slava said solemnly, "always isolates a person." "We must do something," Zina said anxiously. "We cannot allow him to be lost to the common cause before our eyes. We must save him." There was a pause. Of course, he had to be saved, but how? "Perhaps we ought to talk to him?" Slava suggested. "Perhaps we ought to explain to him where all this is taking him." Genka shook his head: "He won't listen. He'll tell you that that's his style of leadership. No! Stronger methods are needed. We've got to hit him hard enough to wake him up. Then it'll work." "What do you propose?" "I propose we raise the question at our Komsomol meeting." "Just like that? Let's speak to him first. If he doesn't change, we'll take him to task at our meeting." That was what they finally decided to do. Misha knew nothing about their

317

decision and continued to behave as before. With adults he comported himself staidly, with a consciousness of his own dignity. True, the chairman of the Village Soviet and the other villagers did not know of his conversation with the secretary of the Gubernia Committee of the Y.C.L., but the fact that Misha did not obey Serov's order and Serov did not insist he do so showed that the troop had strong backing and that it was no simple thing to evict it. In the troop itself, things had never run as smoothly as now. Almost nothing untoward happened. The only cloud was that Seva fell gravely ill. His head ached, there was a tickling sensation in his throat, he had difficulty swallowing his food and even found breathing difficult. His fever rose to 103.8°F. The Bleater, who was the troop's medical expert (his mother was charwoman at an out-patient hospital), ordered Seva to open his mouth, looked into it and announced that he had a sore throat. "It's all red and, in general, everything's swollen," he said. "Have you had your tonsils out?" Seva shook his head. "Perhaps you had them out when you were little and you don't remember?" But Seva was quite categorical in his denial. The Bleater again looked into Seva's mouth and declared that indeed his tonsils were still there and that they were badly swollen and should be removed. "In medicine," the Bleater said, "there are two points of view. One is that tonsils should be removed by a surgical operation, and the other—that they should be cauterised. I'm in favour of the first." Seva was covered with a few blankets and given hot tea with an extra sweet. Then they began to think what to do with him. He was too ill to stand the journey to Moscow and could not walk to the hospital. The chairman was sure to refuse to let them have a horse. Misha decided to send the doctor a note requesting him to come to the camp. After all, he did visit patients who were seriously ill. And the hospital had its own horse. The doctor arrived in a small, open four-wheeled carriage drawn by a huge horse, a real Moscow bityug. (A Russian breed of cart-horse.—Tr.) Tall, stout, with tousled beard, his pince-nez caught over the ear with a black thread, the doctor looked funny sitting on top of his carriage. It seemed as though he were moving behind the enormous bityug with only the reins to hold on to and that he had the tiny carriage squeezed between his legs. He said that Seva had quinsy (the Bleater looked about him proudly). His tonsils had to be removed (the Bleater fairly swelled with pride). But, he added, no operation could be performed until Seva got well. He had to take medicine and it was necessary to move him from the tent to a house. "What house?" Misha said, taken by surprise. "He lives in Moscow." "Do you mean to tell me that none of the peasants will take him in for a few days?" the doctor said. "As a matter of fact.... What about the manor? I

318

understand it's vacant." "Do you think she'll allow it?" Misha asked. "Who do you mean?" "The mistress, the housekeeper." "Hm...." The doctor frowned. "Come with me." When they turned into the drive, Misha glanced at the loft. The shutters behind the bronze bird were open and that meant the "countess" was at home. But the rest of the house was empty. By the way the doctor confidently strode along the walk and resolutely climbed the steps to the verandah, it was obvious that he was familiar with the house and the grounds. But Misha was sure nothing would come of this enterprise. The old woman would produce the safeguard and that would put an end to it. Misha awaited the meeting with the "countess" with curiosity. He did not believe they would open the door of this mysterious house and enter it. No sooner had they reached the verandah than the door opened and the old woman appeared. She awaited their approach in her usual pose, her eyes shut and her head held high, and that made her long aquiline nose seem longer than it really was. When she opened her eyes Misha knew she would say, "What can I do for you?" The "countess" did indeed open her mouth and say, "What...." But that same instant she glanced at the doctor and a look of embarrassment appeared on her face. For a fleeting instant her eyes betrayed her confusion. Without ending the phrase, she shut her eyes again. For a moment or two nobody spoke, then the doctor said: "Sofya Pavlovna, one of these young travellers has fallen ill. Sore throat. I can't allow him to lie in a tent. Please let him in for three or four days." "What about the hospital?" the old woman asked after a pause, without opening her eyes. "It is closed for repairs." "Who will look after him?" Misha was amazed to hear her speak like any other human being and that she was called simply Sofya Pavlovna. "One of them," the doctor said, nodding in Misha's direction. "I shall call regularly." For some time, the old woman made no reply, then she closed her eyes and said: "You consider it possible to come to this house?" "I am doing my duty," the doctor replied calmly. "All right," the old woman said after a short silence. "When will the boy be brought?" "At once." "I'll prepare a place for him in the servants' hall. Nobody is to go beyond the servants' hall." "That's for you to say," the doctor replied. The old woman turned and disappeared into the house.

319

Chapter 50

THE SERVANTS' HALL

When Seva was brought to the manor on a stretcher, the door of the servants' hall was open. That was tantamount to permission to enter. The youngsters went in. The servants' hall was a big room with a low ceiling. It was enough to stand on one's toes to reach the ceiling, which consisted of old, timeblackened logs evenly, squared and full of lengthwise cracks. The walls were made of similar logs with the grooves between them filled with tow. Everything in it was old, blackened by smoke. The table, long, narrow and resting on wobbly trestles, stretched along one of the walls. Its top, made of thin, narrow boards, had cracked. Behind the table was a narrow bench fixed to the wall. With the exception of a pole that hung beneath the ceiling with either end touching a wall, there was nothing else in the room. None of the youngsters could explain what the pole was there for. A low, broad door, with the paint peeling off, connected the servants' hall with the rest of the house. When Misha touched it, he found that it was held in place by nails that lay insecurely in their sockets. A good push was enough to make it fly open. The youngsters started tidying up the "hospital," as the Bleater named the hall. They swept out the rubbish, and washed the floor and the windows. Then they made a bed of fir branches on the bench and laid Seva on it. To prevent any collision with the old woman, Misha put the manor grounds out of bounds except for whoever was detailed to look after Seva. But he went there a few times, telling himself that after all he was the person responsible for Seva.... Besides, he was interested in the house. Each time he went to the "hospital" he stood at the door and listened. There was a deathly stillness behind it. Once or twice he thought he could hear somebody on the other side listening to what was going on in the servants' hall. He could not tell why that thought came to him. Perhaps it was because the silence behind the door was much too tense and the house itself was much too mysterious. When Misha tried the door to see how firmly it held, the thought that somebody was behind it listening came to him again. He left the door in peace. On the next day, the old woman took the train to town, no doubt to complain to Serov again. Unquestionably, Serov would make an attempt to force the troop to move Seva from the house. Misha did not want to do that just yet. By being in the manor there was the possibility that he would learn something. They had to stay there at all costs. Naturally, it would be a good thing if Seva got well quickly, but if he did they would chase them out. Each time Misha asked Seva how he felt, the wanted to hear something reassuring about his health and at the same time something that would mean that Seva would have to stay in the house a while longer.

320

But in the morning, Seva said he felt better, and towards evening declared he was bored with having to lie in the house and would get up in the morning. "You just try," Misha threatened him. "You'll get up when the doctor says you can. He won't allow it soon—after a sore throat you have to stay in bed for a few days or there may be complications." With similar anxiety Misha looked at the thermometer. How quickly fever falls! It was 103.8 yesterday, but now it was 98. Happily, in the evening Seva's temperature rose to 98.8 "You see how your temperature jumps," he said to Seva. "That's the most dangerous part of it. Aren't I right, Bleater?" The Bleater was very happy to be in charge of the hospital and he quickly agreed that an unstable temperature was very dangerous. Seva had to stay in bed if he wanted to get well! But sooner or later Seva would recover. And it would be sooner rather than later. Then they would have to leave the servants' hall. How could that be averted? While Misha was pondering over this problem, the old woman returned. She returned in Misha's absence, went to the servants' hall, stopped in the doorway and demanded: "How soon will your patient get well?" The Nekrasova sisters were on duty at Seva's bedside. The woman's tone frightened them and they answered quickly: "He's feeling much better. He'll be up tomorrow." The "countess" walked away. When Misha arrived and the matter was reported to him, he was terribly put out. "Who told you to say that?" he cried angrily. "How do you know that Seva will be up tomorrow? What if he isn't well by then? What if he's still ill when the countess will tell us to take him away? That's what you did with your brainless chatter!" "We lost our heads," the girls said, trying to justify themselves. "We were afraid she would tell us to get out there and then." "I'm going to town tomorrow," Misha said, "and until I come back Seva is to remain in this house. Even if the doctor says he's well. Is that clear?" Chapter 51

NIGHT IN THE MUSEUM

Misha went to the town to make another try at finding the secret of the bronze bird. It was impossible to do that in the daytime, for the attendant was on duty and there were visitors, but at night it was different. His plan was that he and Genka would conceal themselves behind a curtain, wait until the museum would be closed and then examine the bronze bird without interruption.

321

The boys entered the museum an hour before closing time. They now knew their way about and that there were two exits—one into the street and the other into the yard. The attendant's routine was first to shut the front door and then to go round to the yard and shut the back door. The boys decided to stay in the museum all night and in the morning to hide behind the curtain again, wait for the attendant to come and open the museum, and then to slip out into the street or to pretend they had just come. Everything went off according to plan. The museum was empty. Before hiding behind a curtain, Misha and Genka waited until the attendant went into one of the rooms. Only then did Misha realize how difficult it had been for Slava: there was so much dust that it was hardly possible to breathe. He was afraid that Genka would not be able to stand it and would sneeze. But Genka staunchly held out and did not sneeze. The shuffling footfalls of the attendant drew near. : The boys held their breath. The steps stopped at the curtain, Misha and Genka stood stock-still. The attendant broke out into a fit of coughing. The boys could not see what he did in the room.... Then he shuffled off again, the sounds of his footsteps growing fainter and fainter. A metallic ring came from the direction of the front door—it was the watchman securing a heavy metal hook. That was followed by a thud—it was the wooden bolt. And finally came the creak of the lock. The door was closed! Again the boys heard the shuffling footsteps. At first they drew nearer and then began to recede. Misha drew the curtain aside and listened. A door was banged shut. Then he heard the grating of a key in a lock. That was all! The boys had the museum to themselves! After waiting a few minutes longer, they took off their boots, went barefoot to the back door and carefully tried it—it was locked. They went through all the rooms. The evening light struggled through the folds of the curtains. The pictures on the walls looked mysteriously dark, the glass cases on the tables shone in the semi-darkness. The stuffed animals and birds cut weird figures. The boys returned to the Life of the Gentry department. Genka stayed in the corridor to be able to warn Misha of danger. Misha took the rope down and carefully, without haste, examined the bronze bird. First, he slowly ran his fingers over it, trying to find a slit or a hole: perhaps it was opened with a key? But there was no opening. Then he tried to turn separate parts of the bird: the head, the crest, one wing, then the other, one leg, then the other. He tried to turn the talons, the feathers. But nothing turned, nothing opened, nothing moved. Misha began to grow anxious. Were they going to fail again? Had all this risk been taken for nothing? The darkness bothered him most of all. Should he turn on his torch? No, that was dangerous. Somebody in the street might notice the light and there would be the devil to pay. They would be accused of trying to steal something in the museum. That would be a blow to the whole troop. He knew he had to cast all this worrying out of his mind. He

322

had to be calm, to keep himself in hand. He had to begin from the beginning. There must be some way of opening the bird! "How is it going?" Genka asked quietly, going up to Misha. "Stay at your post and don't talk," Misha whispered in reply. Genka returned to his post and Misha again bent to his task. Had Slava been wrong in thinking there was a hiding-place in the bird? Slava could not have been wrong. He always had a reason for saying things. He was not Genka. Genka could come out with a lot of nonsense, but not Slava. Misha continued examining the bird. He mustered all his coolness, told himself he could not afford to worry, to fuss, that he had to examine every inch of the bird. He took a long time over it. Genka went to him a few times to offer his assistance. "You'll see, Misha," he whispered impatiently, "I'll find it in a jiffy." Misha kept ordering him back to the corridor, but yielded in the end. Leaving Genka to examine the bird, he took Genka's place in the corridor. "Only be careful not to break it," he warned. "That'll put the lid on everything." "You can trust me," Genka growled back at him. Although Genka did his best, breathed heavily and every other minute muttered, "Aha, I've found it," he too came away empty-handed. Misha again took over, but again without result. The first beam of the rising sun was already slanting across the floor. Misha glanced at his huge watch—it was five o'clock. The museum would be opened at nine. The boys feverishly went on with their search. They turned their attention to the pedestal—a small, round column of coloured stone. The bird was firmly cemented to its top. But the column was quite smooth. They carefully tipped it over. But there was nothing on the underside. Possibly Slava had been mistaken after all and the hiding-place was not in the bird but somewhere else? The boys carefully examined the table, the armchairs and all the other objects in the room. The wardrobes were all that they could not examine because they were locked. But the search was fruitless. Misha looked at his watch. It was half past eight. Opening time was at nine. The attendant might appear at any moment now. It was strange that he was not there already, because it was his job to tidy up the museum before any visitors came. The boys looked round to see if they had left any signs of their search and hid behind the curtain, waiting for the watchman to arrive. Chapter 52

SECOND NIGHT IN THE MUSEUM

In their hiding-place, the boys strained their ears for the creak of the door. But there was no sound. Misha looked at his watch again. It was exactly

323

nine. What could that mean? Misha glanced at his watch every minute. The minute hand moved forward slowly but surely. The watch showed a quarter past nine, then half past nine. What could the matter be? On the plaque at the entrance it was clearly written: Open from 9 a.m. to 7 'p.m. Closed for lunch from 2 -p.m. to 3 p.m. Daily except on.... Suddenly Misha gaped at Genka and asked: "What day is today?" "Monday. Why?" "It was Monday yesterday, when we came here." "That's right, then it's Tuesday." "Tuesday," Misha repeated. "The museum is closed on Tuesdays." "How do you know?" "The inscription on the plaque says: Daily except on Tuesdays." "I like that!" Genka drawled. "Some mess!" "How the heck didn't I think of it!" Misha said, angry with himself. "I knew the museum is closed on Tuesdays. We left the camp on Monday and I forgot that we'd stay here until Tuesday. How didn't I think of it? What a fool!" "That's because you do and decide things all by your sweet self. You never ask other people for advice," Genka said. He thought this was a splendid opportunity to have a serious talk with Misha about his isolating himself from the collective. "A fine time you've picked for moralizing!" Misha said angrily. "Why are you all trying to moralize? Slava, Zina, and now you!" "Have they spoken to you already?" Genka asked in surprise. "Yes. But that's not important now. We must find a way out of here. Oh, I could kick myself!" Silently they left their hiding-place and made their way to the back door. It was locked. The boys listened. Animated cries and laughter came from the yard. Children were playing there. They went to the front door, moved back the bolt and took the big metal hook off its rest. The door did not budge: it, too, was locked and the attendant had the key. That put the doors out of the reckoning. The boys replaced the bolt and the hook and returned to the Life of the Gentry room. The only possible means of escape left to them was a window. But all the windows gave out on the street and there was a wire net between the double frames. Weary hours dragged by. The excitement of the previous night and now hunger had worn the boys down completely. Misha kept on his feet through sheer will-power, but Genka sat on the floor and dozed with his head on his knees. Misha decided they would sleep by turns. First Genka, then he. Genka immediately stretched out on a divan and fell fast asleep. Misha walked about the museum, stupefied by the oppressive silence and the close air. But he courageously fought back his drowsiness. He walked about without stop, afraid to sit down even for a second.

324

The fauna department held his attention for a little while. The stuffed animals and birds had tricky Latin words beneath their Russian names. In glass cases were insects of all sizes, a field-mouse and a house-mouse. Misha wondered why there was a house-mouse. The field-mouse could pass muster, but the house-mouse.... Who hadn't seen one? Two hours went by. Misha was very sleepy, but he did not wake Genka. If Genka did not get enough sleep, he would drowse while he was on duty. For two hours longer Misha walked about as in a dream. Finally, he woke Genka up. The latter stretched and yawned and could not understand where he was. "Wake me up in two hours," Misha said to him, "and don't fall asleep. If you feel you want to sleep very badly, wake me up. Understand!" "You can depend on me," Genka replied, yawning and stretching. Misha lay down on a divan and was asleep in a trice. He woke up without anybody waking him. It was already dark. He glanced at his "alarm clock" and got a shock. He had slept for eight hours! He jumped to his feet. Where was Genka? Misha could not find him in any of the rooms. Where could he have got to? He could not have gone away and left him, Misha, behind! To make sure, Misha examined both doors. They were locked, as before. Misha could not understand it and began to worry. Perhaps Genka was sleeping, curled up in some corner? Misha looked everywhere, but Genka was nowhere to be found. When Misha had almost given up all hope of finding Genka, he suddenly heard somebody snoring. The snoring came from the Religion—Opium for the People room. Yes, there was no mistake about it. But where was Genka? Misha listened again and when he finally realized where the snoring was coming from he went cold with fear: it was coming from a coffin in the middle of the room. The inscription on it said it was a shrine, which was supposed to contain somebody's remains, but which was empty, as anyone could see simply by glancing into it. Trembling with fright, Misha went up to the coffin and lifted the lid. He was right. Genka, with one arm under his cheek, was unconcernedly asleep in the coffin. To leave his post! To fall asleep! Misha gave Genka such a nudge in the ribs that he nearly turned the coffin over. ; "What of it?" Genka said, defending himself. "There'll be no visitors here today anyway and, besides, somebody might have heard me if I had been walking about the place. As it is, both of us have had a beauty of a sleep." "Who gave you the right to leave your post?" Misha said, his temper rising. "If you wanted to sleep so badly you could have woken me up." "I didn't want to," Genka replied. "I couldn't make myself do it. We've got nothing to eat and sleep was the only thing with which to stifle our hunger. And then nothing's happened, so far as I can see."

325

Nothing had happened, of course, but for discipline's sake Misha took Genka to task. Sleep had refreshed them considerably and had it not been for that gnawing, empty feeling in their stomachs they would have felt quite happy. The hours began to drag by again. And again the boys began to feel sleepy. They wandered about the museum together, then sat dozing, then Misha walked about alone while Genka dozed. In the end both fell asleep. Chapter 53

THE STRANGER

The first thing Misha did when he woke up was to look at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He shook Genka awake and was just in time, for a few minutes later a key grated in the lock of the back door and the attendant came in. The boys concealed themselves behind a curtain. Genka suggested getting into the coffin, but Misha rejected the idea: from where they were they could see everything, but in the coffin it was like being in a trap. From their hiding-place, Misha and Genka heard the swish-swish of a broom and the clang of a dust-pan—the attendant was sweeping the floor. The back door was open, letting in the coolness of the morning and the ring of children's voices. The attendant went out of that door a few times, carrying the sweepings. It was all the boys could do to keep on their feet. The two harassing nights they had spent in the museum were beginning to tell on them. The attendant, do-nothing that he was, had not opened even the ventilation panes. Time moved unbearably slowly. When the attendant swept the floor near their hiding-place, the boys held their breath. They were afraid he would draw the curtain, for behind it the dust was the thickest. But the attendant evidently thought that since the floor behind the curtain had not been swept for a year there was no sense in, doing it now. He was so close that he even brushed Misha's feet with his broom. With bated breath the boys expected him to draw the curtain at any moment. But no! The shuffling footfalls receded, as did the sounds made by the broom and the dust-pan. Nine o'clock. With his nerves on edge, Misha counted off the minutes: as soon as the attendant opened the front door and went into one of the rooms, they would make a dash for the street. The hook rang against the wall, the wooden bolt banged open, a key turned in the lock and a bright strip of sunlight fell across the floor at the farther end of the corridor. The door was open! Make ready! The old man would go into one of the back rooms. They heard his footsteps. But what was that? He was not alone. He was talking with somebody. Misha looked through a hole in the curtain. Behind the attendant walked

326

a tall man in a green suit. He limped slightly, dragging one foot. They were heading for the Life of the Gentry room, where Misha and Genka were hiding. The attendant and the man in the green suit halted in front of the curtain. "Will you be drawing?" the attendant asked. "Just a sketch," replied the man in the green suit, taking a notebook and a pencil from his pocket. "Will you require a chair?" "No, thank you. Don't bother. That will be all." The attendant shuffled away. The stranger drew rapidly in his notebook. He was about thirty-five or forty, smooth-shaven, with sleek, reddish hair, smart-looking, tensed, in a green suit and a white, starched collar. The old man's footsteps died away. What happened next made the boys gape with wonder. The stranger stuffed the notebook into his pocket, took down the rope, went to the bronze bird, raised the head, put a folded piece of paper under it, replaced the head, rehung the rope, and resumed his drawing. He did all that very quickly, but Misha noticed that he had raised the bird's head with his left hand. With two fingers of his right hand he had pressed the bird's eyes. That was why he hadn't been able to open the bird!

Then the stranger put the notebook back into his pocket again and went to join the old man. Soon the boys could hear their voices. They went past the boys' hiding-place to the exit. "Good-bye and thank you very much," the stranger said, shaking the attendant by his hand and evidently leaving a tip in it. The old man bowed low, mumbling: "Thank you, thank you very much. Good-bye." Then he shuffled his way back into the corridor. The moment he went round the corner, the boys darted out of their hiding-place, noiselessly went to the front door and, pretending they had just come in, banged the door. Speaking in loud voices, they went to the Life of the Gentry room. The attendant appeared and looked suspiciously at them. "You here again?"

327

"We didn't manage to see everything on Saturday," Misha replied. "No end of people seem to want to see this room," the old man said, shaking his head. "Everybody is studying how the gentry lived," Misha explained, "and that is why they are coming here." "The gentry have been kicked out a long time ago and yet people want to know about them. Evidently the way they lived was better," the old man said and slowly walked away. "A geezer of the old regime," Genka whispered after him. The attendant disappeared round a corner. Misha lifted the rope a little, went to the bird and, imitating the stranger, took hold of the bird's head with his left hand and pressed its eyes with two ringers of his right hand. The bird did not open. He pressed harder—and suddenly the bird's head fell back. In a recess lay the note. Misha took it out and read it. There was only one line: "Next Wednesday by the day train." Misha replaced the note, lowered the bird's head over the hiding-place and hung up the rope. The boys left the museum and hurried to the railway station.

328

Part V

THE SECRET OF THE BRONZE BIRD Chapter 54

KIT OVEREATS

"Next Wednesday by the day train." That was not hard to understand: somebody would come on Wednesday next by the day train. The note had obviously been left for the "countess." The hiding-place in the museum was a means of communication between her and the man in the green suit. Wednesday. Kuzmin was murdered on a Wednesday. Since there was a hiding-place in the small bird, it was reasonable to expect that there was one in the bird on the manor. That had to be checked. But how? Of course, now that Misha and his friends had gained access to the servants' hall their chances of getting at the bronze bird had increased. But.... But Seva was recovering with catastrophic speed. Misha made him hold the thermometer for half an hour at a stretch. But the column of mercury never rose above the 98° mark. Then the doctor came and declared that Seva was well and could leave his bed and go back to the camp. That meant they would have to leave the servants' hall. What was to be done? Oh, if only somebody fell ill. Misha walked about the camp, hopefully scrutinizing everybody and asking after their health. But the youngsters never felt better in their lives. Nobody complained of anything. As a last resort, Misha said to the Bleater: "We're always caught napping when somebody falls ill. From what I know about medicine, the first thing is to prevent disease." The Bleater was touched to the quick.

329

"I'm always talking about disease prevention," he said, "but nobody listens to me. And you're the first...." "Keep your shirt on," Misha said, avoiding an argument. We've got to make use of the hospital while it's still at our disposal. Examine everybody and if you find anything in anybody that worries you, send him to the hospital immediately. We'll call the doctor tomorrow. Be thorough. I won't hold it against you if you make a mistake and put someone in bed who's not ill at all. It is the kind of mistake I can condone." The Bleater zealously set about his task. He took everybody's temperature. But this dragged out for a long time because there was only one thermometer in the camp. While one of the youngsters held it under his armpit, the Bleater examined the throat of another. He regarded himself as a great throat specialist. His mother worked in an out-patient hospital for ear, nose and throat cases. "Open your jaws wider," the Bleater said, looking into the mouths of his victims, and as he was short of stature he had to stand on his toes. Every time he looked into somebody's mouth, he meaningfully declared: "Hm. There's a reddishness. Bad." He would have been quite content to drag all his "patients" to the hospital by turn. ; But who wanted to stay in bed in this heat! Even a real patient would not have admitted he was ill. In the end, everybody got fed up. They had their fill of the Bleater, who stuck his brows into their mouths, and of that absurd thermometer. Misha saw that his idea1 was a flop. It had been silly to think that any healthy youngster could be persuaded he was ill. Misha gave it up. It could not be helped. They would have to clear out of the servants' hall tomorrow. They would have to say good-bye to such a fine opportunity of penetrating into the house and getting at the bronze bird. : In spite of everything, a saviour did appear. He appeared in the image of Kit, an emaciated-looking, suffering Kit, who moaned and held himself by the stomach. Kit had overeaten! Misha's joy knew no bounds. Kit would get well, of course. This was not the first time he had overeaten. A day or two in bed and he would be as good as new. There could be no doubt that this was the result of overeating when he had gone with Slava to Moscow for the stores. But Misha did not question him on that score. The important thing was that he had overeaten. That was very important and pleasant. The doctor would come tomorrow, give him a dose of castor-oil or Epsom salts, but at the moment he had to be put in bed in place of Seva, who was being held a virtual prisoner. Kit was hurried to the servants' hall. Seva, overjoyed, rushed out of the "hospital" as fast as his legs could carry him. The "countess" said nothing when she learned that one patient had been supplanted by another. She turned on her heel and walked away. But the doctor arrived soon after, though Misha did not call him. "What's happened this time?" he asked, getting down from his carriage and hitching the horse to a tree although it was clear at a glance that the heavy, lazy horse would never move away on its own.

330

"Another of our boys has fallen seriously ill," Misha informed him. "We'll see," the doctor said, frowning, and went into the house. An examination confirmed that Kit was really ill. The doctor suspected it was dysentery, but Misha explained that Kit had attacks of indigestion approximately once every fortnight. The doctor wrote out a prescription and said that Kit had to be put on a strict diet. Kit's spirits fell when he heard that. Then, his frown deeper than ever, the doctor went to see the "countess," who was waiting for him near the verandah. Misha did not hear their conversation. But when the doctor returned, he looked angry. His parting words were: "The boy must stay in bed until I say he can get up. Don't forget what I said about putting him on a strict diet. He must have complete rest. Pay no attention to circumstances that don't concern you." From that Misha concluded that it was the "countess" who had called the doctor to make him send the boys away from the manor. But nothing came of that. The next morning, the "countess" took the train to town, obviously to complain about the troop and to get them forced out of the manor and from the grounds. Let her go! She thought Serov had more authority than anybody else, but she was mistaken. In her absence, they would go into the house and examine the bronze bird. There was nothing reprehensible in that. The manor did not belong to her but to the state. She was only the caretaker. That made it not a private house but the property of the people. Chapter 55

IN THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE

Slava and the Bleater were assigned to look after Kit. The Bleater was to sit in the hall at his bedside, and Slava—to keep a watch outside. Their orders were to give two short and one long whistle at the least sign of danger. The low massive door with peeling dark-brown paint hung unsteadily on rusty nails and hinges. The boys pushed it open and found themselves in a short corridor piled up with all sorts of junk. Kit, too, wanted to take a look, but he was given a bowl of rice-water and that kept him quiet. The corridor, as we have seen, was full of junk of all sorts: broken armchairs, a tumble-down bookstand, a wash-stand with a cracked marble top and an empty oval which had once held a mirror, boxes, baskets and barrels. But Misha noticed that the middle of the corridor was not obstructed and formed a narrow passageway. It had been made by the "countess," of course, so that she could spy on them. The passage ended

331

at the iron steps of a spiral staircase. ' The boys drew a plan of the house to have it in case it would be needed later on. The recess with the bronze bird was in the facade, closer to the left side of the house, while the servants' hall was at the back, closer to the right side. The task, therefore, was to reach the loft, to find the way from the back to the front part of the house and then to cross from the right to the left side. That was not easy to do, because the boys had to find their way about noiselessly in a strange house. As long as the door of the servants' hall was open, it was possible to make out the different objects, but the moment Misha closed it, the small corridor was plunged into inky blackness. Tiny beams of light came through the lattices in the iron steps of the spiral staircase. The darkness below and the rays of light coming from the ceiling gave the impression that there were people on the floor above, and that made the whole enterprise frightening. "Perhaps we could do it in a much simpler way?" Genka whispered. "We could go outside, climb to the verandah and get to the recess along the ledge. We'll lose ourselves in this house." "No," Misha said, also speaking in a whisper, "somebody might see us. If you're afraid, you can stay here." "I'm not afraid of anything," Genka growled in reply. There was an unearthly stillness all around. Not even Kit's noisy champing could be heard—perhaps because he had finished the rice-water. Doing their best not to stumble over anything in the darkness, the boys went up to the staircase. Misha led the way, with Genka behind him. No sooner did they put their feet on the iron steps than the staircase began to clang and squeak. If anybody was in the house, they would be sure to be heard. Genka thought the staircase would fall on their heads: it was a mystery to him how it held in place. It was very narrow and steep, and had small triangular pieces of metal for steps. Genka missed a step and bruised his knee. Mentally he cursed the landlord system that doomed servants to climb stairs such as these. You had to spin like a top, with one shoulder against the wall and the other against an iron post, while your head kept bumping against something all the time. They finally reached the first floor, finding themselves in another corridor, somewhat longer than the one below. It extended along the entire outer wall and the window made it look like a gallery. The panes were made of numerous pieces of coloured glass, most of which were broken. The boys saw the yard and the sheds. That meant they were still in the back part of the house. In the corridor, there were two tall doors that had once been white: one was in the middle and the other at the far end. The boys cautiously opened the first door. They saw an empty hall with dilapidated, old-fashioned furniture scattered about haphazardly. A chandelier with numerous pieces of glass hung from the ceiling. The high, arrow-shaped windows were partially boarded up and partially covered with something that looked like curtains. Through them the boys could see the park, the orchard, the river and the flag on the flag-pole in the camp. The

332

sight of that small, sharp-cornered little flag fluttering lazily in the breeze heartened them. All thought of danger left their minds and it seemed to them that all this was just a fascinating game. Their spirits rose because now they could see everything, even their camp, while nobody could see them. Besides, they had reached the façade and that was something. The hall had three doors—one through which the boys had entered, and one on either side. The side doors were locked and the boys had to return to the corridor and try the second door. It led to yet another corridor, about as long as the second, but it only had a small round window and a small panel door on the right. The boys opened the door and found two adjoining rooms. The first was empty. The second was locked. Looking through the keyhole, they saw an unmade bed, a night-table, a chest of drawers, a desk with a semicircular top and two armchairs. This was probably the old woman's bedroom. In the room where the boys were now standing there was a stairwell. It was boarded up on all sides and looked like a huge box. Undoubtedly, it led to the loft. But the stairs began in the locked bedroom. The "countess," the boys concluded, had purposely chosen that room for her bedroom so that nobody could go up that staircase to the loft. The boys tried to open the door of the bedroom, but it did not move. Through a slit it could be seen that it had two locks. They couldn't very well force the door open! So Misha and Genka turned their attention to the boards around the stairwell. They barely held in place. A crowbar was all that was needed to wrench them free. But the boys had nothing with them that would serve the purpose. Misha told Genka to go down to the corridor on the ground floor and look for a crowbar. "A piece of piping will do just as well," Misha said, "so long as it can be wedged between the boards. Only be careful and make no noise." Genka soon returned with a pair of fire-place tongs and a big, broken flatiron. The boys forced the tongs between the boards and, with the aid of the iron, tore off two of them. The opening was big enough to let them through. They climbed the straight and fairly wide wooden staircase leading to the loft—a low, square room filled with ramshackle furniture. As in the corridor on the ground floor, a narrow passage had been made through the furniture to the windows. There were three windows—one on either side, which was glazed, and one in the middle, which was closed with shutters. The shutters were fastened with a simple, rusty hook. The boys flipped back the hook and opened the shutters. In the recess stood the bronze bird. It had its back to them. It was about a metre high and the span of its wings was about a metre and a half.

333

The window gave an excellent view of the grounds and of all the approaches to the house. Misha and Genka could see the camp clearly. They saw quite a few of the troop and it was perfectly obvious they were loafing about: some were strolling aimlessly, others, it seemed, were playing a game, but neither Misha nor Genka could tell what it was. They came together, then parted, then came together again. They looked ridiculous and funny. But this was not the time to allow their attention to be diverted. They had to hurry if they wanted to learn the secret of the bronze bird. As in the museum, Misha carefully put two fingers of his right hand on the bird's eyes and then pressed hard. It worked! The bird's head folded back. So there was a hiding-place here as well! Misha's guess had been correct. He put his hand into the hiding-place, found a paper and drew it out. It was a rolled-up drawing made on ordinary tracing-paper. The boys untied the ribbon and unfolded the drawing. On it were lines and figures. There was no time to study it. They had to take it with them, make a copy

334

and put it back before the "countess" returned. Misha closed the bird and hooked the shutters. Then the boys went down to the first floor, replaced the boards on the stairwell and reached the servants' hall by way of the spiral staircase. They closed the door and drove the nails back into the old holes so that the "countess" would not guess the door had been opened. Chapter 56

THE DRAWING

Kit had finished the rice-water long ago and was now lying in bed, stretching languidly and screwing up his eyes with pleasure. It was dark and dusty in the hall. Short, narrow beams of sunlight lay across the floor with countless particles of dust swarming in them. "Come with us, Slava," Misha said, giving a slight nod to show that all was well. "You, Bleater, stay here. I'll send somebody to relieve you." "Send something to eat," Kit groaned. "Do you want to get well or not?" the Bleater demanded angrily. "Can't you stay on a diet for one day, for just one single day?" "No," Kit admitted with a sigh. Leaving them to their argument, Misha, Genka and Slava went outside. Forgetting their promise to send somebody to relieve the Bleater, they skirted round the camp, went across a field to a small thicket, where they sat down on the ground and unfolded the drawing. The sheet of tracing-paper was about the size of foolscap. On the sides were letters giving the cardinal points of the compass: N. S. E. W. Over the letter S was a picture of the facade of the manor. From it a straight line ran due north, then turned first to the north-west, then west and to the north again. Four trees were drawn where the line ended. Over each section of the line was the figure 1, and beneath the angle of each turn was a figure giving the angle: 135°, 135° and 90°. Except for a drawing of the bronze bird in the right-hand corner, there was nothing else on the paper. The bird was only given as the family emblem. The boys silently studied the drawing, then exchanged glances. They did not know what to believe. Had they found the secret? They were quite sure that the drawing would help to solve the riddle. Genka was the first to break the silence. In a quiet tone of voice, as though everything went without saying, he declared: "It's clear as daylight. We can go and look for the treasure whenever we like." "Some of it is clear and some isn't," Slava noted. "We don't know what the unit giving the length of the sections stands for. What does the figure 1 mean?" "Verst," Genka said with a condescending smile. "In the old days everything was given in versts."

335

"What about arshins and sazhens!" Slava said. "You make me laugh," Genka said. "If arshins or sazhens were meant, that would mean the treasure is close to the house. But you've got woods in these parts and they're exactly four versts from the house. If you like," Genka added with a shrug, "we can first check the thing in arshins and in sazhens. But when you hide something, you want to hide it well." Misha suggested they stop arguing and reason logically. "Let's think this out logically," he said. "Now here's the situation: the house, the bronze bird, is the starting point. Do you agree?" Slava and Genka nodded. "Well then," Misha continued, "from there we have to proceed due north for one verst." "Or one arshin, sazhen, or perhaps a metre or a kilometre," Slava persisted. "That's possible," Misha agreed, "although I think Genka's right: the figures stand for versts. Let's calculate the thing in versts, conditionally of course." "In that case, I don't mind," Slava said. "Don't interrupt," Genka said curtly. "Go on, Misha." "Now that we've agreed on that," Misha said, "we'll go due north for one verst, then turn to the north-west at an angle of one hundred and thirty-five degrees." "Turn. . ." Genka prompted. "Yes, turn," Misha said, "and go another verst." "That's where we turn again," Genka put in. "Yes, again one hundred and thirty-five degrees and cover the third verst. After that...." "We make the last turn," Genka said loudly and impatiently. "Yes, we turn ninety degrees at the last turning and proceed due north for yet another verst and...." "... stop at the four trees," Genka exclaimed, springing up from the ground, "dig our spades into the ground and find the buried treasure. It might even be that famous Pansy diamond." "Not Pansy but Sansy," Slava corrected him. The boys felt very pleased with themselves. "Just think," Genka laughed, "those fools out in the woods are searching and digging with the sweat pouring down their faces. They've probably lost weight with their digging, the poor devils, and they don't know where to dig. But we know." Misha did not jump or cut capers like Genka. He lay on the ground, smiling with self-satisfaction. "Yes," he said, "we've got the key in our hands. Of course, we don't know what we'll find. I doubt if it's that Sansy-Pansy diamond, but if people took such pains to hide it and others are looking for it so doggedly, it must be valuable." Genka went on laughing. "What a fox the 'countess' is! She's been sitting on this drawing, hiding it and waiting for Soviet power to be overthrown and for her counts to return.

336

But the drawing is now in our hands." At the mention of the "countess," doubts began to creep into Misha's mind. If it was so simple to find the treasure by following the instructions in the drawing, then why had the "countess" not found it? The men they had seen in the woods were digging there with her knowledge, for she was the one who had sent them those sacks. Slava's thoughts were running along the same lines. "It's strange that they haven't found the treasure," he said. "This drawing has been in the bird for at least six years after the Revolution and the 'countess' knows that it's there. That means those men and the boatman also know of its existence. And yet they're digging in the woods." "She's leading them a dance!" Genka shouted. "Can't you see that? The boatman is watching her. That shows he doesn't trust her. Why? Because she keeps showing him the wrong places and doesn't tell him where she's keeping this drawing." "Why doesn't she dig the treasure up herself?" "Think an old woman can do that? Think she can dig it out? But even if she could, she probably doesn't want to. What does she need the treasure for? What could she do with it? Her job is to see that nobody touches it until the count returns." Slava agreed that there was sense in what Genka said. Misha was of the same opinion. Some doubts lingered on, but he terribly wanted to believe that the buried treasure was now within reach and that their efforts had been crowned with success. He was eager to find out if his deduction was correct. "Let's not lose any time," he said, getting up, "and follow this route right now." Genka and Slava willingly assented. They too were burning to see where the treasure was hidden. "As my stride is exactly one arshin" Misha said, "I'll do the measuring. Only don't get me muddled." "What about spades?" Genka cried. "We need spades to dig the treasure up." But Misha was against that. Everything would be lost if the boatman saw them carrying spades. They would dig at night and in preparation for that they would memorize the place and the road to it. "I disagree with that," Genka grumbled. He wanted to start digging at once. Chapter 57

TREASURE-HUNTERS They remembered their promise to relieve the Bleater only when they saw him standing at the door of the servants' hall.

"It's an outrage," the Bleater shouted angrily. "I've been waiting for an hour and a half! It's low-down. Anybody else would have gone away long

337

ago. You're taking advantage of my sense of duty. Decent people don't do that. Downright mockery, that's what it is!" Misha calmed him and let him return to the camp with orders to send Igor. Still giving vent to his indignation, the Bleater marched off. The moans of the hungry Kit came from the servants' hall. But the boys paid not the slightest attention to them. Misha, compass in hand and facing northward, stood in front of the house. The compass needle was perpendicular to the house. "Now listen," Misha said. "I don't want to hear a word from you until we reach the turning. And now let's go." The boys set off with Misha in front. He counted the steps, trying to make his stride exactly one arshin long. It was his normal stride when he walked without exertion and he knew that if he made it even a little longer the exertion would show. He held the compass in front of him. Actually, he did not need it because the drive itself led due north. Soon the drive gave way to a path across a field which, as the compass showed, likewise led due north. Misha did not have to worry about losing count of his steps. Genka and Slava were striding after him, mumbling as they counted the steps with deep concentration. This monotonous mumbling disturbed Misha, but he said nothing as he was afraid that that would put him off. In the end, when Misha announced that he had counted a thousand five hundred steps, it turned out that Genka's figure was twelve higher, while Slava's was eight lower. But the road veered to the north-east of itself. The boys measured the angle—it was a hundred and thirty-five degrees. The old count had certainly had a poor imagination. That was the result of the aristocracy's degeneration.... The boys went on with their task. The monotonous mumbling behind Misha's back was resumed. The road took them exactly to the north-east. It seemed as though it had been specially laid out to the place where the treasure was buried. This was the very route that Misha and Longshanks had taken when they went to the Goligin Brushwood Road.

338

At the end of the second verst they found that the road again turned one hundred and thirty-five degrees to the west. "It's going swimmingly," Genka said, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "The count gave the bearings exactly." "The route's too primitive," Slava noted. "It follows the road all the time." "That's how it should be. You don't imagine the count wanted to hurt his precious feet by tripping over into holes and ruts." At the end of the third verst, the road turned sharply to the north at a right angle. The last lap brought them to the fringe of a woods, which stood in front of them like a wall. It was the woods they had gone through to get to the Goligin Brushwood Road. "Clearly," Genka said, pointing at the trees, "the treasure's buried beneath those four trees." Misha and Slava were also looking at the trees. Yes, the treasure was evidently there. At any rate, it was in the clearing where they now found themselves. It was uneven and full of mounds. For a moment, the 'suspicion crossed Misha's mind that somebody had already dug the ground up, but there was no sign of freshly upturned soil—all the mounds were overgrown with grass. Perhaps tree-stumps had once been rooted out here. However that may be, this was the spot indicated in the drawing. That meant the treasure was beneath one of the mounds. He would put the whole troop on the job. The count proved to be not as simple as he had at first thought! Everybody was hunting for the treasure in the woods, but it was buried here, on the fringe of the woods, in the most prominent place where nobody so much as thought of looking. The boys sat down on the grass. The leaves in the crowns of the trees rustled and birds whistled and chirped. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking. Genka grunted and whispered: "Those asses are searching for the treasure in the swamp. Treasurehunters they call themselves!"

339

"Still, it's strange that they're digging in this very woods," Slava said. "There's nothing strange in that," Genka protested. "They're misinformed. They were told to look in the woods. But they don't know where." "When will we start digging?" Slava asked. "I suggest we don't put it off for too long," Genka said. "Don't forget that the stranger in the green suit is coming on Wednesday. And today's already Friday." "Yes, we can't put it off," Misha agreed, "but we must go about it sensibly. First, we must make a copy of the drawing and put the original back, otherwise the countess will take precautionary measures." "You're right," Genka said, "but when will we start digging?" "We must get witnesses and representatives of the authorities. You can never tell what we'll find," Misha declared. Genka was furious. What! Tell the chairman of the Village Soviet? Why, he would immediately inform Yerofeyev, and the latter would tell the boatman. "That is one thing he'll not tell him," Misha calmed him. "We'll also call representatives from the uyezd and from the gubernia. Hidden treasure is state property. Everything must be done legally." "It's always like that," Genka said with disappointment. "We do all the donkey work, risk our lives and in the end somebody else comes along and takes the cake. It's not fair!" Chapter 58

THE DOCTOR'S STORY

The boys turned homeward. They were tired but very happy. It's not everyone who solves puzzles like this, but they had done it twice: the first time it was the secret of the dirk and now it was the mystery of the bronze bird. Reaching the manor, Misha told Genka and Slava to go on to the camp and went into the servants' hall to find out how Kit was and, on the whole, to check the situation there. The doctor was sitting at Kit's bedside. "I'm glad you've come," he said when he saw Misha. "He," he nodded towards Kit, "can get up, but he must watch his diet." This was a fix! It had not entered Misha's plans to let Kit out of the house. They would lose their access to the servants' hall and the possibility of going into the house once more, at least to put the drawing back. Misha instantly thought of a reply. "He'll get up and overeat again the next minute. We know him well. If he has to be on a diet it's best to keep him in bed." "Is he such a glutton?" "The biggest in the world." "Can't you control yourself?" the doctor asked Kit. "No," Kit confessed.

340

"But he needs fresh air," the doctor said, "and as for the diet, let him make it a point of discipline." "If he gets up everything will be lost," Misha said with desperation. "What are you talking about?" "I'm speaking generally," Misha said hastily. "He'll fall ill again and we'll have nowhere to put him. Nobody will let us into this place again. We'll have to keep him in a tent and you said yourself that a tent is no place for a sick person." "We'll always find where to put a patient," the doctor replied, "and he's stayed in bed long enough." "You mean I can get up?" Kit asked, throwing back his blanket. "Yes." Saying no more, Kit got out of bed and without looking at Misha, went out of the hall. A minute later his voice came from the direction of the camp-fire where supper was being cooked. Misha and the doctor also went to the camp. The doctor had left his horse there. - After they had gone a few steps along the drive, the doctor stopped and turned his head. Misha intercepted his gaze. He was looking at the bronze bird. "What does that bronze bird stand for?" Misha asked. "I can't see why it's there at all." The doctor took off his pince-nez, wiped it, and put it on again, throwing the black, twisted thread over his ear. "It's a famous bird," he laughed. "Quite a few people have gone off their heads because of it." "Really?" Misha said, excited that the doctor could tell him something. "It's an old and long story," the doctor said, "and, to tell you the truth, it's dull." "Please, I'd like to hear it," Misha said. "We're interested in history. The boys keep asking me about the bird, but I can't tell them anything." "It's a long, very long story," the doctor repeated. "Some other time." "Please tell it to me now," Misha pleaded, "while we're walking to your horse." ' "All right," the doctor said, slowing down his pace. "It's quite a silly story really. A mixture of lordly tyranny and provincial romanticism. I must tell you that the counts Karagayev are an ancient though poverty-stricken family. The line, so people say, goes back to a Tatar murza, who came to Russia with the Golden Horde. But the family lost its wealth and fell into decay especially after Elizabeth executed One of* the counts and his son and had their bodies thrown into a swamp." "So the story about the Goligin Brushwood Road is true?" Misha asked with amazement. "Yes," the doctor said, "it is a historical fact. They were executed and trampled underfoot on the brushwood road. The family seat was seized by the crown and the family all but scattered. However, thanks to a lucky match between one of the counts and the daughter of a Demidov, the Karagayevs

341

regained their feet and the family came to own estates and mines in the Urals." "I've heard something about that," Misha said. "The family," the doctor continued, "had a passion for precious stones, a mania you might even call it. That was particularly true of the last count. He was a great lover and judge of diamonds. But he was a dreamer and a mystic. He worked his property in the Urals on a big scale, but the diamonds were small and, as you know, small diamonds are not worth much. The price of a diamond rises almost geometrically with its size. The stones from his mines were small, but he spread rumours that some of his finds were outstanding. A check showed that it was all bluff. He became such an inveterate liar that not only did people stop believing him but he was very nearly taken to court for counterfeiting some stone. He was threatened with bankruptcy. At the trial, the son attempted to have the old man declared insane. He wanted me to help him, but I refused and almost spoilt the case for him. Since then, he has been afraid of me. He found some people who helped him to get the inheritance before the old man died. The old count went abroad. But he had the last laugh." The doctor and Misha reached the carriage. The doctor got in, lit a cigarette and continued: "Although his heir was a fool, he was also a great scoundrel. That woman," he nodded in the direction of the house, "played an odious role in the whole affair." "You mean the countess?" "She's no countess. But she was once a beautiful woman." The doctor paused, a shadow flitting across his face. "A beautiful woman," he repeated, "only nothing has remained of her beauty. Yes, as I was saying, the young count.... The local peasants called him Rouble Twenty.... He was born lame. He limped a little but he was very well built. Now, this is how his father punished him...." The doctor paused again as though trying to recall the story, then went on: "The most amazing thing was that fables were not all that the old count told. Just before the trial he announced that he had found two diamonds of nearly 50 carats each. He went so far as to show them. But nobody believed him, of course. Yet the diamonds proved to be real. That was confirmed by Dutch jewellers. And one day the count sent his son a letter that ran something like this: " 'I have taken one ,of the diamonds with me and have hidden the other. Since you proved smart enough to drive me out of the house, we'll see if you're smart enough to find that diamond. Your family emblem shows you where it is hidden.' That is approximately what the old count wrote. It was cruel revenge. The search for that diamond proved to be the undoing of this family. They searched for it before the Revolution. They dug up every inch of the ground around here and quarrelled among themselves. Some went mad, others poisoned or shot themselves." "And they didn't find it?" Misha asked anxiously. It was all he could do to

342

refrain from shouting, "I know where the hiding-place is! I know where the diamond is buried!" The doctor shook his head. "You can't imagine what went on here. But they found nothing." Doing his best to curb his excitement, Misha asked: "But the count wrote that it's connected with the family emblem. What did he have in mind?" He asked his question without looking up, for he was afraid that his eyes would betray him. The doctor sat astride the carriage, picked up the reins and took the whip, which was sticking out of a small leather pocket. "What he had in mind? The emblem. That bird," the doctor said, pointing with his whip at the house where the bronze bird gleamed golden in the rays o£ the setting sun. "That eagle was supposed to provide the answer." With an affected laugh, Misha asked: "How can the eagle provide an answer? It can't talk." "That is true, but inside the bird there is a hiding-place." "What did you say?" Misha asked, scarcely able to pronounce the words. The doctor looked at him. "What is the matter with you?" "Nothing," Misha said with a forced smile, struggling to control himself. "I never thought there was a hiding-place in the bird." "Yes, there is a hiding-place," the doctor said, "and a very simple one, too. The head folds back when you press the eyes. An ordinary spring." Stunned, Misha gazed at the doctor, but the latter did not notice the state he was in and continued: "There was a drawing in the hiding-place. According to it, the diamond is hidden in the woods about four versts from here. They dug up the whole woods and even today some odd chaps are digging Way there. True, the fever has dropped a little, but they are still digging." "And they all knew about that drawing?" Misha mumbled miserably. "Yes, of course. At first it was kept secret, but everybody saw them digging in the woods and it was impossible to keep it a secret for any length of time. Almost everybody in the village had a copy of the drawing." "But perhaps, perhaps ... it was not the real drawing," Misha said in a crushed voice. "There's only one plan. All the people in the neighbourhood knew it by heart. A verst to the north, another to the north-west, then a verst, I think, due west. I can't vouch for it, it was so long ago. But everybody knew it by heart and there was even a song about it: If a verst you will go, A diamond will you 'find; Another you will go, Another will you find; A third you will go, Nothing will you find....

343

"That's the song." The doctor loosened the reins. "Now you know the whole story. Well, all right. Don't forget to restrain your patient and give him less to eat. Keep him on a diet for a while." "A diet... yes ... of course..." Misha repeated without knowing what he was saying. His eyes dully followed the doctor, gazing at his broad back in the black frock-coat bobbing up and down as the carriage took the pits and bumps, behind the huge horse that walked with a heavy gait, lazily whisking the gad-flies away with its tail. Chapter 59

IS ALL REALLY LOST?

His head in a whirl, Misha returned to the camp. He was met by the usual evening bustle. The youngsters were cooking supper, washing themselves before turning in, putting away their collections of flowers and their albums, or making up the beds in the tents. Some of the girls were correcting the exercise-books of the villagers attending the illiteracy-abolition class. It was the time of the evening when everybody was tired but was sorry that the day was ending, when it was particularly lively because the whole troop was in camp; the day was waning and haste had to be made to take advantage of the last of the daylight. Misha carried out his duties mechanically. The thought of the rebuff he had just received never left his head. What humiliation! All their efforts had been in vain. Those agonizing nights in the museum, the night expedition to the Goligin Brushwood Road, the search for the bronze bird in the manor, the discovery of the hiding-place and the stealing of the drawing—all that had been futile, a waste of time. He had imagined he was cleverer than everybody else. If only nobody found out! Genka and Slava could be trusted to keep their mouths shut—they too had made fools of themselves. But how was he to tell them the truth? His prestige would suffer an irreparable blow. Genka and Slava were in the best of spirits. They had no 'idea of what Misha was thinking and walked about the camp arm-in-arm, exchanging mysterious whispers and giving their friends good-natured, indulgent looks, which as much as said: innocent children having their usual fun and quite unaware that soon a tremendous, startling secret would be opened to them! Seeing Misha, they went up to him and Genka whispered conspiratorially that he had found a page of tracing-paper in a book and that if they were to put it over the drawing they could make an excellent copy. Misha nodded, giving Genka to understand that he could take the page out of the book and use it to make a copy of the drawing. Genka added that this book contained not one but three such pages and that it would be a good idea to make three copies. If they did that, each could have a copy. Just in case one of the copies was lost. It was useful to have throe copies. You .could never tell what might happen in such a dangerous

344

undertaking. You had to be ready to meet all contingencies. Misha agreed to that as well. Then Genka said that since it was already dark, they would make the copies in the morning, when the troop would go to the village. Misha agreed. Slava noted that he and Genka would have to be excused from work in the club. Misha made ,no objection. He let his friends have their way in everything. It was all useless anyway, but he could not summon up enough courage to tell them the truth. Let them busy themselves with anything they liked so long as that kept them from asking questions. The next morning, Misha woke up with a headache and with a feeling of physical weakness that people experience after a restless night. But, as usual, he lined up the troop after breakfast and marched them to the village. Genka and Slava were left behind on duty, so that in their spare time they could make copies of the drawing. Misha's sombre thoughts followed him into the club. He took no part in anything, but sat on a bench and sadly gazed at the future Young Pioneers. They had been divided into sections, knew the rules and regulations, had studied the text of the solemn oath, but could not learn to march. Each knew his right hand from his left, but at the order: "Right turn," invariably turned to the left, and at the order: "Left turn," turned to the right. At the order: "About turn," they bumped into each other. They could not march in step. What could be simpler: "Left, right, left, right." But no, they fell out of step each time. One's stride was long, another's short, some skipped, others dragged their feet like invalids, and still others kept stepping on the heels of those in front of them. Then look how they stood in line! Some stuck their stomachs out, others had their toes a foot apart. If you told them to take in their stomachs, they'd bend over almost to the ground. Some were barefoot, others wore felt boots in this heat! If you gave the order, "Eyes right," you'd get a semicircle instead of a straight line: each would move up to get a good view of the chap on the right flank in spite of your explaining that it's only the fifth man from you that you had to see. Then take the .order: "Count off by .twos!" They had never had a case when it was carried out flawlessly. Some would repeat their number twice, while others would keep silent altogether. No amount of coaxing got anything out of them. They'd keep silent and look at you with a timid smile. Especially ,the girls. Were they shy, or what? But even their funny, clumsy turns could not take Misha's mind off the drawing. All right, let the drawing be worthless. But there must be something in it that was not. Not only he, but others had looked for it, and they were still looking. The "countess," let's assume, was mad, she had lost her mind because of the diamonds, but the man in the green suit was a fact, and his secret correspondence with the "countess" was also a fact. So was Kuzmin's murder.... Let there be no hidden treasure. They were not after diamonds. All they wanted was to prove Nikolai's innocence. Would they .give up just because they, like scores of other people, had taken the treasure-bait?

345

Musing in this fashion, Misha kept his eyes on the clearing where the Young Pioneers were drilling. Why was it so difficult for them to stand in line? Take the Fly, for example. He walked normally, was a fast runner, but when he was in line he limped for no good reason, dragged one foot, shortening his stride. A real Rouble Twenty, the doctor had said about the young count. Wait a minute! Misha half-rose as the thought crossed his mind. The man in the green suit also limped and dragged one of his feet. The same man in the green suit they had seen in the museum. The man who was secretly corresponding with the "countess." Was he the young Count Karagayev? So far as Misha knew, all the counts had fled to Paris. Perhaps, not all of them? Perhaps he was still hoping to find the diamond, which had been so cleverly hidden by his father. It was quite possible! That was probably why he did not show himself at the manor—he was afraid he'd be recognized. He was due on Wednesday. Chapter 60

THE COPY

While the troop was in the village, Genka and Slava got down to copying the drawing. First they had to find a smooth board on which to spread the drawing. "This is crazy!" Genka said. "Why do you want to make such an exact copy? We know where the hiding-place is and we're making copies as a formality, nothing more." But Slava insisted that he needed a smooth board. Besides, he drew well. Genka had to give way to him. They did not find a board that suited their purpose, but came across a cardboard paper-holder with the word "File" written on it. They placed this paper-holder on a tree-stump and put a stone on each o£ the four corners to prevent it from shifting. Then they put the drawing on the folder and stretched a page of tracing-paper over it. Slava began to trace the drawing and Genka stood leaning over his shoulder, watching the pencil, offering advice and hurrying Slava. Why was he being so scrupulous about it? 'If it were he, Genka, he'd have it ready in no time! But Slava paid no attention to Genka and drew very carefully. When he began to trace the bird, Genka said: "What are you doing? The bird means nothing." "It's on the drawing, so I've got to copy it," Slava replied.' The bird gave him the most trouble. Before that it had been plain sailing: lines, curves and angles. But the bird was drawn with great care. 'It was an exact picture of the bird on the manor house. "You're only wasting your time," Genka insisted. "It's simply an emblem." "Maybe not."

346

"Listen to me. You're wasting your time. We know everything there is to know." But the conscientious Slava methodically went on tracing the bird. "It's your business," Genka grumbled, "but please don't trace the bird on my copy. I don't need that eagle." He watched Slava with extreme displeasure. A whole hour spent on just that eagle! And only the first drawing at that! How long would he take to make three copies?

Slava at last finished copying the eagle and began to shade it in. "Hey, what are you doing?" Genka cried, losing his temper. "It's shaded in the original." "Not all of it," Genka shouted, "and you're shading in the whole bird!" "My mistake," Slava said, examining the drawing. Indeed, only the eagle's body was shaded in. The head was smeared over with black paint, while the legs were neither painted nor shaded. "I missed that because of the tracing-paper. You can't see properly through it," Slava said, looking disgruntled. "I'll have to draw it all over again." Genka tried to stop him. He could see no reason why more time should be wasted. The eagle was only in the drawing conditionally and could have very well been left out. What difference did it make if it was shaded in or not? If Slava wanted to make another copy, he could give him, Genka, the spoilt one and could go on drawing for as long as he wanted. "Take it if you like," Slava said, putting the spoilt copy aside. "I'll do the others properly. Exactly as in the drawing." "See if I care." Genka nonchalantly folded the copy Slava gave him and stuffed it into his pocket. "Be careful," Slava remarked, "there may be a lot of trouble if you lose it." "I've never lost anything in my life."

347

Chapter 61

EAGLES

Slava had the copies ready by the time the troop returned from the village. After supper, Genka and Slava gave the drawing back to Misha and showed him the copies. Misha said nothing as he looked at the now useless copies. Poor Slava had spent half a day over them. And how neat they were! "Where is the third copy?" Misha asked, playing for time. "I've got it," Genka replied. "I took the spoilt one for myself." "Why is it spoilt?" Misha asked, still hesitating to tell his friends the truth. Genka put his copy beside the others and showed where it was spoilt. "As a matter of fact," he said, "it's spoilt only because Slava says so. This eagle is of no importance whatever. It's simply the Karagayev emblem, like the bronze bird." "I quite agree," Slava interjected, "that the shading may be of no importance, but since it's in the original I decided to copy it." While his friends spoke, Misha looked closely at the drawing. The bird really showed nothing, neither the place where the treasure was buried nor the road leading to it. The road was given by the lines and curves. They had gone over it the day before and had found it to be correct. The doctor had said that hundreds of people had already tried to find the treasure by the drawing and that meant they had studied it thoroughly. Nobody denied that. But why had the bird been drawn in this unusual way? However small and old the picture was, it was perfectly obvious that the head was painted black, the body—shaded in, and the legs left white. What did it

348

signify? "What are you looking at?" Genka asked, watching the expression on Misha's face with curiosity and not without a measure of alarm. "I'm trying to puzzle out what the bird stands for. Why it is here and why has it been drawn so strangely?" "But what difference does that make?" Genka said, making a wry face. "All emblems mean no more than the eagles on tsarist five-kopek pieces: they're only emblems. Take any coin and on each there's a double-headed eagle. But it signifies nothing. I don't see what there is to puzzle out. We already know where the treasure is hidden. What we ought to do is not to think but to go and dig it out. That's all there is to it?" "Are you sure?" Misha asked. "Sure of What?" "That we know where the treasure is hidden." Genka lifted his hands. "But we have been there yesterday." Misha was silent for a moment, then said with a sigh: "There's no treasure where we've been." Genka and Slava stared at him. "I mean it," Misha said. "There's no treasure near those four trees and there never was and never will be." Genka and Slava continued staring at Misha—Genka with astonishment, Slava with inquiry. "What are you staring at me for?" Misha demanded. "There's no treasure, that's all." "Yes… but... what about the drawing, and the 'countess,' and everything we've done?" Genka mumbled. "She's no countess!" Misha replied. "But how do you know there's no treasure where we've been?" Slava asked. "Here's how." And Misha told his friends the story he heard from the doctor. It was a cruel blow. The boys saw themselves as miserable fools, halfwitted dreamers. How would they look people in the eyes? True, nobody knew anything, but all their friends had seen how mysteriously they had been behaving. Would they have to part with the hope of ever getting to the bottom of a secret nobody could solve? It was awful, to say the least! No sooner had Misha unburdened himself than he felt better. It was as though he had thrown a heavy weight off his shoulders. "It's a pity," Slava said at last, "yet it's what we should have expected. People have been looking for that treasure for ages and it was silly of us to think we could find it." "That's the way things always turn out," Misha said with a shrug. "A lot of people keep looking until somebody stumbles across the thing everybody is looking for. That somebody could have been us. But it wasn't, worse luck." Genka refused to give up the idea that there was buried treasure. He was

349

on the verge of tears. "But there is buried treasure around here. The diamond was hidden! We've simply got to look for it." "But where?" "Where? Say, in the woods," Genka replied hesitantly. "The woods have been dug up across their length and breadth. If the diamond exists, it is not in the woods. Of course, it is possible that the countess and the man in the green suit know where it is. As a matter of fact, do you know who the man in the green suit is?" Misha told his friends of his suspicions. "Of course," Genka said, his enthusiasm rising. "He is the count's son. That's clear as day. He's come for the diamond. And he's in league with the 'countess.' " Slava, who had been attentively listening to his friends, said: "If the 'countess' knew where the diamond was hidden, she would have dug it up long ago. A diamond can be kept anywhere. My idea is that the 'countess' doesn't know where the diamond is and neither does the count's son, if he really is the count's son. They're looking for it like the boatman and everybody else. But none of them can find it. And I don't think we can. The drawing was our only hope. And now that hope's gone." "Yes, you're right," Misha mused, "nobody knows where the diamond is hidden. Nobody could solve the riddle set by the old count. But there must be an answer to the riddle! All the people who tried to solve it looked to the drawing, to the lines on it, as their guide, but the lines are just a blind, simply a false track. Perhaps the answer is not in the lines but in the eagle. The bird is supposed to show where the hiding-place is. And nobody paid any attention to it. That is probably why they haven't found anything. Drawings such as these never have anything superfluous, anything accidental in them. Everything must have a meaning." "What are you gazing at the drawing for?" Genka asked. "It's clear enough that it's a sham." "Yes," Misha agreed, "but still I wonder why the eagle's been drawn in such a funny way. Don't you think it's strange?" The friends again turned their attention to the eagle. But it told them nothing. So far as they could see, it was a drawing of an ordinary eagle. .--' Misha remembered what Boris Sergeyevich had said about the bird, and Korovin's doubts concerning it. "Incidentally, not everybody is sure" it's an eagle. Korovin said he didn't think it was, and he was born and bred on the Volga where you find a lot of eagles. Boris Sergeyevich claims it's not an eagle but a vulture. To be more exact, he said the bird has the head of a vulture." Genka reluctantly agreed. "Perhaps the head. But in everything else—it's an eagle. You may rest assured that I know what I'm talking about." Indeed, Genka could be believed. Not counting physical training, biology was the only subject he was good at. He was the monitor of the biology circle and spent a great deal of time in the school's zoo.

350

"It's quite an ordinary eagle," Genka continued, "perhaps just a bit bigger than a steppe eagle. Therefore, it's a golden eagle." "All right, fellows," Misha said, "here's .how I look at it. The lines in the drawing only led people away from the scent; therefore, we have to try and guess what the shading stands for. Each of us has a copy of the drawing. So let's think." "The shading on mine is all wrong," Genka complained. "How am I going to think?" Chapter 62

KHALZAN

The boys began to think. The truth of the matter was that the entire troop began to think. Not about the shading, but about the bronze bird. They tried to place it. That task had been set by Misha. There were some very bright youngsters in the troop, who, Misha felt, could make an important contribution. Besides, it was hard to keep everything secret. Getting the troop to think of the bird was one way of diverting attention. Soon the troop split into two factions. One of them, headed by Genka, held that the bird was an eagle. True, the head was not quite usual, but that was no more than a bit of the sculptor's fancy. The second faction, lead by the Bleater, considered that the bird belonged to the vulture family. They conceded that its body was somewhat short and stumpy for a vulture, but that was the result of the sculptor's ignorance. "Look at the shape of its head," the Bleater said. "What eagle has such a long neck or such a big, flat and bald head? It might be a condor, a buzzard or simply a black or white-headed vulture. Naturally, if it was alive or stuffed we would know by its feathers and colouring. But the head definitely indicates that it belongs to the vulture and not the eagle family." "You're making a mistake," Genka said. "Where have you ever seen such small condors? The span of a condor's wings is nearly three metres, while this bird's is hardly two metres. I agree that the head is a little strange, but in everything else it's an eagle. A so-called true eagle. The species includes the golden eagle or khalzan, the burial-ground eagle or karagush, and the steppe eagle, which is also known as the kurgan eagle. Then you have buzzards, but they are small. Therefore, this bird is a true eagle." The factions argued all day long. As proof, each pointed to the bird's appearance, its habits, the ways it built its nest and reared its young and the kind of food it ate. As examples, they even cited novels where birds carried away not only children and lambs but also horses and hunters with all their equipment. They argued heatedly. All the more because each faction was headed by a boy who always liked an argument—Genka and the Bleater. Matters reached a stage where the leaders of the two factions nearly came to blows. Genka

351

called the Bleater a white-headed vulture and the Bleater called Genka a khalzan. "Hey, white-headed vulture," Genka shouted, "come here. I'll show you what's what!" "Cheese it, you wretched khalzan," the Bleater responded. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves," Misha said, trying to pacify them. "Can't you discuss things calmly, without flying off the handle? We're conducting a serious investigation, but you're becoming personal. Imagine what the Academy of Sciences would have been turned into if real scientists behaved like this!" "He called me a vulture!" the Bleater said, defending himself. "Who started it?" Genka protested. "You called me a khalzan first. All day you've been poking it at me: khalzan, khalzan.... I'm not going to be a khalzan!" Khalzan.... Khalzan.... The word sounded familiar. Misha looked first at Genka, then at the Bleater. Khalzan. Khalzan. "Did you say khalzan?" Misha asked. "Yes, khalzan." "Is it a golden eagle?" "Yes. Khalzan is just another name for it." Khalzan! What was the local river called? The one where Kuzmin was murdered? Khalzan! That was where the name Khalzin Meadow came from. The very meadow that Kuzmin had set out for with Nikolai. Misha was so taken aback by this discovery that Genka asked Worriedly: "What's wrong with you? You're not ill?" "Khalzan," Misha murmured. "Khalzan." "It's a khalzan all right, but what of it?" Genka said, giving Misha a puzzled stare. But the latter went on murmuring: "Khalzan. Khalzan. The river." "What are you mumbling?" Genka asked, lifting his arms in despair. "Khalzan, that's right, khal...." Suddenly, with a dazed look at Misha, Genka paused, then whispered: "Khalzan." His voice gradually rose: "Khalzan. Khalzan." He jumped and slapped himself on the knees. "Khalzan! The devil take it! Khalzan!" But Misha had already come to his senses: "Don't get excited! Don't shout! We must have no panic! You say, Khalzan?" "Yes, Khalzan," Genka whispered in the voice of a conspirator. "I at once connected the bird with the river." "I put it to you that you never thought of it. You guessed it only now, with my help. And don't boast." Genka felt offended. "But I was the one who mentioned khalzans, while this white-headed

352

vulture," he looked scornfully at the Bleater, "bores everybody stiff with his vultures." The boys believed that they had found the first clue which might prove to be the most important one. The secret of the bronze bird was in the emblem itself and not in the false route that had deceived so many people. They now had the first of the instructions—the Khalzan River. The treasure was buried somewhere near the river. Now it was clear why Kuzmin had been killed in Khalzin Meadow. The murder was linked with the treasure. That proved Nikolai Ribalin's innocence. True, that also freed the boatman from suspicion—he was searching for the treasure in the woods and probably knew nothing of the Khalzan. That could not be helped. In the end, the chief thing was to show that Nikolai was innocent. So far as they were concerned, the finding of the real murderer was a secondary problem. Perhaps they would get on his track when they would find the treasure. But where were they to look for it? Although shallow, the river was fairly long. It was hardly marked on the new maps, but the old ones showed it to stretch across several uyezds. The bronze bird should therefore contain other instructions, which undoubtedly were connected with the names of eagles, as in the case of the Khalzan River. Genka, whose knowledge in this sphere Misha now trusted, again named all the eagles he knew. Some seemed to answer the purpose. Particularly the steppe eagle, which was also called the kurgan eagle. If that was of the same importance as the word khalzan, they would get a chain reading: the Khalzan River—a steppe—a kurgan. Splendid! Good for Genka that he knew birds! The Bleater had far to go to catch up with Genka! The inference was that near the river, in a steppe, there was a kurgan or burial mound, and that the treasure was buried in it. Well done! It was simply magnificent. "That's absolutely right," Genka said in an authoritative tone of voice, "absolutely right and logical. Khalzan-steppe-kurgan. And vultures have nothing to do with it. Any ornithologist who's any good can never mix these two species. An eagle is an eagle and a vulture is a vulture. Khalzan is the Eastern name for the golden eagle, and we know that the Karagayevs originated from the Golden Horde. The Tatars lived in the steppes and probably built kurgans for their dead. Consequently, from the standpoint of zoology and of ethnography all what we've said is absolutely correct. We must go to the Khalzan River." "Let us assume that that is so," said the cautious Slava. "We know there's a river called Khalzan. But what about a steppe? There's no steppe in the vicinity. Let's suppose that the plain is the steppe we want. All right. But what about the kurgan? Which kurgan? There are many hereabouts, but the ones we've seen are on the right bank of the Utcha. And all of them have been dug up long ago. Even archaeological expeditions have stopped coming here." "The task is not easy, of course," Misha agreed, "but there always are

353

difficulties in such matters. We'll go to the Khalzan River early tomorrow morning." "Bear in mind that tomorrow's Tuesday and that that Karagayev character is coming on Wednesday." "We'll try and find all we want before he comes." Chapter 63

KHALZAN-STEPPE-KURGAN

At the first sign of dawn, the boys set out for the Khalzan River. They were not afraid of anything, of course. All the same, it was frightening to go where a man had recently been murdered. It was a misty morning. A gusty wind drove thin, shaggy clouds across the sky, bent the tops of the trees and flattened the grass. It grew so violent from time to time that it made walking difficult. But the boys pressed on across a marshy meadow along the bank of the Khalzan. The river was shallow, almost dried up. In spring, it broadened out considerably for it flowed across a lowland. At this time of the year, however, it was no more than a tiny creek, thickly overgrown and scarcely noticeable amid the shrubbery and tall grass. Only in some shadowy places could one see a narrow clear stream of water flowing along the bottom. The sight of this tiny stream was totally out of keeping with its loudsounding name, with the mystery that surrounded it and with the fatal role it had played in the affairs of the Karagayevs. But that did not worry the boys, particularly Genka. He strode across the meadow with confident step and looked about him with the keen and meaningful gaze of a man on whose knowledge the outcome of the enterprise depended. Practically speaking, had it not been for him, nothing would have come out of this whole business. And they had the nerve to say that he was erratic in his studies. What was so erratic about it? A really gifted person is not a plodder: he had a talent for one thing and that was quite enough. Take Misha and Slava. They were all-rounders, yet when it came to differentiating between eagles, it had not been they but he, Genka, who had won the day. So mused Genka, inwardly puffing himself up with the consciousness that his was an outstanding personality. This consciousness was so great that he even refrained from speaking his mind about it, feeling that at the moment a staid silence became a person such as he best of all. Misha, who was not so certain of the expedition's success as Genka, nevertheless did not lose hope. He yearned for success, but in order not to be disappointed, he prepared himself for the worst. It was always wise to do that. They might not find anything today. But that did not mean that all was lost. They would go on with the search. The important thing was to continue looking and not to lose hope. Slava was sceptical. He looked upon himself as a person who regarded life realistically. In his opinion secrets, riddles and mysterious adventures

354

belonged to the world beyond and since he did not believe there was such a world he ascribed a great deal to the teeming imagination of his friends. But he did not lag behind them because he was a good comrade.

After they had gone about three kilometres, the terrain began to rise, the ground became drier and stonier and the stream more sharply outlined. They came across boulders and big stones, but as far as the eye could see there was not a single kurgan. Some two kilometres farther, their path was blocked by a big rock. It was a lonely rock, a huge boulder unexpectedly sticking out in this comparatively flat countryside. Big, moss-overgrown stones lay at its base, but immediately beyond it, the stream disappeared as though it had gone underground. The boys scrambled up to the top of the rock. In the darkish haze of the misty day they saw before them the monotonous and dreary panorama of a boundless plain. There were fields whichever way they looked. Even if they were to assume these fields were a steppe, there was nothing in them that could be described as a kurgan. "There must be a kurgan somewhere here," Genka declared emphatically. "Not that I can see," Slava said. "That means we've got to push on." Slava pointed to the foot of the rock. "Look, the stream ends there. Perhaps the Khalzan flows from under this rock and has its source here. Where then are we to go?" For a few moments, the boys stood silently on the top of the rock. The wind fell now and then only to rise again, howling and whistling. Finally, Misha said: "You're wrong, Slava. I've looked at a map. The Khalzan's source is much

355

farther. Evidently, it grew very shallow here or flows under the ground and comes to the surface somewhere behind this rock." Genka seized at the idea: "That's right. Perhaps the treasure is buried close by." "But where's your kurgan?" Slava asked. "That's a boner. I forgot all about it." "If we push on," Misha continued, "we'll definitely strike the Khalzan again. But ... but the trouble is that the former Karagayevo estate ends here, at this rock. Remember the map at the museum? According to it, the count's lands lay between the Utcha and the Khalzan. Obviously, he buried the diamond in his own land. But there's not a single kurgan on the estate. That is the trouble." Then Misha sadly added, "Slava's right. There's no point going any farther." Feeling uncomfortable because he had proved to be right, Slava suggested: "It's quite possible that the count meant a burial-ground and not a burialmound eagle." But no cemetery could be seen from the top of the rock. Chapter 64

THE COMMUNE

The failure disheartened the boys. Had they been mistaken about the eagle as well? Tuesday was coming to a close. The man in the green suit would arrive tomorrow and they had found nothing. There was news for them at the camp. Boris Sergeyevich had come from Moscow bringing with him an order authorizing the transfer of the estate to the commune. He was accompanied by Korovin and two other boys—future members of the commune—from the children's home. This was exciting news! They had won the estate after all! Misha ran to find Boris Sergeyevich. But he only found Korovin. Boris Sergeyevich was at the Village Soviet. Korovin and the two boys with him were measuring one of the sheds with a tape measure. "So you got the place in spite of everything?" Misha said, greeting them. Korovin sniffed, then replied: "Naturally. We've taken it over and that's all there is to it. The Commissariat for Public Education gave the order." "What about the house?" "It's ours as well. Only the old woman asked Boris Sergeyevich to wait until Thursday." "What for?" "She's probably got some reason. She asked Boris Sergeyevich to wait, that's all I know. Boris Sergeyevich agreed. He offered her a job in the commune. Said, let her work."

356

'"What did she say to that?" "Nothing." "Will she stay?" "Where would an old woman like her go?" "Why did she ask to put off the transfer until Thursday?" Misha said, pressing his question. "I don't know." Korovin shrugged his shoulders. "Come on, fellows, pull that tape. We've got to finish with the sheds today and start measuring the land tomorrow." The orphanage boys resumed their work. Misha knew very well why the old woman was delaying the transfer of the house. She was waiting for Karagayev to ask his advice: perhaps something of value had to be smuggled out of the house. But Misha said nothing about his suspicions either to Korovin or to Boris Sergeyevich. All he asked Boris Sergeyevich, when the latter returned from the Village Soviet, was: "How did you manage to get the better of Serov?" "Oh that fellow Serov!" Boris Sergeyevich shook his head. "Awl!" "What awl?" "The one who wrote about you in the papers." "So it was him?" "None other. Just an ordinary grafter. The kulaks were opposed to the commune. They realized they would have to return the land they had seized and so they bribed Serov. For a bribe he issued a safeguard for the manorhouse although it has no historical value whatever. He's been thrown out of the Gubernia Department of Public Education." "So that's it!" Misha drawled. "It was all Yerofeyev's doing. I suspected the 'countess.'" Boris Sergeyevich shrugged his shoulders. "The 'countess'.... She too had an interest in that. Evidently she wanted to keep the manor-house for her former master. She brought Yerofeyev and Serov together. The point is that Serov's wife is her sister." Only now did Misha realize who Serov's wife had reminded him of. The "countess"! They were as like as two peas. Only one was older and the other younger. How lucky for him that he had not given in to Serov's persuasions and threats. If he had he would only have been helping the kulaks and the former landowners. But he had sized up Serov immediately, had felt his insincerity and animosity. That showed that he, Misha, had political intuition. Hadn't he sized up Yerofeyev as well and hadn't he at once realized what the kulaks were after? Of course, it was all much more complicated than he thought. There was a chain here: Serov, Yerofeyev, the "countess," the boatman, Karagayev.... Possibly each had a purpose of his own, but they were united by common interests. And, obviously, all this had a connection with Kuzmin's murder and with the charge against Nikolai Ribalin. Ought he to tell all this to Boris .Sergeyevich? It was important for Boris Sergeyevich to know that the former owner of

357

the estate had reappeared. But what if the man in the green suit was not the count's son, was not Karagayev? The boys had made so many mistakes already. Misha was afraid of making any more mistakes, of having people think he was talking nonsense. The best plan would be to wait until tomorrow and make sure the man was really the count. He could inform Boris Sergeyevich after that. "Don't forget," he said, "that Yerofeyev and the other kulaks will never reconcile themselves to the commune." Boris Sergeyevich laughed. "We're not counting on their sympathy. We don't need it. And we're not afraid of them. It is they who are afraid of us. They know perfectly well that they will have to part with what they had seized by means of various unlawful transactions. We shall not allow them to throw their weight about in the village. They know that and that is why they are and will continue resisting. If you like you can watch them for yourself today." "What's on today?" "There will be a meeting this evening. Come and bring your troop. You'll learn something about the class struggle." Chapter 65

THE MEETING

The troop arrived at the meeting in full strength. Everybody was interested. Besides, the meeting was taking place in the club, which, they felt, was theirs to some extent. They had built it. Ordinarily only men attended the meetings, but this meeting attracted the entire village: men, women and children. It was stuffy in the club, but many of the people wore their sheepskin jackets and felt boots. A cloud of blue tobacco smoke hung beneath the wooden rafters. There was no ceiling. Actually, it was nothing but a big shed. On the stage was a small table covered with a red cloth. Sitting at it were the chairman of the Village Soviet Ivan Vasilyevich and Boris Sergeyevich. The chairman rose to his feet and called for silence. "Citizens," he said in a tone of voice he reserved for solemn occasions. "Citizens. I declare the meeting open. The central authorities have decided to organize a labour commune in the Karagayevo estate for children who have been rescued from the streets. The report will be made by the headmaster, Boris Sergeyevich. Please, do not smoke." But everybody went on smoking. Boris Sergeyevich went up to the edge of the stage. The audience fell silent and fixed their eyes on him. "Comrades," Boris .Sergeyevich began, "the commune is being organized for the pupils of a children's home. All of them have been waifs and some have even been delinquents. I am telling you this openly so that everybody will know how matters stand...."

358

He made a pause. A deep-toned hum began to fill the hall. At first it was the low, restrained conversation of many people in different parts of the hall. Then everybody spoke at once, loudly and excitedly. The climax was provided by a shrill female voice crying: "They'll rob us and cut our throats." The voice belonged to a woman with a baby in her arms. She was wearing a big, flowery shawl. "I repeat, comrades," Boris Sergeyevich said, "that some of them have been delinquents, but that is a thing of the past. In the course of the few years they have spent at the children's home, they have become quite different. They have mastered various trades, know and like their work and have learnt to respect the collective. In short, I can vouch for each of them. You will see for yourselves that the best of relations will shape between you and the members of our commune. You will not be offended by them and, I hope, they will not be offended by you." As Boris Sergeyevich spoke, the noise swelled up again. Misha followed the meeting attentively and saw that though the kulaks did not shout themselves, they encouraged everybody else. They sat around Yerofeyev and the shopkeeper in a small but united and embittered group, which was aware that it had the sympathy of most of the people at the meeting, because nobody wanted the commune and they were all afraid of the communards, about whom they had been told hair-raising stories. Misha was sorry for Boris Sergeyevich, who looked so alone on the stage as he faced the hostile meeting, which refused to listen to him and kept interrupting him with malicious jibes. His sympathies were all with Boris Sergeyevich, but he could do nothing to help him. Meanwhile, the meeting stormed and raged. The women were particularly agitated. "We don't want your commune!" they shouted. "We'll chase those bandits of yours away whatever happens! Go back from where you came!" The chairman rose to his feet and cried out: "Order! Order! Let the comrade have his say and we'll discuss the matter afterwards. Women, be quiet! If you don't I'll turn you out!" "Just try!" a perky female voice shouted in reply. "We'll turn you out!" There was an outburst of laughter. But the noise did not abate, on the contrary—it grew louder. Boris Sergeyevich did not even try to say anything. He stood on the stage, sternly gazing at the meeting from under his spectacles. It was then that Misha, Genka, Slava and all the other youngsters did what they usually did at school meetings whenever there was a noise such as now—they chanted: "Si-lence! Si-lence! Si-lence!" At first, their voices were lost in the general hubbub, but when they were joined by many of the village children, they outshouted everybody. That was so new and unexpected that the villagers fell silent and stared in bewilderment at the children. Finally, at a sign from Misha, the youngsters stopped shouting just as

359

suddenly as they had begun. Taking advantage of the silence and the ensuing general embarrassment, Boris Sergeyevich said: "You also have children. There they are, sitting beside you." He shot an attentive and reproachful look at the women sitting in the front rows with children, and continued, "Your children are sitting beside you. You love them and watch over them. After the meeting they will go home where they have food, a bed, a roof over their heads, and the care of their mothers. Why then are you so cruel to children whom war, ruin and famine have deprived of everything—home, family and parents? I ask you why are you so cruel and unjust to them? What wrong have they done to you?" He paused, waiting for an answer. But silence was the only reply. Everybody sought to avoid Boris Sergeyevich's glances. Tears welled up in the eyes of some of the women. They did not hide their tears, but pretended they were blowing their noses. The boys were jubilant. Boris Sergeyevich had found the right words! There was no denying that he had made an impression. In a severe and stirring tone of voice, he continued: "Our country is poor. But the Soviet authorities have done everything in their power to return children to life, to make good citizens out of them. Nobody will be permitted to hinder this great and noble task. Neither those who are hoping that the landlords will return and are keeping their estates for them, nor those who have illegally taken land and are exploiting other peasants." He looked sternly at Yerofeyev and the men around him. All eyes followed his gaze. "In short," Boris Sergeyevich said in conclusion, "it has been decided to organize a labour commune. That decision is final and irrevocable. I came here not to ask your permission, but to discuss with you how we shall live and work together. If you want to discuss that question, I shall be only too glad to do it. If you don't want to, I can go away. But we shall have a commune all the same." Yerofeyev asked for the floor. He climbed up to the stage, took off his cap, revealing a bald head, and said: "What the comrade representative has said about the children is quite true. We, too, want things to be done justly, as God commands, so that nobody is offended by us and we are not offended by anybody. But the comrade representative said nothing about the land. We want to know what's going to be done about it." "The commune does not claim anybody's land," Boris Sergeyevich said, "it will only take what belongs to the government and is being illegally used by citizen Yerofeyev and certain other citizens. Do you have the right, citizen Yerofeyev, to own nearly 250 acres of land?" "Not I, but the whole community is using it," Yerofeyev said, sweeping the hall with his hand as if to show that everybody present was using the land in question. The woman in the shawl, who had cried out about the communards, suddenly shouted:

360

"What are you pointing at us for? We have never so much as smelt that land! You've raked it in all for yourself!" Paying no attention to this outburst, Yerofeyev continued: "The land is mine by law. I have a paper from the gubernia authorities to prove it." Boris Sergeyevich looked sternly at Yerofeyev and said: "We know how much you paid for that paper, citizen Yerofeyev." Yerofeyev shot a guarded look at him, then lifted his arms: "I don't know what you are talking about." "You will very soon," Boris Sergeyevich said curtly. Then he addressed the meeting, asking, "Whoever else is using that land, will they please stand up." Nobody stood up. There was complete silence, which was broken after a few moments by an old man, who said: "We all know who's using it." Yerofeyev suddenly stretched out his hands, turned the palms up and said: "These are the hands that ploughed the land. Am I not a working man?" The woman in the shawl sprang up from her seat and cried: "You, a working man? All you do with those hands is to count money! You have spun a web around the whole village and now you want to be called a working man!" That started another hubbub. But this time resentment was levelled at Yerofeyev, the shopkeeper and the other kulaks. Long-standing grievances were aired, people recalled the injustices and humiliations they had suffered at the hands of the local rich. Misha watched Longshanks' mother: this was the moment for her to get up and tell everybody how Yerofeyev had tried to persuade her to betray her own son. But Maria Ivanovna sat silently in a corner, her sad eyes fixed on the speakers. The chairman banged on the table with the palm of his hand. "Citizens! Enough wrangling! The question is clear. We shall have former waifs living here in a labour commune. And if certain people are looking after their own skins, that is their own affair. All the working peasants, the poor and the middle alike, are eager to give a helping hand. Therefore, let us ask Boris Sergeyevich to tell us how he intends to organize the work o£ the commune. In other words, we want to know what assistance is expected from us." Boris Sergeyevich told the meeting what work the members of the commune would do, what crops they would grow, what orchards they would plant, what workshops and auxiliary enterprises they would have and how all that would benefit the people in the neighbourhood. Everybody listened with close attention. Perhaps he did not win over all of them, but the majority felt that truth was on his side and not on the side of those who exploited them. Misha and his friends skipped with joy. They thought Boris Sergeyevich's speech was wonderful. He had drawn such an alluring picture of the commune that all of them wanted to join it, to stay in Karagayevo, in a new place, and create a new enterprise of the "new," as Boris Sergeyevich put it,

361

"communist type...." Chapter 66

LAMMERGEYER

When the meeting ended it was already dark. The rain had stopped, the sky was clear of clouds and myriads of stars were twinkling in it. Raindrops showered down from leaves and branches when the youngsters brushed against trees and shrubs. Boris Sergeyevich and Misha walked behind the others. From the darkness in front came shouts and halloos, the loud laughter of Zina Kruglova, the hurt mumbling of Kit, and the indignant voice of the Bleater. "What if the former owner of the manor suddenly appeared?" Misha asked. "Do you think he could hinder the commune?" "How?" Boris Sergeyevich laughed. "The estate has been confiscated and now belongs to the state." "Do you know where the former counts are?" "The old count went abroad before the Revolution, but nobody knows where his son is. What difference does that make?" It cost Misha a great effort to keep from telling Boris Sergeyevich what difference that made. He decided he would tell him if tomorrow the man in the green suit proved to be Count Karagayev. "Have you ever given a thought to the Karagayev emblem?" Misha said. "What I wanted to ask you is if you know what the bird in the emblem is supposed to be." "An eagle. Judging by the head it's a lammergeyer or bearded eagle. Something between an eagle and a vulture, a transitional species, so to say. True, the experts I've spoken to believe the body is of an eagle, while the head is definitely that of a lammergeyer. Here," he produced his notebook, "I have a description: 'Big head, flat in front and rounded at the back; covered with bristly, fluff-like feathers. Big beak, long and ending in a sharp hook. Base of the beak is surrounded by bristles, which cover the lower half of the beak. That is why the bird is also called a bearded eagle.' " Misha listened tensely, but what he heard did not offer a clue. Lammergeyer, bearded eagle.... Half-eagle, half-vulture.... No, that led nowhere. Khalzan, kurgan, burial-ground—that was concrete. But bearded eagle meant nothing. Had they made a mistake about the eagle as well? Was it on the emblem to no purpose and that their guesses were worth as little as the drawing of the route? All the same, Misha decided to tell Genka and Slava what he learned from Boris Sergeyevich. When the camp grew quiet, he called them out of the tent, took them aside and said: "Here's what, chaps. Boris Sergeyevich says that the bird has the head of a lammergeyer or bearded eagle."

362

"So what?" Genka said irritably. "Didn't I tell you the head is unusual, not like a real eagle's? It's quite possible that it's a lammergeyer's, I won't argue about that. But I can't see why that's so important. After all, except for the head, the bird's an ordinary eagle." "What about the drawing?" Misha insisted. "On it the head of the eagle is black to distinguish it from the body and the legs. That means there's something special about it. And the head is of a lammergeyer." Genka again winced irritably. "I don't know. I don't know. What has a lammergeyer to do with it? In Russia, we hardly have any of those birds. You find them sometimes only in the Caucasus and in the Himalayan Mountains. If you want to know, the lammergeyer lives at a higher altitude than any other mountain bird—in the region of glaciers and eternal snow. Where could a lammergeyer appear from here, in the central belt of Russia? It nests only on cliffs. What cliffs are there around here? Not a single rock." "Oh yes, there is! What about the rock we climbed today?" Genka laughed. "Call that a rock? Get this through your nut: it builds its nests on inaccessible cliffs." "That makes no difference," Misha declared decisively, "but just look at what it all means. The eagle represents the Khalzan River, its head—the rock on the Khalzan, the paws—a burial mound ...a grave on the rock. Does that penetrate? Khalzan-rock-grave." Slava yawned noisily. He was dying to go to sleep. To be quite frank, he was tired of all these guesses and did not believe any of them. One eagle, then another, and so on to infinity. If it had only been a matter of eagles, the diamond would have been found long ago. The people who had looked for it had probably not been fools either. "We've been on the rock today, but we didn't see any grave," Slava said, yawning again. "That's true," Misha replied eagerly, "but we didn't look for it. We must go over the whole rock carefully." "When?" Genka and Slava asked nervously. "Now. At once." But Genka and Slava flatly refused to go. What would they see at night? Exactly nothing. It would be just a waste of time. All that that would get them was the loss of a good night's rest. Besides, the man in the green suit was due tomorrow and they had to be fresh and ready. "So you won't go?" Misha demanded in a threatening tone of voice. "No!" his friends replied firmly. "What if I order you?" "You've no right to do that," Slava said. "If it concerned the troop, you'd be in your rights. But this is a private affair and you can't order us around." For some time, the question whether Misha had the right to order them was argued hotly. Each stuck to his own opinion, but Genka and Slava refused to go to the rock. Misha appealed to their reason, accused them of cowardice, promised

363

certain success, threatened to go alone, argued that perhaps it would be too late tomorrow because the count would forestall them. But all to no avail. Genka and Slava refused point-blank to go to the Khalzan River. Slava no longer believed there was hidden treasure, while Genka refused to recognize that the bird had the head of a lammergeyer. He trembled with fury when he heard anyone mention a vulture. And both wanted to go to bed. Grudgingly, Misha yielded. But he made his friends promise that they would go to the rock in the morning. "Bear in mind," Genka added after he gave his word, "the Bleater's vultures are out of the picture." Chapter 67

COUNT KARAGAYEV

Wednesday! Boris Sergeyevich, Korovin and the two other boys went to measure the land. The troop, led by Zina Kruglova, marched away to the club. Misha, Genka and Slava kept a vigilant watch over the manor-house.

The "countess" did not go to town. Her meeting with the man in the green suit would therefore take place here. He was due by the day train, that is, at two o'clock. Misha told Genka to be at the station to meet the train. At approximately half past one, the "countess" emerged from the house. Misha and Slava stealthily followed her. She went through the orchard and, taking a path along the fringe of a small woods, reached the bank of the Utcha at a point above the village and the estate. A man in a green suit approached the river almost at the same time. But Genka was nowhere to be seen. That meant the man had not left the train at the siding, but had gone on to the next station. He looked like a holiday-maker. He wore a green summer suit, yellow shoes and a light-coloured cap. In his hands he had a bouquet of field flowers. He and the "countess" greeted one another and walked away in the direction opposite to the manor-house. Misha and Slava had to creep along the bank in order to keep the pair in sight. But they could not hear a word of their conversation. The "countess" and the man in the green suit returned along the same path and stopped not far from where the boys were hiding. "How long will it take you?" the man asked. "About forty minutes." "I'll wait here." The "countess" went to the boat station. The man in the green suit disappeared behind the bushes growing along the bank. He undressed and dived into the river. The boys heard him splashing and snorting, and slapping the water with his hands. Soon the stranger climbed back to the bank. There was the sound of a

364

newspaper rustling, then all was still. The boys did not move. To them every minute seemed as long as an hour. The sun was already beginning to sink in the west. A grasshopper chirped in the grass. Overhead, a skylark was tumbling high in the sky. The stranger rose to his feet. Evidently, he was dressing. At long last, the "countess" returned. The stranger, already dressed, with glistening, carefully-smoothed hair, went to meet her. They stopped near the boys' hiding-place. The stranger had his back to them, but they could see the "countess'" face. "He says it's all right," she said. "How many are there?" "He and two others, who are in the woods." "When can they be there?" "In two hours." The stranger glanced at the sun, then looked at his watch. "Let them come in three hours," he said. "I'll tell them." "With crowbars and spades." "All right. I've already sent them two sackfuls of tools. Only ... Alexei ... I wanted to warn you. The boatman suspects you." "Of what?" "Of... well, this business ... with Kuzmin." "How does he know who I am?" "He does not know that. He said, 'Kuzmin was murdered by the man you go to meet at the museum.'" "Did he follow you?" "Yes. He was sure that I was not telling him where the real place is. He is clever and dangerous." "So am I." "Alexei.... About this peasant .. . Kuzmin. How did it happen?" The boys strained their ears, afraid of missing a single word. Now they would learn the most important thing. Karagayev shrugged his shoulders. "We met. He recognized me and I was afraid he would give me away. What could I do? There's one .peasant less, in the world." "But Ribalin is being released." "There is nothing against him. But there is nothing against me either. Of course, we must finish this business quickly. Today." "Are you sure it's the right place?" "Quite. To think that he led us a dance for so many years! The beast!" "Don't say that, Alexei!" the "countess" said in a hypocritical tone of voice. "He is dead and he is your father. Lord, when; I think...." "Oh, stop your lamentations!" Karagayev said angrily. "I spent the best years of my life looking for that stone. I stayed in Russia. Damn it!" He slapped himself on the forehead. "Why did I never think of opening the vault? What an idiot!" Misha threw a fast and very reproachful glance at Slava. He had been

365

right, after all: rock—vault. That was what the lammergeyer stood for. Slava blinked guiltily. What else was there for him to do? "I think it would be better if we didn't have the boatman and his men," the "countess" said. "The vault is blocked up. I can't manage it by myself. I've tried already." "Perhaps we could get others?" "For instance?" "Yerofeyev and somebody else." "No! I prefer to deal with crooks. They're easier to come to terms with, cheaper, and you can be sure they won't sell you." "But they might kill you." "I'm armed." After a pause, Karagayev said: "Go now. Tell him to be there in three hours' time." Chapter 68

THE VAULT

There was no time to be lost! They 'had to act at once and resolutely! Misha did not reproach his friends. It was too late for that now. As soon as Karagayev and the "countess" disappeared from view, he turned to Slava: "Well, how's this for a 'private affair'?" "It isn't private," replied the ashamed Slava. That was Genka's opinion, too. He was waiting for his friends in the camp. He had not seen the man in the green suit at the station, but he had seen the investigator alight from the train. However, he had not noticed where he went after he came off the train. "Pity he didn't look in at the camp," Misha said. "The murderer is here. It's nothing to joke about. Genka, run to the village and find out if the investigator's there." Genka sped to the village, but he did not find the investigator. The boys were worried. They did not know what to do. There was no sense in going to the rock. They could not get the better of the count now. All that remained for them to do was to tell Boris Sergeyevich everything. Boris Sergeyevich listened without interrupting. The story sounded fantastic, but he gave no sign that he doubted it. He got up and said: "We must go to the rock!" They went to Khalzin Meadow accompanied by the whole troop. Even Kit categorically refused to stay behind, for once his excitement being greater than the lure of kitchen duty. On the way, Boris Sergeyevich got the chairman of the Village Soviet and two peasants to go along with him and act as witnesses. But the news that the treasure would be dug up in Khalzin Meadow spread through the whole village like wildfire. Before the troop reached the rock, it was overtaken by a huge throng of peasants, among

366

whom there was even the doctor. Evidently, the news had already reached the neighbouring village. Soon there was a large number of people around the rock. Misha was surprised to see the boatman and the two men from the woods among them. But there was no sign of the man in the green suit. The sun was sinking beyond the horizon. Its dying rays illuminated the rock and the excited throng around it. On one side the rock rose in a sheer wall; the other, sloping side was strewn with stones of various sizes. On almost the very top were three big boulders, and_ to reach the top, one had to skirt round these boulders. Boris Sergeyevich and Misha examined the boulders and on the ground beneath them found fresh traces left by a spade or a pick: someone had tried to move them. Boris Sergeyevich called the chairman of the Village Soviet and a few peasants. Crowbars and spades were quickly brought into play and the soil around the boulders was loosened. One after another they were rolled off the rock. A tombstone came into view. There was so much moss and grass on it that few people would have guessed it was a tombstone. When the soil around it was cleared away, its outlines emerged quite distinctly. "They're desecrating a grave," Yerofeyev said. "It's devil's work." One of the peasants laughed: "The grave isn't where it should be. Its place is in the cemetery, but look where it's got to." When the hole was wide enough, the tombstone was moved aside with crowbars. There was a small recess beneath it. The crowd closed in around the hole. Everybody wanted to see what it contained. "Step back, citizens," the chairman said, "we'll show it to everybody." Just then the "countess" and Karagayev approached the rock. They came up unnoticed, for attention was riveted to the vault. Only Misha, the boatman and Yerofeyev kept their eyes fixed on them. From the expression on Yerofeyev's face, it was evident that he had recognized the young count the moment he had seen him. In the recess beneath the tombstone was a black metal casket. Boris Sergeyevich lifted it. It was locked. He broke the lock and opened the casket. In it lay a brooch strewn with shining stones in the centre of which sparkled a magnificent diamond.... Boris Sergeyevich took the brooch out of the casket and, holding it aloft, showed it to the crowd. Suddenly, pushing his way through the crowd, Karagayev went up to Boris Sergeyevich. The "countess" followed him. "That casket belongs to me," the "countess" said. "Possibly," Boris Sergeyevich replied in a courteous tone of voice, but he did not give her the casket. "Give it to me," the "countess" said, stretching out her hand. "I cannot," Boris Sergeyevich said. "It will be handed over to the proper authorities and you can apply to them."

367

What people least expected happened at that moment. Karagayev snatched the casket out of Boris Sergeyevich's hands. It was done so insolently and suddenly that everybody was taken aback and stood stock-still. Boris Sergeyevich grew pale and took a step towards Karagayev. "What is the meaning of this? Give it back to me at once!" Karagayev whipped a pistol out of his pocket. The crowd drew back. With the pistol in one hand and the casket in the other, Karagayev slowly retreated to the base of the rock. When he reached level ground he was caught unawares by a curt: "Drop that gun!" He wheeled around. Behind him stood the investigator and two Red Army soldiers. With the soldiers was Nikolai Ribalin. He looked at Misha and his face broke into the friendly smile Misha knew so well.

Chapter 69

RESULTS AND OMISSIONS

Every day the train brought fresh groups of children bound for the labour commune. Tools and various other equipment were carted from the station. The members of the commune were busy repairing the house, building sheds and installing machinery in the workshops. For the troop the time was fast approaching when they had to leave. It was August and the leaves on the trees were turning gold, the nights were growing chillier and it was already too cold to sleep out of doors in tents.

Besides, they had, in effect, done all they had set out to do. Nikolai Ribalin had been released. The riddle of the bronze bird had been solved. The manor and the estate now belonged to the labour commune. Twelve of the villagers had been taught to read and write. A Young Pioneer

368

detachment had been organized in the village. The youngsters spent their last days in the camp helping the commune. Kit was seldom seen outside the kitchen. But everybody knew it was time to leave. The members of the commune were replanning the orchard. Out of tact they did not say that the troop's tents were in their way, but the troop knew it. Of course, they could easily move their tents somewhere else, but the feeling was that if they had to leave the old site it would be best to go away altogether. They were sorry to part with the manor and estate, the village, the commune. "Be sure to come again next year," Nikolai Ribalin said, smiling. "I'll help you with your carpentering. We'll build a new club, a capital building, so that it can be used in winter as well." Yerofeyev sighed. "You can't deny that the children have done quite a bit of work. We are grateful to you for your assistance. And you have helped to clear an innocent man." But his little eyes roved with guarded suspicion and everybody doubted the sincerity of his words. The artist-anarchist announced that he, too, was going to Moscow. "There is more scope for a gifted person," he said, "more opportunities. Theatres, sign-boards, façades. Look, boys, if there is anything that needs to be painted in your school, I'd be only too glad to oblige." Misha made haste to assure him that there was no such need. The troop was due to leave for Moscow by the evening train. Everything—the tents, the blankets and all personal effects—was already packed. Before leaving they lit a big farewell camp-fire. The members of the commune with Boris Sergeyevich at their head and all the village children came to the camp-fire. Misha opened the meeting with the words: "This is our last camp-fire. It is our custom to sum up the results of our work. But we shall say nothing of what we have done. On the contrary, we shall speak of what we have left undone. That will be useful for those who are staying behind. Who wants to speak?" Slava raised his hand. "We organized a detachment in the village," he said. "But only thirty-two children joined it. That is too little. All the children in the village must become Young Pioneers." "We did a poor job abolishing illiteracy," Zina Kruglova said. "We only taught twelve people. Our aim was to wipe out illiteracy in the whole village." "There is no hospital in the village," the Bleater said, "and when people fall ill they have to go to the neighbouring village. That isn't right. Medicine is a powerful weapon in the fight against religious prejudices." "Our international ties are not much," declared Igor and Seva. "We only sent two letters to Young Pioneers in Germany. Meanwhile, fascism is rearing its head. We have to give this our most serious attention."

369

When the speeches were over, Misha said: "It was right to bring up all those points. We hope that the members of the commune will take up where we stopped and do the work better than we could have done." In behalf of the labour commune, Boris Sergeyevich assured the troop that all the unfinished work would be finished by the commune. "Well, that is all," Misha announced. "We can go now." But Genka suddenly yelled: "No, that isn't all! There's something that needs to be finished!"' "What?" "Remember, Misha recited his poem to us. On the whole, the verses weren't bad. But the last two lines were missing. I've written them." "Come on, read them," Misha said, "only be quick about it." He felt ashamed when Genka mentioned the poem. He had hoped that it was forgotten. "Well, then," Genka said, assuming a theatrical pose. "The last stanza of Misha's poem read: The struggle has only begun. The hammer to us has been -passed. And the whole wide world in chains is enmeshed. That is where it stopped. I suggest ending it like this: But we are strong and our spirit is young. So, forward, comrades, follow me. And he stretched out his arm, calling upon everybody to follow him. But nobody liked the lines. "Why should we follow you?" some said. "What have you done that we should all follow you?" "Oh, well," Misha said, "we'll try and finish the poem in Moscow. I mean, if anybody wants to. In the meantime, let's hurry or we'll miss our train." Boris Sergeyevich wanted to let the troop have a cart for their things. But the youngsters declined his offer. They were not sissies and could march with their kit on their backs. They shouldered their simple belongings, lined up and marched off to the station. Moscow 1955-56

370

371

TO THE READER The Foreign Languages Publishing House would be glad to have your opinion of this book and its design and any suggestions yon may have for future publications. Please send them to 21, Zubovsky Boulevard, Moscow, U.S.S.R.

Анатолий Рыбаков БРОНЗОВАЯ ПТИЦА Printed in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

372