Page 1 of Pioneer Summer

CHAPTER ONE

COMING BACK TO CAMP BARN SWALLOW

Yes, there was a shovel in his trunk. Why shouldn’t there be? After all, it was a perfectly natural place for someone who grew up in the USSR to keep one. What if it was winter out? Deep snow? But even in September, there could still be lots of reasons: he could get stuck in the mud, or in a pothole. Would they get worked up about the rubber boots, too? What about the windshield washer fluid?

As he met the traffic cops’ questioning gazes, Yura couldn’t tell whether they were pulling his leg or not. Come on, they were local guys—how did they not get the need for a shovel?

After listening to his explanation, the Ukrainian traffic cops nodded in unison, but they didn’t let him go. They could tell from his German driver’s license that he was a foreigner, so the conversation took a predictable turn. There was a sign right there showing the speed limit, right? Right, agreed Yura. And the speed limit shown on the sign was exceeded, right? Right, agreed Yura. So the infraction of the law was self-evident, right? Right, agreed Yura. But Yura didn’t want any, ahem, extra hassle because of it, right? Right, agreed Yura again. And therefore ... ?

This is what finally made Yura mad. How could he have avoided an infraction, with the sign at the very bottom of a steep downhill and covered by a big feathery poplar branch?

“You should be cutting down that branch, not putting radar traps at the bottom of the hill,” Yura said. “Because if the speed limit’s lower there, it must be for a reason. It must be a dangerous stretch of road!”

The traffic cops, evidently indifferent to matters of traffic safety, were less than enthusiastic about his observation. Cutting down tree branches wasn’t their job, and telling them what to do wasn’t his.

The taller cop turned Yura’s driver’s license over in his hands a few times. “Okay. Looks like it’ll be an infraction, then,” he sighed. “Of course, you could also just pay the fine now ... unless you want the extra hassle?”

Inside Yura, a battle was raging between a principled European stance—he’d lived half his life in Germany, after all—and common sense. Insist on justice, demanding they cut down the branch and drop the charge against him? Or hand over the “fine”—a bribe—and save time? The battle was brief. Common sense prevailed. Yura did not, in fact, want the extra hassle.

“How much?”

The men exchanged a crafty look: “Five hundred hryvnias!” Half a month’s salary in Ukraine. They obviously took him for a fool.

Yura started digging out his wallet. Seeing this, the stalwart traffic cops softened. All smiles now, they inquired as to where he was headed, eagerly offering to show him the way so “Herr Foreigner” wouldn’t accidentally get lost out here in the back end of beyond.

“How do I get to the village of Horetivka? The village is on the map, but the road isn’t. I remember it, but I can’t find it.”

“Horetivka?” the tall one asked. “That hasn’t been a village for a long time. It’s a fancy cottage community now.”

“Okay, so it’s not a village, but there’s still a way to get there, right?”

“You can get there all right, but you probably can’t get in. It’s a gated community with a guardhouse. They don’t let in just anybody.”

Yura gave it some thought. Before the conversation with the traffic cops, he’d had a clear plan for finding the special spot that was the goal of his trip: get to Horetivka and walk through the fields of the former collective farm down to the river. But now, if he couldn’t get into the village ... maybe he should give it a chance anyway? He could make a deal with one of the guards? Yura shook his head. No, he’d lose too much time if it didn’t work out. His only remaining option was to get there through the camp. “Okay. Then how do I get to Camp Barn Swallow?”

“To what?”

“The Zina Portnova Barn Swallow Pioneer Camp. It was around here somewhere back in Soviet times.”

The shorter cop brightened.

“Oh, yeah, that camp. Yeah, it was here ...”

The taller one eyed Yura: “But what do you want to go there for?”

“I was born in the USSR, you know. I went to that camp. I spent my childhood there. Das Heimweh, Nostalgie ...” He caught himself. “Homesickness, nostalgia!”

“Ah, right, we get it.” The cops exchanged a look. “Where’s your map?”

Yura handed it over and watched attentively as one of the men traced a finger across it.

“You need to go along R-295 until the sign for the village Richne. About twenty meters after that, there’ll be a turn off to the right. Take that and follow it to the end.”

“Thank you.”

Yura got his map back, got a “Have a good one” in exchange for his cash, and set out.

“I knew it! I knew I’d get stopped at least once!” he groused, stepping on the gas.

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