Page 34 of Pioneer Summer

Unable to make himself look away from the narrow window, Yura got up from the merry-go-round. He would invite himself into that empty room.

He went to stand in front of the cabin and considered whether he could jump over the hole in the floor of the porch. As he thought it through, deciding whether the rotten wooden boards would hold him when he landed, he heaved a dejected sigh: they wouldn’t. But then Yura decided that, since he’d been able to force himself to come back to Camp Barn Swallow after so many years, he was just plain obligated to get inside the troop leaders’ room. What if Volodya had left something there to mark his presence, like a funnydrawing on the wall, or a word or two scratched into the table, or some gum stuck to the head of the bed frame? Or maybe a candy wrapper in the night-stand? Or a stray bit of thread in the wardrobe? He had to have left something behind, after all! Even as Yura thought this, he knew that Volodya didn’t draw on walls, scratch furniture, or chew gum. Still, he desperately wanted to believe that Volodya had somehow guessed Yura would return.

Yura turned left and walked through the trampled flower beds along the cabin toward the boys’ room windows.

The Troop Five cabin sat up on top of a broad wooden base that stuck out farther than the walls, creating a narrow ledge that ran all the way around the building. Yura somehow managed to climb up onto it, his rubber-soled shoes slipping on the wet green-painted boards, and work his way over to the troop leader’s window. He looked in past the broken glass. The dark, narrow room seemed even smaller than it had before, but the layout of the furniture—indeed, the furniture itself—hadn’t changed: a table pushed back against the far side of the room with the door to its right and the wardrobe to its left; two simple nightstands; two narrow beds on either side of the window. Volodya’s was the one to the right. Yura was seized by the desire to sit on it, to find out whether it was soft or hard, whether it squeaked, whether it was comfortable.

Wary of cutting himself on the broken glass scattered on the windowsill, Yura cursed himself roundly for not thinking to bring work gloves as he brushed the shards away. He took hold of the rickety wood and pulled himself up and into the window.

He paid no attention to the puddles on the floor or to how dusty and dirty everything was. He knelt down and opened Volodya’s nightstand. On the single shelf lay the May 1992 issue ofThe Peasant Woman, its pages warped from damp. It had clearly been left there by some troop leader. There was a small book under it. Yura read the title and smiled:The Theory and Methodology of Educational Work with Pioneers... Now, that was just like Volodya. There wasn’t anything else in the nightstand.

Yura turned his gaze to Volodya’s bed. It was a narrow wire-spring frame, more a cot than a bed, its feet bolted to the floor. Given the layer of grime on the bolts, he surmised that it was probably the original bed frame and had never been replaced. So it really had been Volodya’s bed. The wide mesh of wire springs was squeaky, bouncy, and rusty. “At least it wasn’t rusty backwhen he slept on it; that’s something,” said Yura to himself. He smiled. “Just think ... he slept here!”

Yura pushed down on the network of springs. It groaned piteously in response, the noise underscoring the complete silence that reigned here. The emptiness, too. Apart from the furniture, there was nothing here: no curtains, no bedclothes or cloth of any kind, no books, not even a piece of paper, no torn-off bits of wallpaper or posters on the wall—and Yura remembered once glimpsing a Time Machine poster hanging on the wall; he remembered Volodya liked the group. There wasn’t even any trash here, just dust, water, and the dirty slurry on the floor. Plus the broken glass over by the window. Yura walked over to the far corner of the room to stand in front of the only piece of furniture he hadn’t investigated yet: the wardrobe. He realized he’d even be glad to find some trash inside it, since that would at least provide the illusion of meaning: that Yura hadn’t come here for nothing, that he hadn’t climbed through the window into these ruins for nothing, like a sentimental child. Like a complete idiot.

Why had he come in here? Why had he even come back at all? And now that he was here, why was he wandering around the camp, wasting time, instead of heading directly for the place where he was going to do what he’d come to do? But it wasn’t so easy to just not look into Volodya’s room. And once he’d gone in, it wasn’t so easy to just leave.

He threw open the wardrobe door and gazed inside it, transfixed: there lay a heap of wadded-up clothing. His heart went painfully tight when in the back corner, underneath a layer of old shirts and jackets, he found several brown uniform jackets with black shoulder boards boasting the insignia “SA,” for “Soviet Army,” embroidered in white. His hands shook when, digging through the pile of cloth, he found the only jacket with shiny buttons.

They’d worn costume military uniforms for Summer Lightning. The troop leaders had been given uniform jackets, while the children got uniform shirts. And this particular jacket, the one with the shiny buttons, was still a military jacket, but it was small. It was too big for any of the Pioneers and too small for any of the grown-up Party members. But there was one Komsomol member whom it would have fit just right.

Cynicism, skepticism, and self-irony all vanished in the blink of an eye, discarded somewhere far away, out past Camp Barn Swallow’s collapsing fence. All of a sudden it didn’t matter how old Yura was; it didn’t matterwhat he’d accomplished, or what he was talented at, or how smart he was, or whether he had the right to be funny ... all those things had meaning in another life, far away from here, in the present. But here, in the camp where he’d spent his childhood, Yura could be the same way he used to be: not a Pioneer anymore, but not a Komsomol member yet ... And, funny as it might seem, all this still applied to him. With just one difference: he used to think all this was very important. But now the only thing that continued to be important was the old brown rag he held in his no-longer-young hands. That, and the memory of the person on whose shoulders the black shoulder boards labeled “SA” had rested, on whose chest the golden buttons had shone.

“Greetings, Pioneers! You’re listening to the Pioneer radio news programPioneer Dawn,” broadcast the loudspeakers as Yurka brushed his teeth. “Be prepared for Summer Lightning as soon as the bugle sounds after breakfast! Pioneer troops will assemble on the camp’s main square ...”

This morning began as usual, with exercises. Yurka wasn’t a huge fan of this: he couldn’t even get fully awake before he had to run outside to do calisthenics with everyone. Today he’d even gotten there on time, which made him doubly annoyed, since he and the other kids from his troop had to wait on Ira Petrovna when most of the other troop leaders were already there. Volodya, for example, was already doing stretches with his little kids. Yurka wanted to go over and say hello, but reconsidered: the troop leader was busy. Volodya stood with his back to Yurka as he showed his campers how to do the stretches. He was really stretching, too, not just going through the motions. He rotated his neck and rolled his shoulders, then loosened his elbows, wrists, and hands, swinging his arms up and down and to the sides. Yurka listened with half an ear to the girls next to him chattering about last night’s dance, but his attention was concentrated on watching Volodya issue commands.

“Feet shoulder-width apart! We’re warming up our torso and legs. Now forward bend, and reeeeaach your palms down to the ground.” Volodya followed his own instructions. “Sashka! Not so hard, you’ll break in two!”

Yurka chuckled to himself, wondering what it was that Sasha was doing. But he didn’t even bother trying to spot Sasha to find out. Before Yurka’s eyes something far more intriguing was taking place: Volodya slowly and gracefully bent forward and touched the ground. And not with his fingertips,either, but with his palms. His T-shirt slid up, baring his waist, and his red athletic shorts pulled taut around his slim hips, and around his legs, and around the softly rounded place above them ...

Yurka’s thoughts fragmented into a series of interjections, then re-formed into words and sentences again, ranging fromWow, he’s limbertoWho said people could walk around here in shorts like that, anyway? There are children here! And—and girls!

Volodya stood straight again and bent over again. The chaos in Yurka’s head was replaced by a resounding silence. His body went numb. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. It took a few long moments for him to come back to his senses and realize that for something like a minute he’d been frozen in mid-bend, shamelessly ogling those red-clad buttocks.

It was as though he’d been doused with burning-hot water. Blood rushed to his face. Sweat even beaded on his forehead. And it wasn’t from the heat, since it was morning and still chilly.

“What on earth are you looking at?!” Yurka howled silently at himself. Everything made him feel awkward: the stupid pose, the fact that he’d blushed, and the fact that he’d stared, and then, to top it all off, there was this strange reaction, this slight, pleasant spasm. Well, no, the reaction itself was normal; he’d felt it before. The strange part here was: Why did he feel it for Volodya? It’s not like there was a shortage of slender, pretty girls who were much more interesting than Volodya exercising all around him. But if the girls were “more interesting” than Volodya, why was Yurka looking at Volodya, not them? Maybe it was just that it was still early, and Yurka hadn’t had a chance to wake up yet?

There was little chance anyone had noticed his behavior, which hadn’t lasted all that long. Still, after yesterday’s conversation about the magazines, after his candid and inept questions, Yurka was inordinately ashamed of himself. His painful chagrin and renewed self-flagellation were interrupted when Zhenya appeared on the main square along with Ira and announced: “Good morning, Pioneers! We’re starting our calisthenics!”

Yurka was so stunned by what had happened at morning calisthenics an hour ago that he still hadn’t managed to regain his composure. He shuffled his wayto breakfast as if through a layer of thick fog. Then he went back to his cabin and got ready for the ceremonial opening of the Summer Lightning mock battle, slowly putting on his uniform and tying his Pioneer neckerchief.

He looked at the wall clock: he was running late. Everyone else had already left the cabin. He could hear the distant sounds of the ceremony beginning, Olga Leonidovna’s voice enhanced by the loudspeakers. But Yurka stood alone in front of the mirror, trying and failing to get the red rag’s knot right. He started losing his temper.

“Why aren’t you going to the ceremony?” In the silence that had settled over the room, Volodya’s voice rang out so abruptly that Yurka flinched. Volodya had appeared too unexpectedly, and this was absolutely not a good time to have him around.

“I ... I’ll be right there. But what are you doing here? I mean, why’d you come here?”

“Lena took the troop to the ceremony, and I didn’t see you on the square, so I came here. My troop is too little to join in the battle, so we’re going to stay in Central Command during the game. Are you staying with us?”

Yurka sneaked a glance at Volodya’s chin in the mirror but didn’t turn around to face him. He didn’t want to turn around and look Volodya in the eyes ... but as soon as he remembered he wouldn’t see Volodya all day today, it was as though a weight fell from his shoulders. Good thing he’d fended off Alyoshka Matveyev yesterday and refused to spend the game in Central Command.

“Yura! Hello? Why aren’t you talking? Did something happen?”

Yurka yanked the ends of his neckerchief irritably, leaving the knot looking mangled. He turned to Volodya but avoided looking at him, talking off to the side: “I guess I just got up on the wrong side of the bed. And now I’m late, too. You go ahead, I’ll catch up.” At that moment Yurka genuinely wished, more than anything else in the world, that Volodya would hurry up and leave.

But on the contrary, Volodya took a step closer. He smiled tolerantly and clicked his tongue. “Come on, now, Yur! You’ve gone through the Pioneers, you’re a senior camper already, but you don’t even know how to tie your neckerchief?” He reached out with both hands and started deftly retying Yurka’s neckerchief.

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