Page 42 of Pioneer Summer

Yurka chuckled and gave an airy shrug. “The family tradition ...”

Then it hit Volodya. He raised an eyebrow and shamelessly looked Yurka up and down. “Oh ... so that’s it ... Interesting ...”

Yurka barely kept from blurting out, “Want me to show you?” But he was flustered by Volodya’s extravagantly curious, brazen regard and went from bold to timid. He smiled convulsively and went red. He felt hot again.

Meanwhile, Volodya’s expression had shifted to flabbergasted. He whistled softly and whispered, “Holy crap! That’s awful!”

This made Yurka feel so angry, and outraged, and hurt, that he castigated himself for being overly candid about this ticklish question. Because of Yurka’s own wagging tongue, Volodya had accidentally gotten into Yurka’s intimate business—but judging by Volodya’s intrigued expression, he was in no hurry to get back out.So Volodya says talking about those magazines is forbidden, but thinking about my private parts is totally fine?fumed Yurka to himself. Volodya’s reaction had cut him deeply. And then his internal voice chimed in, too, reminding him of the incident at yesterday’s morning calisthenics and his recent, tingle-inducing dream, so that in addition to the hot sun he now felt such a surge of internal heat that his lungs convulsed in pain.

What he said out loud was a remorseful “It’s not like I wanted to!” But seeing Volodya’s stunned expression, Yurka got hold of himself and tried his best to continue the conversation: “First of all, nobody asked me. Secondly, I was little, I don’t remember anything. And thirdly ... it’s ... don’t go imagining things! It’s nobody’s business but my own! And it’s not ‘awful’!”

“No, no—what are you saying?! That’s not what I meant!” Volodya shook his head and blushed to the roots of his hair. “There’s nothing all that strange about that! It’s an old tradition, several thousand years old, it’s normal, pretty much ... But you’re not religious, are you?”

“You’re not an idiot, are you?”

“Well, no ... but I mean ... I was just ...”

Yurka snorted and looked around. Anything to change the subject. There wasn’t a trace of civilization to be seen, neither a hut in the woods nor a roof out on the horizon. He and Volodya had gone a good kilometer or two by now. The camp and the boathouse had vanished behind a sharp bend in the river a while ago, and now the boys were in the middle of a pretty but boringlandscape: identical patches of sparse woods, identical fields shimmering in the heat haze. There wasn’t anything to catch the eye. Except maybe for the high hill coming into view at a distance and the tiny little gazebo on it. But that wasn’t where they were headed. Yurka estimated they’d arrive at their destination any minute.

Volodya’s soft voice tore him away from his thoughts: “Anyway, I’m really glad you told me about that. About music, I mean. Turns out I don’t know you at all.”

“Well, I don’t know you, either,” said Yurka. “Not really. And I didn’t tell you about music just because you asked ... I mean, youdidask, but I could’ve just not talked about it, or found a way to avoid it. But I decided to trust you.”

Volodya gave him a grateful look.

“You know,” he began quietly, “I could tell you my most dreadful secret, too, but nobody can ever find out about it for any reason whatsoever. Promise not to tell?”

Yurka nodded, puzzled: Had he ever given Volodya a reason to mistrust him? Of course he wouldn’t tell a soul, no matter what Volodya revealed.

“You, Yura, refuse to live the way you’re told.” Volodya leaned closer to him and lowered his voice almost to a whisper, although there was nobody to hear them out in the middle of the river, in the rustling of the reeds. “You say you have relatives in East Germany ... but have you ever wanted to leave the country yourself?”

This question sounded rhetorical, but Yurka answered it: “Well ... my grandma tried to go back to Germany. It is her historical homeland, after all. But they wouldn’t let her. I have a relative there, but it’s just my mom’s second cousin, so it’s probably not—”

“Well, I want to leave,” interrupted Volodya. “Or rather, I don’t just want to leave: it’s my main goal in life. To go somewhere else and stay there permanently.”

Yurka’s mouth fell open. “Permanently? But that’s illegal, you can be put on trial for that. And you’re a Komsomol member, you’re so ... so upstanding, you’re Party-minded, you’re ... you’re ...”

“And that’s exactly why I am, as you say, ‘upstanding’ and ‘Party-minded’! So I can achieve my goal! The logic is simple, Yur: the only people who areallowed to travel outside the USSR are Communist Party members. ‘Proven’ Communists can travel even more freely. And that goes without saying for ‘proven’ Communist diplomats on a diplomatic assignment. And so—”

“And so you applied to MGIMO so you could become a diplomat,” Yurka finished for him.

Volodya nodded. Even though there wasn’t a soul around for kilometers, Volodya spoke in a subdued voice; his agitated tone, and the way he looked fearfully around, several times, gave Yurka goose bumps. If anyone heard that Volodya was planning on becoming a non-returner, he’d be immediately expelled from the Komsomol in disgrace. His plans, his entire life, would be derailed! And now he’d told Yurka.

“Where do you want to go?” Yurka asked.

“To America.”

“To ride a wild mustang through the prairie?” he said, with a nervous laugh.

“A motorcycle. A Harley-Davidson. Heard of them?”

Yurka didn’t answer. He hadn’t heard of that kind of motorcycle, and he didn’t know a thing about diplomats, but now he was scared for Volodya. Just then he remembered Volodya’s warning: “It’s not as bad now as it was back in Stalin’s day, but I could still get in deep trouble ...”

Yurka almost missed the turn due to his mild state of shock.

“Oh, there it is! It’s right there,” he exclaimed, pointing at a wall of reeds.

It wasn’t deep here, and Yurka’s oar hit the riverbed as he turned the boat and headed directly into the reeds.

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