Page 68 of Pioneer Summer

“The tram flies by, its brakes a-squeal, its headlight shines across the mud! The tram ran over an Octoberist and left him in a pool of blood!” recited Sashka outside the door.

Yurka jerked away, clumsily, his face scraping against Volodya’s glasses, and leaped to his feet. Volodya’s shaking hands flew up reflexively, then fell back down with a clang onto the piano keyboard. Ablyanngggggthundered out, spreading cacophony—aural and otherwise—through the entire theater.

“Eww! That’s such a gwoss poem!” Olezhka scolded Sashka.

The door opened, revealing all the little kids from the drama club. The senior campers weren’t there yet. Yurka was heaving for breath as though he’d just run a race. Volodya was sitting at the piano, blinking, his gaze roving uncomprehendingly between the keyboard and the incoming children.

“You’re so early today ... Your shift of civic duty work hasn’t ended yet ... ,” he mumbled hoarsely.

Mentally, Yurka shouted,Thank goodness the porch creaks!but didn’t risk saying anything out loud.

CHAPTER TWELVE

FROM LYRICS TO PHYSICS

During rehearsal, Volodya tried to act as though nothing hugely momentous had almost just happened between them a couple of minutes ago. Yurka, though, sought out every opportunity to be near Volodya, even for just a second, and spent the whole rehearsal on pins and needles. He paced nervously between the rows of seats because he was simply unable to sit still in one place. Every so often he looked over at Volodya and caught Volodya looking at him. The always stern artistic director had lost his edge and was looking a little distracted.

The rehearsal was in full swing when the porch steps creaked and two more people came into the theater. Olezhka was the first to notice them: he’d been gazing dramatically into the distance as he recited a bombastic monologue, but he broke off in the middle of a word.

“Ahem,” Pal Palych greeted them.

“Good afternoon, Pavel Pavlovich,” replied the children, without stopping what they were doing.

Olga Leonidovna followed the director into the auditorium, jotting something down in her notebook and whispering soundlessly to herself as she walked: “Fix steps.” Only then did she greet everyone out loud: “Good afternoon, children!”

Everyone greeted her in unison, too. The educational specialist made a beeline for Volodya, and Yurka joined them immediately.

“I just came over to check in and see how things are going for you out here. Camp Barn Swallow Day is the day after tomorrow, so the show has to be completely ready.”

Volodya grew pensive. “I’m not sure it will be, actually,” he replied apologetically. “We’re doing our best, but there’s a lot to get through and not much time. And the set, too ...”

“Ahem!” said Pal Palych indignantly.

“Volodya!” said Olga Leonidovna, interrupting Pal Palych. “I am notaskingyou if it will be ready. I amtellingyou it will be ready. But all right, show me what you’ve got. We’ll see.”

They began their run-through. Olga Leonidovna observed the actors with a cold, calculating gaze, writing things down in her notebook without a word and occasionally rolling her eyes. Yurka, following her reactions, realized to his chagrin that they were in a pretty bad position. He had been at all their rehearsals and was keeping track of how the show was progressing. It seemed like the younger kids had already learned their lines, and Masha was playing slowly but with confidence—although she didn’t touch the Lullaby—and the Pukes were working hard on their end, too, but everything was just still too rough around the edges. There were a few scenes they’d only run through a couple of times at most. But the set! Sure, there wasn’t supposed to be a big, complicated set for the show, but some of the stage decorations had to be built and painted from scratch, and they hadn’t even gotten past sketching them yet.

So Olga Leonidovna and Pal Palych weren’t happy. Of course. Yurka had known both of them for six sessions now and, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember them ever being happy with anything. But the worst thing was that Olga Leonidovna wasn’t happy with their Zina Portnova.

“Nastyona. You do know the story of your character, right?”

“Ahem ... what kind of question is that, Olga Leonidovna?” interjected the director. “There’s no way she doesn’t know it.” Every camper knew every Pioneer Hero’s story by heart.

“Of course I do,” confirmed Nastya. “My classroom’s even named after her.”

“Then you should remember that up until the war, Zina was an ordinary little Soviet girl. But you’re playing her as though she were some knight of ancient Rus, even though she was a real person and some of her relatives are still alive today. Zina wasn’t born a hero, she became one, and your task is to show that becoming, not immediately announce, ‘I’m a hero, and that’s that—I don’t cry and I’m not afraid.’”

“Olga Leonidovna, should we take another look at the script?” interjected Volodya, seeing that poor Nastya was already trembling. “You point out the lines you don’t like and Konev and I will rewrite them.”

“The script is fine. It’s Nastya’s acting that’s the problem.”

Nastya went pale and her eyes brimmed with tears. Olga Leonidovna noticed and changed her fury to benevolence.

“Nastyona, don’t worry, everything will be fine. All you have to do is imagine yourself in those circumstances. Like this: you’re Zina, you’re a tad bit older than you are now, you’re fifteen. You’re kind, and upbeat, you’re a good student, but like all children the thing you like most is playing and having fun. You and your girlfriends think up interesting things to do together: you write up a wall newspaper, or you organize a dance group—because you dance beautifully, you know—or you do a puppet show for the little kids ...”

At this point Yurka heartily clapped the woebegone Nastya on the shoulder, man-to-man style—she almost fell down—and proclaimed, “That’s how Nastya really is.”

Nastya gave a big fake smile. Olga Leonidovna didn’t budge, going on as though she hadn’t heard or seen anything: “You live in Leningrad and your friends are there, and your family, and your school, but you and your little sister, Galya, have gone to your grandmother’s little village near the town of Obol, in the Byelorussian SSR, to spend the summer at Grandma’s.”

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