Page 87 of Pioneer Summer

He sat up a little and, just like Yurka had done earlier, lifted up the corner of the canvas. At that moment Yurka very much wanted Volodya to see Masha’s feet out there and come back here, to him. He wanted to be able to hold Volodya and kiss him, even for just another minute.

“There’s nobody there,” said Volodya. He sat all the way up and threw the canvas off the boat.

The bright midday light blinded Yurka. Everything around them was damp and dripping, but the sky had gotten lighter, and in the distance the sun was poking through the clouds.

Volodya climbed out of the boat. Yurka followed him. While they were fastening the canvas back down, Yurka fought the desire to walk up to Volodya, embrace him from behind, and stand still, just like that, for a long, long time.

“That’s it. Good job, everyone. You can go,” announced Volodya, ending the rehearsal. The actors, pale from exhaustion, applauded. It had taken themuntil the fifth try for the cast to finally run through the entire play from start to finish and get it to where it was more or less bearable.

And while the actors were so worn-out after that day that they were literally falling down from fatigue as they left, the artistic director was so spent that Yurka didn’t know how he was still able to stand. Volodya was working himself to death, without hearing or seeing or noticing anything around him. His neckerchief had even gotten twisted around with the knot to the back, so it hung on his neck like a noose.

Yurka noticed that and snorted. He got up from the piano, went over to the artistic director, and reached out to fix the errant scrap of cloth.

“I wish they’d huwwy up and give me my vewy own neckewchief!”

Yurka actually jumped from surprise. He’d been certain all the actors had left the movie theater. But the spry little Olezhka had popped out from behind the bust of Lenin like the proverbial devil from a snuffbox.

Volodya lurched away from Yurka and adjusted his neckerchief himself. Then, with a forced smile, he explained, “Our little Olezhka here dreams of having the honor of being the first in his class, or even in his whole school, to be accepted into the Pioneers.”

“Aaaahhhh,” said Yurka slowly. He turned to Olezhka. “So have you already memorized the oath?”

“Suwe have!” Olezhka blushed, stood at attention, and began reciting expressively: “I, Wyleyev, Oleg Womanovich, as I entew the wanks of the Vladimiw Ilych Lenin All-Union Pioneew Owganization, in the pwesence of my comwades do solemnly pwomise: to fewvently love my Mothewland and to live, study, and stwuggle, as the gweat Lenin instwucted, and as the Comm—” Olezhka broke off and sucked in a huge breath. “—unist Pawty teaches, and to hold inviolate the pwecepts of the Pioneews of the Soviet Union!”

“Well done!” Volodya praised him. “And how do you give the Pioneer salute? Do you know that?”

“I do! Want to see?”

Yurka clicked his tongue. Volodya and Olezhka had to pick this exact time for a lesson! Without hiding his boredom, Yurka sat down on the edge of the stage, dangled his feet, and started snoring demonstratively. Volodya ignored him.

“Show me,” said the troop leader. He shouted out the call: “For the struggle for the good of the Communist Party: Be prepared!”

Olezhka barked the response—“Always pwepawed!”—and threw his hand up in the Pioneer salute.

Volodya adjusted Olezhka’s hand so it was higher than his forehead, not at the level of his nose. “You need to hold your hand higher than your head. That means that you will hold the interests of the Pioneer organization higher than your own. And also, during the oath ceremony, the person who ties your neckerchief for you will ask tricky questions.”

“Oh deaw!” said Olezhka, scared. “Awe they hawd questions? Have you asked questions like that?”

“I have. I asked a future Pioneer how much a Pioneer neckerchief is worth.”

Yurka, who had recovered somewhat, called out, “Fifty-five kopeks!,” enunciating each word.

“Yur, come on, you know very well that’s the wrong answer. Why are you messing with him?” asked Volodya, irritated. “A Pioneer neckerchief is priceless, because it’s part of the red banner. Can you remember that, Olezh?”

“Yes, I’ll wemembew that!” nodded Olezhka. “Okay, bye. I’m going to pwactice the oath some mowe befowe bed!”

“You’d be better off practicing your lines!”

“I’ll pwactice my lines, too!”

Olezhka ran off. Yurka started thinking about how it was too bad that Volodya was deceiving the little guy. After all, that was precisely what a Pioneer neckerchief was worth: fifty-five kopeks. No more. Because in the end it was just a dyed rag. By Yurka’s age, everyone believed this firmly. As if they were mocking their neckerchiefs, they wore them every which way: torn, or wrinkled, or drawn on, or covered with souvenir pins and badges, or backward like a cowboy bandana—the way Volodya’s had just been.

Maybe ten or twenty years ago the neckerchief had still meant something, had symbolized values and ideals. But now all that had vanished into the past. And when Yurka failed his piano exam, that was the point when he had begun to suspect nobody had any ideals or values left. Soon enough, something would happen to Olezhka, and he’d learn the same thing. Yurkafelt preemptively sorry for Olezhka, for what a cruel disappointment was in store for a little guy who was so inspired, so full of dreams.

Yurka wanted to share his thoughts with Volodya, but before he could, the movie theater door opened again and the guys from the art club carried in several panels of stage decorations.

“Here’s the pumping station and steam engine,” said Misha Lukovenko, the head of the drawing section. “Like you said, we drew the outlines, but you’ll fill everything in.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” said Volodya gratefully. “Did you bring the paint?”

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