Page 90 of Pioneer Summer

“Okay ... okay ... ,” sniffled Masha. “Swear you’ll never do that again ...”

Volodya took in a deep breath, as though he were gathering his thoughts. “I swear. I’ll never do it again.”

“You too.” Masha turned to Yurka. Her eyes went from beseeching to cruel. “Now you!”

Yurka caught Volodya’s eyes for a moment, seeing pure and absolute despair in them.

“I swear. Never again,” Yurka choked out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE BITTER TRUTH

“Swear you’ll never do that again ...” Masha’s voice was still ringing in Yurka’s ears. As was Volodya’s answer, and his own oath ... “Never again, never again, never again ...” How could they promise something like that? Was that even possible? But Masha had left them no choice. That damned Masha! He and Volodya didn’t have much time left anyway, and now even those little crumbs had been stolen from them!

Only one day had passed, but to Yurka, tormented by loneliness, that one day felt like a month. Several times he was on the verge of deciding to hell with Masha and with whatever she might say about them, because there was such a storm raging in his chest that if he didn’t release it, it’d tear him apart. Yurka was drawn to Volodya ... Yurka wanted to see him, hear him, touch him ... but he stopped himself. He knew that giving in to that urge, even once, could cost both of them too much.

Of course, they saw each other in the theater. They were spending hours finishing the stage decorations and rehearsing. Olga Leonidovna had officially released the drama club from all activities and all work so the kids could concentrate completely on their premiere. So naturally Volodya was right next to him all the time, and Yurka heard him, and saw him, and could touch him if he just reached out his hand. But he couldn’t. They couldn’t even allow themselves to look at each other any more than necessary. Masha was always lurking around somewhere nearby, like a guard dog, never taking her eyes off them. All Yurka had to do was think about it, hope there might be a chance, for him to be pierced by Masha’s suspicious glare.

Yurka felt like he’d had one of his vital organs removed. He was apparently still living, still doing whatever was asked of him, following instructions, walking, eating, talking. Still breathing. But he couldn’t get enoughair. There wasn’t enough air to get. It was like part of the oxygen had been shut off, or that some kind of poisonous gas had been added. And every hour without Volodya was poisoning his existence. It felt to him as though the entire world had descended into twilight; colors were blurring; shadows were shifting and melting. It was getting to be unbearable, living all alone in that gloomy, empty world. But even more unbearable was seeing how much all this was hurting Volodya.

Volodya was trying to hide it. He ran rehearsal as usual—shouting at people, ordering the actors around, and giving the actors notes—but there was none of his former enthusiasm. It was as though Volodya had been snuffed out inside. He was acting like a programmed robot again. He didn’t worry anymore. He wasn’t panicking. It seemed like he didn’t even care whether the show would be a success, because his only emotion seemed to be sadness. There was so much of that sadness in his eyes, so much that it could already fill half a lifetime ...

Even as he was falling asleep, Yurka saw Volodya’s downcast face, tortured by sad longing, and he himself realized, with sad longing of his own, that a whole day, one they could’ve spent together, had disappeared. A whole evening, gone. A whole night, gone.

The task Yurka faced the next morning was overcoming his aversion to doing anything and eating his breakfast. He poked with his spoon at the clump of cold wheat glue that was being passed off as oatmeal. Usually it smelled good, but this morning all food was off-putting to Yurka, even the vatrushki. Those, now, those were excellent: fluffy, bursting with jam filling, fried perfectly brown on both sides. But he didn’t want the oatmeal at all. In general, there was a lot that Yurka didn’t want at all, but mainly he didn’t want to be in the same camp, inhabit the same plane, be subject to the same geometry, as Masha. And in point of fact, it was clear from her expression that nothing tasted sweet or good to her today, either.

Yurka felt as though somebody had sprinkled sand in his eyes: blinking hurt, but so did looking. But he couldn’t not look. At least, he couldn’t not look at the Troop Five table.

The kids were acting up again. Sasha was waving his hands around, while Pcholkin was all abuzz, whispering in the ear of the little girl next to himuntil she shrieked and leaped to her feet. Today it was Volodya’s turn to keep an eye on them during breakfast—that is, to not eat breakfast. Lena was sitting nearby and also looking at them every so often, but she wasn’t getting up from her chair for any reason whatsoever. So it was Volodya who got up and went over to sort things out. He looked sleepy, pale, faded. In a tired voice he asked the little girl what Pcholkin had done to her.

While Yurka was pushing his oatmeal around with his spoon, and while Volodya was sorting out the young hooligan, and while Masha was watching them both, the blockhead Sashka finished eating and gathered his dishes, putting his glass on top of his bowl, and began to carry them all to the kitchen. One of the other little boys in the troop stopped him, pulling on his sleeve, so Sashka stopped right behind Volodya. Sashka leaned over, murmured something in his little friend’s ear, and burst into laughter at his own joke. Yurka knew that now Sasha would gesture with his hands and that the glass would tilt, then fall off the bowl it was balanced on, and then it would land on Volodya’s bowl, which was at the very edge of the table. So Yurka opened his mouth to shout, but it was too late: Sashka’s glass had already tipped over. It fell against the edge of Volodya’s bowl and sent it, and the oatmeal on it, flying. It knocked into Volodya’s glass of tea with the vatrushka sitting on top, sending them both crashing onto the floor. Volodya looked wordlessly on as half his breakfast was smashed to bits and the other half was smeared all over the gray tiles.

Yurka expected Volodya to start shouting, but all he did was turn his completely helpless gaze to Sashka and sigh wearily. He didn’t even say a word. It was obvious he hadn’t gotten enough sleep and was so tired he just didn’t have the energy to be angry. “And now he’s going to walk around hungry for hours,” muttered Yurka to himself. Sure, there was still oatmeal left in the kitchen, but the vatrushki were all gone; Yurka had already asked, hoping he could nab one more. But Volodya’s being hungry wasn’t the worst thing; he knew Volodya was used to not getting enough to eat. The worst thing was how sad and detached Volodya was. He hadn’t been that bad the day before. Yurka felt so sorry for Volodya that the last ghost of his own appetite fled.

While Lena scolded Sashka and got the troop into formation for exiting the mess hall, Volodya called over the campers who were on kitchen duty to clear away the mess. Meanwhile, Yurka wrapped his own vatrushka in anapkin and walked over to Volodya. He pushed through the cluster of kids and held it out to him, saying, “Here.”

“Thanks, but you should have it yourself. You like them so much.”

“I don’t want it. I’m full,” insisted Yurka stubbornly, shoving the vatrushka at Volodya.

“I got enough, too.”

“Take it! It’s for you!” Yurka wanted to say more. He was hoping all the kids would leave and he could say, “Everything’s for you: the vatrushka is for you, and I’ll even get you some compote. Everything is for you, as long as you smile.” But behind his back he heard Masha’s “Ahem.”

“What do you want?” Yurka asked gloomily.

“Nothing. I’m just waiting for you.”

“For me? Why?”

“Just because.”

“What the hell do you want from me?!” Yurka was beginning to get mad.

“You promised not to see each other and not to do that anymore!” squealed Masha.

Volodya flinched and mumbled without breathing: “Masha, we’re not doing anything. But we can’t just not see each other.” He spread his hands wide. “It’s camp.”

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