Page 95 of Pioneer Summer

Yurka walked along the path of newspaper, wondering whether it had been laid out for him as a marker or if the newspapers had been put down to keep the floor clean. Time went by slowly. Strange thoughts came into his head. It was as though Yurka were walking along time when he was walking along the newspapers. After all, every newspaper had its own date, and every article had its own topic, and every page had its own events. Yurka could only see some of the dates, making it all the stranger to step over one thing, then stop on another. The pages, and with them the photographs of people and the events themselves, kept sticking to the bottoms of his shoes. They were clinging to him as though they didn’t want to let him go.That’s what happens in real life, too, actually, thought Yurka philosophically.The past clings ... But what if these newspapers are from the future? Not even the very distant future, just a little, even just from the summer of eighty-seven ... or what if they are from five years from now, or ten years ... Or maybe from twenty years later ...Without finishing his thought, Yurka turned right and entered a room. He just had time to notice that it was even colder here, despite the fact that these windows had glass in them, before someone threw themselves at him and held him tight.

It was Volodya, of course. Yurka recognized his scent. He recognized his warmth. That warmth, Volodya’s warmth, was special somehow, it was utterly dear and familiar and recognizable. Although there’s no such thing, of course, as recognizing someone by their warmth.

They didn’t speak. They alternated between passionate embraces and tender kisses. They nuzzled each other, now with their noses, now with their lips, everywhere they could find: their cheeks, which were cold, and their necks, which were warm, and their wet hair. Locks of Volodya’s hair kept sticking to Yurka’s face, and Volodya’s glasses were really getting in the way.But Yurka only wished that that hair would stick to him, tickle him, and get in his way every single minute for the rest of his life—because it was Volodya’s hair, after all ... those were Volodya’s glasses, after all ... and this was Volodya, after all! Yurka would have welcomed any discomfort that reminded him of Volodya.

As soon as he held Volodya in his arms, Yurka realized how much he’d missed him. When Yurka had imagined seeing him again, he hadn’t realized that his heart would start pounding so hard, or that his eyes would start burning, or that he’d be unable to breathe. He hadn’t known that because of all this, he’d be unable to squeeze out a single word, or that once he could, no words would come to him. Or that even if he did manage to speak, even if he said just a tiny little fragment of what he actually thought and what he actually felt, he’d burst into tears. And crying is embarrassing and doesn’t help. So Yurka just stood there gasping for breath, holding Volodya tight and being tightly held in return, silently, fearful of every sound: What if their bitter joy were suddenly interrupted? What if this happiness were destroyed? What if they were taken away from each other?

“We’ve lost so much time!” groaned Volodya, so softly Yurka could barely hear it.

“Yes, we have ... so much ... ,” affirmed Yurka, reaching for Volodya’s lips. “But you did give her your word, you wouldn’t be with me ever again ...”

Volodya had bent his head toward Yurka and pulled him closer, but when he heard that last comment, he jerked away, scoffing. “‘Gave my word’ ... Pfff! That’s all it was, just words, meaningless words for a meaningless person. I had to see you again. And I have to tell you something.”

“Wait, you were never going to stick to it?” asked Yurka, amazed.

“Of course not,” Volodya replied, pressing his forehead to Yurka’s. “And don’t look at me like that, as though you’ve never broken your promises. But ...” He seemed to want to continue but then stopped. Had he changed his mind? Or was it that he didn’t dare say it? “Should we sit down?”

Volodya unwrapped one arm from Yurka but continued holding him with the other as he led Yurka over to the far corner of the vacant room. There, by the window, a pile of newspapers had been thrown down on the floor to make a mat that was a finger’s breadth thick. There was room to sit on it, but not quite enough to lie down. The boys knelt, facing each other.

“Yura, I’m going to tell you something now. It’s not good, but it’s important. I don’t like saying this, so don’t interrupt me, okay?”

“What happened?” Yurka started up, alarmed.

“I think ... ,” Volodya began, then faltered, pausing to slowly collect his thoughts and choose the right words. “I think Masha’s probably right. This is all probably for the best ... That tomorrow we’re both going our separate ways, I mean.”

No, Yurka wasn’t imagining it: it really was bitterly cold and damp all around him in this room. He wouldn’t be surprised if his breath started steaming. Or was it the opposite: Was it that everything inside him was frozen?

“What?” Yurka choked out, not believing his ears. “Here I am, not able to see how I’m going to keep living without all this, but you’re saying it’s for the best? How could that be for the best?!”

“It’s for the best for me,” Volodya said, then remained silent for a long time.

Yurka studied him as though he were seeing him for the first time. Volodya’s words made no sense. Yurka simply did not believe them. He wanted to say many things, but at the same time he knew the best thing he could do right now was not speak.

After a minute that lasted forever, Volodya continued: “I’ve thought a lot about us, and about myself. And of course about what I’m going to do about my abnormality. Because it’s not normal, Yur! Say what you want, but Masha’s right about one thing: it’s against nature; it’s a psychological aberration. I was able to find some things about this, I read them—a handbook of medicine, Tchaikovsky’s diary, an article by Gorky—and you know, what we’re doing ... it really is bad. It’s not just bad, it’s awful!”

“It’s awful?” said Yurka, stunned. “When you hold me, you feel ... awful?”

“No, no, no! That’s not the point! How do I explain this to you?” He pondered for a moment, then said urgently, “It’s bad for you! Yes, that’s it: it’s bad for you. And not just for you, and for me, but for society, too. Take Fascist Germany, for example. Gorky wrote that the Germans back then were all sodomites and that sodomy was the seed of Fascism. ‘Destroy thehomoseksualists, and Fascism will disappear.’ That’s exactly what he wrote in 1934. It’s historical fact.”

“But you’re not like them. And neither am I! It just turned out that way, that we met ... and we ... yeah,” Yurka objected hotly. When he heard thatugly, disgusting word—“sodomite”—it was like someone jamming a red-hot needle in his brain. Because he’d heard the word before, and now he remembered exactly when.

He was still very young at the time, just a little kid, and he didn’t understand a thing as he listened to his grandmother. She was talking about how, when she was looking for her husband, Yurka’s grandpa, she found out that it wasn’t just Jews that got sent to the concentration camps; there were also people who had to wear pink triangles. Some of them were even German. His grandma said they were called sodomites, and the Fascists hated them and tried to exterminate them just like they did the Jews.

These memories clicked into place just like a missing puzzle piece in Yurka’s head. He announced firmly, “And you’ve got it wrong. In Fascist Germany, those ‘sodomites’ were sent to the concentration camps.”

Volodya raised his brows, surprised. “How do you know?”

“I am a Jew, after all. I have heard a few things about the concentration camps.”

“All right, fine. But nobody knows anything about it for sure, anyway. There aren’t even any books about it in the USSR. There’s just the entry in the handbook of medicine saying that it’s psychological, and then the statute of the Criminal Code.”

“So?” Yurka couldn’t believe that this was really happening. He felt it must be some kind of trick. What was the matter with Volodya? He had called him out here in the middle of the night just to dump all this on him. Volodya wasn’t asking questions, he wasn’t getting advice, he wasn’t sharing his concerns. He was just asserting this. What for? To bring Yurka back to his senses? “The statute of the Criminal Code”? What did that statute have to do with the two of them right now? Yurka shook his head in confusion, then offered Volodya the only somewhat logical conclusion he was able to draw from all this: “So you think Masha told someone and you’re going to prison for this?”

“No, I don’t think that. They’d still have to prove it, for one thing. And it’s not prison I’m afraid of; I’m afraid for my family, don’t you see? And so that’s why I decided ... as soon as I get back, I’m going to ... I’ll make myself tell my parents everything so they can find a doctor who will cure me of this.”

It was like the frost had covered the walls: they glittered, blinding Yurka in the total darkness. The frost crept along the floor and touched his feet.

“And you want to be ... treated?” whispered Yurka. “How? Where? If it’s psychological, they’ll lock you in the loony bin!”

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