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“Together? That’s unexpected ...” Yurka was surprised, but glad at the same time.

Being alone with Ira Petrovna meant the chance to ask a couple of important questions and try to get her to make peace with Volodya.

Lately, this was all Yurka could think about every time he saw her.

It really did go quickly when they worked together.

Yurka swept the floor while Ira Petrovna watered the flowers and wiped the windowsills.

They checked that the beds in the boys’ room were made and went over to the girls’ room to check there as well.

As they did, Yurka said, “They sent me to hang the strings of lights because I’m the tallest Pioneer, to haul mattresses with Mitka because I’m the strongest, to direct the show because I’m the most grown-up ...

But why am I fluffing pillows? Because I’m the laziest?”

“Because you haven’t had this duty shift yet,” Ira replied, offended.

“Quit it.

You imagine hidden motives everywhere you go.”

“But what if I’m not imagining it? What if there really is one?”

“What are you getting at?” asked Ira stiffly.

“Is this about Zhenya—”

But Yurka interrupted her: “No.

Masha.

Why did you think I was off with her that time?” He’d switched to the informal form of the word “you” in his eagerness.

“Don’t pay any attention to that.

I just thought that’s what had happened.”

“Fine, but why?”

“You two were the only ones out of the whole troop who were gone.

And you and Masha are the most grown-up, so you’re both probably already interested in ...

dating.

It’s nothing, Yur, it doesn’t matter now.”

“It matters a lot! You and Volodya got into a fight because of it!”

Ira shrugged and turned away.

Yurka leaped into the fray.

“Ira, forgive him, please! So he went a little crazy and said something stupid.

He didn’t do it to be mean.

Volodya doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.

You’re a troop leader yourself, you must know how hard a troop leader’s first session is ...”

Ira gave him a look of astonishment.

She set a freshly fluffed pillow on the bed, corner up—a “sail”—and threw up her hands.

“Well, now! Yury Ilych and I are so close, he tells me what I do and don’t know and even addresses me informally! What an honor!”

“I mean it.

You could at least hear him out.”

Heedless of his troop leader’s explanations and her obvious objection to the idea, Yurka kept defending Volodya until their shift was done and Ira began to give in.

“You’re a stubborn one.

But why are you speaking for him? If he wants to say he’s sorry, he can come himself, not send his mediators.”

“But he tried, though, didn’t he? Today after breakfast, yesterday after the campfire ...”

“Well ...” Ira faltered.

Instead, she gave the girls’ room one last look.

“Hey, see that? Ulya has more flowers.

Not half a session in and she’s already swimming in admirers.”

But Yurka kept pressing her: “Volodya didn’t send me.

I came myself.

This is his first session as a troop leader.

You’re the professional here, but he ...

Come on, please forgive him.

He was tired, exhausted ...”

“Okay, okay.

Just tell him he has to come say he’s sorry himself and then I’ll forgi—” She broke off and corrected herself: “Then we’ll see.” She smoothed a blanket, surveyed the room again, and smiled in satisfaction.

“We did a good job.

You are free to go, Yury Ilych.”

Yurka was proud of himself.

As he walked out of the cabin, he decided to hold off on the script; instead of working on it, he’d go to his secret hiding place to celebrate his win with a victory smoke.

The year before, Yurka had made a hole for himself in the fence around the unfinished barracks.

At the time, there was only a flat spot ready for construction, but now a hulking four-story building loomed there, like the ones in the big sanatoriums.

In the spring, during active construction on the site, Yurka’s hole in the fence had been filled in, but even so, the site of the new building, surrounded on all sides by a tall fence, was the emptiest spot in the whole camp and still offered tons of hiding places.

So Yurka found a place in a pile of broken concrete pavers to hide his cigarettes.

His whole body vibrated from the rush of adrenaline as he pulled the prized little package out from under a paver.

He didn’t even like smoking that much.

It was the secrecy that made it attractive: getting the pack in the first place, and then, so his hands wouldn’t smell, finding a slender twig, breaking it almost all the way in half, setting the cigarette in the middle, and lighting it.

He didn’t even have to smoke it, just light it and look around to see whether anybody might have seen him.

And then, if anybody had, he’d take off so fast that even if they had seen him for sure, they’d never be able to catch him.

He stuck his hand under the paver and pulled out the pack, already anticipating his “sacrament.” He found a twig, bent it in the prescribed manner, inserted the cigarette, and was getting ready to light it when he saw Pcholkin digging around in a pile of construction debris by the path leading from the unfinished barracks to the Avenue of Pioneer Heroes.

“Hey!” Yurka shouted, then froze, but too late: the cigarette was still in the twig, and the twig was still in his hand.

“Aha! I’m gonna tell everybody you smoke!” Pcholkin crowed.

“And I’ll tell everybody you go poking around in the unfinished barracks.

What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for treasure! But you’re here smoking!” Pcholkin stuck out his tongue.

“I’m not smoking.

I’m just holding it.

I mean, it’s not even lit,” replied Yurka as he thrust the cigarette in his pocket.

“I’m telling anyway! Or, wait—if you sing me a song with cusswords in it, I won’t tell anybody.” Pcholkin had stooped to blackmail.

“You aren’t big enough for cusswords yet.

I’ll sing you whatever else you want,” said Yurka, knowing that if the little boy told on him, he’d get into so much trouble at home that being kicked out of camp and separated from Volodya would seem like trifles in comparison.

Without condescending to respond, Pcholkin took off down the Avenue of Pioneer Heroes, shouting at the top of his lungs: “Yurka’s a dummy, his cigarette is crummy, he smokes and steals and sneaks around, he flunks and fails and sleeps on the ground.”

Yurka raced after him.

Pcholkin turned toward the tennis courts.

Using his short height to his advantage, he didn’t run around the swings, steps, and athletic equipment; he just ran right underneath, easily darting through or behind them.

But Yurka had to go around.

If it hadn’t been for that, he’d have caught Pcholkin right away, but as it was, he just shouted helplessly, “Stop! You’d better stop!” In reply he heard, “Yurka’s a dummy!”

“Yura! Petya!” He heard the names, but his mind didn’t process them.

He ran and ran until at last Pcholkin was no more than half a meter away.

All he had to do was stretch out his arm and grab him.

But then a terrible voice thundered right in his ear: “Konev! Pcholkin! Attention!”

Both Pcholkin and Konev stopped dead in their tracks, giving in to their automatic, unconscious reaction of You hear an order, you obey it! Volodya walked briskly toward them across the tennis court.

His face was pale, his fists were clenched, and he was glaring at Pcholkin as though he could strangle him just by looking at him.

“What’s the meaning of this, Petya?! Where have you been?”

Pcholkin looked questioningly at Yurka, a mischievous grin spreading his lips.

Yurka sighed.

“Fine, I’ll sing you one.

But no cuss words.”

“The one about the graveyard, then.”

“Fine.

The one about the graveyard.”

“Deal!”

“What are you conspiring about?” interjected Volodya.

“What are you planning? Yura?”

As soon as Yurka looked at Volodya’s face, he understood the difference between an angry Volodya and a furious Volodya.

So he hastened to, if not calm down the troop leader, at least distract him: “We aren’t planning anything.

I saw Petya on the path to the unfinished barracks.

He was digging in the trash pile from the construction—”

“What for?!” interrupted Volodya, fixing Pcholkin with a hard stare.

“Any injuries?”

“I was looking for treasure,” squeaked Pcholkin as he displayed his healthy and uninjured knees, elbows, and palms to the troop leader.

“Petya, there is no treasure in the camp,” Volodya ground out through gritted teeth.

Yurka could tell that he was trying to calm down.

But it wasn’t working very well.

“But Yurka told us about it himself.” Pcholkin gave an offended sniff.

“That treasure’s made-up.

Yura will confirm it.”

Having assured himself the child was uninjured and was in fact standing alive and well right there in front of him, covered in dirt from head to toe as one would expect, Volodya got himself under control.

His voice became even, his breath grew calm, the gleam of his glasses was no longer fierce, and his eyes weren’t shooting out bolts of lightning.

“Volodya’s telling the truth.

There’s no treasure,” said Yurka, confirming Volodya’s words.

“Yes there is! Maybe it’s not gold or jewels, but there is a treasure.

And I was looking for it.”

“Petya, I forbid you from going to the unfinished barracks.

It’s dangerous there.

If you so much as poke your nose out there again, I won’t let you go to the river for the rest of session.

Is that clear?”

“You’re the ones who tricked us, but now I can’t go to the river.

That’s not fair!” said Pcholkin, offended.

“You can still go to the river.

I’ll let you off this one time.

But don’t you go near the unfinished barracks again,” ordered Volodya.

Then he turned sharply on Yurka and asked suspiciously, “But what were you doing there?”

“Just hanging around,” he mumbled.

The unlit cigarette was burning a hole in his pocket.

Pcholkin smiled knowingly.

Yurka’s conscience started bothering him.

What kind of example was he giving Pcholkin? If he didn’t tell Volodya the truth, then he’d be lying.

“I was smoking,” he admitted.

He saw Volodya set his finger on the bridge of his glasses and adjust them.

He ducked his head.

“Here it comes ...” But contrary to Yurka’s expectations, Volodya didn’t start reading him the riot act.

All he did was throw up his hands in frustration and mumble, exhausted, “Et tu Brute ...

Come on, Yura, how could you do that? You’re in camp.

Aren’t you ashamed to do that in front of the children?”

“I am ashamed.

I won’t do it again.

Pioneer’s honor.”

Yurka could tell that if it hadn’t been for Pcholkin, the troop leader would’ve cursed him up one side and down the other, but as it was, it looked like he was going to get off easy.

Volodya was bawling him out, but it seemed to be for show: “You’re not foisting your ‘Pioneer’s honor’ off on me.

Give me your own word, on your own honor.”

“I give you my word, on my honor.” Yurka nodded, chastened.

“Okay, then,” said Volodya, although he was still frowning.

“Okay, Konev.

But don’t even try breaking my trust.

Pcholkin, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Octoberist’s honor, I won’t go to the unfinished barracks anymore.”

Volodya shook his head and scoffed gently.

“Oh, you two.

What will I do with you?”

Yurka remembered that he wanted to tell Volodya about the chance for him and Ira Petrovna to make up, but just then the three Pukes bustled over.

“What are you doing here? Did you come over to say the costumes are ready?” Yurka asked maliciously, while ignoring Pcholkin, who was pulling at his arm, clearly impatient for Yurka to sing the promised song.

Polina said hesitantly, “Um ...

yeah ...” as she shot a look at Volodya.

“Well, not exactly,” Ulyana admitted.

“No,” Ksyusha summarized.

Just then the camp director walked over.

“Ahem,” he apologized.

“Hello, Pal Palych!” they all greeted him in unison.

After he called Volodya away, Pcholkin began nagging Yurka: “Come on, Yura, come on, let’s have it.

You promised, so come on!”

Without answering him, Yurka began glumly:

“The Ivanov graveyard is sleeping,

An icy mist blankets its ground;

But the dear little dead in its keeping

Woke up and are walking around.”

The next part was a little more fun:

“Come see me in my grave, come see me in my home,

Just come and see me, dear, we’ll have a singalong,

Just come and see me, dear, we’ll rot away together,

And the wiggly ol’ worms will love us forever.”

And then glum again:

“You’ll press your yellowed bones close,

You’ll kiss my skull tenderly ...”

“That’s not the right one!” protested Pcholkin indignantly.

“It’s the one about ‘The cold wind howls in the graveyard, something something forty below, an old man sits in the graveyard, something something down below ...’ You know it! And then the gravedigger gets diarrhea, and the corpse crawls up out of his coffin and yells at him!”

Yurka sighed.

“Fine.” And he began reciting it.

Yurka knew the poem, of course.

And Pcholkin knew it.

Everybody knew it.

And everybody was pretty darn tired of it.

It’s just that Pcholkin was obviously getting a kick out of seeing a grown-up recite it.

Once Petya had heard his fill and stopped pestering him, Yurka saw that the camp director had let Volodya go.

Volodya was standing there looking around for someone.

Yurka ran over to him to tell him about Ira, but first he inquired, “What did Palych want?”

“He wanted to apologize.

He couldn’t do it in front of everyone.

It seems he’s the quiet type when he’s not yelling profanity in your face.”

“He cussed you out?” Yurka figured he must’ve misheard.

It wasn’t possible that Pal Palych, the camp director, was capable of something like that.

But evidently he was.

“He did.

Piled it on, an hour ago, in front of the kids.

Great pedagogy there, huh? What kids are going to listen to a troop leader after the director yells at him in front of them?”

“Well, he’s just a—”

“Watch your mouth! There are children here!” barked Volodya angrily.

But now Yurka knew why he was so irritable and didn’t take it personally.

And there were indeed four girls from Troop Five next to them, shouting a tongue-twister at the top of their lungs: “ONCE THERE WERE THREE HANDSOME brOTHERS: YAK ...”

Yurka frowned.

“Why was he yelling at you?”

“...

YAK-TSEEDRAK, AND YAK-TSEEDRAK-TSEEDRAK-TSEEDRONY ...”

“Because of the show.

Camp Barn Swallow Day is on Friday, but we don’t have a single thing ready for it.

It wasn’t so much about a thing as about a person, though ...”

“...

ONCE THERE WERE THREE LOVELY SISTERS ...”

“Was it me?” asked Yurka, horrified.

“Not you ...

another inmate ...”

“Who?”

“Guess.”

“...

TSEEPA, TSEEPA-DREEPA, AND TSEEPA-DREEPA-DREEPAMPONI ...”

“Pcholkin?”

“You got it.”

“What a pest.

So what’s up, is there just no way to keep him under control?”

“He’s the director’s nephew.

Any other questions?”

“...

THEN ALL THREE BOYS WED ALL THREE GIRLS: YAK AND TSEEPA, YAK-TSEEDRAK AND TSEEPA-DREEPA, YAK-TSEEDRAK-TSEEDRAK-TSEEDRONY AND TSEEPA-DREEPA-DREEPAMPONI ...”

“Can we step away?” begged Volodya.

They moved off a little to where it was more calm and quiet.

The girls shouting their tongue-twister had made Yurka forget what it was he’d been waiting to tell Volodya.

As he tried to remember it, he blurted out the first thing he could think of: “Why doesn’t that Pcholkin come to drama club?”

“He’s busy then.

That’s when he’s in the model airplane club breaking model planes.”

“A future construction engineer?”

“A current destruction engineer.”

“Oh, just like Alyosha Matveyev! Except Matveyev’s not the one who broke the lights.

It was me.

If it had been him, they’d have given him a reprimand! But I get threats!”

“Learn to do evil with an innocent smile on your face.”

“Good advice.

Hard to believe it came from a Komsomol member.”

Volodya winked and said, “Okay, all joking aside: Palych warned me that tomorrow he and Olga Leonidovna are coming to rehearsal to see how the show is coming along.

So, Yura, we’ve got to get that script finished today, even if it kills us.

I’ve got a million things to do.

Can you rewrite it without me? Does that work?”

“Sure.

Sure I can,” said Yurka slowly.

“Then you should get away from this oral folk art over here.” Volodya indicated the girls, who were already re-wedding Yak and Tseepa, Yak-Tseedrak and Tseepa-Dreepa, and so on.

Soon, Yurka knew, all the couples would start having children.

“Go somewhere calmer, like your cabin.

You’ll get more done where it’s quiet.”

“Okay, sounds good,” Yurka replied quickly.

“Yura, you’re a man among men! Thank you! You’re excused from rehearsal,” Volodya said, then turned and headed off, calling back over his shoulder, “Meet me at the merry-go-round this evening if you need anything ...”

“Volod! Hey, Volod!” Yurka caught up with him.

“Wait.

I just remembered: I convinced Ira to have a talk with you.

Go find her today and make up with her, okay?”

“She didn’t think it was weird for you to be the one to ask her about it?” Volodya clearly didn’t like that.

Although Volodya might have said thank you, instead of turning up his nose ...

“All I asked was for her not to avoid talking to you,” said Yurka, offended.

“Well ...

okay ...

,” said Volodya, preoccupied.

He looked around as though searching for Ira but found Masha instead.

“Oh, Masha! Masha, hi! If you’re not busy, could you come over here?”

Masha raced over, smiling so happily, it was as though she’d been waiting all day for the invitation.

She said eagerly, “Yes, yes, I’m not busy!” but then, self-conscious, blushed.

Volodya nodded to Yurka, and he and Masha walked over to Lena so Volodya could transfer responsibility for the children to her for a while.

Everything would have been fine except for one gesture Volodya made that caught Yurka’s eye: as soon as Masha had run up to him, Volodya touched her shoulder in a way that was a little too friendly.

The gesture was seemingly innocent and didn’t mean anything special, but still, Yurka thought with distaste, All he has to do is whistle and she comes running, perky as can be.

In the meantime he, Yurka, had been tasked with rewriting the text all by himself, as though his presence would somehow bother Volodya.

All this made Yurka a little unsettled.

But as soon as he got to his cabin, Yurka sat down to get some work done, and his vague misgivings dissipated immediately: he really did work very well in the quiet.

How had Volodya put it? Oh, right: he’d get more done.