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After the show the sky cleared. The clouds, which never had shed their rain, floated off to the east. The speakers poured out music all over the whole camp. Kind, good, lyrical children’s songs from movies and cartoons played all during lunch and after it, only going quiet right before the assembly to allow the head troop leader to give the command: “Campers, attention! To the ceremonial assembly dedicated to the closing of the session. Forward, march!”

The Pioneer troops, dressed up in their white shirts and red neckerchiefs and flight caps, formed into three columns and marched toward the main square. Two of Troop One’s columns were headed by girls: Ira Petrovna, happy and more beautiful than ever, and Masha, the troop commander. A task with a lot of responsibility—carrying the troop banner—was entrusted to Yurka, leading the third column.

Proud, with his hair combed, his clothing neat and tidy, and wearing white gloves, Yurka yearned to see Volodya as soon as possible: he’d never been given such an honor and he’d never been so proud of himself. He assumed his position at the assembly and focused on Troop Five, which was just now coming onto the square, bringing up the rear of the long chain of people. A pleasant warmth spread through his chest when he saw the touchingly agitated Olezhka, whose hands visibly shook as they held his troop banner. Yurka shifted his gaze to Alyona, who was unchildlike in her seriousness. She had played the little girl Galya Portnova in the show, but in real life she was commander of her troop. And then Yurka’s gaze rested for a very long time on Volodya’s serious and solemn face. Volodya saw him, raised his brows slightly, and smiled. Yurka gave a small nod in response.

Bright rays of sun pierced the occasional clouds, falling through the thick forest foliage and the leaves of Yurka’s apple tree and landing on the flag-bedecked main square. The bust of Zina Portnova, clean and white, looked down sternly from her pedestal at the Pioneers, assembled in a large arc. On the flagpole behind her the camp flag billowed proudly: a red barn swallow on an azure background. Overhead, in the clear sky, the little white puffs of parachutes slid slowly through the blue down to earth. Far in the distance, almost all the way to the horizon, the airplane that the parachutists had jumped out of was leaving a white trail that echoed the shape of the barn swallow’s wings on the flag.

“Campers, attention! Ready, front!” shouted the head troop leader. “At ease! Troop commanders, prepare to give your reports!”

Masha and the other troop commanders assumed their positions in front of the tribunal where Pal Palych and Olga Leonidovna stood and began taking turns stepping forward to give their reports.

Masha threw her hand up in the Pioneer salute. “Comrade chairman of the troop council! In preparation for the ceremonial closing assembly of Session Two of camp, Troop One is in formation!” Masha said loudly and clearly. “Reported by Troop One commander Sidorova, Mariya!”

The head troop leader gave the salute and replied, “Report accepted.”

After all the reports had been presented, the director gave a speech to open the ceremony.

Then it was Olga Leonidovna’s turn to speak.

She was far more genuine than she had been at the beginning of the session, but year in and year out she always wound up her speech with the same exact words: “The barn swallow is a bird that, like our Pioneers, comes back every year from wintering in warmer climates to return to its native nest ...”

Smiling, the educational specialist surveyed the campers with an unusually affectionate expression.

She was speaking to everyone, without exception, but Yurka knew better: he wouldn’t be coming here again.

There was the sound of a needle rustling on a record, and then from the speakers, scratchy and off-key, issued the melody every Soviet citizen learned as a child: the Pioneer anthem.

Every person there flung up a hand in the Pioneer salute.

Yurka watched the flag come down, bringing their session of camp to a close, as he and everyone else sang about campfires and midnight-blue skies.

He still thought the song was meaningless and pretentious, but now he realized something else: what was important about the anthem wasn’t the words.

Not at all.

What was important was that the act of singing the anthem was supposed to unite all of Camp Barn Swallow, everyone from great to small.

And everyone was indeed singing: the old (to Yurka) Communists, the younger Komsomol members, the school-age Pioneers, and the youngest Little Octoberists from Troop Five, along with their troop leader.

Volodya was standing facing Yurka, looking at him and smiling in a way that was tender but sad.

Yurka thought in passing that Volodya had forgotten how to smile without sadness.

Yurka’s eyes started welling up.

He was tired of thinking about parting.

He was tired of grieving.

His eyes were red and burning after his sleepless night.

His weariness and the tension from preparing for the show were making themselves felt.

The weather, in defiance of all sadness, was almost artificially clear and bright, but it didn’t make Yurka feel any better at all.

It was as though the weather was challenging him to relish his last day, as though it was telling him, Nothing like this will ever happen again.

That’s true, it won’t , agreed Yurka mentally.

He wouldn’t be going to Pioneer camp next summer.

He would never sing the anthem or put on that neckerchief again.

There was no telling how often Yurka had looked forward to wearing it for the last time.

The older he had gotten, the more he hated the thing.

The noose.

Yurka hadn’t felt proud of wearing his Pioneer neckerchief since middle school and had always tried to find a way to take it off as soon as he could, so everyone would think he was grown up.

But as soon as he really did grow up, everything turned upside down.

The day had come, the day he realized, with smothering sadness, that he had finally done what he’d wanted to do for so long: he’d grown up.

His childhood was over.

It hadn’t ended when Yurka stopped playing with his toys.

It hadn’t even ended when he’d encountered true injustice for the first time and let music be taken away from him.

His childhood had ended recently, this summer at Camp Barn Swallow, when he met Volodya.

Love had engulfed him, with all his thoughts and emotions, and it had overcome all his senses, to the extent that Yurka—Yurka, with his sharp ears!—hadn’t heard the heavy door of his childhood clanking into motion and crashing shut behind him.

Because childhood was a time when life was clear and simple, when there were set rules, when there was an answer for every why and what-if.

But Yurka had stopped being clear and simple to himself when he fell in love.

He’d encountered questions that no one could give him an answer for.

And he didn’t believe that anyone, not even his parents—not even doctors like the ones Volodya wanted to consult—could answer them.

Now, finally, he saw why grown-ups go back to Pioneer camps as troop leaders, why they sing the Pioneer anthem with all their hearts, why they proudly don their neckerchiefs and flight caps: it’s all so they can be, maybe not back in childhood again, but very, very close to it.

But Yurka would never be allowed to come back as a camper, since he was too old; nor would he be allowed to come back as a troop leader because of his record.

He would never come back again.

For the first time in five years he sang “The Pioneer’s Call: Always Be Prepared” absolutely sincerely.

The flag had come down.

The closing assembly was over.

The speakers poured out the tender, sad words of a song from Yurka’s favorite movie, Passenger from the Equator .

Yelena Kamburova sang the song, “Who Dreamed You Up, My Starry Land?,” as the troops of Camp Barn Swallow gathered in little knots of people.

Yurka turned his white gloves back in to Ira Petrovna and left his troop, heading toward his old hiding place by the unfinished barracks, where he still had an old pack with a few cigarettes left.

He looked around to see whether Masha or Pcholkin were following him again, but the Little Octoberists and Pioneers on the square were busy with other things.

He walked along the Avenue of Pioneer Heroes to the intersection where even from a distance he could see his beloved V inside the apple, whole and untouched. Yurka thought about that letter V , and then about that person V , and then—speak of the devil!—Volodya caught up to him.

“Yura!” he said as he approached, panting a little. “Where are you going?”

“I ...” Yurka faltered. He remembered he’d promised Volodya he wouldn’t smoke anymore. Then he remembered he’d already broken that promise. But now deceiving Volodya felt completely wrong, so he admitted, “I’m going to get some smokes from my hiding place.”

“Yura!” Volodya said accusingly. “But you—”

“I know! I know I promised not to smoke anymore. That’s why I’m going to get them now: I’m going to throw them away! Honest.”

Volodya nodded approvingly. “Well, then ... good job.” Then he suddenly switched topics: “It’s hard to believe we’re going our separate ways tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Yurka frowned. “Don’t. I don’t want to talk or think about it. Not at all.”

“Okay. Then I’ll get to the point. I just remembered how after the last-bell ceremony in high school, our class buried a message for future graduates under a tree in our schoolyard ...”

“A time capsule? What did you write?”

“We talked about our time, our goals, what we were doing to build Communism, what other people were doing. We charged those future readers to remember the feats accomplished by the Soviet people. But I don’t want to talk about the message from our class. Let’s leave our own. Want to?”

“For the future builders of Communism?”

“No,” laughed Volodya. “For ourselves, of course.”

“For our future selves?” Yurka grew animated. “That’ll be great! But I have no idea what to write.”

“It doesn’t even have to be a letter, it can just be things that remind us of important events ... For example, the script of the show, my notebook, our notes ... Help me figure out what else to put in it. We’ll stick it all in the capsule and then in say ten years we’ll meet here and open it. Think how interesting it’ll be to come back as completely grown-up people—you know, as people who’ve made their way in life—and hold things from the session we spent together at Camp Barn Swallow. What a good memory of this summer that’ll be!”

“Yes, something that was important to our ... our friendship ... important to us ...” Yurka pondered. Then he exclaimed, “The music! I can put the music for the Lullaby in it. Maybe all that will still be important in ten years.”

“Of course it will! Especially when you become a pianist. But you keep thinking about what to put in there, anyway. I’ve got to go.”

“But when do we bury it? Where?” asked Yurka, lowering his voice. They were alone on the avenue, but he was still anxious: What if somebody was in the bushes, spying on them? “Tonight? Let’s ditch the farewell bonfire, it’s going to be such a madhouse, nobody’ll notice we’re gone ...”

“Yes, during the bonfire’s probably best. I’m still buried in things to do,” Volodya replied in almost a whisper, emulating Yurka. “But we’d better not just disappear. I’ll try to ask permission to go, if I get a chance.”

“But where, Volod?”

“The willow,” he whispered. “We’ll go through the forest to get to the shallows.”

“It rained last night, the river’s probably higher.”

“Can you check? I’ve got to go now. We’ll meet at dinner. And make sure to bring things for the time capsule tonight.”

“I’ll remember,” Yurka promised happily.

How to pass the time? What to do to keep himself busy until evening? How to live until then? It wasn’t fair: time had become the most precious of all precious things to Yurka, but he had to waste it trying to distract himself with all kinds of nonsense—whatever would keep him from thinking about parting from Volodya.

It was still too early to pack his bag, and packing wouldn’t take more than half an hour, anyway.

Yurka hadn’t brought that much with him.

Should he take a walk around the camp and say goodbye to Camp Barn Swallow and then go check the river?

Yurka considered what to put in the time capsule as he headed out for his walk.

He looked around, trying to think, but as soon as his gaze landed on some spot or other that was painfully familiar, he’d lose his train of thought.

There was the movie theater, where so much had happened ...

There was the power shed, shaded by green thickets of lilac ...

There was the merry-go-round that had been drowning in white dandelion fluff but was now blanketed in yellow and green again ...

There were the athletic fields, now covered in people, some exchanging addresses, writing them in accordance with tradition right on each other’s Pioneer neckerchiefs in ballpoint pen, others sitting and hugging as they said their goodbyes.

Despite the crowd, it was unusually quiet for a Pioneer camp.

All the campers looked hushed and sad, and spoke softly, and walked instead of running.

They’re probably just saving their energy for the bonfire , Yurka thought.

But he was subdued from sadness, too.

Just one thing was making him edgy: he hadn’t seen Masha even once since the assembly ended.

He’d been looking around the whole time during his walk but he’d neither seen her distant silhouette nor heard her voice.

“What if she’s planning something?” Yurka whispered anxiously to himself. He kept walking.

There was music coming from the benches by the courts. It was the radio he and Volodya had taken on their hike. The radio was competing with the song coming out of the camp speakers as the Pukes, Mitka, Vanka, and Mikha all took turns turning the radio dial, trying to get rid of the static. Yurka ran his hand along the chain-link fence around the tennis court and then batted at it. The fence jangled. He thought back to the middle of the session, when he was angry at Volodya after their conversation about adult magazines.

The song “The Last Time,” from the Jolly Fellows album, came hissing and sputtering out of the radio, telling him how time would go by and lovers would forget each other. Yurka was already heartily sick of the song.

“Yura! Konev, get over here!” Polina called, waving her arms. “Let’s sign your neckerchief, too!”

Yurka considered it: Well, why not? Let him have something to remember them by! He took off his neckerchief and handed it to the girls. In exchange, they gave him theirs and lent him a pen.

Yurka wrote the same thing carelessly on each one, without bothering to figure out which neckerchief was whose: “Thanks for the best session in the whole of Camp Barn Swallow. Konev, Session Two, 1986.” But then his conscience got the better of him, because the girls were all writing carefully, putting some effort into thinking of what to say.

“What should I write, Pol?” Ksyusha asked.

“I wrote, ‘Wishing inspiration for our pianist!’”

“Then I’ll write, ‘To the best assistant troop leader. Keep it up!’”

Yurka felt abashed. He had noticed that over the course of the session the Pukes had changed a lot. Or maybe it was Yurka who had changed, and the girls had always been this way? All of a sudden he’d stopped thinking of them as snakes and scourges, or thought it a little less, anyway. Yurka suddenly had the idea of at least asking them what numbers their schools were, because after all they also went to school in Kharkiv. And he could ask Vanka and Mikha, too, and Mitka.

So he did.

“We go to thirteen,” the girls said almost in unison.

“Hey, and we’re in eighteen,” said Vanka happily. “That’s also in the Leninsky District! We’re not far from each other!”

“Really? That’s near the Southern Railway. We can get together and see each other! Do you have phones at home?”

Yurka was barely able to keep himself from giving a low whistle of surprise and admiration. Yes, those Pukes really had changed! Earlier they had turned up their noses at Vanka and Mikha, but now it looked like they were actually flirting.

“So, Yur, by the way ... you promised me a certain person’s address ... ,” said Ksyusha with a wink.

“What person’s?” interjected Mikha.

“Whose?” Vanka corrected him.

“Vishnevsky’s,” snorted Ulyana. Ksyusha scowled.

“Well, I ... I have it,” announced Mitka, clapping his pocket. “Right here. And, uh ... and his phone number, too,” he added, seeing the surprise on everyone’s faces.

Mitka had clearly gathered up all his courage for the last day of camp. As soon as he finished giving Ksyusha the address, he led Ulyana off to the side and whispered something to her that made her smile radiantly.

“Pol—look.” Ksyusha glanced over at Mitka and Ulyana, then winked slyly.

Yurka, anticipating some kind of rude jibe from Ksyusha, decided to show some male solidarity and distract her. But how? And then he realized: he could kill two birds with one stone.

“Hey, Ksyush, by the way—do you know where Masha is?”

Ksyusha smirked. “Why? Do you miss her already? Did you and she maybe have a little thing going?”

“What? Me and her?!” said Yurka, his temper flaring. “No way. Never!”

“Oh, sure. You’re just together all the time.”

“I’m only asking because I’m glad she’s not here. You have no idea how sick I am of her!”

“Yeah, right. Everyone can tell you’re—”

“We saw Masha over by where the final bonfire’s going to be,” Polina interrupted softly.

Despite the interruption, Ksyusha clearly had a mind to poke Yurka’s sore spot again: she narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth.

But she was interrupted again. From the athletic fields, where the Troop Five girls were playing badminton under Lena’s watchful eye, came a painfully familiar child’s voice: “You’we planning something naughty again, awen’t you!”

Well, that didn’t last long , thought Yurka. It’s like he never said that r yesterday!

Pcholkin was darting through the middle of the court, keeping the girls from playing and bumping into them, and Olezhka was chasing him.

“Hey! Yuwka!” Olezhka caught sight of Yurka and the group and ran over to them, almost crashing into Vanka. “Yuwka! I saw Pcholkin wunning off with matches fwom the kitchen!” The panting Olezhka looked very concerned.

But Pcholkin was long gone. And instead, an angry Lena was approaching, hands on hips and tailed by Sashka, who was chewing something.

“What happened now?” Lena asked Yurka.

He shrugged. “Olezhka says that Pcholkin stole matches from the kitchen and is planning some kind of sabotage again.”

Lena rolled her eyes and sighed. “That little scoundrel! I’m so sick of—” she began, then cut herself off. But seeing all the kids’ mischievous looks, she added, “He doesn’t even let me off easy on the last day!”

Yurka snorted. “He should study to be a construction engineer. He’s always building up to some kind of prank.”

“As long as he doesn’t blow himself up with whatever he does! Yur, could you maybe go find Volodya, please, and tell him? I have to stay here with the troop.”

“But where is he? Why are you alone with the kids?”

“He’s in the woods, helping get the final bonfire ready.”

Yurka didn’t want to go find him. There would be a lot of people there, too, and then that little spy Masha would probably be shadowing him ... So what was left for Yurka to do, then? Just look at him some more, like he’d been doing all these days? So that today, on the last day of session, he could finally just be tortured to death by thoughts of their parting? No. That would only make it harder for him. But he couldn’t refuse Lena, either!

“By the way ... why are all you great big lunks sitting here instead of helping the troop leaders get the bonfire ready?” said Lena, frowning.

She reminded Yurka so much of Ira Petrovna in a bad mood that Yurka was actually taken aback. He hadn’t known that Lena could also be stern like a typical troop leader.

“Nobody asked us,” mumbled Mikha lamely.

“Do we need to help?” said Vanka, surprised.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yurka noticed Mitka and Ulyana sidling into the bushes, trying to escape.

“You always need to help! Get over to that bonfire,” barked Lena. Then, after the group had moved some distance away, she shouted after them, “And tell Volodya about Pcholkin!”

Yurka resolved firmly that he was not going to help with the bonfire. He made his excuses to the rest of the kids and headed over to the path to the river. But then he gave in to a sudden impulse and went back to Olezhka, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and said, “You’ve done a really good job! I believe in you. You’re going to be an excellent Pioneer and then the best Komsomol member ever!”

A wide, proud smile spread across Olezhka’s face. He declared, “Thank you, Yuwka! And you’we going to be an excellent pianist! I believe in you, too! Pwomise you won’t quit playing music, and I’ll pwomise not to be lazy with my speech thewapist like I used to be. I’ll twy as hawd as I can!”

“Okay, I promise!”

“And I pwomise, too!”

Yurka winked at him, ruffled his hair, and headed for the river.