Page 6

After growing closer to Volodya, Yurka began enjoying the theater more, too. Although the place had bored him at first, it became special to him after a couple of rehearsals. It was fun there, and comfortable, and Yurka felt he was a full-fledged member of the team. Even though they hadn’t found a part for him yet, Volodya still found ways for Yurka to feel useful, like helping keep an eye on the kids or giving advice on the script and the distribution of parts. And Volodya listened to him. Yurka was flattered.

He had begun to genuinely like Volodya, although Yurka couldn’t quite wrap his head around it when he thought about what that word, “like,” actually meant. It sounded strange. Because he kept thinking about how it could mean something more like attraction, or being in love, not what he felt for Volodya. Since he had no clue how to explain this feeling to himself, he settled for calling it “a desire to be friends,” even “a very strong desire to be friends.” Nothing like this had ever happened to Yurka before. This was the first time he’d looked at another boy that way, with special interest, and with a sense of jealous rivalry. Moreover—and this was what was really surprising—his rival wasn’t Volodya but the girls. They were his rivals for Volodya’s attention.

The process of getting the show up and running was moving slowly, but it was definitely moving. At the third rehearsal they announced who would play the four main parts, but many of the secondary parts were still an open question because there weren’t enough actors. For some reason, not that many boys had wanted to be in drama club.

The lead role of Zina Portnova was given to Nastya Milkova, a Pioneer from Troop Two, the second-oldest troop. She read her lines beautifully and even looked like Zina: short, and with the same dark hair and big brown eyes. But unlike Zina, Nastya wasn’t brave. Nastya was very nervous when she said her lines, getting so agitated that a red flush spread not only over her face but also down her arms and hands. The part of Galya, Zina’s little sister, was to be performed by little redheaded Alyona from Volodya’s troop. The part of Ilya Yezavitov ended up going to Olezhka after all. Even though Volodya still had his doubts, there was no way he could get out of it by “picking who was best”; despite Olezhka’s problematic r ’s, he still read the lines far better than anyone else. And he tried really hard. The part of Ilya’s brother, Zhenya Yezavitov, was assigned to Vaska Petlitsyn. He was still a little trouble magnet and mischief-maker, but he quickly got into the part and played it very well.

Ulyana secured the part of Fruza Zenkova, leader of the Young Avengers, but from the way Volodya looked at her it was becoming clear he was very dissatisfied with her acting. Polina, on the other hand, was immediately confirmed as the narrator, and her voice-over narration was excellent. The request of the third member of the trinity, Ksyusha, had been heard and granted back at the first rehearsal. She was very proud of her title of costumer, even though she hadn’t sewn a costume or even made a pattern yet. Masha, for lack of anyone better, was selected as the pianist—even though, as far as Yurka could tell, she only knew how to play one thing, the Moonlight Sonata. Although the camp had sound equipment, Volodya insisted on “live” accompaniment, pointing out that thirty years ago the show had been accompanied by live music, specifically live piano music.

The actors were still struggling with the script, but for the third rehearsal, it wasn’t bad. Even so, Volodya couldn’t stop worrying about the parts that weren’t yet filled: the Portnova sisters’ grandmother, two girls and a boy in the Young Avengers, several Germans, and soldiers and villagers for the group scenes.

“So,” Volodya said, lowering his notebook from in front of his face. “Are all the Young Avengers here? Or at least the ones we have so far?”

At his request, Nastya, Alyona, Olezha, and Vaska got into a row onstage. Ulyana sat down at the table onstage.

“Excellent.” The artistic director nodded. “Everybody, listen up, especially the Young Avengers. Remember, people, this show isn’t just about Zina but about you. You are the main core of the action and the focus will be on you throughout the entire story. I’m going to give you the general outline of the story, so pay attention and don’t let us down. All right. You are members of an underground organization. You are heroes. Moreover, you are young heroes, because, as we all know, the Young Avengers weren’t much older than Yura, Masha, Ksyusha, and the rest of you. This makes their feat even greater.” Upon being relegated to “the rest of you,” Polina and Ulyana scowled and muttered to each other. Volodya didn’t hear them and went on: “The children of that time weren’t like us. Their parents had fought and won the Civil War a generation earlier, and now the kids wanted to fight, too, in their turn, and even found ways to do it. We are frivolous. They weren’t. So be aware that I will not tolerate carelessness. Petlitsyn, are you listening to me?”

Volodya gave Vaska such a severe look that the little boy’s eyes went wide. “Y-yeees?” he replied hesitantly.

“Are you listening closely?”

“Very!”

“Repeat what I just said,” ordered Volodya, continuing to torment him, and with good reason, since last time Vaska had goofed around so much, they’d almost had to stop rehearsal.

Petlitsyn heaved a gloomy sigh, then, with a wry expression, rattled out: “We’re partisans! We want to go to war! And you won’t tolerate carelessness! And stuff like that ...”

“Take this more seriously, Petlitsyn! We’re not putting on a comedy here.”

“All right, fine ...”

Volodya shook his head ruefully. He obviously wasn’t satisfied, but he couldn’t waste the whole group’s time dealing with just Petlitsyn. So the artistic director got down to business: “Is everyone ready? Hey, Yur, where’s the map? Come on, spread it out on the table, quick.”

The round table was set a little to the left of center stage. The kids had furnished a space around it with benches and random household items like suitcases, clothes, dishes, and even a samovar—in other words, the items in an average peasant hut. This was the headquarters of the Young Avengers.

“Comrade commander in chief, sir ! The map is on the table, sir !” Yurka reported, then took his seat in the first row of the audience next to Volodya.

Volodya heaved a short sigh of aggravation, then clicked his tongue. “I don’t like that peasant hut. Needs more flags and posters.”

“More?” Yurka snorted and began counting them off: “We’ve got DEATH TO FASCIST SWINE; THE MOTHERLAND IS CALLING; WE WON’T SURRENDER OCTOBER’S GAINS ... Isn’t that enough? And it’s still early to be thinking about the set ...”

“No, it’s not. This is exactly the time to be thinking about it! If we can’t find what we need, we’ll have to make it ourselves.”

“Look, Volod—that’s not logical. They’re underground fighters! Your average underground fighter’s not going to have all this political-agitational stuff around the hut, much less hang it all over his headquarters! They’re on occupied territory, Fascists are everywhere: they can’t move without seeing some dumb Fascist fu—uh, sucker ...”

Volodya exploded to his feet. He hissed furiously, without even giving Yurka a chance to finish his sentence, and drew himself up, ready to either start a screaming match or give Yura a slap in the face—but then chubby little Sashka insinuated himself between the two boys.

“What? How did you get here?!” said Volodya, completely taken aback.

“I walked,” squeaked the boy guilelessly. “Volodya, why is Petlitsyn playing Zhenya Yezavitov? I was supposed to be him ...”

“Because you and your side trips and hooky-playing, Sashka, haven’t left me any choice,” the artistic director replied sternly.

“Well, can I be Nikolay Alexeyev, then?”

“No. That part’s for a boy of around twelve.”

“So what am I supposed to do now?”

“You are very good at lying around moaning, Sasha ...” Volodya said thoughtfully.

Everyone giggled, remembering how Sashka had sprawled on the ground, limbs akimbo, like an empty sack. The artistic director was the only one to remain serious: “You’ll play a dying Fascist in the part where the Young Avengers blow up the railroad pumping station.”

“But—”

“But you’ll be the main one, Sash!” Volodya cleared his throat, scratched the bridge of his nose, and pushed his glasses back up with his forefinger. “Okay, let’s move on. The Young Avengers are standing around the table, looking at a map as they plan an act of sabotage. Nastya, go ahead. Start with the line about the enemy troop train on the railroad ...”

After rehearsal had finished and the children had gone back to their troops, Yurka was finally alone with Volodya. He let out what he’d been thinking about since the very first rehearsal: “I know the Moonlight Sonata’s the only thing Masha knows how to play, but it doesn’t fit here.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Volodya objected. “The sonata’s excellent for the background.”

“No it’s not!” Yurka jumped up from his seat and blurted out in a single breath: “Volodya, what romantic lyricism can there be in a patriotic show? Do you know what the Moonlight Sonata even is? It’s a nocturne, it’s concentrated sadness, there’s so much love in it and at the same time so much misery that trying to force it into the background of a show about partisans is just ... it’s just ... it’s not right!”

After delivering this tirade in one unbroken stream, Yurka deflated, falling back into his seat. Volodya stared at him, one brow raised in surprise, but left the emotional tirade without comment. He merely asked: “So what do you suggest?”

“Beethoven’s ‘Appassionata.’ Wait, don’t argue. Let me explain. First of all, it’s Lenin’s favorite piece of music. And secondly—”

“But it’s hard. Who can play it?”

“Masha!” Yurka exclaimed. But a moment later he realized Volodya was right: nobody at camp could play the “Appassionata,” not even Yurka. “Okay, fine. Play the ‘Internationale’ instead.”

“As a tribute to Musya Pinkenzon?”

“Yep,” confirmed Yurka, happy they had both thought of the story of the eleven-year-old violinist, who was famous because while the Nazis were preparing to execute him and his family, he’d started boldly playing the Socialist anthem, the “Internationale,” and had been shot dead on the spot.

“That’s a good idea, I’ll suggest it to Masha. But the ‘Internationale’ is an anthem, after all; it’s stirring, triumphant. Doesn’t work for background. Let’s just stick with the Moonlight Sonata as the background music for now, okay?”

“But that’s what I’ve been saying, is that it doesn’t work for that! You don’t begin with a nocturne! You don’t start out with a theme of eternal rest for the departed!” Yurka drew in a deep breath, preparing to release another machine-gun volley of his thoughts on the Moonlight Sonata, but he was interrupted.

The porch creaked, the door to the movie theater banged open, and an enraged Ira Petrovna appeared in the doorway. Yurka had never seen her like this: her eyes flashed, her mouth was a mean, crooked line, and her cheeks were red-hot.

“Konev! I don’t know what you were trying to accomplish here, but you did it. Congratulations!”

Ira was burning with rage. She shouted so loud as she came down the steps toward him that Yurka’s heart jumped into his throat. The next emotion he felt after his fright was anger: she was trying to blame him for something again!

“What have I done now?” Yurka took a step toward Ira.

She stopped in the central aisle. Yurka walked up the aisle and stopped in front of her. Staring right into Ira’s eyes, Yurka was about to kick one of the seats as hard as he could, to release at least a little of the anger boiling inside him. But Volodya came up out of nowhere to stand beside him and wordlessly lay a hand on his shoulder.

Ira was raging. “Konev, where did you sneak off to all night? Why didn’t Masha come back to the troop cabin until it was almost morning? What were you doing to her?”

“But I came back before that!”

At this, Volodya turned to Ira and spoke up. “Ira, let’s take it slow and figure things out. What did he do?”

“Why don’t you quit poking your nose into other people’s business, Volodya! Here you are defending him at staff meetings when he’s molesting our girls!”

At hearing this from Ira Petrovna, Yurka’s eyebrows shot up and he froze in shock. Volodya croaked out a hoarse whisper: “What?”

Ira remained silent.

As soon as he found his tongue again, Yurka shouted, “I’m so sick of Masha! I wasn’t doing anything to her! She’s got some nerve, saying stuff like that!” He was about to throw in some curses for good measure but broke off, flabbergasted, as the meaning of what he’d heard finally sank in: Volodya’s defending me?! Heedless of Ira Petrovna’s angry, shouted retort, he stared at Volodya and blinked stupidly. His desire to break something into smithereens evaporated.

But Ira was still in full swing: “The best girl in the troop! She’s this close to getting into the Komsomol! But as soon as she takes up with you, here we go: her work’s sloppy, she sleeps through morning calisthenics, she sneaks out of—”

Volodya interrupted her. “Okay. Stop. Irin, are you trying to tell me that Masha wasn’t in her troop cabin last night?”

“Yes!”

“And because Yura wasn’t there either, you think he was with her?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“And did anybody see them together?”

“No, but it’s obvious!”

The “obvious” was what finally made Yurka lose it. Incapable of swallowing that bitter pill, he kicked at one of the seats. The seat cushion popped off and fell to the floor. Nobody but the troublemaker himself paid any attention.

“What could be obvious to you, though? Yurka was with me!” Volodya was beginning to get mad.

“You’re just covering for him again, but he’s taking the best girl Pioneer in the troop and—” Then Ira used such a dirty word that Yurka froze in shock.

“I’m telling you again: Konev was with me!” Volodya snapped.

“Don’t lie to me! He was not! I know because I walked around your cabin and there were no lights on!” Ira spat triumphantly. “Well now, Volodya! I never expected this from you! Whereas you, Konev: I’ve taken a lot from you, but this is the limit! Tomorrow I’m going to formally request your expul—”

“Ira. Hold on.” Volodya spoke in low tones, trying to bring her back to reason. “Yura really was with me and the boys from my troop. If you need witnesses, we have plenty. And anyway, why are you beginning an inquiry here? Why not at the staff meeting?”

“Because I just now found out!”

“But what the hell was Masha doing staying out all night?” cut in Yurka. “And why are you chewing me out, but not her? Why doesn’t she get in trouble for it?”

“Because you ... because she ...”

“Because you’re used to Yura always being your whipping boy!” exploded Volodya. “And why are you so worried about him, not Masha? Why are you so fixated on him? Are you in love with him or something?!”

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks. Volodya glared malevolently. Yurka sat hard on the seat he’d just broken, barely keeping from falling down. Ira Petrovna pressed her lips together into a thin line as she went pale and started trembling. Anybody with eyes could see the seething rage inside her would burst out any second in a flood of tears—or curses. But the troop leader held herself in check. She pressed her lips together so hard they started turning blue, then she spun on her heel and walked out without a word.

Volodya clenched his hands into fists and sat on the seat next to Yurka, who asked quietly, “So what do you think? Is this it for me?”

Volodya shook his head. “Just let her try saying something at the staff meeting! I’ll put her in her place ... This is beyond the pale! What kind of troop leader is she if she doesn’t even know what’s going on in her own troop?”

Yurka’s heart filled with a sort of inexpressible lightness. “Thank you, Volod,” he said, imbuing the words with as much gratitude as he could possibly express.

“Only question is where the hell Masha got off to?” Volodya said slowly, instead of answering.

As they walked from the theater to the mess hall, Yurka’s mind shifted far away from Ira and Masha until he was thinking only about his empty, growling stomach. In contrast, Volodya was still grumbling: “Yura, you have to remember to get Irina’s permission to leave ... ‘Best girl Pioneer in the troop,’ my foot ... ‘Best girl Pioneers’ should go to sleep at night, not go traipsing all over camp ...”

Hearing him, Yurka suddenly remembered: “Volod! While you were running the rehearsal, Petlitsyn tried to get me to get up in the middle of the night and go toothpaste the girls. I said no way, but then he went and talked to Sashka and Sashka nodded. I think they’re planning a sneak attack!”

Volodya stopped short: “Petlitsyn? But he’s from Troop Two, and Sashka’s in Troop Five! What does he care about little kids like Sashka?”

“What do you mean, what’s he doing? It’s fun to get the little kids involved!”

“Nothing fun about it! It’s dangerous!”

“Oh, please, give me a break! Remember what it was like to be Petlitsyn’s age! And don’t act like you never tried to goad the younger campers into doing that kind of thing!”

“Actually, I didn’t, Yura. Nobody dared to play jokes on me, nor did I ever pick on anybody else. What about you? Don’t tell me you were some kind of hooligan?”

“A hooligan? Of course not!” lied Yurka without missing a beat. But in reality, oh, what nasty tricks he’d played, what awful things he’d done, whenever he found himself with far too much free time on his hands.

His mother had always told him, “Nature abhors a vacuum,” and Yurka had learned the truth of this the hard way.

When music disappeared from his life, the vacuum it left behind swallowed up all his emotions, leaving only anxiety and anger.

Without music, Yurka felt orphaned.

He’d tried to keep himself busy with something, anything, whatever would keep him from thinking about it.

He’d collected stamps, made model airplanes, soldered simple electronics, carved wood, set up an aquarium—but he had found it all bland and boring.

In search of any diversion that could fill music’s joyless absence, Yurka started spending time with the boys from his apartment building who hung out in the courtyard.

They were anything but boring.

And although they weren’t exactly hardened street toughs, they were definitely not the best influence on Yurka.

What good did it do him to learn how to do card tricks (and cheat at card games)? Or memorize a bunch of dirty songs and off-color couplets? Or waste time hanging around with his buddies in a building entryway, stealing light bulbs and covering the walls with a whole Talmud of bad words? Or set off several calcium carbide plastic bottle bombs and a couple of smoke bombs at school?

The kids from his building taught him less destructive pranks, too, of course.

And last year at camp, in just that one session, Yurka had managed to get almost all the little kids hooked on playing tricks on each other, to the point that something happened in every cabin every morning.

In one cabin, a victim would be tied down while still asleep, then be woken up by a gout of cold water he couldn’t escape; in another cabin, the perpetrators would sneak up to their sleeping victim and throw a sheet over his head, shouting “The ceiling’s caving in!” to make the victim scream like all get-out; in a third cabin, the troublemakers would hide behind the camp washstand, and while their victim was washing his face, they’d tie his shoelaces together so that once the victim tried to walk away, he’d fall flat on his face.

And who needs reminding of the “nighttime classics” like toothpasting sleeping campers, or putting cold, wet noodles under people’s pillows, or surreptitiously yanking on the curtains while somebody’s telling a scary story? The kids were scared out of their wits and had the time of their lives, but Yurka soon grew bored with even the most sophisticated practical jokes.

What had already gotten old for him last year was all the more stale now. And Volodya obviously got no joy from pranks himself. The troop leader’s expression was a conflicting jumble of bafflement, worry, and irritation as he said, “Well ... darn it ... I sure got stuck with some little scoundrels ...”

After supper, Volodya fished Yurka out of the mass of Pioneers leaving the mess hall.