Everything Begins In Childhood

Chapter 22. Once in the Evening

It was the day before that evening, which I thoroughly enjoyed. And the evening was simply wonderful.

At first, I sat drawing on the veranda. After placing a sheet of paper on the windowsill, I began to draw snowflakes. I was using a thick red pencil with a soft waxy core. It was a wonderful imported pencil. The snowflakes turned out so beautiful.

“What are you doing there?”

It was Dima calling to me from outside.

Our verandas shared a common wall so Dima, who lived in entrance number six, was my closest neighbor. That was why we were almost friends, even though Dima was three years older than I. Besides, he had reason to act important – his father was an officer.

“Look,” I said proudly, showing Dima my artwork. I had to bend over and lean out of the window frame. “Look how beautiful it is. Do you know why the color is so bright? It’s because I moistened the pencil with saliva.”

My achievements in the field of fine arts didn’t impress Dima. Quite the contrary, he grimaced as if he had seen something disgusting.

“Aren’t there better things to do? The weather’s so nice. Let’s go play officers.”

The weather was really splendid. It was autumn. My first summer vacation had recently ended. The unbearably hot summer days were also over. The sun no longer scorched from its zenith. Its light was mild and gently embraced everything. It was certainly a day to be outdoors.

I sighed. Mama was working the second shift, Papa was due back home at eight, and it was close to five now. That meant I would have to stay locked in the apartment for three more hours. Emma and I were forbidden to go outside when out parents weren’t home.

“I don’t have the keys,” I informed Dima sadly. “And Mama locked the lower lock.”

“What floor do you live on? Have you forgotten?”

Of course, I hadn’t forgotten. I had climbed out the veranda window many times; it wasn’t difficult. Something else was bothering me – how was I to deal with Emma? She was also at home. Of course, nothing would happen to her. She could stay home by herself. She was a big girl. But the little tattletale would tell our parents about it.

I stood on the veranda pondering the situation. Kids’ voices and laughter could be heard from the street. They were getting ready for the game.

“Well? C’mon!” Dima urged me.

So I made up my mind. After casting a furtive glance at the door of the room, I put my leg over the window frame. Dima stood by, raising his arms. At that moment, Emma darted out onto the veranda.

“I’ll tell Mama everything! I’ll tell her!” she yelled, hopping around. Her short dress inflated like a little parachute, her curls bounced, her eyes sparkled. It’s amazing – why do girls enjoy tattling so much?

Hanging onto the window frame outside the window, I shook my fist at my sister and jumped down. Let her yell for a while; she would soon get tired.

I fumbled around in the bushes near the vegetable garden and extracted a good, well-polished stick, straight and with no hidden splinters, exactly what was needed for playing officers.

Not far from the entrance, on a site beyond the sidewalk, everything was ready for the game. Seven parallel lines, approximately two meters from each other, had been drawn precisely and clearly. The first one was marked “Soldier,” and each subsequent line was marked with the next military rank, ending with General. The goal of the game was to reach the highest rank. There was a tin can placed on bricks in front of the General line. If you knocked it off with your stick and returned uninjured from the battlefield, you attained the next rank. Boys are real masters at devising complicated military games. Battered knees, bruises and other injuries don’t scare anyone. They only bring fame.

Ten boys from our building and the neighboring one lined up on the Soldier line. We had to select a guard whose job was to protect the tin can. He was an important figure, a dangerous opponent to those fighting for higher rank. And he was selected the same way, by knocking the can off. The one who knocked it off immediately avoided the hard and unpopular role of guard.

“I’ll knock it off with my first throw!” My pal Vitya Smirnov took aim. Holding his stick, he drew his arm back… and threw. No, he was not up to it. The stick flopped onto the ground two meters short of the tin can. Poor Vitya was very annoyed. The farther a stick was from the target, the greater chance one had of becoming the guard, and no one wanted to be the guard.

“Look out!” Oparin roared. He failed to knock the can over, but his stick fell closer to the target. Vitya’s shot was the least successful out of the ten, so he had to take his post at the tin can.

And then the battle broke out.

We all lined up at the starting point on the Soldier line. Stick after stick was thrown, but the can remained on the bricks, as if bewitched. That time, I was lucky. Beside myself with delight, I watched as the can flew about seven meters from the bricks, but I had no time to enjoy it. All the boys darted forward with wild cries, overtaking me. “Hurray, hurray!” Now, each of us had to retrieve his stick before the guard could return the can to its place. Anyone who failed to do so would be in trouble, because as soon as the can was in place, the “close combat” would begin. Vitya Smirnov was leaping around the can and, like a pack of wolves, we surrounded him. His task in this combat was to graze at least one of us with his stick. Retrieving one’s stick was quite a feat! If Vitya managed to graze someone with his stick and then knock the can off, he would be the winner. The one who was grazed would become the guard. Our objective was to dodge, avoid being grazed, and knock down the can, leaving Vitya at his post as guard.

The close combat was a picturesque and noisy show. It might seem to passersby who were unfamiliar with the game that we were having a real brawl and that they should let our parents know about it or even inform the police. As we got carried away, we screamed like madmen and brandished our sticks so hard that we brushed them against each other, screamed in pain, swore at each other, crossed our sticks and raised columns of dust.

“Hey, Kolya, be bold!” Oparin yelled at Kolya Kulikov.

“What a goat you are, Sturgeon! Protect me when I attack!” Sipa instructed his partner Server, nicknamed Sturgeon.

“Where are you aiming your stick, you macaque! It should be between the legs!” Server, in turn, reproached Edem, the third member of their unit.

Listening from a distance, one might think that different types of animals who had mastered human speech were shouting to one another – sturgeons, goats, macaques. Who said there was no zoo in Chirchik? Of course, there was, and the most diverse in the whole of Asia.