own the deserted street. The moon ran along beside me like a dog, stopping at each and every telegraph pole. The houses all had their shutters closed tight. How could people be sleeping at a time like this? After there had been a revolution! I felt like shouting a the top of my voice. Two rows of gleaming brass buttons were floating towards us. It was Seize'em The faithful moon and I turned and fled. The moon hid behind the poles and fences, while I tried to keep well within the shadows they cast. Alas! He had spotted me. "Stop! Stop, you scoundrel! Police!" he shrilled. But he had not called my name, and that meant he had not recognized me. I kept on running. The moon and Seize'em followed close behind. He was my enemy, but the moon was my ally. It darted behind a roof, the better to conceal me. I was mistaken. Seize'em had recognized me. The next day the following entry was made on my page in the Deportment Ledger: "Seen by the inspector out on the street after 7 p.m. Did not stop running despite having been ordered to." The moon was not mentioned. THE SOLDIER SAID: "AT EASE!" Oska and I escorted Annushka and her soldier-friend into the parlour an marched up and down, with Annushka's red kerchief tied to Papa's walking stick The soldier shouldered Oska's toy rifle and brandished it as we all sang: Up and down the mountains Did a schoolboy go, Shouting, "Down with that old tsar!" His red flag waving so. There was a wonderful smell of polished army boots in the parlour. My brother and I and the soldier had become the best of friends. He let each of us lick the paper of his home-rolled cigarette. Oska fidgeted as he sat on the soldier's lap. Finally, he said: "Who's strongest, a whale or an elephant? What if they have a fight? Which one'll win?" "I don't know. Tell me." "I don't know, either. And Papa doesn't know, and Uncle doesn't know. Nobody knows." We discussed the whale and elephant problem for a while. The soldier and I said the elephant would win, and just to be spiteful, Annushka said the whale would. Then the soldier went over to the piano, sat down on the stool and tried to sing The Marseillaise, accompanying himself by hitting one single note. Annushka finally realized it was way past our bedtime. "At ease!" the soldier said and we tramped off to bed. OSKA'S SELF-DETERMINATION Moonbeams had marked the floor of our room off into hopscotch squares. We might actually have played in them. But we were lying in our beds, talking about the revolution. I told Oska whatever I had learned from our uncle and also what I had read in the newspapers about the war, the workers, the tsar and the pogroms. Suddenly Oska said, "What's a Jew, Lelya?" "It's a kind of people. There are all kinds. Like Russians, Americans and Chinese. And Germans, and Frenchmen. And there are Jews, too." "Are we Jews? For real, or for make-believe? Give me your word of honour that we're Jews." "My word of honour we are." Oska was stunned by this discovery. He tossed about for quite some time. I was half-asleep when he whispered, trying not to wake me, "Lelya!" "What?" "Is Mamma a Jew, too?" "Yes. Go to sleep." As I drifted off to sleep I imagined myself speaking to the Latin teacher the next day and saying: "We've had enough of the old regime and being made to line up along the walls. You have no right to do that any more!" We slept. Papa and Mamma returned late that night. I woke up. As is often the case when people return late from visiting friends or the theatre, they were tired and irritable. "That was an excellent cake," Papa was saying. "We never have anything like it. I wonder where all the money goes?" I could hear Mamma's surprise at finding the butt of a home-rolled cigarette in the candle-holder on the piano. Papa went off to gargle. I heard the tinkle of the glass stopper hitting the water pitcher. Suddenly my father called my mother in a voice that was unusually loud for such a late hour. Mamma asked him something. He sounded happy and excited. They had found my note, telling them the great news. I had written it before going to bed and had stuck it in the mouth of the pitcher. They tiptoed into the nursery. Father sat down on the edge of my bed and put his arm around me. "You spell 'revolution' with an 'o', not an 'a'. Revolution. Ahh!" he said and tweaked my nose. Just then Oska woke up. He had apparently been thinking of his great discovery all the time, even in his sleep. "Mamma...." "It's late. Go back to sleep." "Mamma," he repeated, sitting up in bed, "is our cat a Jew, too?" " 'GOD SAVE THE TSAR...' PASS THIS ON" The next morning Annushka woke Oska and me up by singing: "Arise, ye workingmen, arise! Time for school!" The workingmen (Oska and I) jumped out of bed. During breakfast I remembered the Latin pronouns I should have learned by heart: hie, haec, hoc.... Oska and I left the house together. It was warm. It was thawing. The cabbies' horses shook their feedbags. Oska, as usual, thought they were nodding to him. He was a very polite boy, and so he stopped beside each and every horse, nodded to it and said, "Good morning, horsie!" The horses said nothing. The cabbies, who knew Oska by now, said good morning for them. One horse was drinking from a bucket. "Do you give him cocoa, too?" Oska wanted to know. I dashed off to school. Nobody knew a thing yet. I would be the first to tell them. I whipped off my coat, burst into the classroom and shouted as I swung my satchel: "Fellows! The tsar's been overthrowed!" There was a moment of stunned silence. Seize'em whom I had not noticed, had a fit of coughing and turned red in the face. He began shouting: "Are you crazy? I'll see to you later! Hurry! Time for chapel! Line up in pairs." But the boys surrounded me. They jostled each other and snowed me under with questions. The corridor rang from the sound of marching feet. The boys were being lined up for morning prayers. The principal, as dried-up, stiff and solemn as ever, strode along the corridor, his well-pressed legs flashing. The brass buckles jangled. The priest, as black in his cassock as an ink-blot in a penmanship notebook, put on his chasuble. The service began. We stood there whispering. The long grey lines were restless. Everyone seemed to be whispering. "There's been a revolution in Petrograd." "Is that up on top of the map, where the Baltic Sea is?" "Yes. It's a big circle. You'd even find it on a blank map." "The history teacher said there's a statue of Peter the Great there. And the houses are bigger than churches." "I wonder what a revolution's like?" "It's like the one in 1905 when we were at war with Japan. People demonstrated in the streets, and they had red flags, and the Cossacks and the police used their whips on them. And they shot them, too." "What rats!" "Golly, we're going to have a written test today. I'll probably get another 'D'. Ah, who cares!" "Our Father who art in Heaven...." "That takes care of the tsar. They sure got rid of him. It serves him right! Why'd he get us into the war?" "Shut up! D'you think there'll be less homework now?" "...For ever and ever. Amen." "What grade's the heir in? I'll bet he never gets anything but 'A's'. He has nothing to worry about. No teacher'll ever give him a hard time." "Don't worry. Things'11 change now. He'll get his fair share of 'D's', too. It's about time he finds out what it's all about!" "Wait! What's the genitive plural? Never mind, I'll copy it off someone." A note was being passed along the rows. It had been written by Stepan Atlantis. (Later the note and Atlantis' name were both entered in the Ledger.) It read: "Don't sing 'God save the tsar'. Pass this on." "Today's chapter is from the Gospel according to Saint Luke." A shy, freckle-faced third year boy read the parable in a faltering voice. The inspector prompted him, reading over his shoulder. The concluding prayer followed: "...for the solace of our parents and the glory of our Church and Fatherland." Now, in just another moment! We all tensed. The "ruling classes" cleared their throats. Harrumph! The small, long-haired precentor of Trinity Church honked loudly as he blew his nose. At this a purple vein that resembled a big fat worm bulged in his scrawny neck. We always expected it to burst. The precentor stuffed his coloured handkerchief back into his back pocket through the slit in his worn, shiny frock coat. The tuning fork in his right hand seemed to fly up. A high metallic "ping" floated above the stuffy corridor. He fixed his greasy starched collar, extracted his skinny, plucked-looking neck from it, drew his little eyebrows together and sounded the key in a languorous voice: "Laa.... Laa-aa." We waited. The precentor rose up on tiptoe. His arms swooped up, raising us in song. He began to sing in a high-pitched, screechy voice that sounded like a finger being run down a window-pane: "God save the tsar...." The boys were silent. Two or three hesitant voices joined in. Hefty, who was standing behind the singers, said, as if he were making a mental note of it: "Well, well...." The voices wilted. Meanwhile, the precentor faced the silent choir and waved his arms wildly. His sugary voice squawked: "Mighty ... and powerful, reign...." We could contain our laughter no longer. It rose as a great squall. The teachers tried hard not to join us. The long corridor resounded with rolling peals of laughter. The inspector chuckled. Seize'em's stomach jiggled. The first-year boys shrieked and giggled. The towering overgrown boys bellowed. The janitor snickered. "Ha-ha ... ho-ho ... ho-ho-ho ... he-he-he ... ah-ha-ha...." The one exception was the principal. He was as straight and stiff as ever, though paler than usual. "Silence!" he said and stamped his foot. Everything seemed squashed into silence beneath his gleaming boot. At this point Mitya Lamberg, a senior and leader among the older boys, shouted: "Quiet! I don't have a very strong voice." And he started singing The Marseillaise. "ON THE BARRICADES" I was standing on my desk, making a speech. Two boys appeared from behind the brick stove at the far end of the room. It was the shopkeeper's son Baldin and the police officer's son Lizarsky. They always stuck together, reminding us of a boat and barge. Lizarsky, who was short and stocky and always swung his arms when he walked, would lead the way, towing lanky, dark-haired Baldin behind. Lizarsky came over to my desk and grabbed me by the collar. "What are you yelling about?" He swung at me. Stepan Gavrya, alias Atlantis, shouldered Lizarsky away. "What's it to you, you monarchist?" "Who asked you? Sock'im, Baldy! Baldin was eating sunflower seeds indifferently. Someone standing in back of him sang a ditty: See the boat that tows a barge, Goodness me! On the barge are seeds so large, Diddle-dee! Baldin shoved his shoulder into Stepan's chest. The usual muttered conversation followed: "Who do you think you are?" "That's none of your business." "Take it easy." "Who asked you?" The fight that followed probably burst into flame from the sparks Baldin saw. A couple of other "monarchists" came to his aid. A second later it was a free-for-all. Not until the monitor shouted, "Ma'msele's coming!" did the two sides retreat to their desks. A truce was declared until the long recess. THE LONG RECESS It was a glorious day. It was thawing. Boys were playing mumbly-peg on the drying walks. A huge spotted pig was scratching its side on a post in the sun opposite school. Its black spots were like inkblots on a white piece of blotting paper. We poured out into the yard. There was a sea of sunlight and not a single policeman in sight. "Everybody who's against the tsar, over here!" Stepan Gavrya shouted. "Hey, you monarchists! How many of you are there to a pound when you're dried?" "Whoever's for the tsar, over here! Kill the bums!" Lizarsky screeched. A moment later the air was full of snowballs flying back and forth. The battle raged. I was soon hit in the eye with such a hard-packed snowball it made me dizzy. I saw green and purple stars, but our side was winning. The "monarchists" had been forced back to the gate. "Surrender!" we shouted. They managed to get out of the yard. As we raced after them we fell into a trap. A junior high school was located nearby. We had always been at war with the Juniors. They called us squabs and never missed a chance to pick a fight with us (nor did we). Our "monarchists", those traitors, had gone over to the Juniors, who did not know what the fight was all about, but fell on us anyway. "Kill the squabs! Get the pigeons!" the horde whistled and shouted as it attacked. "Wait!" Atlantis shouted. "Wait!" Everyone stopped. He climbed onto a snowdrift, fell through it, climbed up again and took off his cap. "Listen, fellows, quit fighting. That's enough. From now on there's going to be, uh, what's the word, Lenny? Eternity? No. Fraternity! For everyone. And there won't be any more wars. What a life! We'll all be on the same side from now on." He was silent for a moment, not knowing what else to say. Then he jumped down and went over to one of the Juniors. "Give me five," he said and shook the boy's hand. "Hooray!" I shouted, surprising myself. The boys began to cheer and laugh. Soon we were one happy crowd. Then the schoolbell pealed angrily. THE LATIN ENDING OF REVOLUTION "Roachius is steaming in!" the monitor shouted and rushed back to his seat. The door opened. We stood up noisily. The Latin teacher entered, bringing in the quiet of the deserted corridor. He went to the lectern and twirled his stringy, roach-like moustache until the tips bristled. His gold pince-nez spurred the bridge of his nose and galloped down the rows until his eye came to rest on my swollen cheek. "What's that supposed to be?" His slim finger was pointing at me. I rose, and in a dull, hopeless voice replied, "I hurt myself. I slipped and fell." "So you fell, did you? I see.... Poor child. Well, Mister Revolutionary, march up to the front of the class. So! It's a real beauty. Have a look, gentlemen! So. What was the homework for today?" I stood at attention in front of the lectern and said nothing. Roachius drummed his fingers on the top of a desk. My silence was anguished. It was full of despair. "So. So you don't know. I gather you've had no time to look in to it. You were too busy making a revolution. Sit down. You've just earned yourself an 'F'." An indignant murmur filled the classroom. His pen pecked at the ink in the inkwell, soared over the lectern like a hawk, peered down from above to find my name in the class journal and.... When the next semester Does stumble to an end, The teacher will present me With another "F', my friend. The "monarchists" in the last row behind the stove snickered. This was more than I could bear. I breathed heavily. The boys shuffled their feet. The teacher's knuckles rapped on the top of the lectern. "Silence! What's going on here? Do you want to get reported again? We haven't been strict enough with you!" When the noise died down I said stubbornly, speaking through my tears, "But the tsar's been overthrowed anyway." NICHOLAS ROMANOFF, LEAVE THE CLASSROOM! Our last lesson that day was nature study. This subject was taught by our favourite teacher, Nikita Pavlovich Kamyshov, a jolly man with a long moustache. His classes were always interesting and full of fun. He entered the room with a springy step, waved us down to our seats and said with a smile: "Well, my doves, what a situation, hm? There's been a revolution. That's really something." This encouraged us, and we all began shouting at once. "Tell us about it! Tell us about the tsar!" "Shush, my doves!" he said, raising a finger. "Shush! Even though there's been a revolution, there must be silence above all. Fine. Secondly, though we are now on to the study of the solid-hoofed species, it is still too early to speak about the tsar." Stepan Atlantis raised his hand. All eyes were on him. We expected him to oblige with a practical joke. "What is it, Gavrya?" "Someone's smoking in class." "I've never known you to be a tattletale. All right, who has dared to smoke in class?" "The tsar," Stepan said impudently. "What? Who did you say?" "The tsar's smoking. Nicholas II." Indeed! There was a portrait of the tsar on the wall, and someone, apparently Stepan, had poked a hole in the comer of the tsar's mouth and stuck a lighted cigarette in the hole. The tsar was smoking. We all burst out laughing. The teacher joined us. Suddenly, he became very serious and raised his hand. The laughter died down. "Nicholas Romanoff, leave the room!" he said solemnly. And so the tsar was banished from the classroom. STEPAN, THE LIAISON OFFICER There was a high fence between the yard of the Girls School and our school. There were cracks in the fence. During recess the boys would pass notes to girls through the cracks. The girls' teachers were always on the lookout to make sure that we did not come near the fence, but it didn't help anyway. Close ties existed between the two yards, and they were kept up through the years. Once, when the senior boys were having a grand old time, they got hold of me during recess, swung me and tossed me over the fence into the girls' yard. The girls flocked around. I was so embarrassed I was ready to cry. Three minutes later their headmistress got me out of their clutches. She led me solemnly into our Teachers' Room. My appearance was rather bizarre, somewhat like that of Kostya Gonchar, the town fool who would deck himself out in anything gaudy that came to hand. There were flowers in my pocket, chocolate on my lips, a bright candy wrapper stuck in my belt, a pigeon's feather in my cockade, a paper devil on a string around my neck, and one trouser leg was saucily tied with a pink ribbon and bow. All of the boys, and even the teachers, nearly collapsed at the sight of me. I never went near the fence again from that day on. That was why, when the boys now picked me to be a delegate and go over to the girls' side, I remembered the candy wrapper, the headmistress and the pink bow, and flatly refused. "Go on!" Stepan Atlantis said. "Why don't you want to? You're the best man for the job, being as you're so polite. Well, never mind, I'll go myself, it's easy. After all, somebody has to explain things to them." And so Stepan climbed over the fence. We all pressed close to the cracks. The girls were running around, playing tag, shrieking and laughing loudly. Stepan jumped down into their yard. "Oh!" they cried, stood still for a moment and then rushed to the fence like chicks coming to a hen's clucking. They surrounded him. He saluted and introduced himself as follows: "Stepan Atlantis." Then he took his hand from his visor for a moment to wipe his nose. "You can call me Gavrya, but Stepan is better." "Who does he think he is, climbing over the fence like that? Hooligan!" a small girl named Foxy said, puckering her lips. "I'm not a hooligan. I'm a delegate. I'll bet you're all still for the tsar, aren't you? Ha! What a bunch of ninnies!" Then Stepan took a deep breath and made a long speech, carefully choosing his words, for he wanted to sound polite. "Listen, girls! There was a revolution yesterday, and the tsar was booted out. I mean, kicked out. None of us sang 'God save the tsar' at prayers this morning, and we're all for the revolution. I mean, for freedom. We want to overthrow the principal, too. Are you for freedom or not?" "What's it like?" Foxy asked. "That means there won't be a tsar or a principal. They won't make us stand along the walls any more, and we'll elect whoever we want to be in charge and tell us what to do. It'll really be great! And we can hang out on Breshka Street. I mean, walk around there, whenever we want to." "I guess I'm for freedom," Foxy drawled after some thought. "What about you, girls?" The girls were now all for freedom. THE PLOT Stepan Atlantis came to see me late that evening. He came up the back stairs and called me out the kitchen. He looked very mysterious. Annushka was wiping the wet glassware. The glasses squeaked loudly. Stepan glanced at her, as if taking her into his confidence, and said, "You know, the teachers want to get rid of Fish-Eye. Honest. I heard them talking about it. I was walking behind the history teacher and Roachius, and they were saying they'd report him to the committee. 'Pon my honour. You know what"; Tomorrow, when we go to that whad-diya-call-it, manifestation, when I raise my hand, we're all going to shout: 'Down with the principal!' Mind you don't forget I can't stay. I have to see the other fellows, and I'm dead beat. Well, reservoir!"* He turned at the door and said threateningly: "And if Lizarsky opens up his trap again, I'll settle his hash. See if I don't." ON BRESHKA STREET There was no school the next day. Both the Boys and the Girls schools had joined the demonstration in town. The principal phoned in to say he would not be in due to a bad cold ... cough-cough! Everything was so unusual, so new and so fascinating. We gathered for the demonstration. The teachers shook the older pupils' hands. They joked and talked with them as equals. The Clerks' Club band was blaring. The cream of our local society, portly officials of the Escise Tax Bureau, the tax inspector, the railroad officials, the thin-legged telegraph operators and postal clerks were all marching along in broken lines, vainly trying to keep in step. There were caps, cockades piping, tabs and silver buttons everywhere. Everyone was carrying a slip of paper with the words of The Marseillaise printed on it which had been handed out somewhere along the line. The officials, having donned their spectacles, peered a their slips as intently as if this was some piece of business correspondence and sang in joyless voices. The mayor, who had already been deposed, appeared on the porch o the district council office. He was wearing a pair of rubbers over red-and white felt boots. The ex-mayor took off his hat and said in a hoarse and solemn voice: "Ladies and gentlemen! There's been a revolution in Petrograd and all over Russia. His Imperial Majesty ... that bloody despot... has abdicated. All power ha gone over to the Provisional Government. Long may it live! I, for one, say. hooray!" The crowd cheered. Atlantis shouted, "And down with the principal!" But nothing came of this. The principal had not appeared, and Stepan's plan collapsed. A group of teachers and the school inspector were arguing heatedly on the corner of Breshka Street. Stepan listened to what they were saying. The inspector was saying ponderously: "The Committee of the Duma will review our petition this evening, and I believe the result will be favourable. Then we will show Mister Stomolitsky the door. The time of callous officialdom is over. Yes, indeed." Stepan dashed back to where we were. The day suddenly seemed brighter, and the inspector suddenly seemed such a good fellow you'd think he had never put Stepan's name down in the Ledger. More and more people were joining the ranks of the demonstrators. Workers of the lumber yards, the printshop, the bone-meal factory, mechanics from the railroad depot, plump bakers, broad-shouldered stevedores, boatmen and bearded peasants all dressed up in their Sunday best were marching along jubilantly. The echo of the bass drum pounded against the walls of the granaries. The cheering rolled along the streets in a great, sweeping wave. The schoolgirls smiled warmly. The soft breeze fingered the telegraph wires, strumming The Marseillaise. It was so good, so wonderful and exhilarating to breathe, to march along in an overcoat that was unbuttoned and flapping, against all the sacred school rules. THE PRINCIPAL'S RUBBERS The clock in the vestibule had long since struck nine, but still, lessons had not begun. The classrooms were churning and boiling. Amidst the general buzzing voices would bubble up and burst like soap bubbles. Seize'em was patrolling the corridor, chasing the boys back into the classrooms. There was a light square on the wall in the Teachers' Room where the tsar's portrait had hung. The teachers were walking up and down in tense silence, enveloped by clouds of cigarette smoke. At last Atlantis, who was always in on everything, decided to find out what was up and went off to the Teachers' Room, supposedly to get a wall map. He was back in no time, and bursting with news. He did two somersaults, jumped onto the lectern, did a handstand there and, with his feet waving to and fro in. the air, he astounded us with a joyous howl: "Fellows! The Committee kicked the principal out!" Oh, joy! There was a wild slamming of desk tops, cheers and yelps. The commotion was ear-splitting. Hefty, who was dizzy from joy, kept pounding the boy next to him over the head with his geometry book and shouting: "They've kicked him out! Kicked him out! Kicked him out! Hear that? They've kicked him out!" Just then the heavy door opened at the end of the corridor into which glee waves of joy were pouring from every classroom, and a pair of highly-polish boots on a pair of unbending legs squeaked softly into the Teachers' Room. The teachers rose as the principal entered, although their usual greeting did not folio Stomolitsky took instant notice of this. "Eh, what seems to be the matter, gentlemen?" "The matter, Sir, lies in the fact that you ... but perhaps you had better read yourself," the inspector said and his beard rose and fell gently as he spoke. He handed the principal a sheet of paper as carefully as if he wished Stomolitsky sign something important. The principal took the proffered sheet. One word stood out among all the rest and this was "Dismissal". However, he refused to accept defeat. "Eh ... the District Board appointed me, and I am responsible to it alone," said in an icy voice. "And, furthermore, I shall report this unlawful action to Board immediately. And now," at this he clicked open the top of his gold pocket watch, "I suggest you all go to your classes." "What?" Kirill Ukhov, the history teacher, exclaimed and yanked at his angrily. "You.... You've been dismissed! It's something we all insisted on, and not a point that's up for discussion. Gentlemen! Say something! What the hell is this anyway!" Boys were clustering in the doorway. Though they were dying of curiosity, they said nothing. Those in the back rows pressed forward, propelling those in the front through the door. As they stumbled into the Teachers' Room they straighter their jackets, fixed their belts and looked rather embarrassed. Stepan Gavrya elbowed his way through, looked at Ukhov with burning eyes and suddenly cried. "That's right, Kirill Mikhailovich!" Then he lunged towards Stomolitsky "Down with the principal!" A dead silence followed. Suddenly it was as if an avalanche had come crash down upon the Teachers' Room, crushing and submerging all in its wake. "Down with him! Get out! Down with the principal! Hooray!" The corridor echoed from the noise. Windows rattled. The entire build seemed to be shaking from the wild pounding of feet, the roaring and shouting. For the first time in his life the principal seemed shaken and bent. Creases seemed to have suddenly appeared in his well-pressed trousers. The inspector feigned concern. He cocked his eyes at the door politely and said, "I think you'd better leave, Sir. I'm afraid we cannot guarantee your safety." "You haven't heard the end of this yet!" the principal muttered and stalked out. The bottom of his jacket caught on the door knob. He hurried to his office, clapped on his cockaded cap and put on his overcoat on the run, so that his arms missed the armholes. He dashed outside. The janitor hobbled out onto the porch after him. "Sir! You've forgotten your rubbers! Your rubbers. Sir!" The principal did not turn back, his skinny legs took him across the muddy puddles, his shiny boots sinking into the snow. The janitor stood on the porch, holding the principal's rubbers and clucking his tongue: "Tut-tut-tut! My-my! Good Lord! That's the revolution for you! Look at the principal go, and without his rubbers!" Then he chuckled. "See him skittering! A real gee-raffe he is. My-my! A body can't help laughing! Shake a leg! Looks just like one of them ostriches, he does." The boys poured out onto the porch. They were laughing and shouting. "Hey, watch him leg it! Bally-ho! Goodbye, Fish-Eye!" A snowball hit his back. "Whee! Keep on going! Jailer! Warden!" It was enough to take your breath away. There was the principal, just think of it: the principal!-whom the boys but yesterday had to greet by standing stiffly at attention, before whom they had quaked and tipped their caps (always holding them by the visor!), whose office they had passed on tiptoe only-there was the principal, running away so shamefully, so helplessly and, to top it all, having left his rubbers behind! They could see the teachers' pleased faces in the windows. The janitor scolded: "Quit the ruckus! Shame on you! And you being educated boys!" Atlantis crept up behind him, snatched one of the principal's rubbers from him and sent it sailing after Stomolitsky. The boys roared. Then he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, with a trill at the end. Only true pigeon fanciers knew how to whistle like that, and Stepan's tumbler pigeons were famous in town. When we trooped noisily back to the classrooms, our faces flushed from excitement, the teachers scolded us half-heartedly, saying: "That wasn't nice at all, gentlemen. Your behaviour was abominable. Don't you realize that?" But we could see they were only saying that because they had to. THE POPULAR ASSEMBLY ON THE LOGS We called an emergency meeting on a pile of logs in the yard after school that day, and pupils of all the eight grades came to the popular assembly. We were going to elect delegates to the joint meeting of the Teachers' Council and the Parents Committee. The one item on the agenda was: "Relieving the principal his duties." Mitya Lamberg chaired the meeting. He presided grandly on the logs and s; "And now, gentlemen, present your candidates." "Where are we supposed to present them?" "Ha-ha-ha!" "Gentlemen! Nominate your candidates!" "Hey, Martynenko! You nominate him one! Ho-ho!" "Gentlemen! Let's have some order! After all, you're not a bunch of prim school boys. And let's have some quiet at a time like this!" "Quit it, fellows!" The noise finally died down. The election was set into motion. Mitya Lamb Stepan Atlantis and Shura Gvozdilo, a fourth-grade boy, were elected. "Any more questions?" "Yes!" Atlantis scrambled up to the top of the pile. "Listen, fellows. It serious matter, and no fooling. We've got to make it stick and present Fish-Eye with all our complaints. And there's something else. There should be delegates from both sides, and no monkey-business about it!" "That's right, Stepan! Delegates from both sides!" "Three cheers for the delegates!" As the boys tossed Stepan into the air a varied, assortment of things dropped of his pockets. They included some popgun corks, cartridges, an oilcake, a slug of lead and a pocket edition of The Adventures of Nat Pinkerton. Mitya pounded an old pot which had served as the chairman's bell and was now a drum. The boys carried the delegates out through the gate on their shoulders. Everyone cheered. The sun, tired from its steep climb during the day, had stopped to rest on school roof which was wet from the melted snow, shiny and slippery. The slipped, burned the windows opposite, plopped into a large puddle and winked at the merry crowd of boys in a rainbow of colours. "FOR THE SOLACE OF OUR PARENTS" The indignant principal had one last resort: he went to the Parents Committee for help. This was not an easy thing for him to do, since he considered the boys' parents enemies of the state and had always forbidden the teachers to become friendly them. As far as he was concerned, parents existed only as people to whom he addressed reminders of non-payment of tuition fees or notices which were intended to draw their attention to the poor behaviour of their sons. He regarded any interference in school affairs on their part as a violation of its sanctity. If it were up to him, he would have thrown out the phrase "for the solace of our parents" from the morning prayer. However, this was no time for settling scores. The principal trudged over to see the veterinary, Shalferov, Chairman of the Parents Committee, who was known in town as the horse doctor. The principal arrived during Shalferov's office hours. The horse doctor was so surprised to see him that he forgot to offer Stomolitsky a chair. He hastily wiped his hand on a greenish smock that was covered with unsightly spots and then offered it to the principal who was a dandy and a stickler for cleanliness. The vet's hand smelled of fresh milk, stables and something nauseatingly acrid. The principal felt his stomach jump, but he shook the proffered hand readily. They conversed as they stood in the cold foyer. It was cluttered with milk cans, large bottles, wilted rubber plants and geranium pots. A cat was digging a hole in a box of sand in the corner. Never realizing that it was witnessing an historical event involving the fall of the principal, the cat raised its tail and held it out stiffly. The horse doctor listened to the ashen-faced principal's story and promised his support. The principal thanked him humbly. The horse doctor was hard-pressed for time, for a cow was bellowing out in the yard, and he had to give it an enema. Shalferov suggested that the principal speak to the Secretary of the Parents Committee. THE PRINCIPAL AND OSKA My father was Secretary of the Parents Committee. The principal felt very awkward about asking him for favours, since but a short while before my father had applied for the position of school doctor when there had been a vacancy, and the principal had written the following on my father's application: "We would prefer a doctor who is not of the Jewish faith." Father had just returned from the hospital where he had been operating. He was washing up and gargling. The water bubbled in his throat, so that it seemed that Papa had come to a boil. The principal awaited him in the parlour. Goldfish were swimming in the fishbowl, dragging their long, filmy tails along the bottom. One fish whose head looked like an aviator's helmet (for it had big bulging eyes), swam right up to the glass. The fish's insolent orb stared at the principal. Recalling the unpleasant nickname given to him by the boys, he turned away in annoyance. Just then the parlour door opened and Oska entered, pulling along a large and mournful hobby horse. The horse had long since lost its youth and its tail. It got stuck in the doorway and very nearly fell apart. Then Oska noticed the principal. He paused to look at him, then came closer and said, "Are you a patient?" "No. I've come on business." "Oh, I know! You're the horse doctor. You smell like a horse doctor. Don't you? You cure cows and cats, and dogs, and colties, and all the rest. I know. Can you cure my horse? He has a train engine in his stomach. It got in, but it can't get out." "You're mistaken, child," Stomolitsky said huffily. I'm not a veterinary, I'm the principal of the Boys School." "Oh." Oska gasped respectfully. He stared hard at the principal. "Are you really the principal? You scared me. Lelya says you're very strict, even the teachers are scared of you. What's your name? Snail?... No. Crab?... I know! Shark-Eye!" "My name is Stomolitsky," the principal said sourly. "And what is .your name?" "Oska. But why does everybody call you Shark-Eye?" "Don't ask stupid questions. Why don't you tell me ... ahem ... whether you know how to read. You do? Well, then tell me ... mm ... ah.... Can you tell me where the Volga flows. Do you know the answer?" "Sure. The Volga flows into Saratov. Now see if you know this: if an elephant and a whale have a fight, who'll win?" The principal was forced to admit that he did not know. Oska consoled him by saying, "Nobody knows. Papa doesn't know, and the soldier doesn't know. But why do they call you Shark-Eye? Was that your name when you were little?" "That is quite enough! Why don't you tell me your horse's name?" "Horse. Everybody knows that. Horses don't have last names." "You're wrong. For instance, Alexander the Great had a horse that was called Busifal." "And you're Fish-Eye, aren't you? Not Shark-Eye. I got mixed up. But I said i1 right now, didn't I?" Papa entered. "What a bright boy you have!" the principal said smiling angelically as he bowed. FATHERS, DADS, AND OLD MEN Whirr! Buzz! The ventilator in the Teachers' Room sounded like a huge fly on a windowpane. It was suffocating in the heated room. Now and then a board of a desk in one of the dark, deserted classrooms would creak. The clock in the downstairs hall ticked loudly. "I will now call to order the joint meeting of the Parents Committee and the Teachers' Council." The Parents Committee was seated at a large table. Facing them in a row were the teachers. Mitya Lamberg and Shura Gvozdilo huddled together at the far end of the table. Shura seemed lost. Lamberg, who was older and bigger, was trying not to look too awed. The inspector had barred Stepan Atlantis from the meeting, saying, "You can expect anything from that rascal. I wouldn't trust him for a minute." "I'll be very quiet," Stepan had promised. "Show him out!" the inspector had said to the janitor. "Out you go, my boy." The janitor had pushed the protesting Stepan lightly. "Some delegate! Troublemaker!" Stepan had been deeply hurt. "Well, don't blame me if nothing comes of this. Reservoir. Adieu." At the very outset of the meeting the lights went out. It was a usual power failure. The Teachers' Room was plunged into darkness, Mitya stuck his hand into his pocket to get his matches, but suddenly realized that a non-smoking schoolboy was not supposed to have matches in his pocket. The janitor brought in a kerosene lamp with a round green shade that resembled a parachute. The lamp was hung over the table. It swayed slightly, casting flickering shadows that made the noses of the people around the table now grow very long, now become very short. The inspector was the first speaker. He spoke smoothly and witt