PERSONAGE OF GASTRIC ORIGIN

     Still and  all,  Schwambrania  lived on. It did not become  any smaller
territorially, though it now  took up much less of our time than before. One
day Schwambrania  suffered  a terrible blow. While  we were out Mamma traded
the  seashell   grotto  and  its  prisoner,  the  Black   Queen,  Keeper  of
Schwambrania's Secret, for three litres of kerosene at the railroad station.
Thus  did we lose her  forever. For half an hour we were frantic. The sun of
Schwambrania was about  to set for good.  But that evening we  turned on the
lamp.
     Playing Schwambrania at that time  was mostly having imaginary  feasts.
Schwambrania was busy eating. It had dinners and suppers. It stuffed itself.
We savoured  the  fine-sounding long menus we  found in  the  cook  book. We
satisfied  our  raging  appetites somewhat  at  these  Schwambranian feasts.
However,  Schwambrania's  sugar  stores  were  only  disturbed  on holidays.
Georges Borman was Head Chef of Schwambrania. We discovered him on an old ad
for cocoa  and  chocolate. Georges Borman was the last of the  Schwambranian
personages, though he was a  personage  of  gastric  origin.  He, certainly,
could not cause any new errors.
     In  general,  Schwambrania  was  on  the decline.  However,  unexpected
circumstances brought about  a new  flourishing of  the Big Tooth Continent.
These circumstances lived in a large deserted house on our street.


     UGER'S MANSION

     The  house  had been built by  a slightly mad  rich German named  Uger.
Uger's Mansion was one of the landmarks of Pokrovsk. People from out of town
were  shown  it.  They  marvelled  at  it.  It  was indeed a most  fantastic
structure. The owner had been possessed by vanity and a consuming desire for
luxury. He had decided to beautify Pokrovsk by putting up a unique building.
He craved for fame. However, he did not trust  the  architect and so drew up
the blueprints himself.  Construction proceeded under his  watchful eye. The
house was three stories high and had a basement. The people of Pokrovsk, all
of whom lived in one-story houses, threw back their  heads and  counted  the
floors on their fingers.
     Uger's  Mansion  was  a  cross between  a  prince's  towered  manse,  a
fairgrounds  pavilion and  the Hanging Gardens of  Semiramis. The windows of
one floor were  unlike those of the others.  There were  tall, round, square
and narrow windows.  There  were galleries with stained  glass panels.  Seen
from the side,  the house  resembled a patchwork quilt. The  entire pediment
was covered with murals. Mermaids frolicked below, ships sailed along at the
second story  level, while generals  of  all sizes and  shapes  adorned  the
third. Under the eaves hunters in Tyrol hats were depicted  shooting  tigers
and lions.
     The house would jingle and buzz at the slightest breeze, for twenty-two
weather-vanes  and  fifteen  tin whirligigs spun and whirred on the turrets,
while eight huge fans clanged as they  turned in the windows. This  clanging
and  jingling  so puzzled the pigeons that they avoided the  house,  to  say
nothing of prospective tenants.
     In  the beginning, the Junior High School  was located there,  but  the
weathervanes  and fans distracted the Juniors. A few heedless  tenants tried
to live there for  a while, but the Hanging Gardens of Semiramis would  sway
whenever  it  was  windy, the  floors  were springy, and the  window  frames
creaked. The mansion began falling apart like a house of cards. Uger died of
a broken heart. He was delirious at the end and said he wanted a weathervane
and a fan for a tombstone.
     Meanwhile, the house kept on falling apart bit by  bit. The door jambs,
banisters  and sometimes whole  galleries  crumbled  and disintegrated.  The
nearby  houses all  sported panes of  stained  glass.  Weathervanes that had
abandoned Uger's Mansion now spun on rooftops up and down the street.
     When  a blizzard  hastened  the process of  destruction the  neighbours
would converge, pulling sleds. They would take up their positions all around
the house and wait, sitting there like a pack of hyenas beside a dying lion.
They dragged the fallen pieces of the house off to their own houses on their
sleds, but did not have the courage to  openly attack and loot this building
that was of no use to anyone any longer.


        ADVENTURES IN THE DEAD HOUSE

     We knew  that  the  huge dead house  could  be  a  new, convenient  and
mysterious  place  for  our  game.  Soon Schwambrania  moved  into  all  the
remaining rooms. Once again the game became fun. We were not at all dismayed
by the  fact that everything was wrecked inside. Schwambranians brought  new
life to the ruins, and the dead house put off the fall of Schwambrania for a
long time.
     A rustling, creaking and  echoing filled  the  remains  of the mansion,
firing  our imaginations. The wind swished up  and down the  rickety stairs.
Fear haunted the dim, musty hallways,  and terror  crept along the walls  at
night.
     This certainly  was  the  best  possible  place  for our  Schwambranian
adventures. We quickly surveyed the house, giving each room a beautiful name
of a Schwambranian city. The  country was  being restored to  life. However,
there was one  place we  had not yet  explored. This  was a dark, suspicious
passage  that  led  to a  basement filled with  debris.  We  set  out on  an
expedition to this uncharted land. Our  equipment  consisted of long  sticks
and  a  hanging votive light instead of a lantern. Then, following  the best
advice  of our various  camping books, we  tied a  rope  around our  waists,
attaching ourselves thus to each other. We now looked like spelunkers.
     We climbed down into the cave. The treads had long since fallen out  of
the  staircase. We  skidded  along slanted boards and  scrambled over  loose
bricks. I led the way. The light that was tied to the tip of my stick swayed
in front  of me. Oska plodded  along behind.  He was very staunch and brave,
and, to prove it, he kept  saying that he wasn't one bit scared, and that he
actually felt quite cosy. Just as he was saying how cosy  he was feeling for
the  sixth time, he  fell through the floor. A  rotten board had  given  way
under him, and Oska fell  into the  basement. Since we were tied together, 1
was  dragged  to  the very  edge of the hole  and  pulled  flat  against the
floorboards. The rope was very taut. It kept squeezing  my waist tighter and
tighter, cutting painfully into my middle.
     "Did you fall down?" I shouted into the black hole.
     "Not yet. I'm flying and flying, but I can't fall down to the bottom."
     I  lit the votive  light, which had gone out  during  the accident, and
lowered into the pit. There I  saw Oska. He was suspended by the rope around
his middle and  was revolving slowly. He kicked and squirmed as  he tried to
touch the floor.
     "Get me out of here, Lelya. It's awfully uncozy here. And the rope's so
tight."
     I  started  pulling  my  brother  up,  straining  as  hard  as I could.
Suddenly, there was a very unpleasant crack. The  boards I had been lying on
crumbled. I fell into the blackness and landed on top of him.
     "See? I fell down to the bottom. And the rope's not tight any more." He
sounded pleased.
     The little light was smashed.  Darkness  billowed  up around us in  the
cave.  A dense, sour-smelling  darkness filled the basement.  Wisps of  grey
light  filtered down through the hole we  had made. When our eyes had become
accustomed to the dark we noticed  quite a few strange objects that had been
concealed  by the  gloom. There was a crate  on legs,  some glass  and metal
vessels, and  strangely twisted and  spiralling tubes. We stumbled over some
sacks filled to the top with something or other.
     "It's hidden treasure," Oska said.
     "A secret one," I whispered.
     "This is big news!"
     "It  sure  is!  Real  hidden treasure for Schwambrania! We'll set  up a
wonderf...."
     A sudden beam of light  hit the floor  between us. We tried to scatter,
but  something  grabbed  us  from behind and  sent us sprawling.  It was the
accursed  rope that  had caught us  by the waists and tripped  us up. A hand
pulled the rope towards a  lantern. We saw a terrible mug above the lantern:
a glittering upper lip, flaming nostrils and  white lids. The other features
of the mysterious face were lost in the darkness.
     Then  we heard a rough voice saying, "What the hell are you doing here?
Hm?"
     The upper lip glistened and "Why the hell are you  here? I'll kill you,
you brats! If I see you  trying to give me the slip, I'll plaster you like a
pair of puppies." Some terrible cursing followed.
     "What are you yapping  about?" I  said, trying to keep  my  teeth  from
chattering.
     "You're not supposed to curse in  the presence of children," Oska said.
"Otherwise I will, too, and you'll be sorry."
     The rope  jerked, pulling us up to a huge fist  that was illuminated on
one side by the lantern. It  then revolved expressively, displaying, as some
menacing moon, all of its phases.
     "Let go of the rope! Who said you could hold  it like  that? Who do you
think you are?" I shouted.
     "He thinks this is  tsarist times,"  Oska added. "We'll  tell the Cheka
chief  on you. He's a very good friend  of  ours. We'll tell him  to  arrest
you."
     "Don't  you threaten  me, you!" At this the  huge fist  was raised over
Oska's head.
     "Stop! Remove  your hand,  madman!"  a  voice piped  up  behind  us. It
sounded strangely  familiar.  "And take the chains  off the  prisoners,"  it
continued in  the  same pompous vein. "Sit down,  young wanderers. Greetings
from an old scholarly hermit. What brings you to my cave, troglodytes?"
     The fist disappeared.  Now  a bald pate gleamed  like  a lagoon  in the
light of  the  lantern.  It  belonged  to  E-muet, to the toadstool  teacher
Kirikov.


        ELIXIR OF SCHWAMBRANIA

     "Sit down. I recognized you. You're  a member of the wild tribe. You're
both sons of the great and noble land of Schwabria," Kirikov said.
     "Schwambrania," Oska corrected him. "How'd you know?"
     "I know everything. I live in the hallowed depths of your  country, but
in my  free time, when I'm not occupied with scholarly research, I  surface,
0, Schwambrania, and  the  day  before, and last week,  I heard you  playing
among these pitiful ruins.  What I mean  is, when  you became inhabitants of
fair Schwambromania."
     "Schwambrania,"  Oska  said. He sounded annoyed.  "What  are you  doing
here?"
     "And what's all this stuff?" I asked.
     There was a long silence.
     "0, Schwambranians, you have carelessly touched upon  the one secret of
my miserable life, a secret that gives me no peace of mind," Kirikov said in
an echoing voice.
     "Do you only have a piece of mind?" Oska inquired. "Do you live  in the
Iboney house?"
     "My soul is pure, and my mind is clear, but I have been unjustly passed
over by my fellow-men and the authorities. I am insulted and humiliated. But
I  am suffering  for the good  of mankind. If you swear you  won't breathe a
word of my  secret to  anyone,  I  will preserve your secret, the secret  of
Schwamburgia."
     "Schwambrania," Oska muttered.
     We swore we would not. Kirikov held the lantern up to our faces, and we
solemnly pledged that we would preserve his secret to the grave.
     "Listen,  then, Schwambranian brothers!  I  am the  last  alchemist  on
earth.  I am science's Don Quixote, and this is my  faithful sword-bearer. I
have discovered the elixir of universal joy.  It makes the sick well and the
sorrowing  happy.  It  turns foes into  friends  and  strangers  into  bosom
companions."
     "Is that your game?" Oska asked.
     Kirikov snapped  that  his  elixir  was  not  a  game,  but  a  serious
scientific  discovery.  We then  found  out that the  cave  was  actually  a
laboratory where the  elixir was made. The  alchemist said  that in a year's
time,  when  the  last  experiments were completed,  he  would  publish  his
findings. He would then completely renovate the  house, have electricity put
in,  and  would give  us  the  entire top  floor  for Schwambrania.  In  the
meantime, however, we had to keep  quiet, no matter what. "I'm going to name
my  elixir of  universal  joy  in your honour, my young friends. It will  be
known as the Elixir of Schwambardia.
     "It's Schwamhrania. Schwambrania!" Oska shouted. "You can't even say it
right. What kind of an alphysics are you?"
     "I'm an alchemist, not an alphysics!" Kirikov sounded just as cross.
     We  visited  the  alchemist several  more  times. By the  light of  day
Kirikov and his  assistant Filenkin turned out  to be  very hospitable  men.
They told us of their progress and listened to the latest Schwambranian news
with  interest. The alchemist went so far as  to help us govern the country.
Schwambrania flourished.
     They worked  at  night. Their  secret  smoke  wafted  up  into the yard
through  a camouflaged  pipe and  was blown  away. Sometimes we even chopped
wood for their  stove. However, they never once showed us the elixir, saying
that it wasn't ready  yet. One day we  came  to see them and found them in a
very merry mood. They were singing  softly and clapping  warily. A fat woman
in bright felt boots and a bright shawl was part of the party.
     "See  how happy she is? She  just had the first  drops of the elixir of
world joy," the  alchemist said. "This is  Agrafena, I mean Agrippina, Queen
of Schwambrania. We'll crown her, and lead her to the throne. Hooray!"
     "We don't have any queen-ladies," Oska said glumly.
     "He's  right.  We'd  love  to have  her, but Schwambrania's a republic,
after all. If she wants to, she can be the president's wife," I explained.
     "All right then. She'll be  the president's wife. Agrafe ... eh- mew-eh
... Agrip-pina,  would  you  like  to  be  the  wife  of  the  President  of
Schwambrania?"
     "You bet!" said Agrippina.


        DONNA DINA AND THE KINSMEN

     A  young girl who  was  our cousin came  to stay with us. She was  from
Moscow and her name was Donna  Dina,  or Dindonna. Her real  name  was  just
Dina. Her black hair and  flashing black eyes,  which were as shiny  as  the
piano  top, and her teeth, which were as  white and even as the  ivory keys,
had earned her the name of Donna.
     Our aunts made sure that we understood we were to call her Cousin Dina.
However, Dina turned  out to be a  regular pal and  when she  first heard us
say, "Good morning, Cousin Dina," she burst out  laughing. When  she laughed
everything about her laughed: her eyes, her teeth and her hair.
     "Well,  then, good  morning, kinsmen!"  she replied. "How do you  spend
your time, if I may ask?"
     "In Schwambrania," Oska  replied, for he felt drawn to her immediately.
"And carrying straw. And we go out for walks. Will you go out with us?"
     "With pleasure. I'm sure to lose my way here alone."
     Even Oska had to agree that Dina was a beauty. She wore a real sailor's
middy-blouse,  given  to her by a  revolutionary sailor  from  Kronstadt. We
thought that  was wonderful. We escorted her around town. We  showed her the
ruins of Uger's Mansion, but did not say  a word about the alchemist or  his
elixir. Dina wanted to know all about Schwambrania. She was a little puzzled
by the fact that  in  such interesting  times as these  we  felt  a need for
make-believe. She  said it  was a  shame  and high time we  got down to real
work. Our friendship blossomed during our long walks.
     Young men would step aside politely to let Donna Dina pass. They nudged
each  other and looked  after her.  We  could hear them saying  what  a good
looker she was and beamed proudly.
     Dina had only been with us for three days when, to our joy, she stepped
on our aunts' toes, that is, hems. She criticized them for bringing us up in
such an old-fashioned way,  saying it was a  crime  to put  a damper on  the
social feelings that churned and boiled within us.
     "She's right! You can't imagine how my feelings churn! Especially after
pumpkin mush," Oska said.
     Dina hugged him and said  he hadn't  really understood, but  no matter.
The argument continued. Our aunts said that they had long since given up, as
far as we were concerned, that we had come completely under the influence of
the street and Bolshevism which, to their minds, was one and the same thing.
They  went on  to say such awful things it made Dina stand up and  slap  her
hand loudly on the table. Her face became flushed.
     "I think I forgot to mention the fact that I've  joined the Party," she
said.
     "Are you as good as a Communist now?" Oska inquired.
     "I hope so," she replied cheerfully.
     My aunts were flabbergasted. They gaped. Then their mouths shut slowly.


     FEKTISTKA'S OTHER NAME

     "My  dear kinsmen," Dina  said soon after. "Great vistas have opened up
before you. They are a challenge  to your boundless energy  and imagination.
But  you must  be social beings, dear kinsmen. It's high time you were!" She
had  just been  appointed Commissar Chubarkov's  assistant, in charge of the
children's library and reading-room.
     My  aunts'  definition  of  a  children's  library  was: an  officially
operated  hotbed of infectious diseases  which were to be found  lurking  in
profusion in the old books, as worn and torn as a ragman's clothes.
     Dina's idea of a  children's library was as follows: "It's not merely a
counter,  kinsmen. It's  not merely  a  place where  books are handed out. A
children's library should be the main  centre for educating  and bringing up
children outside the school.  It'll be  the  children's favourite clubhouse,
where each can  do as he likes. We'll teach children to respect good  books.
Oh, kinsmen, we'll have such a wonderful place! Your Schwambrania won't even
hold a candle to it! Everyone will want to belong to it. Just wait and see."
     However, in order to become such  a wonderful place, the library had to
have  more space. There were some  very rich people living in the  adjoining
apartment.  They had  been asked to  move  some  time before,  and  now Dina
decided to take matters into  her own hands.  She asked me to come along and
back her up.
     This would be the beginning of my volunteer work for the library.
     Dina was busy checking the catalogue and  library cards when I came in.
She was  surrounded  by  raggedy children. I  recognized many of  my  former
neighbourhood  enemies. There were also  some skinny children who lived near
the  railroad  tracks, some  stocky  boys  and  girls  from the  fishermen's
settlement,  and some  boys  who worked  at  the  cannery  and the bone-meal
factory. Some were filling in the  cards,  others  were pasting torn  pages,
while  still  others were  on  the  step ladders, placing the books  on  the
shelves. Everyone was  busy and you could  see they were  enjoying  the job.
This was the first children's book brigade.  They  obviously liked Dina  and
kept pestering her with questions.
     "Donna  Dina!  Donna  Dina! Who's Uncle  Tom's  cabin?" a  little  girl
wrapped in a huge shawl that  was  crossed on her  chest  and tied  in  back
asked.
     "Donna Dinovna!"  came  a voice from the top of a ladder. "Is Tolstoy a
place or a someone?"
     "Here's another helper, children," Dina  said, pointing to me. "Put his
name down on the list, Ukhorskov."
     I  was very offended. I had no intention of playing second fiddle here.
I had been  positive  Dina had intended  me to be in  charge  of everything.
However, I decided to say nothing for the time being.
     "I know you.  You're the doctor's  son. Won't  you  get in  trouble for
coming here with us?" somebody said.
     "Why should I get in trouble? Everybody's equal now."
     Ukhorskov, a tall boy with high  cheekbones,  came over to me. "Are you
going to be a doctor, too?" he said.
     "No. I'm  going to be  a sailor of the revolution." "That's  not bad. I
want to be an aviator."
     Commissar Chubarkov  came in just then. We hadn't seen each other for a
long time. "Oho! The younger  generation's shooting up! What does your  papa
write home about life in the trenches?"
     Then  we all trooped next door to help with the eviction. To  my horror
and embarrassment  the people were close relatives  of Taya Opilova. She was
sitting on a trunk in the front hall when we entered. For a moment I did not
know what to  say. Taya's eyes were full of contempt,  indignation, reproach
and God knows what else. My one desire was to sneak off.
     "I thought you were the doctor's son!" she said.
     "I'd rather be a doctor's son than an exploiter's daughter!" I snapped.
"That's that!" the commissar shouted. "You've had your say and that's that."
Ukhorskov  came  over to me. He  spoke in  a  whisper. "We're putting  out a
newspaper.  Come on over this evening. You can be the editor. You've changed
a lot. You've got a real fighting spirit now." "How come you know me?"
     "You don't recognize me, do you? Remember  the time I fixed  your basin
and pail? I'm Fektistka. I live in the children's home now.  I requisitioned
my boss' tools and  I make nifty cigarette lighters. Want me to make you one
that'll look just like a pistol? And it'll be a good lighter, too?"
     "I don't smoke."
     "You can use it to scare thugs."
     As I looked  at  this  tall, confident boy I could hardly recognize the
tinsmith's timid apprentice. Could  this be the same Fektistka whose  skinny
back had first  brought home to us  the difference between  those  who  made
things and those who owned them? Indeed, he had even acquired a last name!
     The Commissar was waiting for me  outside  the library. He took my arm.
"Uh, is  Comrade Dina ... uh,  a relative of yours?" He was trying  to sound
indifferent. "Is she your sister?"
     "Yes.  We're related."  I was very possessive.  Then  I turned into the
wind so the Commissar wouldn't hear me and added, "She's my cousin."
     "She's really educated." For some reason or other he sounded sad.
     "She sure is! She nearly practically graduated from the University."
     He sighed.


        CITIZENS OF A NEW LAND

     No! I  was not elected editor of the children's newspaper. Horrible old
Dina told them I wasn't ready to take on such a job yet,  since I  liked  to
daydream  and  wasn't  sufficiently  politically  conscious,  or  some  such
nonsense. I had never expected anything like that from  her.  And so Klavdia
was elected  editor.  Yes,  the very same Klavdia who  had always  been  our
prisoner when Oska and I played war in Schwambrania.
     "I  know what Comrade  Dina  means," Klavdia  said  slyly.  "He's still
making-believe he's in a place called  Schwambrania. It's a game.  They used
to take me prisoner. But it's no fun to play that any more."
     The kids  all looked  at me  and smiled.  Strangely, they were friendly
smiles. Never before had I been so ashamed of Schwambrania.
     "I guess you've changed  places now, Klavdia. You're in charge from now
on, and you've  been freed  for  good.  But Lelya  's still  a  prisoner  of
Schwambrania. My poor kinsman." Dina smiled.
     Naturally,  I should have got up and walked out  on those smart alecks,
but  at that moment  I  doubted Schwambrania's right to existence  more than
ever before. I felt there was nothing I  could say in  its defence. The game
was obviously becoming outdated. It was like  an obsession, something  to be
ashamed  of, like a habit you want to  break. Klavdia, the new editor,  came
over to me and said,
     "Don't be mad. Say 'fins' and come out of prison."
     She was a thin and lively girl, and it was as clear as day that she had
no  use for a game like Schwambrania. That was when I mentally  crossed  out
Item  3, the  last on our  list of the world's injustices, the one  entitled
"Landless children". I wanted to belong to the same country she did,  and so
I stayed on.
     I was completely engrossed in the  busy, noisy affairs  of the library,
spending all  my free time there. My hands and  clothes were  full of paint,
paste and ink. I was piled  high  with  folders and obligations. Oska tagged
along and was soon everyone's pet. He was put in  charge of the chess table.
"And chairs" he added, after he had been elected.
     Ukhorskov, Klavdia and I  organized a literary club. A month  later the
first  issue of our magazine appeared. It was called Bold Thinking. I signed
my  name as the editor-in-chief. We  hardly visited the alchemist  any more,
for  we were too busy at  the library. In  the evenings everyone gathered in
the reading room, and the day's newspapers were read aloud.  This was really
"news", real dispatches from the front lines. Stepan Atlantis and perhaps my
father  were  somewheres out  there,  and  thus  were  also  part  of  these
dispatches.
     We  had  lectures,  literary  debates  and evening  and  morning social
events,  at  which  both actors  and  audience  were equally  thrilled.  The
library's  fame spread  throughout  Pokrovsk. Every day  new boys  and girls
would come in from the outskirts.
     We wore out  our shoes and the thresholds of the  various organizations
in an effort to  supply the library with kerosene and firewood. Dina and her
aide,  Zorka,  a  shy  and  gentle girl,  made terrible scenes at  the  city
council, arguing over every stick  of firewood.  Once,  when  there  was not
enough wood to  last out  the month, we all donated whatever we could. Small
frozen children brought a  board, a panel of a chest or an armful of sticks,
despite the fact that there was no firewood at home. Still, they brought the
wood to  the library. Once again hot flames made the stove doors  rattle. In
the  evening the  young  readers would  take their eyes from their books  to
listen  to their  wood  crackling  triumphantly  in  the  stove, to  see the
victorious  array of  bright sparks.  Each would look around possessively at
the  bookcases, the tables and  his  neighbours,  for each  felt himself the
master here.  The  merry crackling of the stove drowned  out the churning of
their empty stomachs.
     Chubarkov would stop  by for new books practically every day. He was an
avid reader and attended  all of our plays, debates  and  literary evenings.
His loud  applause  inspired us. He, however, was mostly inspired  by Dina's
presence.  Dina,  as he  put  it,  had a  great  cultural  influence on him.
Irresponsible people said he was simply in love. But that didn't concern us.


        OUR ORDINARY EARTH

     In the midst of all our work we decided to set  an  evening aside for a
gala  performance. The  children invited their parents.  We  had  a  general
housecleaning in the library, got rid of the cobwebs and hung new posters on
the  walls. For some  reason or other, only mothers  came to the party. They
were given the best seats. They  fixed their  combs and hid their work-weary
hands under  the fronts of their shawls. Dina  and Zorka  offered  them  tea
without sugar, but there was apple butter.
     A very  new feeling of being a part of things and wanting  to prepare a
very special welcome,  to  be especially hospitable to the  guests, prompted
Oska and me to make a real sacrifice.
     I put on my coat and was about to dash back home.
     "Going for the Schwambranian sugar?" he said, guessing my intentions.
     "Yes!"
     Dina was really  touched. I  imagined what Stepan  Atlantis would  have
said, had he been there.
     "See, Stepan, I'm donating all our sweet private property  for the good
of everybody," I would say.
     "Good  for you!  That's exactly how a  sailor of the  revolution should
act," he would reply.
     Our hearts nearly burst  from pride as we watched the mothers  drinking
their tea with Schwambrania's sugar.
     The performance was Act Two of Nikolai Gogol's play The Marriage.
     "Just look at my boy," one of our mothers was saying. "Why, you'd think
he was a real dandy!"
     "Goodness! Is that Annie? I  swear it is. You'd never recognize  her in
that get-up."
     "There's Nina! Look at  her. I  never  knew  she could be  so high  and
mighty."
     "Who's  the  skinny  boy? The  doctor's  son? I  might have guessed. He
speaks so politely."
     "My Serge learned  his  part so good he's saying  it faster'n  anybody.
What a rascal! The boy in the  booth  there  can hardly keep  up to tell him
what's next."
     "Where's your boy, Stepanida?"
     "You can't see him. He's holding the curtain."
     The  play  was  a smashing success. The  actors were smothered  in  the
motherly embraces of the  audience. Next on the program was Oska, reciting a
piece from The Sorochinskaya Fair.
     The audience sat back expectantly.
     "Do you  know what the Ukrainian night is like?" Oska began with  great
feeling.
     "No! No, we don't! Tell us!" came several voices from the audience.
     "No, you do not know what it is like," he continued, obviously startled
by the response.
     "Of course we don't," the mothers replied. "How could we?  We never had
time for book-learning."
     Afterwards the  children took their  mothers  on  a tour of inspection,
showing them their drawings,  posters, magazines and the bulletin board with
newspaper clippings.
     "They've got themselves a whole kingdom of their  own here!" one of the
women exclaimed.
     Then there were games and dancing. At first, the women stood  along the
walls  shyly, but Dina and Zorka pulled  them into the middle of the room. I
played  a lively folk dance, four-handed,  counting Oska's two, and the room
began  to  spin  like  a huge top.  We had  had  many children's parties and
birthday parties at home, but none had ever been as much fun as this.
     "Thank you, Donna  Dinovna," the beaming mothers said. "And  you, Zorka
dear. And you, boys and girls. Our youth's gone and past, with no good times
to remember. But at least we've lived to see our children happy. Thank you."
     "You  should  thank  yourselves.  You  made all  this  possible,"  Dina
replied.
     Saucy Klavdia dragged me off to  the "Surprise Room". One corner of the
room  was hidden  by  some very  nice  drapes.  The  sign above  them  read:
"Panorama. View of a Moonlit Winter's Night".
     "Want a look?" she said. "Pay a forfeit."
     I paid a forfeit.
     Klavdia turned down the lamp. "Look!" She pulled the drapes apart.
     I saw  a  gold  frame. Within it  was a beautifully  made  scene  of  a
winter's night. The moon's milky-blue beams illuminated it. The granaries of
Pokrovsk had been copied very  well. The  tall water-tower was  set  in  the
middle of the deserted square.  Red lights glowed in the windows of the tiny
houses.
     "Doesn't it look real?"
     "Yes," I breathed. "I think it's even prettier than if it was real. Who
did it?"
     "Dina. And  she  said  to  be  sure I  showed it  to you." Klavdia  was
laughing. "Now look!"
     Suddenly, I saw a little horse and wagon moving across the panorama. At
that  instant the toy night dissolved, the  perspective  became deeper,  the
granaries  took  on  their  usual  size,  and I realized that  there was  no
panorama. The gilt frame  had been set in a large  window that  faced on the
square. I  had  been looking out  at  an ordinary  night in the real town of
Pokrovsk. I never would have dreamed that this beautiful night scene and our
wonderful  party could  have  taken place on our  ordinary  earth. A mist of
cheap tinfoil shrouded Schwambrania. The earth of Schwambrania was  slipping
away from under me. At that very  moment  I heard mocking laughter. I looked
around. Dina was standing there, surrounded by a crowd of boys and girls.
     "Well? Do you realize now that you need  a gold frame  to turn Pokrovsk
into Schwambrania?"
     They laughed. Oska  came over  to me and took my hand.  We  stood thus,
surrounded by  the  laughing  children.  Fektistka Ukhorskov  was  laughing.
Klavdia was laughing. Just as Oska  and I were about to join in the  general
merriment at  the expense of  the Big Tooth Continent, the hot blood of true
Schwambranians rushed to our heads. How dared they mock us!
     "Did you guess what  the trick is?" Dina asked. We said  nothing. "Then
I'll tell you. It's all  a matter of the old saying being true: the grass is
always greener on the  other side of the fence.  But a  well-known Communist
writer once said:  the proletariat doesn't have to build castles in the air,
because  it  can and is building  its  kingdom on earth. That's why we had a
proletarian revolution. To make the grass greener on our side."
     In  the  applause  that followed  I heard  the  echoes  of disenchanted
Schwambrania's fall.
     Oska and I, still holding hands, stalked out of the rollicking room.
     "Where are you going?"
     "Are your Schwambranian feelings hurt?"
     "Never  mind, they'll  come  back,"  Dina said. "Hey,  kinsmen,  wait a
minute! Never mind, they'll come back.  They'll come back to work and not to
play at make-believe."


        THE YO-HO-HO INVASION

     Revolutionary humanity, according to rumour, had another very dangerous
enemy besides Chatelains  Urodenal, my  aunts  and the  real,  live  Admiral
Kolchak. This was the Yo-ho-ho  Gang. They came from Atkarskaya, Petrovskaya
and Saratovskaya  streets.  Red-headed  Vaska Kandrash  (Kandrashov) was the
gang leader,  but Hefty Martynenko, my  overgrown former classmate, provided
the real leadership.
     "Yo-ho-ho! Yo-ho-ho!  Nobody can scare  us, ho!" was  their war-cry  as
they made the rounds of their domain.
     The children's library did not  escape attack. They came on a Sunday, a
week before Oska and I walked out. There were about fifteen of them and they
advanced in  a close and  wary bunch.  Vaska  Kandrash was in  the  lead. He
walked over to Donna Dina's desk and said,
     "Find me a nice snappy book. I want a real interesting one. You got one
by  Louis  Boussenard? No?  How about Nat Pinkerton? Not him  neither?  Some
Soviet library you got here!"
     "We  don't  have silly books like that. But we do have books that are a
lot  more  interesting. I can see you boys have a  real fighting spirit. The
way things are run here, every reader is in charge of the library. Would you
like to be our fighting  squad  and keep order in the reading room and guard
our book exhibit?  There are  a  lot of ruffians who tear the books and mess
the place up. I know I'll be able to rely on you."
     This  was most  unexpected. The  Yo-ho-hos  were  taken aback. The gang
members exchanged glances.
     "I'll bet you're the commander," Dina continued, addressing Kandrash.
     "Yes.  I am."  He  was  flattered. "How'd  you  guess?"  "That's common
knowledge. Well, what do you say? Can I rely on you to keep order here?"
     Once again the Yo-ho-hos looked uneasy.
     "Sure  you can. Who tramped all that snow in?" Kandrash bellowed at the
members of his gang. "What's the matter? You so sick you can't bend over and
brush it off your boots? Look at the mess!"
     The Yo-ho-hos jostled each other as they tumbled out  into the hall and
wiped their feet. Then they hung their hats on the pegs.
     Hefty could  not forgive the gang for this betrayal. He  caught up with
me one day as I was passing the library. He  was furious, for  he felt I was
chiefly responsible for the Yo-ho-hos changing sides. He grabbed my coat and
lifted me off the ground. The conversation was more than brief.
     "You?"
     "Yes!"
     "Ahhh!"
     When I was  finally able  to open  my  eyes  again a fight was  raging.
Ukhorskov  and the  Yo-ho-hos were  closing in on Hefty.  I  dashed into the
fray. They accepted me as one of them.
     "All of you to one?" Hefty roared.
     "No! All of us for one!" the boys replied and went on socking him.
     Never before had Hefty been so  badly  beaten. I knew  why he was being
hit. He was  a real  and  vicious enemy,  no matter that he may have been  a
rip-roaring  fellow.  He was getting what was coming  to him.  The line that
divided the world into two camps  had become very  clear to me. Hefty was on
the other side.  I was here, with  the boys  whom I had  come  back to  from
Schwambrania. I was  let in on the fight and hit Hefty with real pleasure. I
pummelled him on  my own behalf and  on behalf of  Stepan Atlantis. I socked
him  like  a  runaway Schwambranian  and  pounded him  like a  sailor of the
revolution. And we did him up fine.


        GREAT NEWS.

     I  was jubilant  as I  returned  from  the  battlefield.  My  head  was
spinning, a result of our victory  and the hard  wallop delivered  by Hefty.
Oska met me in  the front  hall. " 'Hoo-ray, hoo-ray!' they all shouted, the
Schwambranians," I sang.
     "There's great news," Oska said in a stupid voice.
     The family was  gathered at  the table. Misfortune lay on the table, as
long as a pike.
     "Papa has typhus,"  Mamma said in a hospital whisper. "Uralsk  has been
cut off. It took the telegram nine days to reach us. Maybe he's already...."
     "'Hoo-ray, hooray!' They were clouted!"
     I was given some water. I got up from the floor unaided.
     We had no word of Papa in the two weeks that followed. For two weeks we
did not know whether we should speak of him  as someone who was alive, or as
someone who  had died. For  two  weeks we were afraid to mention him, for we
did not know whether to use the present or the past tense.
     It was during those  difficult days  that  we learned Stepan  had  been
killed. Stepan Gavrya, the boy who had wanted to find the lost Atlantis, had
died a hero's  death.  There  were various  versions of  what  had happened.
Volodya Labanda said a Red Army  man  had  told him that the whiteguards had
taken Stepan prisoner. As he faced a firing squad he had been told,
     "Stand against the wall!"
     And  Stepan supposedly had said,  "I'm  used to  that. I  used to stand
against the wall every day in school."
     Maybe Labanda  invented all  this.  I really don't know. But  I do know
that Stepan Gavrya, alias Atlantis, was killed. He would never see me become
a  sailor  of  the  revolution.  I would not come out to welcome  him in  my
patched felt boots,  carrying rotten  straw in  my swollen hands.  There  is
nothing more to write about him.
     What a terrible loss.


        HOMECOMING

     The town became muffled under the snow like an ear that is stuffed with
cotton.  Snowdrifts billowed along the  swollen  streets. The  yards brimmed
over with snow like flour bins.  It was cold. The grey sky drifted overhead,
catching on the chimneys, where it stuck  like water weeds  on piles. It was
cold. The drifts had  laid siege to the town. Hospital  trains snowbound out
there in the icy, and perhaps Papa....
     One  train had ploughed through the drifts the previous day. I  hurried
to the station. The train chugged in  and stopped. No one came out. It was a
train of dead men. The wounded and sick had all frozen to death on the  way.
The bodies were stacked on the platform.
     But Papa was not one of them.
     It was cold. And dreary.  I wanted  so badly to go over to the library,
to do some work with the children there, to go through the books and discuss
the latest  news  dispatches.  But I  felt awkward  about  showing  up after
Schwambrania's  fall. What was Schwambrania, after all? A stuffed lion.  And
the stuffing was dust. A party favour  with no surprise inside it. Even Oska
had become bored with the game.
     Thus  overcome by  boredom, we went  to  see  the  alchemist,  trudging
through the snow as  we  made  our way to the  house and  then  down to  the
basement.  We  came upon a disgusting scene. They had apparently all had too
much of the elixir. Filcnkin was on  the floor, out like a light. Agrippina.
the wife  of  Schwamhrania's  president, was  being  sick in a  corner.  The
alchemist was barely able to keep his balance on a stool.
     "Want ... some elixir? It'll m-make you's happy as me." He offered me a
slopping glass.
     I accepted it from his unsteady hand. A nauseating smell hit  me in the
face. Why.... The terrible truth dawned on me: it was homebrew!
     "He-he.... Yes. Natur'ly. It's homebrew. The purest kind. Eh-mew-eh....
Distilled  it  m'self.  My   ...  eh  ...  Elixir   of   Schwambrania.  Your
Schwambrania. too ... eh-mew-eh.... It's somewhat like homebrew.... Your own
invenshun, this. A dream of your own brewing...."
     We ran out. Why were we so unlucky? Had  we  been the unwitting helpers
of a moonshiner? Our own invention! Our  own brewing! We were  so crushed we
went to  bed  early that night,  without  boat whistles or dreams. Sleep, as
chilly and loose as a snowdrift. enveloped us.
     There was a loud knock