two boys who
were kept out of it  were  Lizarsky, the police  officer's son, and his best
friend. Dimwit.
     War had been declared.


        THE STILLED VOICES

     Five days later the ringleaders met at the Tavern. Although it was late
in the afternoon, each one came carrying his heavily-packed school  satchel.
However,  instead of  the  usual  dull grammar books  and  figure-laden math
books,  they now  contained  severed bell-buttons.  The white, black,  grey,
mother-of-pearl, enamel, yellow, stiff  and worn  buttons (the latter  would
stay depressed and keep on ringing the  bell) stared out of  their wooden or
metal circles, squares, ovals and rosettes that were lacquered, or-rusty, of
fumed or stained oak, or walnut. The wires protruded like torn ligaments.
     Every family was now waiting for the Afon Recruit to call. He spent the
next  two  weeks  installing new bells, bringing  the stilled voices back to
life, as he was wont to  say.  Then, when  the  last button had been screwed
into place, he said to Hefty: "Your turn! You start a week from today."
     The following Saturday was a muddy day. More than one rubber drowned in
the puddles, more than one galosh  sank on the main  street of Pokrovsk that
day.  However, when  the townspeople finally trudged home  from church  that
evening, losing their  rubbers, their way and  their  strength, they fumbled
about outside their front doors in the darkness in vain  and struck matches,
cupping  their  hands  to shield  the  flames from  the wind.  There were no
bell-buttons in sight. That night everyone discovered that the new bells had
been cut off.
     "What's  going on?" was the worried refrain the following day at  Mass,
on  the  street corners, at the front gates and  on the benches outside  the
houses.  "Good  Lord!  In bright daylight, too! It's  highway robbery. Maybe
they've got a whole gang at it."
     "Imagine! I mixed the dough and set it out to rise. Then I went outside
for a breath of air and to have a chat  with my  neighbour. Grinya was doing
his homework. Well, we talked for  a bit, and I went back. I wanted to close
the front  door  and, gracious! There  was no doorbell. And  not  a soul  in
sight, mind you."
     The  poor  woman could  never  imagine that  her  dear  son  Grinya,  a
snub-nosed fifth-grade boy, had cut off the button.


        THE ZEMSTVO INSPECTOR AND SON

     The  town was  in  the dumps.  No  one attempted to  have a  new button
installed. The schoolboys were  jubilant. Outside every  front door a bright
circle or square with holes where the nails had been gaped forlornly.
     The Zemstvo inspector was the only one to summon the  Afon Recruit. "Go
on, put in a new one!" he said. "Go  on, you  scoundrel. And make sure  it's
screwed on tight this time! I know your kind." And he shook his finger.
     The Recruit cast a guarded look at him.
     "Don't  play the innocent. I know you. You barely stick it to the wall,
so's the brats can pry it  off quicker.  I know you bums. They get them off,
and a  black thief like you shovels in the profits. But  you  won't get away
with  it this time! I'll post policeman here. I'll have a man on duty  round
the clock."
     The Recruit installed  a  new  button and hurried  back to the  Tavern,
where the boys were waiting for him.
     "I  just  put in a new pip for the  Zemstvo Inspector. Don't touch  it.
He'll have bloodhound there day and night."
     "To hell  with  all coppers!" Venya  Razudanov, alias Satrap,  and  the
Zemstvo  inspector's  own son,  shouted  belligerently.  He  was  stocky and
stubborn, a true copy  of his father,  and that was how he had got his other
nickname, the Ghost of Hamlet's Father.
     "Wait  a minute, my  militant boy," Joseph Pukis said. "What kind of an
aplombic tone of voice  is that?  Stop and think. You may have to part  with
your school cap  instead of another doorbell. Why spit in the  wind? Caution
above all.'
     "That's right, Satrap. You got to be careful. If  you get  caught, I'll
take care  of you good." At this Hefty held his monstrous, mallet-like  fist
up to Satrap's face.
     As  always,  his  fist was  admired  and discussed at length.  Everyone
tested it an exclaimed:
     "Boy, that's some fist! Look at the size of it!"
     "In these days a good-sized fist is better  than a  so-so head," Joseph
philoscophized.
     "Big, good fist," Chi Sun-cha exclaimed. "Boswain fist like so. Ah! Lot
of h teeth."
     "I'll cut off the button anyway!" the Zemstvo Inspector's son muttered.


        A CHAPTER  USING FILM TECHNIQUE, IN WHICH THE READER, GLIMPSING FEET ON
TOP AND HEADS BELOW, MIGHT SHOUT: "WATCH THE FRAME!"

     It was as black as pitch.
     Then, as our eyes  became  accustomed to the  dark, we made out a  door
with plaque  on it. It read: "G. V. Razudanov, Zemstvo Inspector." Beside it
was new bell-button.  We were  on the second floor landing  and  could see a
stretch of staircase. Down below under the stairs  was a  head  with a lumpy
nose and long  moustaches, topped by a cap with a cockade. It was Bloodhound
Kozodav. I-was cold. He shivered.  He  raised his collar. He kept  blinking.
His eyelids dropped. Kozodav was dying to sleep.
     The clock in the dining-room of  the  Zemstvo  Inspector's house struck
two. On the table were a sandwich on  a plate and a glass  of milk, left out
for someone.
     There were steps on the stairs. It was  the sound of muddy rubbers. One
foot stumbled on a tread. "Dammit! It's as dark as hell."
     A  match  flared.  A  hand  in  a  kid  glove held  the  match  to  the
bell-button. Another match was struck and went out, and then another.
     "The Recruit really did his damnedest!"
     Kozodav's head was somewheres down below.  Above it were a pair of feet
shod in shoes and rubbers.
     Kozodav, who had dozed off for a minute, came to his senses and clumped
up the stairs  hurriedly. "Got  you this time!"  he bellowed. He was heaving
mightily, and his moustache bristled as  he raised a whistle to his lips. He
grabbed the intruder by the collar with his free hand  and whistled.  "Help!
Murder! I got'im!"
     The intruder turned  calmly and brushed the policeman's  hand  from his
collar with a regal gesture. It was Venya Razudanov, the Zemstvo Inspector's
son. He  was  more than indignant.  "What's  the matter with you, you  fool?
Can't you see who I am?"
     "I'm  s-s-sorry! I  d-didn't recognize you  in  the  dark. I'm  awfully
sorry. I thought it was someone creeping up here after the bell."
     The door  opened.  The Zemstvo  Inspector,  wearing his wife's dressing
gown and carrying a double-barrelled  shotgun, emerged onto the landing. The
sleepy-eyed, frightened faces of his wife, sister-in-law and maid peeped out
from behind him.
     "What's going on here?"
     Kozodav snapped to attention, his hand  frozen in a  salute. Venya  was
the one to explain.
     "This idiot was  sound asleep on his  feet and decided I was a burglar,
Papa. And he missed whoever it was that got the bell."
     All eyes  were  now  on the door jamb.  There  were torn wires and nail
holes where the  bell button had  so  recently been. Then everyone turned to
Kozodav. He went up to the door, unable to believe his eyes. He ran his hand
over the spot and  shrugged.  The  Zemstvo inspector shook him by the collar
and yelled: "Get out, you idiot! You let him get away!"
     Venya, meanwhile, was playing the part of a hurt, insulted boy. "I'm so
tired, Mamma. I spent half the  night studying. And this is what I came home
to...."
     The next  scene  concerned the family alone. There was a kiss  for  the
poor boy. Fade-out. In other words, the end of the chapter.
     The brightly-polished bell button made a bulge in the pocket of Venya's
overcoat.


        BLOODHOUND SUMMONS JOSEPH

     "I want those bell-snatchers  caught! Hear me?" the police officer said
to Kozodav. "You've  become the  laughing-stock of this  whole town! If  you
catch them, you'll get a fifty-rouble bonus. If you  don't, I'll make things
so hot for you, you'll cook to a frizzle!"
     Bloodhound threw himself into the job.
     He was  walking through  the  market.  No,  he was not  walking, he was
sailing. The red braiding of the shoulder straps which adorned his  powerful
shoulders rose and fell like oars  in the human stream of the market.  There
Kozodav  came  upon Kostya Gonchar,  the  Tavern simpleton. He was wandering
about  the  market,  looking  as  festive  as  a  Christmas  tree.  Two  new
acquisitions gleamed on his belly: a shiny ad for  Triangle Galoshes and ...
a large red  rosette with a bell-button in  the centre.  At the sight of the
bell-button Kozodav made a  beeline for Kostya. He promised  to give him his
fine red shoulder straps, gold tassels and anything else he wanted if Kostya
would  tell him where he  had gotten the bell. And Kostya beaming  brightly,
told him  all  he  knew.... He  said he had  stolen the  bell from under the
Recruit's bunk.
     "The Recruit hid it, but I felt around and  found it. There's lots more
there! One an' twenty times more, an'...."
     At which Kozodav  promised  him a thousand  other glittering treasures.
Kostya  brought him  a  torn copy of the  Manifesto  issued  by  the War and
Vengeance Committee. The ringleaders were as good as caught. In order to get
all the other Bloodhound decided to tempt  Joseph, too. He dropped in at the
Tavern, sat down on Joseph's bunk, and cleared his throat politely.
     "Ah, sir  honourable policeman," Pukis  said. "So you  want to see  me?
What a I do for you?"
     Bloodhound moved closer, looked around and nudged Joseph. "You sure are
tricky one, Joseph! Why don't you just tell me how you  and  the Recruit cut
off t] bell? I won't tell a soul. I just want to hear  how you did it.  Come
on, quit pretending."
     "I don't understand you one bit." Joseph's face, which had been placid,
took' a  surprised look. "Though I'm Joseph and you're a  policeman, I don't
know h< you dreamed this up."
     Kozodav  pulled  out  his wallet and rustled  the  crisp  notes inside.
Joseph cor nued unperturbed:
     "And  besides,  and  I  hope  you  won't  take offence,  I  think,  sir
honourable policeman, that you're a great honourable scoundrel!"
     Kozodav shook  his fist at him, slammed the door and  was off. He  soon
came to a halt and  took the  Manifesto from his  pocket. The  top  and  the
bottom had  been torn off, but the list of monitors was intact. He  pondered
over it a while, then tore Satrap's name out of it and said to himself: "The
Zemstvo  Inspector'11  give me a  fiver  for  this scrap  of  paper,  or his
sonny-boy'll be  expelled, too."  He  set  his  cap on  straight and  headed
towards  the  precinct  and from  there  to  the  Boys  School,  to  see the
principal.


        STEPS IN THE CORRIDOR

     The monotonous  wind cooled  the puddles like tea poured into a saucer.
The telephone  wires  hummed. At ten a.m. the switchboard operator connected
the precinct station with the green-papered office beyond the Teachers' Room
by way  of these windblown, humming wires. The principal, as sallow-faced as
the  green  wallpaper  of his  office,  and  as slow-moving  and joyless  as
dictation,  cranked his telephone, sat back  in  his  armchair,  removed the
receiver and raised it to his ear.
     "Hello," he said.
     Lessons were in progress. Half an hour later every classroom  heard two
men walking down the  corridor.  Their  steps were loud  and  alien. The one
whose gait was  slow  and heavy wore boots  that squeaked. The other tinkled
and jungled  at every step. The boys  listened  intently.  They raised their
heads  from their notebooks, ponies, cracks in their desks, banned books and
trump cards. Anxious eyes were fixed on the doors.


        EXPOSE

     The third grade was having a math test. Once  again all became still in
the corridor outside. Pens scratched. Hefty had made  a mistake in a problem
and couldn't  get the answer right. The steps in the corridor had  made  him
nervous. Stepan  Atlantis, whose heart had also skipped a beat, saw that his
chum  was having trouble and sent him  the following note: "Relax.  Fish-Eye
isn't a man-eater."
     But  he  was, as far as they were concerned. The classroom door opened.
There was a rattle of desk tops as the boys rose.  Seize'em entered, beaming
foully and twirling his key chain. The key on it was the key to the bookcase
where the Black Book was kept.
     "Stepan Gavrya! Go to the principal's office!" he commanded.
     Atlantis towered over his desk. He looked dazed.
     "Hurry up!" Seize'em said. "And take your books."
     An  anxious hum filled the classroom. He  was to  take his books!  That
meant was leaving for good. He wouldn't be coming back.
     Hefty  waited. He had lowered his head,  as  if to ward off a blow, but
Seized said nothing to him. Bloodhound Kozodav, being vary of Hefty's fists,
had torn his name off the list, too.
     Atlantis'  hands shook  as he got his  books together, put  them in his
satchel a then  headed towards  the door. On the  way out he slipped Hefty a
rolled-up  scrap of paper. Atlantis stopped in the doorway.  He was about to
say  something,  but  Seize'em  shoved  him out.  The boys  waited in  tense
silence.  The  math  teacher  wiped  the  foggy  lenses  of  his  spectacles
nervously.
     Hefty unrolled  the scrap of  paper.  It contained the solution  to the
problem, done step-by-step. Even in this last  moment Stepan had come to his
friend's aid. Hi  sat  there motionlessly for a minute with his head lowered
and his  eyes on his desk. Then he rose  quickly,  swayed, filled  his broad
barrel chest  with air, glowered said in a voice that was a statement, not a
question:
     "May I leave the room."
     "There's only ten minutes left till the end of the lesson," the teacher
said.
     "May  I  leave  the  room?"  Hefty  exhaled stubbornly and stepped into
aisle.
     "Well, if you really can't wait."
     The stunned boys  watched Hefty stuff  his  books into his  satchel and
lumber towards the door, satchel in  hand. A terrible silence  settled  over
the third grade.
     Hefty did not look back. He went straight out, into the empty corridor,
and once there he  suddenly felt very small and doomed. And he heard, coming
from  be! the closed door, a shriek  of laughter rise up over the desks, the
inkwells  and lectern amidst  the  shocked silence of the boys  he had left.
Then it changed into gurgling scream.  It was little Petya Yachmenny  in the
first row who had become  hysterical from the tension. Hefty threw back  his
shoulders and stalked towards the principal's office.


        EIGHT BOYS

     Kozodav was breathing heavily. He was breathing heavily  and poking his
:finger at  the  boys lined up  in  front of  him.  "Yes,  sir!  This  one's
Honeycomb, and this one's Atlantis. That's their nicknames."
     The other man was rocking  back  and forth in a tilted chair. His spurs
jungled and  he  twirled his small  black  moustache.  "Well, well....  Such
conspirators! Well, well, boys."
     The seven of them stood stiffly before the desk. There were only seven,
since  the  Zemstvo  Inspector's son  was missing. The soot  of  misery  and
despair was settling on their faces.
     "So. Indeed," the principal said curtly, and  his voice sounded as if a
twig had snapped. "I thank you. Well, you wretches, what have you to say for
yourselves? For shame! For shame! It's  disgraceful! Who else was in on this
with you? Oh,  so you won't tell? Miserable creatures. You're no more than a
bunch of thugs. You'll all  be expelled. You're  a  disgrace  to  the school
emblem. Nothing you can say will change matters. I want to see your parents.
I'm very sorry for them. Having sons like you is enough to break a  parent's
heart. You scoundrels."
     The seven raised their eyes and heaved a collective sigh. Indeed, there
were their parents.  They could expect their  mothers' tears. And  scolding.
And their fathers'  chairs being pushed back in  anger. Perhaps even a cuff.
Their  dinners would be  getting cold on the table.  "You'll  end up being a
stevedore!" And the empty days stretching on ahead.
     Then the  King  of the  Jews said rudely,  "Let's not bring our parents
into this. It's bad enough as it is."
     "Silence! Do you want to be blacklisted for good?"
     Just then Hefty entered. He leaned  a hand on the edge of the desk, and
the desk creaked. Moving  his jaw slowly,  he seemed to be chewing his words
as he said, "I'm in on it, too. I'm the ringleader."
     "Well. You can consider yourself dismissed. You're also expelled."
     Eight overcoats were missing from the cloakroom now.
     Eight boys trudged across the muddy square, their  feet dragging in the
ooze.  They  were  bent  under  the  weight of  their  school  satchels  and
misfortune. They looked back  at  the school a last time and one of them, it
was Hefty, the boys in the  classroom saw it  was he, shook his fist angrily
at the building.  Everyone in the school who had seen them wanted  to shout,
pound their fists on  their  desks, turn over the lecterns and catch up with
the eight  boys outside. But  the boys in classrooms were pupils, and pupils
were not allowed to make any  noise or express comradely feelings until they
were permitted  to do so by the bell,  which measured out  their portions of
freedom.
     Penpoints scratched across paper and left many a blot.


        PUKIS THE BENEFACTOR

     While the fifth lesson  of  the day was in progress, Joseph  Pukis, his
face very grave, entered the deserted corridor. The janitor was busy washing
the floor Joseph greeted him politely. He spoke beseechingly.
     "Mr. Janitor! I really have to see the principal. It's a matter of life
and the contrary."
     The  principal saw Joseph  in  the  Teachers' Room. He was in a  hurry.
"Yes? What can I do for you? Um.... I don't have very much time."
     "Mister Principal,  Sir, I'm  an old wandering Jew,  and  I can see the
happiness of a family man in your face. I'll bet anything that your children
will never go ban foot or wanton."
     "Get to  the point!  I have no  children. And I have no time to  waste,
either."
     "Just one little minute,  Sir. You expelled eight boys today. And I ask
you, what did  you  expel them? But do I  have  a right  to  ask you?  No! A
thousand  times no. But I have a kind heart. And when you have a kind heart,
you have to speak up. I'm very sorry for  those boys. And I'm still  sorrier
for their parents, who nursed and upbrang them.  Sir  Principal,  you  don't
have any  children.  May God give  y children.  You don't  know how oi-oi-oi
terrible it is when your boy comes home and...."
     "That's enough!" The principal  rose. "This conversation is  senseless.
The exit is over there."
     "Just one little  minute more!" Joseph cried, grabbing the  principal's
sleeve. "But do you know that all those bells, the devil take them, were cut
off by all your pupils? How many boys are there in the school?"
     "There were  two hundred  and  seventy-two until  today," the principal
replied despite himself.
     "Well, at least  two hundred and sixty of them did  the cutting. How do
you that?  And  what  if I  tell you that your best  pupil, the son  of  the
honourable Zemstvo Inspector, may  he live to  be  a hundred,  also  did the
cutting,  and even a  lot better  than  many of the others? The  police only
showed you a piece of it." Joseph took out the complete Manifesto and handed
it to  the principal. The principal paled. There on the sheet of paper  were
the  signatures of  the boys  of all eight  grades.  He pointed  to  a chair
contemptuously and said, "Sit down ... please."
     Then Joseph  told  him  of  his  terms.  The  eight  boys  were  to  be
reinstated. The police would search the Tavern and would find the bells. The
Afon  Recruit  would  lie  low  for  a  while.  He had  agreed  to this. The
townspeople would think that s bums from the  Tavern had cut off the  bells,
and in this way the  boys would be exonerated. That would put an end  to the
scandal.  If, on  the other hand,  the principal did not reinstate the boys,
the very next day the entire town, the entire region  and the entire  school
district would discover  what was going  on under  the roof of the  Pokrovsk
Boys School and what the sons of some Zemstvo inspectors were up to.
     "All right. They'll  be reinstated, but  their names will be entered in
the  Ledger." He pulled out his wallet. "How much  do I owe you for this ...
for this, and to ensure your silence?"
     Joseph jumped to his  feet. Joseph leaned across the desk. Joseph said,
"Sir! You don't have to pay me, Sir. But I swear by the memory of my mother,
may she  rest in  peace  and quiet,  that the time will come when  you'll be
repaid  by me  and by us, and by those eight boys who  went off like whipped
dogs, and you'll be repaid with good interest!"
     Thus ends the saga of the Afon Recruit.


     "FS" AND "D'S"

     After the doorbell  scandal life at  school seemed to have resumed  its
natural  course.  There  were  fewer  bloody  brawls,  fewer rows  and  less
thieving. However, the rules became still stricter.
     Seize'em was forever  shaking the plaster foundations of Antiquity when
he unlocked the bookcase to get the Deportment Ledger and disturbed the aged
Venus.
     Pupils were  absolutely forbidden  to be  seen on or  near the railroad
platform  and  the Public Gardens.  Paralysing, grey boredom oozed over from
one day to the next, from one page of our books to the next.  The Deportment
Ledger was a sword that  hung over our  heads.  Rows of  boys being punished
would be  lined  up along  the walls during classes. The  pages of the class
journals filled up with broken fences of "F's" and big fat "D's".


        ROACHIUS, THE QUESTION MARK

     Veniamin Pustynin, the Latin teacher,  who was nicknamed Roach Whiskers
for his  long, bristling moustache (or, Roachius, to give it a Latin ending)
sowed "F's" and "D's" with a vengeance. He had another nickname as well, one
our class usually used, and that was Crookneck.
     Roachius was thin and  had a  long  nose, and  really  did  look like a
crook.  Above  his  stiffly starched winged collar he had an  extremely long
neck that swayed from side to side just like a  big question  mark. And  so,
wherever he  went,  Roachius would  find a  big question  mark.  It would be
staring at him from the blackboard, the lectern, the  seat of his chair, the
back of his coat, the door to his house. The question marks would  be erased
but would reappear the following day. Roachius would turn pale, lose  weight
and fill our notebooks and report cards with "F's".
     He had a  passion for  little notebooks in  which we  were supposed  to
write down  Latin words. Whenever he called  on a pupil he demanded that the
boy come up to the blackboard with his little Latin notebook.
     "So," he would say. "I see  you've learned the lesson. Now let's have a
look at your  notebook. I want to see  what new words you've put down. What?
You left  it at home? And you dared to come up to the blackboard without it?
Go back to your seat." And he would give the boy an "F".
     No amount of pleading helped. It was an "F", and that was all there was
to it.
     There  were two  boys  in  my  class  whose  last  names  were similar:
Alekseyenko and Aleferenko. One day Alekseyenko left his hateful notebook at
home. Roachius entered the  classroom, sat down at the lectern,  put on  his
pince-nez and said softly:
     "Ale ... ferenko!"
     Aleferenko, whose  seat was  behind Alekseyenko, rose and  went to  the
front of the class, while Alekseyenko, who  in  his terror  had decided that
his name had been called, jumped to his  feet and mumbled in a rolling bass,
"I  forgot my notebook...." He stopped short,  for he  had suddenly  noticed
Aleferenko approaching  the lectern,  and  cursed  himself  for being such a
fool. Roachius calmly dipped his pen into the  inkwell. "Actually,  I called
on  Aleferenko,  but since you've confessed your guilt, you'll get what  you
deserve." And he gave him an "F".


        THE HISTORY TEAM

     The bell  rang, bringing recess to an  end.  The noise in the classroom
died down.
     He was coming!
     The boys rose in a body.
     The history teacher was coming. He had fine blond hair parted  down the
middle,  a very  young,  pale, thin face and  huge blue eyes.  His head  was
tilted slightly in a kindly manner. His collar was snow-white. Kirill  Ukhov
burst into the classroom and tossed the class journal onto the lectern.
     The boys stood at attention.
     Ukhov looked them over,  rushed over to the lectern, then  into  one of
the  aisles  and  crouched  down.   Suddenly  his  blue  eyes  flashed.  His
high-pitched voice  rose  to a shout: "Who!  Dared! To sit!  Down! I haven't
said ... 'Be seated'.  Get up and stay up!  And you! And you, too!  And you!
Wretches!  All the others,  be seated. Hands  on your  desks.  Both of them.
Where's your other hand?  Stand  up and stay up! And  you, over to the wall!
Right there! Well? Silence! Whose desk creaked? Shalferov, was it yours? Get
up! Silence!"
     Fourteen  boys  stood all  through  the  lesson.  The  history  teacher
expounded on ancient kings and famous steeds. He kept fixing  his  tie,  his
hair, his cuffs. A gold bracelet glinted under his  left cuff.  It  was  the
gift of some legendary noblewoman.
     Fourteen boys were standing.  The lesson dragged  on and on. Their legs
became numb. Finally, Ukhov glanced at his watch. The gold lid clicked shut.
Some of the boys by the wall cleared their throats tentatively.
     "Caught cold?" Ukhov inquired with concern. "Monitor, close the window,
there's a draught."
     The monitor closed the window. The  lesson continued. The punished boys
continued to  stand by the wall,  shifting  their weight  from one  foot  to
another. Then, after  having glanced at his watch several times, Ukhov would
suddenly say: "All right, team, be seated."
     The bell always rang exactly a minute later.


        AMONG THE WANDERING DESKS

     Our French  teacher's  name was Matryona Martynovna Badeikina,  but she
insisted we refer to her as Mathilde Martynovna. We never argued the point.
     She   called   the   first-to-third   grade   boys   "polliwogs",   the
third-to-sixth grade boys "dearies" and the senior boys "gentlemen". She was
definitely  afraid of the polliwogs.  Some of them had moustaches as wild as
the  weeds on an empty  lot,  and their voices were so deep and fearful they
frightened the camels on the street. Besides, whenever a polliwog came up to
the  lectern to recite  a  lesson, the smell of  home-grown  tobacco  was so
strong on his breath it nearly made poor Mathilde sick.
     "Don't  come  any closer!"  she  would  wail.  "The  smell, pardon,  is
overwhelming."
     "It was the  tomato pie I had," the  polliwog would  explain  politely.
"The smell's because I'm burping."
     "Ah,  mon dieu!  What  has  the pie  to do with it?  You're  absolutely
drenched in nicotine."
     "Oh, no, Matryona ... I mean, Mathilde Martynovna! I don't smoke.  And,
uh ... please, pooeejekiteh la class?" (This should have been "Pui-je quitte
la class?")
     This would melt Matryona's heart. One had only to ask for permission to
leave the room in  French for her to beam  happily. Actually, we thought she
was  too  sensitive.  If  anyone  wrote  some  obscenity  in  French on  the
blackboard,  or tacked a  dead rat  to the lectern, or  did anything else in
jest,  she  would always get  offended.  She  would enter it  in  the  class
journal, get  all  huffy, cover  her face with  her ham and  just  sit there
saying nothing. And we would be silent, too. Then, at a sign from Hefty, the
desks  would begin  to  close  in on the lectern slowly.  We  were  great at
coasting  around  in  our desks,  with our knees raising them  and our  feet
moving  along  the  floor.  When all  the  boys  grouped  around  her  in  a
semicircle, we would chant softly:
     "Je vous aime, je vous aime, je vous aime."
     Matryona Martynovna would take her hands from her face and see the des]
all  around  her. Then  Hefty  would  rise  and say  in  a  deep,  touching,
chivalrous voice:
     "Pardon, Mathilde Martynovna!  Don't be  too hard on your polliwogs....
Haw Scratch out what you wrote in the journal or we won't let you out."
     Matryona would beam and scratch it out.
     The boys would then beat a solemn tattoo on their desk tops. The back n
would play taps. The desks would retreat.
     However, we soon tired of declaring our love  to the mam'-selle and so,
instead of "je vous aime" we  began saying "Novouzensk", which  sounded just
like  it. In fact, when we chanted it, you couldn't tell the difference. And
so poor Mathilde went  on imagining  that the  boys all loved  her, while we
were chanting the name a nearby town.
     However, it all ended sadly. Other objects besides  our desks soon fell
prey to < wanderlust. Thus, a large bookcase once set out down the corridor,
and  Seize'em's galoshes glided out of  the Teachers'  Room. However, when a
lectern, with He  and  a friend under it  to provide  motor power, reared up
just  before a lesson a galloped around,  the principal's spirit took a hand
in  the  table-tilting  and the t culprits had their names  put  down in the
Black  Book,  while the rest of the class  was made to stay after school for
two hours and miss their dinners.


     HIS ROYAL MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY

     Looking  through  the classroom windows  that morning  we could see the
fluttering red, blue and white slices of the flag.
     It was a  red-letter day on the  calendar, marked by the notation: "His
Royal Majesty's Birthday."
     The cracked bell of Pokrovsk's Peter and Paul Church rang out:
     "An-ton! An-ton! An-ton!
     And a lit-the ring and bong-bong,
     And a lit-the ring and bong-bong."
     There was a special service at the school at eleven o'clock.
     The boys  were lined up  in pairs. The stiff, silver-stitched edges  of
our high collars cut into our necks.
     All was still. There  was a smell of  incense  in the air.  It was very
close. The priest, the very same one who hit the boys over the head with the
Bible during Bible classes as he admonished them, saying "Stand up straight,
you dolt!" was now solemnly reading the  service  in  a nasal voice. He  was
dressed in  glittering robes  for the  occasion.  The choir sang. The small,
hairy precentor scurried up and down.
     We were to stand stiffly at attention for two long hours. We could  not
so  much as move a muscle. My nose itched, but I dared  not  scratch it. Our
arms had to be in line with the seams of our trousers. All was still. It was
hot and stuffy.
     "Long life to the Tsar! Glo-ory to him!"
     "Bozhenov's going to be sick, Nikolai Ilyich."
     "Shhh! Not a word! He would't dare!"
     "Glo-oo-ry to him!"
     "Honest,  Nikolai  Ilyich. He  can't hold it in  any  more. He's  going
to...."
     "Shhh!"
     All was still.  And  suffocating.  My nose itched. This was discipline.
Hands  and arms in  line  with  your seams. The second hour was drawing to a
close.
     "Go-oo-d save the Tsar!"
     The principal took a  step forward, and it seemed that  he  had fired a
child's popgun when he cried: "Hooray!"
     "Hoo-ra-aa-aa-ay!"
     The walls shook. The principal again cried:
     "Hooray!"
     "Hoora-aa-aa-ay!"
     And once more. Heave-ho, all together now!
     "Hooray!"
     "AA.-.aghh...."
     "Nukolai Ilyich! Bozhenov's throwing up all over the floor!"
     "God save the Tsar...."
     Bozhenov was carried out.  He had fainted.  The service was over. Now I
could at  last scratch  my nose  and unbutton the  top  button  of my  stiff
collar.


        SCIENCE KNOWS MANY MITACS

     We had always known, from Annushka having told  us, that "science knows
many  mitacs". This was the secret formula for guessing a card trick, and it
always  helped  you to pick  the right  pair. Which meant  that science  was
indeed all-powerful and did know many ... uh... mitacs. But no one knew what
a "mitac" was. We looked for the word in the  encyclopaedia, but although we
found "Mitau" (with a notation:  "see Jelgova"), we couldn't find a trace of
"mitac".
     I next learned of the  significance of  science in school. However, the
overwhelming of science was not proved as conclusively to us there as it was
in  Annushka's card trick. Science,  as  dry  and undigestible  as  sawdust,
rained  upon  us from the  lectern, powdering our  heads  generously  in the
process.  None of the teachers could  tell  us anything  definite  about the
mitacs. The second-year pupils suggested I ask the Latin teacher.
     "Where  did  you hear  that word?" he  asked,  playing  for  time,  for
Roachius was a very conceited man.
     The big boys fell silent, waiting to see what would come next.
     "Our cook said..." I began amidst the general uproar.
     "Go  stand  in the  corner till the bell  rings," he  snapped,  turning
beet-red. "Thank God the curriculum does not call  for the study of pots and
pans. Stop up your spout, you moron!"
     And  I stopped up my spout. I  realized that the  school curriculum was
not intended to satisfy, as they then said, our spiritual requirements.
     In search of the truth I once  again  fled to the wide  open  spaces of
Schwambrania. The  main character of our arithmetic  book, modestly known as
"A man". the very same one who had bought 25 3/4 yards of cloth at 3 roubles
a yard and  had  then  resold  it at 5 roubles a yard, was  losing a  lot of
money,  because  of Schwambrania.  And two travellers, one setting out  from
point  A and  the other  from point B,  could never  meet, because they were
wandering about in Schwambrania. However,  the  population of  Schwambrania,
represented by Oska, greeted my return with joy.


        A PLACE ON THE MAP

     Having returned to the  Big Tooth  Continent, I immediately set  out to
carry  out some reforms. Firstly,  Schwambrania had  to be  given a definite
place on the map We found a good  spot for it in the Southern Hemisphere, in
the middle of  the ocean. Thus,  whenever it was winter in Pokrovsk, it  was
summer in Schwambrania, or the only kind of game that is any fun is one that
takes you far away to another clime.
     Now Schwambrania was firmly set on the map. The Big Tooth Continent was
situated in the Pacific Ocean to the east of Australia, having absorbed some
of  the  islands of  Oceania. Its northern borders,  reaching  as far as the
equator,  had a flourishing tropical flora, while its southern borders  were
frozen wastelands, lying in close proximity to the Antarctic.
     I then shook  the contents of all the books  I had ever  read onto  the
soil  of Schwambrania. Oska,  who  was  determined to keep abreast, was busy
learning new words and confusing  them terribly. No sooner would I come home
from school than he would draw me aside and whisper:
     "I've got news for you! Jack went to  Camera, to hunt chocolates, and a
hundred wild Balkans attacked  him, and  started killing him!  And just then
Miss  Terracota started smoking.  It's  a good  thing his faithful dog Sarah
Bemhardt saved him just in time."
     And it was  up to me to figure  out  that Oska meant the Cameroons, not
camera,  cannibals, not the Balkans, and cachalots, not chocolates.  It  was
easy to guess that he had confused Sarah Bemhardt and a St. Bernard dog. And
the reason he called the volcano  a Miss  was because I had  told  him about
emissions of rocks.


        THE ORIGIN OF SCOUNDRELS

     We were growing older. The letters of my script had firmly taken hands,
and my  lines were now as even as rows  of soldiers. Now that we  were a bit
older we became convinced that there was very  little symmetry in the world,
and that there were no absolutely  straight  lines, completely round circles
or flat  surfaces. Nature,  we discovered, was  contradictory, imperfect and
zig-zagged. This state of affairs had come about as a result of the constant
battles  being waged  by the forces of  nature.  The jagged  contours of the
continents were a  reflection of this struggle.  The  sea battered into  the
mainland, while the continents thrust their fingers into the  blue locks  of
the sea.
     The time had come for us to review the borders of Schwambrania. Thus, a
new map was drawn up.
     That  was  when we  noticed that all struggle was not confined  to  the
realm of geography. All of life  was  ruled by some sort of struggle,  which
hummed  in  the hold of history and propelled it. Even our own  Schwambrania
became  dull and  lifeless without it.  Our game  became as uneventful  as a
stagnant pond  of  water.  At that time we  did not yet know  what sort of a
struggle powered history. Living in our  cosy apartment, we had no chance to
discover anything about the great, all-consuming struggle for  survival, and
so decided that  every war,  every overthrown government, etc.,  was no more
than a  struggle between good  and evil. It was as simple  as that. That was
why  we had  to put several scoundrels  in  Schwambrania to liven things up.
Bloodthirsty  Count  Chatelains  Urodenal  became  the  chief  scoundrel  of
Schwambrania.
     At the  time all the magazines carried ads for Chatelain's  Urodenal, a
popular patent remedy for kidney and liver stones. The ads carried a picture
of  a man  racked by pain, with the  pain  depicted as  pincers gripping the
unfortunate's body; or else, there was a picture of a  man  using  a clothes
brush  to brush  a  huge  human  kidney.  We  decided  that  these would  be
considered the crimes committed by the bloodthirsty count.


        THE TOP OF THE WORLD

     Although the rooftops belonged to the real world,  they were high above
the  dull earth and were not subject to its laws. The roofs were occupied by
Schwambranians.  Up and  down  the steep sides, over the attics and eaves, I
set off  on my  dizzying journeys.  I could  travel the length of a block by
going from roof to roof and never once touch the ground. It was wonderful to
watch the sky at twilight as I lay  on  the cooling iron  roof,  between the
chimney and the  birdhouse  pole.  The  sky  was  so close as it  drifted by
overhead, and the roof drifted off into the clouds. The starling on duty was
whistling on the mast. The day, like a great ship, was sailing into evening,
raising the red oars of sunset and casting shadows as pointed as the tips of
an anchor into the yard.
     However, no one was allowed to be out on the roofs. The janitor and his
broom guarded the heavenly approaches. He was vigilant and unbending.
     People who lived in  other houses and saw me  thundering  across  their
roofs  would shout:  "Shame  on you!  A doctor's  son gallivanting over  the
rooftops!" Actually, I could not understand why a doctor's son was doomed to
crawl  on  the ground. But  the  confounded label of  "doctor's son"  was  a
killjoy, a ball-and-chain that forced us to be goody-goodies.
     One  day  the janitor tracked me down.  He came crashing over  the iron
roof  after  me.  I wanted  to  jump into the  next  yard,  but  someone had
unleashed a  vicious-looking mutt there.  In  another  yard  the  owner  was
standing outside  in his long Johns and a  vest. He  said he would guarantee
"an  earboxing and  scolderation".  Just  then I  noticed  a ladder  leaning
against an adjoining roof. I stuck my  tongue out at the janitor and escaped
across the third yard.


        PLAYING STICKBALL IN THE LILACS

     The little yard  I found  myself  in was  full of lilac bushes  in full
bloom, which made it seem  as though everything  in sight  was covered  with
lavender froth.
     I heard someone approaching lightly from behind. A smiling  girl with a
long  golden  braid  came running out  of  the  garden.  She  was carrying a
jump-rope. She stopped and stared at me. I backed away towards the gate.
     "What made you run like that?"
     "The janitor."
     The girl had dancing dark eyes that looked like the  black India rubber
balls we used  for playing stickball. I felt that I  had to  bat a long one,
but I couldn't run. The  rules of the game said that you'd surely be blocked
if another player stood opposite.
     "Are you afraid of janitors?"
     "I don't want  to waste my time on them!" I said in a deep  bass voice.
"Actually, I spit  on them, through  my teeth and  over my shoulder." And  I
stuck my hands into my pockets.
     The  girl  looked  at  me  with awe.  "What do you  mean  by over  your
shoulder?"
     I showed her how it was done. We were