The news of the October Revolution reached me when I was still in Kirsanov. I must confess that at the time I had no clear understanding of what had happened. I remember only a general feeling of joy: a big holiday had come for the people. The town was in a joyous uproar, red flags streamed in the wind. Simple folk, soldiers and workers, spoke at the meetings; new words full of faith and determination rang out: "the Bolshevik Party," "the Soviets." "Communism."…
When I returned to my native village, my elder brother Sergei, my childhood friend and comrade, said to me. "A new life is beginning, Lyuba! A brand-new life! I am volunteering for the Red Army. I can't remain idle at a time like this."
Sergei, as no more than two sears my senior, but I was a mere child beside him. He knew more and had a better understanding of what was going on. And I could see that his decision was a firm one.
"But what shall I do, Sergei?" I asked.
"Go as a teacher, of course," answered my brother, without a moment's hesitation. "Schools will be springing up like mushrooms now. You don't think that now there'll be only two schools in Aspen Woods for five thousand inhabitants? Everyone will want to study! The people won't live without learning any more."
Two days after my arrival he went off to join the Red Army, and 1 lost no time in going to the People's Education Department, where I at once received an appointment to the village of Solovyanka as an elementary-school teacher.
Solovyanka is about three versts from Aspen Woods. It was an unsightly, squalid settlement composed of miserable straw-thatched huts.
I was somewhat comforted by the school building itself. What had once been the manor house stood deep among the trees on the edge of the village. The leaves were already tinted yellow, but from a distance the branches of an ashberry right in front of the school windows glowed so merrily and welcomingly that I could net help cheering up. The house turned out to be quite roomy and in good condition. A kitchen, entrance hall and two rooms; the smaller one, with iron shutters, was to mine. On its table I laid out the notebooks, ABC books and exercise books, pencils, penholders and nibs I brought with me, set down the bottle of ink; and then took a walk through the village to write down the names of all the boys and girls of school age.
I called at all the cottages, one after another. The people were quite friendly when they learned the purpose of my coming.
"So you're a teacher? Well, go ahead and teach?" said a tall, gaunt old woman with thick eyebrows, which seemed knitted angrily. "But it's a waste of time writing the girls down. No use teaching them. Weave and spin and then marry — what do they need learning for?"
But I stood my ground firmly.
"These are not the old days. Now there is a completely new life beginning," I said, using the words of my brother Sergei. "Everybody needs to study."
The next day the classroom was crammed lull. All the thirty children whom I had written down the day before had come.
In the end row by the windows sat the little ones, the beginners; in the middle row — pupils of the second grade; on the other side by the wall were the eldest, the fourteen- year-olds; of these there were only four. On the bench in front of me sat two little girls, both with fair hair, blue eyes and freckles, both wearing frocks of the same colour. They were the youngest of the lot and they were called Lida and Marusya Glebova. The four boys by the wall stood up to greet me; the others followed suit.
"Good morning. Lyubov Timofeyevnal" they all cried in a discordant chorus. "Welcome to Solovyanka!"
"Good morning. Thank you!" I answered.
That was how my first lesson began. Then day after day went by. It was very difficult for me to manage three grades at the same time. While the beginners were diligently writing strokes and the seniors working out sums, I would tell the middle row why day changes to night. Then I would check the big ones' sums, while the second group was busy with a grammar exercise. Meanwhile, as the beginners would grow tired of tracing out strokes. I would return to them, and they would begin to read, shouting out the syllables at the top of their voices.
I lost myself completely in my work. I felt happy and contented with my children. The days flew past unnoticed. A teacher from a neighbouring village paid me a few visits. According to my ideas at that time, he had enormous experience, with three whole years of teaching school? He sat through our lessons, and then gave advice, and on leaving always said that my work was going well.
"The kids love you," he would explain, "and that's the main thing."
Next: Home Again