We no longer played at dominoes when I had a free evening: we used to read aloud, or rather—I read and the children listened.
At first we used to read Pushkin mostly. His was a very special and much-loved world, full of beauty and joy. It was quite easy to remember Pushkin's lines, and Shura was never tired of reciting about the squirrel, who:
Her little songs was always singing,
And little nuts was always cracking;
But those nuts, they were not plain—
All the shells were gold inlaid,
With real emerald inside…
And although the children learned much of Pushkin by heart, they would keep on asking:
"Mummy, please read us about the Goldfish…about Tsar Saltan.
Once I began to read them Tyoma's Childhood, by Garin. We reached the place where Tyoma's lather whipped Tyoma because of a broken flower. The children very much wanted to know what would happen after that, but it was late and I sent them off to bed. It so happened that neither during that week nor on the following Sunday could I find time to read them the rest of the story: I had a lot of work to do, many exercises to correct and stockings to darn. At last, Zoya's patience gave way. She took the book and read the rest herself.
That was how it began. Zoya started to devour everything she could lay hands on, whether it was a fairy tale, a newspaper or a schoolbook. It was as if she were testing her ability to read like a grownup: not just a set page out of a reader, but a whole book. But if I said to her, "You are a little too young to read that, you must grow a bit first," she did not insist, and would put the book aside.
Arkadi Gaidar became our special favourite. I was amazed by his skillful way of writing in books for children about the things that really mattered. He addressed his young readers seriously, just as if he were dealing with equals, without talking down to them on account of their age. He knew that children approach everything expecting a lot: they demand that daring be utterly fearless, friendship completely wholehearted, and loyalty unconditional. The flame of lofty thought illumined the pages of his books. Like Mayakovsky, he would elevate his reader with every line, summon him not to a small and isolated happiness, but to the great and universal happiness being built in our Country. He called and taught people to fight for that happiness, to build it with their own hands.
What discussions we would have after every book of Gaidar's! We would talk of how just our revolution was; and of how different the tsarist high school was from our school; and of what bravery and discipline were. In Gaidar's books these words were filled with surprisingly simple and tangible meaning. I remember Zoya and Shura being especially struck by the story of how Boris Gorikov involuntarily brought disaster to his older friend Chubuk, just because he forgot to be careful on a reconnaissance expedition and went away for a swim without asking for permission.
"Just think! He thought he would take a swim…and they captured Chubuk!" cried Shura.
"And Chubuk died thinking that Boris had betrayed him! Just think what Boris went through after that! I can't even understand how you could live on knowing that your comrade has been shot because of you!" said Zoya.
We read and reread Distant Lands, RVS and Military Secret. As soon as a new book by Gaidar appeared I would buy it and bring it home. And it would always turn out that the book dealt with what excited and interested us most at that very moment.
"Mama, where does Gaidar live?" Zoya asked once.
"In Moscow, I think."
"Wouldn't it be wonderful to see him!"
Next: The New Coat