Kirov's portrait—framed in mourning. The thought of death is incompatible with it—such a calm, clear, open face. But in the top right-hand corner of the newspaper page there is the announcement stating that Sergei Mironovich Kirov has been assassinated by the enemies of the Party and the people.
Our grief was indeed universal—grief such as Zoya and Shura felt and witnessed for the first time. It moved them deeply, and they remembered it for long afterwards: the endless stream of people flowing slowly and mournfully towards the House of Trade Unions, the words of love and grief over the radio, the pages of the newspapers filled with woe, and the voices and faces of people who in those days could talk and think of one thing only…
"Mama," asked Zoya, "do you remember how they killed the Communists at Sitkino?"
Zoya was right. There was a direct link between the assassination of Kirov and the murder of the seven village Communists. The old hates the new with an implacable hatred. Then too, in Sitkino, the enemy forces had struck from behind. And now again they had struck treacherously with a blow in the back. They had struck at what was most pure and dear to us. They had murdered a man whom the whole people respected and loved, a passionate tribune of the people, a Bolshevik who had fought till his last hour for the happiness of the people.
That night I lay awake for a long time. It was very quiet. And suddenly I heard the padding of bare feet, and a whisper, "Mama, are you asleep? May I get in?"
"Yes, Zoya."
She snuggled in beside me. We were both silent.
"Why aren't you asleep?" I asked at length. "It must be past one."
Zoya pressed my hand tighter. Then she said, "Mama, I want to send in an application to the Young Pioneers."
"That's a good idea."
"But will they accept me?"
"I'm sure they will. You are already eleven years old."
"And what about Shura?"
"Well, Shura will join a bit later."
Again we were silent.
"Mama, will you help me to write the application?"
"Better write it yourself. And I will check it afterwards to see if there are any mistakes."
And again she lay very quiet, thinking about something, and I could only hear the sound of her breathing. That night she slept beside me.
On the eve of the day when Zoya was to be admitted into the Pioneers, she again tossed about in her bed for a long time.
"Can't sleep again?" I asked.
"I'm thinking about tomorrow," responded Zoya in a hushed voice.
The next day (I had just come home early and was sitting at the table checking notebooks) she came running from school all in a flutter, and at once answered my silent question:
"I'm a Young Pioneer!"
Next: "Guess Who Came to See Us!"