Yes, that was a wonderful summer, so bright and free of care. Zoya and Shura were quite big flow, but just as five years ago, when I came for them from Moscow, they kept close to my heels, as if they were afraid that I might suddenly disappear or run away from them.
For me the time I pent with them has blended into a single long happy day in which nothing is distinguishable separately. And only one event I remember as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
Either Slava had taught the children this game or they had read about it in the Pionerskaya Pravda, but, whatever its source, it became their favourite. It was called "Little White Stick." You had to play it in the evening when it had grown dark enough for dark objects to blend with the ground so that the eye could distinguish only something light or shining. My children and our neighbours' children would split up into two teams and choose a judge. The judge—he was the thrower as well—would hurl the little white stick as far as possible, and all the players would rush to find it. He who found the stick ran at once to give it to the judge. But you had to do it cunningly and secretly so that your opponents would not notice it. The player would hand on his find to a comrade in his team, who would pass it on to someone else so as to prevent the rival team from guessing who had the stick. If they succeeded in giving the stick to the judge unnoticed, the team received two points, lithe opponents noticed the finder of the stick and caught him, then both teams received one point each. The game went on until the score reached ten points.
Zoya and Shura were terribly keen on this game, and nearly burst my eardrums telling me how very interesting it was. And Slava would add, "It's useful too. Teaches you to be friends. Not each man for himself, but one for all and all for one."
Shura was often the judge: he had a strong arm and could throw the stick very far, so that it was not easy to find. One day Zoya volunteered to throw the stick.
"That's not a girl's job!" said one of the boys.
"Not a girl's job? Let me try!"
Zoya picked up the stick, swung and threw it ... and the stick landed almost at her feet. Zoya blushed, bit her lip and ran home.
"Why did you go away?" Slava asked her when he came back after the game.
Zoya was silent.
"Offended, huh? You shouldn't be. If you can't throw, let someone else be the judge who can. You can play with the rest. There's nothing to be offended at. That kind of pride's a good thing when there's not too much of it."
Again Zoya did not answer, but the following evening she joined the players as if nothing had happened. The children liked her, and no one reminded her of what had happened yesterday.
I had already forgotten about this event when one day Slava came into the house and dragged me out after him. We went round the house and past the front garden.
"Look, Auntie Lyuba," Slava whispered.
Some distance away, with her back to us, stood Zoya. I did not at once realize what she was doing. She was swinging and throwing something, then running to fetch it. She picked it up, came back to her former position and threw it again. I looked closer: it was a small wooden stick. We stood behind a tree out of Zoya's sight, stood silently, watching her tirelessly throwing the stick, running to pick it up and throwing it again. At first she made the throw only with her arm. Then she began to swing back and thrust forward with her whole body, as if flying after the stick. And she went on throwing it further and further.
Slava and I tiptoed away, and Zoya soon came home. She was very red and beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead. Zoya washed and took up her sewing: she was making a blanket out of odd scraps of cloth. Slava and I exchanged glances, and he giggled. Zoya raised her eyes.
"What's the matter?"
But Slava did not explain.
The next two days I left the house quietly at the same hour and watched Zoya throwing either a stone or a stick. And about ten days later, not long before we were due to leave, I heard Zoya suggesting to the children who had gathered round our porch, "Let's play at Little White Stick! I'll be the judge!"
"Trying it again?" said Shura in surprise.
But without more ado Zoya swung her arm and threw, and everyone around gasped: the stick flashed in the air and landed a very long way off.
"There's a little vixen for you!" said Grandad at supper. "Was the stick worth the trouble? There wasn't any good in it, you just wanted to hold your own in an argument, didn't you?"
Zoya was about to answer but Grandma forestalled her, "There's a saying, 'Come what may I'll have my way!' " and she added with a smile, "And that's after my own heart."
Zoya buried her face in her plate and was silent. Suddenly she smiled and answered, also with a saying (she was not Mavra Mikhailovna's granddaughter lot nothing!), "The bank may be steep but the fish is a treat!" And everyone at the table laughed.
Next: The Gadfly