Our life went on smoothly, without anything special happening—at least, so it might have seemed to an outsider. On the surface, every new day resembled the one before: school and work, occasionally the theatre or a concert, and again lessons, books, a short rest—that was all. Actually, that was by no means all.
In the life of a child or an adolescent every hour is important. New worlds are constantly opening up before him. He begins to think independently and takes nothing for granted. He ponders over everything and decides afresh what is good and what is bad, what is high and noble, and what is low and base, what is real friendship, loyalty, justice, and—what aim and purpose has he in life. Every hour, every minute, life awakens in him more and more new questions, forces him to search and think. And his reactions are keen and deep.
A book has long ago ceased to afford merely rest or distraction. No, it is a friend, an advisor, a leader. "Everything the books say is true!" Zoya used to repeat when she was little. Now she ponders over a book for hours on end, argues with it and expects the book to answer all her questions.
After the story of Tanya Solomakha we read Nikolai Ostrovsky's unforgettable book How the Steel Was Tempered, about Pavel Korchagin, about his pure and inspiring life—a book which never fails to leave its mark on the young reader's mind. And it left an indelible impression in the minds and hearts of my children.
Every new book is an event for the children. They talk about what they read as if it were real life. They argue hotly about the characters, whom they love or hate with all their heart.
A meeting with a good book—one that is wise, strong and honest—is so important in youth! Real people, of course, are no less important. One personal encounter can sometimes decide your future course in life.
School always meant a lot in the life of my children.
They loved and respected their teachers and spoke especially well of the study director Ivan Alexeyevich Yazev.
"He is a very good man and a very just teacher," Zoya would often repeat. "And what a gardener! We call him Michurin."
Shura always liked to tell about the Mathematics lessons, about how Nikolai Vasilyevich made you think and search for the answer, and how he would always catch out those who answered his questions at random or just learnt a rule mechanically.
"And he simply can't stand crammers and parrots! But if he sees that someone understands—that's a different matter. Even if you make a slip or two, he just says, 'Never mind, don't hurry, think a moment.' And it's somehow easier to get at the right answer then!"
Both Zoya and Shura always spoke with special warmth of their class leader Yekaterina Mikhailovna. "She's so kind, and she always sticks up for us with the principal."
And indeed, I often heard that when someone was naughty in class and got into trouble, Yekaterina Mikhailovna was the first to intercede in his behalf.
Her subject was German. She never raised her voice, but her class was always very quiet. She was lenient, yet it never occurred to any of her children to do their homework badly. She loved the children and they returned her love, and for that reason she never had any trouble over discipline at her lessons, nor over progress in her subject.
But an entirely new period in the lives of Zoya and Shura began on the day when their class began to study Russian Language and Literature under Vera Sergeyevna Novoselova.
Zoya and Shura were both very restrained in showing their feelings. The older they grew the more apparent this trait became. They shunned all high-flown words like the plague. Both of them were sparing with expressions of love, tenderness and delight, anger and dislike. It was rather by their eyes, by their silence, by the way Zoya would walk from one corner of the room to another when she was hurt or moved, that I knew of my children's feelings.
Once—Zoya was about twelve years old then—a boy began torturing and teasing a dog in the street in front of our window. He threw stones at it, pulled its tail, then put a bit of sausage right under its nose, and, just as it was about to snap up the tasty morsel, he would snatch it away again. Zoya saw all this through the window, and without waiting to put on her coat (it was late, cold autumn) ran out into the street. She had such a face that I was afraid she would hurl herself at the boy shouting and perhaps beating him with her fists. But she did riot even raise her voice.
"Stop! You're not a boy, you're a wretch!" I heard Zoya say, as she ran down the steps.
She said it quietly but with such immense scorn that the boy seemed to shrivel up, and then he slunk away without a word…
"He is a good man," Zoya would say about someone, and that was enough for me to know that she had the greatest respect for the person in question.
But neither Zoya nor Shura made any attempt to conceal their admiration for Vera Sergeyevna.
"If you only knew what she's like!" Zoya kept repeating.
"Well, what is she like? What do you like so much about her?"
"I can't explain…Well, perhaps, I can. You see, when she comes into the class and begins to tell us about something, we all understand that she is not just going on with the lesson because she's got it down on her timetable. She herself feels that what she has to say is important and interesting. And she doesn't want us to learn everything by heart but to think and understand. The children say that she often prompts us to pull the people in books to pieces. And it's true. She asks us, 'You like him. Why do you like him? How in your opinion should he have acted?' And we don't even notice that she falls silent and it is we who do the talking. First one jumps up, then another. We argue, get angry, and then, when everyone has had his say, she begins herself—so simply, quietly, as if she were talking to three people, not thirty. And everything becomes clear at once: who's right and who's wrong. And you long to read everything she talks about! Alter you listen to her you read a book in quite a new way. You see a lot you missed before…And then, we have her to thank that we really know Moscow now. At her very first lesson she asked us, 'Have you been to the Leo Tolstoy Museum? Have you been to the museum at Ostankino?' And then she said crossly, 'And you call yourself Moscovites!' And now, where haven't we been with her! We've been to all the museums! And every time she gives us something to think about."
"Yes, that's true, she's a very good person, very good!" added Shura.
He was nevertheless embarrassed by such sensitive words, and either to cover his embarrassment or so that it would sound more emphatic, he always praised his teacher in a bass voice, which did not come easy to him. But his eyes and the expression of his face said clearly and unhesitatingly: she's wonderful!
It was when the class began reading Chernyshevsky that I really understood what is meant by awakened interest in literature, in a writer, in history.
Next: A High Standard