On June 21 there was a school leaving party for the tenth grade. Grade 9-A resolved to attend this party in full strength.
"In the first place, because they're our friends," said Shura. "There are some fine chaps there. Why, Vanya Belykh alone is worth a dozen!" "And in the second place," put in Katya, "we'll see how it turns out with them, and next year we'll fix up something even better!"
They made ready for the ball as guests, as participants and as rivals who in a year's time meant to put on a dazzling ball such as no other school graduate had ever dreamt of.
Nikolai Ivanovich, the art teacher, helped decorate the school. He was blessed with something which was so highly valued and respected at School No. 201—deft, clever hands. He would always decorate the school in good taste, and for every occasion—the October Anniversary, the New Year and May Day—he would think up something new, something out of the ordinary. And the children took real delight in carrying out his instructions.
"This time he'll outdo himself!" Shura promised us.
The evening was light and warm. I came home late, about ten o'clock, and did not find the children in—they had already left for the ball. A little later I went outside again, sat down on the porch and stayed there for a long time, calm and not thinking about anything at all, just resting and delighting in the stillness and the fresh smell of the leaves. Then I got up and walked unhurriedly towards the school. I wanted to see, if only from a distance, how Nikolai Ivanovich had outdone himself, how the children were enjoying themselves…I did not really know why I went, it was just for a walk—that was all.
"Do you know where School No. 201 is?" said a husky, woman's voice.
"Kirikov's?" responded someone in a deep kindly bass, before I had time to turn round. "Go straight on, then round that corner and you're there. Can you hear the music?"
I could hear the music too, and as soon as I turned the corner I saw the school, all bathed in light. The windows were wide open.
I went in, looked round and walked slowly up the staircase. Yes, Nikolai Ivanovich had done the best thing, the right thing: he had let summer burst into the school. There were flowers and greenery everywhere. In vases, tubs and pots, on the floor, on the walls and windows, in every corner and at every step—bouquets of roses and dark-green garlands of fir, great bunches of lilac and the lacelike branches of birch, and still more flowers, heaps of them everywhere…
I made towards the music, laughter and noise. When I reached the wide-open door of the hall I stopped, dazzled: there was so much light, so many young faces and sparkling eyes…I recognized Vanya, the boy of whom Shura man of the pupils' committee, a fine Komsomol member, an excellent scholar. The son of a plasterer and himself an expert at plastering, he had a good head and was very clever with his hands…I noticed Volodya Yuryev, the son of Lydia Nikolayevna who had taught Zoya and Shura in the junior grades. This bright-eyed, high-browed boy had always surprised me by the earnest, solemn expression of his face, but now he was scattering confetti over the couples flying past, and laughing merrily, just like a small boy…Then I sought out Shura. He was standing by the wall, and a fair-haired girl was inviting him to waltz with her. I saw my son smile shyly and shake his head.
And there was Zoya. She was wearing a red frock with black spots—the one she had bought with the money Shura had given her as a present. The dress became her very well. When Shura saw it for the first time he had remarked with pleasure, "It suits you very, very much."
Zoya was chatting with a tall dark youth, whose name I did not know. Her smiling eyes were bright, her cheeks aglow.
The waltz ended, and the couples broke up. But at once someone gave a merry shout, "Everyone stand round in a circlet"
And again there was a flutter of the blue, pink and white frocks of the girls, glimpses of laughing laces.
An explosion of merry laughter reached my ears as I was leaving the school. I walked slowly along the street, drinking in the cool air of the night. My thoughts went back to the day when I first took little Zoya and Shura to school. "How they have grown! If only their lather could see them," I thought.
The summer nights are short in Moscow, and their stillness is not unbroken. Belated footsteps ring along the pavement, a car appears from nowhere and swishes past, the crystal chimes of the Kremlin bells echo afar over the sleeping city.
But that June night could hardly be called still. Voices and bursts of laughter and the light patter of rapid footsteps would come unexpectedly out of the darkness, suddenly a song would strike up somewhere. People awakened at this unaccustomed hour would peer out of the windows in surprise, and their faces would light up with a smile. No one asked why there were so many merry young people about in the streets that night, why boys and girls, arms linked in groups of ten or fifteen at a time, marched right down the centre of the street, why they had such happy faces and just could not contain their songs and laughter. Everyone knew that it was young Moscow celebrating graduation day.
I woke up when dawn was just breaking in at the window. The night was so short. It was the 22nd of June.
Shura was standing by his bed. It must have been his cautious, muffled footsteps that had awakened me.
"Where's Zoya?" I asked.
"She's gone off for a walk with Ira."
"Was it a good party, Shura?"
"Tops! We went away early and left the leavers alone with the teachers. Out of politeness, you know, so as not to spoil their leave-taking and all that."
Shura got into bed and we were silent for a while. Suddenly voices drifted in through the open window.
"Zoya and Ira!" said Shura in a whisper.
The girls had stopped right under the window and were discussing something heatedly.
it's when you are the happiest person in the world," Ira's voice floated up to us.
"That's so. But I don't understand how you can love a man if you don't respect him," retorted Zoya.
"But how can you talk like that!" exclaimed Ira, appalled. "And after reading so many books!"
"That's just why I say: if I can't respect a man I can't love him."
"But that's not what books say about love. In books love is happiness…it's quite a special feeling. . .
"Yes, of course. But. .
The voices died away.
"She's gone to see Ira home," said Shura softly. And he added anxiously, like an elder brother, "It will be hard for her in life. She treats everything somehow from a special angle."
"Never mind," I said. "She's too young yet. Everything will be all right, Shura."
Zoya's careful footfalls sounded on the staircase. She softly opened the door ajar.
"Are you asleep?" she asked softly.
We did not answer. Zoya stole quietly over to the window and stood there for a long time, looking at the dawn-washed sky.
Next: The Twenty-Second of June