Towards evening of July 1 there was a knock at our door.
"Can I speak to Shura?" asked a voice behind it.
Zoya got up from the table and opened the door ajar.
"Petya Simonov?" she exclaimed in surprise. "What do you want Shura for?"
"We need him," answered Petya mysteriously.
At that moment Shura himself, who had been out of the room, appeared, nodded to his comrade, and without a word went outside with him. We looked out of the window. There were several young lads waiting below, all of them classmates and close friends. There was a hurried discussion, carried on in low tones, and off they all went in a bunch.
"To the school," said Zoya thoughtfully to herself. "What's their secret, I wonder?"
Shura returned late that evening. He looked as grave and troubled as Petya earlier in the day.
"What's happened?" asked Zoya. "Why such secrecy? What did they want you for?"
"I'm not free to explain,". Shura replied with decision.
Zoya shrugged her shoulders.
The next morning she ran off to the school almost before it was light, and came back greatly perturbed.
"The boys are leaving," she said to me. "They won't say where or what for. They aren't taking us girls. How I pleaded with them to take me! After all, I can shoot. And I'm strong. It was no use. They said that only the boys could go."
By Zoya's face and eyes I saw how much fervour she had put into those vain pleadings.
Shura came back late and remarked in a casual tone, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, "Pack me a change of underclothes, Mum. And food for the journey. Only I don't need much."
Whether he knew or not where they were being sent— that we could not get out of him.
"If I start off by chattering my head off, what sort of a soldier will I make?" he demanded.
Zoya turned away in silence.
Packing did not take long. Zoya bought Shura rusks, sweets and sausage for the road. I got together his linen and tied everything in a small bundle. And in the afternoon we went to see Shura off.
In Timiryazev Park there was already a crowd of boys from various schools. At first they were all mixed up, then they gradually broke up into groups according to their schools. Mothers and sisters were standing on one side with bundles, suitcases and rucksacks, which they held by the straps just like handbags. Those leaving-nearly all of them were tall and broad-shouldered, but had merry boyish faces-pretended that it was the usual thing for them to be leaving their homes and families. Some had managed to find time for a bathe in the pond, others were eating ice cream, and joking. But without meaning to, they kept glancing at the clock more and more often. Those whose mothers or sisters had not yet left were looking rather uncomfortable: there they were, going off on an important mission—and standing with their mothers just as if they were small kids! Knowing that our presence would embarrass Shura, Zoya and I went off to one side and sat down on a bench in the shade.
At about four o'clock several empty tramcars came up on the circuit. Hurriedly the boys said good-bye to their folks and began to embark noisily. Those who were leaving their mothers in tears had sad gloomy faces. I did not want to spoil the last minutes we were together, and I did not cry—I just hugged Shura and pressed his hand hard. Although he tried to hide his feelings, I could see how deeply moved he was.
"Don't wait for us to start off, go home! Look after Mama, Zoya!" With these words Shura jumped into the car, waved to us through the window and made signs to us, as much as to say, "Don't wait, go home!"
But we had not the heart to leave while Shura was still there. From a distance we saw the trams shudder and then, ringing and rumbling, move off down the road. And we did not stir until the last train was out of sight.
The park which had just been so crowded and noisy at once grew empty and quiet. Beneath the giant oaks stood the benches, but there was no one sitting on them. The slightly ruffled pond stretched out broad and cool, but there was no one bathing in it. No sound of voices or laughter or rapid footfalls. It was quiet. Too quiet.
We walked slowly down a lane. Few sunrays managed to ooze through the dense foliage overhead. Each of her own accord, we went up to a bench right by the pool and sat down.
"How lovely!" said Zoya suddenly. "You know, Shura often used to come here to draw. He drew that little bridge over there."
She was addressing me and seemed at the same time to be talking to herself—quietly, slowly, meditatively.
"It's a wide pool, but Shura used to swim across it many times," she recalled aloud. "You know what happened once? A long time ago that was, Shura was only twelve then. As usual, he began to bathe in the spring before anybody else. The water was cold and suddenly he got the cramp in his leg, and it was a long way to the bank. He swam using only one leg, the other had gone quite numb. And he only just managed it. He begged me so much not to tell you about it. I did not tell you then. Now I can."
"And next day, to be sure, he went in again?" I asked.
"Of course. He used to swim morning and evening, rain or shine, almost until it was winter. And over there by the bushes there's always a hole in the ice in winter. We used to catch fish there, do you remember? At first we used a tin, and afterwards a net. Remember how we treated you to fried fish?"
"Good girl!" I said in way of answer, quietly stroking her sunburnt hand.
And suddenly beneath my palm her strong lean fingers doubled up into a fist.
"Good? What good am I?" Zoya sprang to her feet and I realized what had been gnawing at her all the time. "What good am I if I have stayed behind? The boys have gone perhaps to fight. How can I do nothing now?!'
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