turned up with some sort of colored badge on it. On their left shoulders they had two multi-colored ribbons and blue scarves around their necks like girls. The bigger boys held smooth rods in their right hands, as soldiers held rifles, with the butts at the toe of their right boot. Some of the rods had pennants with some sort of images on them. Several young men stood in the middle of this troop, also dressed strangely except that they had many badges on their pockets and sleeves. One of them, apparently the leader, was explaining something with everyone attentively listening.
All this was so unusual that we held our breath while watching these little soldiers who were soon to be sent to war with the smooth rods. I looked for Stepka. He, aware of the huge impression the scene was making on us and sensing competition, smiled derisively and kept snorting louder and louder: “They’re supposed to be boys’ but they wear ribbons and scarves like girls. And the big guys are in short pants like they were too poor to have long pants.” He began gathering cones from some near-by firs and throwing them at the smaller soldier-boys. We began throwing as well, aiming at their bare knees. There was disarray in the ranks and some of the boys began to complain to their leader. “Aha!” we cried, “Not only are they sissies, but they’re snitches.”
The troop leaders standing in the middle began looking at us and talking to each other as if consulting. We quit throwing cones anticipating what would come next. And then one of the leaders turned the right flank of his little soldiers, waved off an offered rod, and started toward us. We began to back up. But this young man, so strangely dressed, approached us with such a friendly wave of the hand and smile, that we stopped. He came right up to us and said, “Here’s what guys, we’re scouts. Come join us, you’ll be our cub scouts.” We were totally stunned. Adults only cursed us, street kids. Even now, we were the ones throwing pine cones but they were not angry, they heartily wanted us to join them. We glanced at Stepka. Even he was taken aback, expecting anything but this. Suddenly he seemed small and no longer fearsome. The young man asked us to sit with him. We walked off to form a semicircle on the grass, and he told us that they were boy scouts, that their detachment consisted of many troops of eight boys and that each troop carried the name of an animal or bird. He also told us that they were preparing for a parade and that, come summer, they would live in tents in the forest by the banks of the Sozh, swim, catch fish and cook chowder over a fire, play many exciting games and sing their songs.
“Do you want to join us?” he asked suddenly.
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“Yes,” we answered in one voice.
“Well then, line up in size places, two rows behind this troop,” said our new leader pointing to the youngest boy scouts.
We lined up, and were divided into troops. Seven street kids and a leader from the detachment. We were taught how to march. This was fun, but it made no sense why we had to start marching with the left foot. Some of us did not even know our left foot. Our leader showed us the left foot and told us to pinch our thigh hard. Squealing, we pinched our left legs and forever remembered which was which. In marching, at first it was difficult to keep proper dress. But in half an hour we got it and vigorously stomped along behind the real scouts. A large crowd watched our exercises with interest. Toward the end, as we marched past the head scoutmaster, two tipsy dandies in round straw hats and light colored suits could not control their enthusiasm. “Look, Kolia,” said one of them, “here comes the barefoot brigade.” His buddy raised his hat and shouted, “Way to go, bareheels!” We were surrounded by friendly laughter and joyfully laughed ourselves. It was good to be accepted so simply and heartily. Only Stepka did not march with us. He stood aside screwing up his mouth, hissing, showing us his fist and pocket knife. Then suddenly he was gone.
Our leader told us that we needed written permission from our parents to join the scouts. Then a gathering was called for the next day. On our way home we tried to walk in step guessing whether we’d get permission and how best to break the news. There was a surprise waiting for me. Dad was home on his first furlough. He was still in uniform but without epaulets and signs of rank. His right arm hung lifelessly in a black sling. He asked me where I had been, and why I was late. Getting up my courage, I told him about the scouts and asked for permission to join. He frowned and said, “What scouts? They are simply a joke. Enough militarism,” he continued decisively. “We have to build a peaceful life now. Look here, I marched and marched and now I can’t move my arm, yet I have to work.”
I sensed that there was no point in pushing my request. But I made up my mind that I would somehow sneak off to tomorrow’s gathering. For the whole next day the clock seemed to have stopped. Father looked through all my homework and tested me on the multiplication table. I made only two mistakes, 8 x 8 and 8 x 9, but didn’t have the nerve to ask for his permission a second time. Father sent me out for cigarettes. On the way I met some of the other boys. It turned out that only half had received permission. Some would not turn their sons over to a “joke outfit.” Others did not have the money for a uniform. “Wear the clothing of your older brothers,” was their response.
When I was already in our yard, I heard Stepka’s familiar summoning whistle. I hurried to give father his cigarettes, climbed atop our fence, and
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from its height told Stepka that I wanted to spend time with father who was home, join the boy scouts and not be a street kid anymore. Stepka was obviously dejected. “Half the guys have gone,” he said bitterly, “only the useless ones are left.”
“Listen, Step,” I said, “why did you leave yesterday? Come, there is a meeting today. You’ll be the top guy with us. We’ll live in tents in the forest, we’ll go swimming and cook chowder over a fire.”
Stepka thought for a while then said with bitterness, “They won’t take me. I’m useless; they’re from well-off families, rich kids.”
“No, Step, they’re not all rich kids, now it’s . . .,” I struggled for a word, remembered the class committee elections and blurted out, “it’s freedom now.” Stepka raised his head slowly and looked at me. His gaze turned placid. “I’ll think it over,” he said softly, walking away.
After lunch father was dozing on the couch, snoring lightly, his right arm stretched along his side. I sat in the corner with the multiplication table, watching the racing clock. Toward three father stirred and moaned quietly. His arm hurt. I coughed, and he raised himself and asked what I was doing.
“Dad, I learned the table by heart. Eight times eight is sixty-four. Eight times nine is seventy-two.”
“Good boy. What do you want for a reward?”
“Let me go into town to play with Dima.”
“All right, go but don’t be late, and I’ll go walk in the garden.”
With that I immediately took off for the town square, hoping to meet the scout leader before the gathering. And he was there on the green sitting on a bench . . . with Stepka. Stepka was telling him something, waving his arms animatedly and spitting a lot. The scout leader sat a bit sideways, watching Stepka with absorption. He’d smile and ask Stepka something. When Stepka left, I told him, fighting back tears, that father would not let me join the scouts. The leader asked me for my name and address and then exclaimed that he knew the house that was surrounded by a large garden.
“What does your father do after lunch?” he asked. I told him that father napped and then strolled in the garden.
“Well, terrific,” he said, “tomorrow at two-thirty there’ll be a meeting of a troop in your garden. Is that OK
