Page 22 of Pioneer Summer
“Excellent.” The artistic director nodded. “Everybody, listen up, especially the Young Avengers. Remember, people, this show isn’t just about Zina butabout you. You are the main core of the action and the focus will be on you throughout the entire story. I’m going to give you the general outline of the story, so pay attention and don’t let us down. All right. You are members of an underground organization. You are heroes. Moreover, you are young heroes, because, as we all know, the Young Avengers weren’t much older than Yura, Masha, Ksyusha, and the rest of you. This makes their feat even greater.” Upon being relegated to “the rest of you,” Polina and Ulyana scowled and muttered to each other. Volodya didn’t hear them and went on: “The children of that time weren’t like us. Their parents had fought and won the Civil War a generation earlier, and now the kids wanted to fight, too, in their turn, and even found ways to do it. We are frivolous. They weren’t. So be aware that I will not tolerate carelessness. Petlitsyn, are you listening to me?”
Volodya gave Vaska such a severe look that the little boy’s eyes went wide. “Y-yeees?” he replied hesitantly.
“Are you listening closely?”
“Very!”
“Repeat what I just said,” ordered Volodya, continuing to torment him, and with good reason, since last time Vaska had goofed around so much, they’d almost had to stop rehearsal.
Petlitsyn heaved a gloomy sigh, then, with a wry expression, rattled out: “We’re partisans! We want to go to war! And you won’t tolerate carelessness! And stuff like that ...”
“Take this more seriously, Petlitsyn! We’re not putting on a comedy here.”
“All right, fine ...”
Volodya shook his head ruefully. He obviously wasn’t satisfied, but he couldn’t waste the whole group’s time dealing with just Petlitsyn. So the artistic director got down to business: “Is everyone ready? Hey, Yur, where’s the map? Come on, spread it out on the table, quick.”
The round table was set a little to the left of center stage. The kids had furnished a space around it with benches and random household items like suitcases, clothes, dishes, and even a samovar—in other words, the items in an average peasant hut. This was the headquarters of the Young Avengers.
“Comrade commander in chief,sir! The map is on the table,sir!” Yurka reported, then took his seat in the first row of the audience next to Volodya.
Volodya heaved a short sigh of aggravation, then clicked his tongue. “I don’t like that peasant hut. Needs more flags and posters.”
“More?” Yurka snorted and began counting them off: “We’ve gotDEATH TO FASCIST SWINE; THE MOTHERLAND IS CALLING; WE WON’T SURRENDER OCTOBER’S GAINS ...Isn’t that enough? And it’s still early to be thinking about the set ...”
“No, it’s not. This is exactly the time to be thinking about it! If we can’t find what we need, we’ll have to make it ourselves.”
“Look, Volod—that’s not logical. They’re underground fighters! Your average underground fighter’s not going to have all this political-agitational stuff around the hut, much less hang it all over his headquarters! They’re on occupied territory, Fascists are everywhere: they can’t move without seeing some dumb Fascist fu—uh, sucker ...”
Volodya exploded to his feet. He hissed furiously, without even giving Yurka a chance to finish his sentence, and drew himself up, ready to either start a screaming match or give Yura a slap in the face—but then chubby little Sashka insinuated himself between the two boys.
“What? How did you get here?!” said Volodya, completely taken aback.
“I walked,” squeaked the boy guilelessly. “Volodya, why is Petlitsyn playing Zhenya Yezavitov? I was supposed to be him ...”
“Because you and your side trips and hooky-playing, Sashka, haven’t left me any choice,” the artistic director replied sternly.
“Well, can I be Nikolay Alexeyev, then?”
“No. That part’s for a boy of around twelve.”
“So what am I supposed to do now?”
“You are very good at lying around moaning, Sasha ...” Volodya said thoughtfully.
Everyone giggled, remembering how Sashka had sprawled on the ground, limbs akimbo, like an empty sack. The artistic director was the only one to remain serious: “You’ll play a dying Fascist in the part where the Young Avengers blow up the railroad pumping station.”
“But—”
“But you’ll be the main one, Sash!” Volodya cleared his throat, scratched the bridge of his nose, and pushed his glasses back up with his forefinger.“Okay, let’s move on. The Young Avengers are standing around the table, looking at a map as they plan an act of sabotage. Nastya, go ahead. Start with the line about the enemy troop train on the railroad ...”
After rehearsal had finished and the children had gone back to their troops, Yurka was finally alone with Volodya. He let out what he’d been thinking about since the very first rehearsal: “I know the Moonlight Sonata’s the only thing Masha knows how to play, but it doesn’t fit here.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Volodya objected. “The sonata’s excellent for the background.”
“No it’s not!” Yurka jumped up from his seat and blurted out in a single breath: “Volodya, what romantic lyricism can there be in a patriotic show? Do you know what the Moonlight Sonata even is? It’s a nocturne, it’s concentrated sadness, there’s so much love in it and at the same time so much misery that trying to force it into the background of a show about partisans is just ... it’s just ... it’s not right!”
After delivering this tirade in one unbroken stream, Yurka deflated, falling back into his seat. Volodya stared at him, one brow raised in surprise, but left the emotional tirade without comment. He merely asked: “So what do you suggest?”
