The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

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

Georgii Altaev, How I Became a Cub Scout

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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 with you?”

“It’s OK,” I answered slowly, hoping for a happy outcome. Then he told me to run home.

The next day while father was still asleep a troop came to our place and stopped by the broad garden path leading down to the river. They cut branches from a large wind-felled fir tree, tied their rods together and put up a lean-to. I was so involved in helping them that I did not notice father’s appearance. He gave me a severe look, but as he came closer the scout leader

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Chapter Eleven

presented himself and reported: “Eight scouts under my command building a lean-to, sir. Request your permission to remain and continue building.” During the report father snapped to attention. Receiving a report is a sacred matter among military men. He examined the lean-to, then, addressing the leader, asked,

“What is the predominant wind direction in these parts?”

“From the south.”

“Then why is your entrance also facing south? You’ll get gusts right into the lean-to. There is a slope here. You ought to dig that up-slope ditch a little deeper in case it rains.” Then he asked the leader to go off for a talk with him. We began rebuilding the lean-to. Some twenty minutes later not only did I get permission to join the scouts, but the scouts were allowed to gather in small groups on our property. My little world which up to now consisted of several streets, the cathedral, town square, and gimnazium suddenly became greater, compellingly engaging, and full of new mysteries. Our meetings were moved to the enormous estate of Count Paskevich which seemed to have been created for our activities and games.

Three magical summer months flew by, and in that time we matured as if it had been three years. It was wonderful that our leaders did not shout at us or order us about. Rather, they suggested things, and their suggestions had the power to attract and grip us for a long time. I remember that almost every boy on our street became a cub scout. The older boys became boy scouts right away. During the very first days our leader had a talk with us in which he said that every scout is a friend of children, the elderly, the weak, as well as the friend of animals and that every day he does at least one good deed. After that meeting we all rushed home vying with each other to compensate both people and animals for all the foul things we had done to them during the spring of that momentous year.