In school, I was an active pioneer and, thanks to my sociability and my gift for speaking and declaiming poetry, took part in various ideological school jamborees. Once, when I was about fifteen, our school was named the “Pavlik Morozov” school. That young pioneer hero was an important martyr in the Soviet pantheon. During the collectivization years, he had informed on his own parents for attempting to hide their grain and prevent its requisition by the government. Such requisitioning would have meant starvation for a peasant family. To be informed upon meant either being shot out of hand or deportation to Siberia and a lingering death there. The boy—if he existed at all and if Soviet history is to be trusted—was knifed by his grandfather for being an informer, and so died.

A bust was solemnly unveiled in our school vestibule. All day pioneers stood on guard on both sides of it, relieved every hour. I, with my school pal Zhenia (short for Yevgeny) Konyaev, had the honor of being assigned the first watch. At the most solemn moment, when the entire school stood motionless before this bust and our pioneer leader (“scout leader” might be the western equivalent) had reached the dramatic climax of her speech, we were to break ranks, come up to the bust of the young hero, salute him with a pioneer salute, and, dividing in military fashion, take up our positions on either side of him.

And so, there we were, standing with our backs to the assembled crowd, looking straight ahead and saluting the fallen hero. Behind us, our leader in a trembling voice was saying: “And that's how the enemy butchered our Pavlik.” And then my pal added in an all but inaudible whisper: “And a good job too!”

I began to choke with a quite uncontrollable fit of the giggles, and tears came to my eyes. In a couple of seconds I would have to turn round and face the entire school. I started coughing strenuously. Choked with my simulated cough and still with tears bursting in my eyes I took up my place of honor on the left side of the memorial.