was over and the three-liter milk-can contained just a couple of “miserables”. The neighbor’s cat would be disappointed.
When down the stream there loomed the second (and also last) bridge in the Zona, I decided not to go any farther but try my luck at the sharp bend of the current under the precipitous drop-off in the bank. And right there happened that after what folks go fishing at all. The float did not twitch or flinch but went under the surface deep and slowly. I pulled back and the vibrating pole in my hands responded with the strangely unyielding resistance. No fish jumped from the water wiggling in its flight over the air. I had to pull the tight line all the way closer and closer and finally drag it onto the dry land… The fish twisted and arched and beat the sand, scaring me by its might and size, never had I seen the like of that dark blue piece of alive thick hose.
I threw the “miserables” back to the river, filled the can with water, and lowered the pray into it but the fish had to stand there upright—its length did not allow for tumbling in the can. 2 boys came from the bridge, they had already finished fishing and were on their way home. They asked me about the catch and I showed them the fish. “Burbot!” without a sec of hesitation identified one of them.
When they left, I realized that I couldn’t catch anything better, that it was time to cut the line and go home… I walked ascending the Gorka and the glory ran before me—a couple of boys jogged for a couple of hundred meters to meet before the Block. They wanted to take a look at The Burbot. And when I was already nearing our house, an unfamiliar auntie from the corner building stopped me on the walk to ask if that was true.
She peeped into the can at the round muzzle of The Burbot turned asleep by that time, and asked me to give it to her. I immediately handed the milk-can over and waited while she carried the fish to her home and brought the can back, because it’s only right to do what you’re told by grow-ups….
~ ~ ~
In those years, a year was much longer than nowadays and it was packed with bigger number of memorable events. For instance, in the same summer with The Burbot my sister, and brother, and I went to the pioneer camp, though we were not young pioneers yet.
One sunny morning the children from our Block, and from the twin one, and the Lowlander-children from the wooden houses by the foot of the Gorka upland collected at the House of Officers where two buses and two trucks with canvas tops were waiting for us. Parents gave their respective children suitcases with clothes, and bags full of sweets and other tasty things, and waved after the departing convoy.
We went over the bridge at the Pumping Station and passed the white gate of Checkpoint, leaving the Object behind the barbed wire that surrounded all of it together with the forest, hills, marshes and a stretch of the Rechka.
After Checkpoint, we turned to the right, climbing a protracted slant of the highway which we followed for about half an hour before another turn to the right to follow a dirt road in the forest of great Pine trees. There, the convoy had to slow down and, after a twenty-minute ride, we drove up to another gate in another fence of barbed wire. However, that fence wasn’t doubled, and there were no sentries at the gate because it was a pioneer camp.
Not far from the gate, there stood a one-story building with the canteen and the rooms for caretakers, and paramedic, and Camp Director, and other employees at the camp. Behind that building, there stretched a wide field marked by a tall iron mast of “giant leaps” crowned with the iron wheel from which there hung half-dozen canvas loops on thoroughly rusted chains because no one ever used the attraction. Beneath the row of tall Birch trees along the left edge of the field, there ran a neat cinder path to the pit for broad jumps. Across the field, the forest began again, parted from the camp by the couple lines of barbed wire nailed randomly to thicker trunks among the trees.
To the left of the canteen building, a growth of green bushes screened 4 square canvas tents with 4 beds each on the lining-board floor for the ninth-graders from the first platoon.
Then followed a level clearing with another iron mast, this time more slender and without chains but with one thin cable looped trough two small pulleys—atop the mast and near the ground—for the Red Flag of the camp. Each morning and each evening the platoons were lined-up along three sides of a large rectangular, facing inside. The iron mast, Camp Director, Senior Pioneer Leader, and the camp accordionist concluded the rectangular as the fourth—fairly rarefied—side of the perimeter. The commanders of the platoons, starting with the youngest, approached, in turn, Senior Pioneer Leader to report that their platoon was lined-up. During their report, both the commanders and Senior Pioneer Leader held their right elbows up, hands straightened and kept diagonally across their respective faces.
With the reports received from the commanders of all lined-up platoons, Senior Pioneer Leader made several steps ahead towards the center of the formation, yet without reaching it turned around and approached Camp Director to report that the camp was lined-up, and Camp Director responded with the order to hoist or to pull in the Red Flag of the camp, depending on the time of day.
The accordionist stretched the bellows of his instrument and played the hymn of the Soviet Union. Two rank-and-file pioneers called out by Senior Pioneer Leader for their recent achievements and overall merits in the camp life approached the mast. Standing on both sides from it, they pulled the cable running thru 2 pulleys, their hands taking turns at grabbing the cable, and the Red Flag of the camp crept in starts and jerks along the mast, up in the morning and down in the evening, while the lined-up formation stood with their right elbows up, hands straightened and kept diagonally across their respective faces, even Camp Director, caretakers and kids from the youngest platoon though none of them was age eligible for this pioneer salutation…
The clearing with the flag mast was followed by a short tilt, down which there stood a long squat barrack of timber with two large bedroom-wards separated by the central blind partition and filled with rows of spring-mesh beds abutting the windowed sidewalls. Each of the wards ended with the door to the shared square room comprising the whole width of the barrack. There was a small stage with a screen for movie shows and rows of seats for the audience.
Entering the bedroom-wards on the day of arrival, the children were not in a hurry to go and get mattresses, sheets, and blankets from the canteen-etc. building, but instead, they dropped their bags and suitcases on the floor and went amok, leap-racing along the spring-mesh trail of the lined beds which tossed you up in long jumps thru the air. For that particular sports activity, it’s vitally important not to collide with a jumper rushing in the opposite direction…
Then everyone opened their suitcases and bags and started to enjoy the sweets, flashing them down with the gulps of treacly condensed milk from blue-and-white tin-cans. As it turned out, for condensed milk consuming, neither an opener nor a spoon was needed. Just find a nail sticking out on the wall and hit against it the upper-side round part of the can, to punch a hole. Make sure the hole’s location is near the top rim and not in its center. Produce another hole in the top opposite to the first one and—here you are!—now the condensed milk can easily be sucked out thru any of the holes without smearing your lips and cheeks, as when eating with a spoon from an open tin-can… And if you are not a well-trained puncher, or not tall enough to reach the nail up in the wall, then ask someone of the elder boys – they would punch it for you for just a couple of hearty sucks from your can…
The middle of the square where the camp’s platoons fell in was reserved for patches of loosened ground, a patch per platoon. Each day children laid out the date in their platoon's patch with green cones, or fresh twigs, or chopped off flower heads competing for the Best Designed Platoon Calendar.
On Sundays, a big bus was bringing to the camp a pack of parents to treat their children with gingerbread, and sweets, and – lemonade!
Our Mom was taking us over into the greenish shade of trees and watched as
