2.3 Konstantin Paustovskii

Largely forgotten now, Konstantin Paustovskii (1892–1968) was a talented writer whose works began to appear in print in the 1920’s. His writing frequently expressed a lyricism not often seen in literature of the Soviet period. Steeped in the inheritance of Chekhov and especially Turgenev, Paustovskii wrote in the high style of Russian literature well into the 20th century.⁵

The final examinations began at the end of May and dragged on for a whole month. All the grades had already been dismissed for the summer vacation. We were the only ones who came to the empty, chilly gimnazium, which seemed to be resting from its winter commotion. The noise of our steps resounded through all the floors.

In the auditorium, where the exams were taking place, the windows were wide open. Dandelion seeds floated around the hall in the sunlight like white, twinkling lights.

It was customary to come to the exams in uniform. The stiff collar of the tunic with its silver braid chafed our necks. We would sit in the garden under the chestnut trees with unbuttoned tunics and wait our turn.

We were afraid of the exams. And we were sad about leaving the gimnazium. We had grown accustomed to it. The future appeared dim and difficult before us, mostly because we would lose each other irrevocably. Our loyal, cheerful school family would break up.

Before the exams we held a meeting in the garden. All the boys of our class were invited except for the Jewish boys. They were not supposed to know anything about it.

It was decided at the meeting that the best pupils from among the Russians and the Poles should get a ‘B’ in at least one subject on the exams, so as not to get gold medals. We had decided to give up all the gold medals to the Jews. Without these medals they would not be accepted into the university.

We swore to keep this decision a secret. To the honor of our class, we didn’t spill the secret either then or later, when we already were university students. Now I am breaking that vow, because hardly any of my school comrades are still among the living. Most of them perished during the great wars which my generation experienced. Only a few have survived.

Then there was a second meeting. We agreed on who was to help several of the girls from the Mariinskii Girls’ Gimnazium write their essays. I don’t know why, but they were to take the written exam on the History of Russian Literature along with us.

The negotiations with the schoolgirls were conducted by Stanishevskii. He had brought a list of the girls who were in need of help. There were six names on the list. I was assigned to help a schoolgirl named Bogushevich. I didn’t know her and had never seen her.

We wrote the essays in the auditorium. Each one sat at a separate little table, the boys on the left and the girls on the right. The proctors paced along the wide aisle between the girls and us. They watched to make sure that we didn’t pass notes, blotters, or other suspicious objects to each other.

All six of the girls on Stanishevskii’s list had taken seats near the aisle. I was trying to guess which one of them was Bogushevich. The surname ‘Bogushevich’ brought to mind an image of a plump Ukrainian girl. One of the girls was plump, with thick braids. I decided that this was Bogushevich.

The director entered. We stood up. The director unsealed a thick envelope with a crackle, pulled out a sheet with the theme of the essay sent from the district school board, took a piece of chalk, and carefully wrote on the board: ‘True enlightenment unites moral development with intellectual development.’ An anxious moan passed through the hall – it was a ghastly topic.

I had no time to lose. I immediately began to write an outline of the essay for Bogushevich on a narrow strip of paper.

During the senior-year exams we were allowed to smoke. To do this we would ask permission and, one by one, to go to the smoking room at the end of the corridor. There the decrepit watchman Kazimir was on duty – the same one who had once brought me here to the preparatory classes.

On the way to the smoker I rolled the outline up into a thin tube and stuck it into my cigarette holder. I smoked the cigarette and laid the cardboard holder on the windowsill, in the place we’d agreed on. Kazimir noticed nothing. He was sitting on a chair and chewing a sandwich.

My job was finished. After me, Littauer went off to the smoker. He flipped his cigarette butt containing an outline on the windowsill, got the crib-sheet out of mine, and, returning to his place by way of the aisle, tossed it on Bogushevich’s desk. After Littauer, Stanishevskii, Regamй, and two other boys pulled the same trick. Their work required adroitness and an accurate eye.

I had already begun to write my own essay when Littauer returned to the hall. I followed him with my eyes. I wanted to watch how, and to whom, he would toss my crib-sheet. But he did it so quickly that I didn’t notice a thing. Only by the fact that one of the girls began to write spasmodically did I understand that the deed was done and Bogushevich was saved.

But it wasn’t the girl with the thick braids who began to write; it was a completely different one. I could see only her thin back, crisscrossed by the straps of her white, dress apron and the reddish curls on her neck.

Four hours were allowed for the essay. Most of us finished it sooner. Only the girls still sat suffering at their desks.⁶