At school, Seraphima Sergeevna showed us a plywood frame 10 cm x 10 cm, like, a prototype of a loom with two rows of small nails on two opposite sides. A thick wool thread, stretched between the nails on different sides, served the warp. Motley other threads interwoven across the warp formed rainbow streaks in a miniature rug. Our home assignment was to make a similar frame and bring it for the next lesson, the parents would certainly help us in manufacturing the tool, the teacher said.
However, Dad was not home, he worked the second shift that week, and Mom was busy in the kitchen. Yet, she helped with finding a piece of plywood from an old parcel-box and she allowed taking the saw from the storeroom in the hallway.
I worked in the bathroom pinning the workpiece with my foot to the stool. The saw got stuck so too often, and it kept tearing out small chips and scraps from the plywood, but after long tedious labor efforts a crooked, zigzag sided, square was sawed off.
Putting the tool aside, I got aware of the major problem – how could you ever cut out a smaller square inside the readied one so as to turn it into a frame?
I tried to hack out the square hole within the readied plywood square by use of a kitchen knife and a hammer, but only split the piece cut off with so many ‘a hem!’ in the intense exertion. By the time when I had to go to bed, all of the plywood supply was spoiled in fruitless attempts, and I realized that I was not fit to be a master. The disappointment was so bitter that I raised a mournful howling in the kitchen before Mom.
Lying in the folding bed, I tried not to fall asleep but stay awake till Dad was home after work and ask for his help. However, I overslept his coming, though at some point through overpowering drowsiness I did hear Dad’s voice in the kitchen, giving Mom an angry reply, “What? Again “Kolya”? I know I’m “Kolya” so what?” And I fell back asleep.
In the morning at breakfast, Mom said, “Look at what Dad has made for you to take to school.”
It was a flood of happiness and admiration, when I saw the plywood loom-frame finished with neither a split nor a chip, nor a crack anywhere, and smoothed with sandpaper. The rows of small nails along two opposite sides were aligned straighter than a ruler…
In a year Dad brought home from his work a jigsaw for me, and I enrolled in the group “Skillful Hands” at school. It did not go well with my jigsawing though, because the thin blades kept breaking all too often. Still, I managed to produce a fanciful frame of plywood (with Dad’s help and polishing) for Mom’s photo.
Doing pyrography in pieces of plywood was much easier and I liked the smell of charring wood. Dad brought home a scorcher that he had constructed at his work, and I produced a couple of illustrations to Krylov’s fables copying them from The Book for Future Craftsmen.
However, all that does not mean that my childhood was spent with only handmade playthings around. No, I had a big, store-purchased, Modeling Designer Kit.
It was a cardboard box containing in its separate sections sets of black tin strips and panels full of perforated holes for threading them with small bolts and nuts to assemble building blocks for the construction of different things, like, a car, a locomotive, a windmill, a you-call-it from the booklet of blue-prints that supplemented the Modeling Designer Kit. For instance, it took a couple of months to accomplish a tower crane, taller than a stool it was, and almost all the bolts and nuts in the Kit were used up for it. I would finish the project sooner if not for Sasha’s unwelcome insistence on his partaking in the construction efforts…
The costume of Robot for the New Year matinée about the Christmas Tree in the school gym was made by Dad. Mom found its design in The Working Woman magazine, which also was every month dropped into the mailbox on our entrance door.
When finished, the costume looked like a box of a thin but sturdy one-layer cardboard. Two holes in the box’s sides were used for keeping your arms outside and the whole construction, when put over the shoulders, reached down to the crotch. The brown cardboard body of Robot was decorated with “+” and “–” on the chest, left to right, same way as markings in flat batteries for flashlight.
Inside the box, there also was a battery but more powerful, the Czech “Crown”, and a small switch. Clicking that secret switch turned on and off the light-bulb nose in the other, smaller, box which served the Robot’s head and fully covered my head, like a knight’s helmet. The two square eyes cut on each side from the nose-bulb in the Robot’s face allowed for seeing from within the box how and who with you were walking about the Christmas Tree…
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Taming coy hope, I asked at the Detachment’s Library if they’d allow me to choose not from the books returned into the stacks on the librarian’s desk, but rather from those on the shelves. Yes, they said I could do that, yes. O, what an unbound joy beyond description I had to modestly keep in check!.
To the right from the librarian’s desk, towered the wall of The Complete Collection of Works by V. I. Lenin, the shelves started near the floor and rose in tiers to the ceiling, bearing dense unified ranks of volumes different only with the hue of blue in their covers, which depended on the year of edition—the earlier, the darker.
Multi-volume rows of works by Marx and Engels in brown bindings paneled the wall opposite to that of blue, and the shelves of Stalin’s writings, fewer but in taller volumes, screened the shorter wall by the door.
Dense lines of weighty, never opened books with embossed golden letters and numbers in their spines, enshrining countless lines between their heavy covers with the authors' convex relief portraits on the lid-like front ones…
However, there was a narrow cleft in the blue wall—the passage to that part of the Detachment’s Library where, forming a maze of narrow passages, stood shelves with the books of varying degree of wear. The books by Russian writers ranked alphabetically—Aseev, Belyaev, Bubentsoff…; the authors from abroad kept to the same order under inscriptions of their countries’ names—American literature, Belgian literature…; or under the branch they belonged to—Economics, Geography, Politics…
In the maze’s nooks, you could also come across multi-volume collections: Jack London, Fennimore Cooper, Walter Scott (for all my persistent searches I never found among his works a novel about Robin Hood, but only about Rob Roy).
I loved wandering in the condensed silence of the passages between the shelves, taking, now and then, from as far above as allowed my height, one or another book to consider the title and put it back. In the end, pressing the chosen couple to my chest, I returned to the librarian’s desk. Sometimes she put aside one of the books I brought, saying it was too early for me to read…
Once, meandering thru the treasury labyrinth, I suddenly farted. What an embarrassment! Though the sound was not very loud, yet, in case it reached the librarian’s desk thru the wall of Marxism-Leninism classic writers, I tried to iron the wrinkles out by issuing pensive blurblabs that distantly resembled the pesky escaped noise, but now it sounded more like innocent fancy of a boy promenading in the narrow stack passages, for whom reading of certain books was yet too early.
And so I diddled with my lip claps until one of the camouflaging farts turned out so successful, natural and rolling, that simply mortified me, if the first, unintentional, breaking of wind might have been missed, the counterfeit sounded too convincing.
(….as your mother’s mother would likely put it: “Kept fixing until mucked up.” She liked to use Ukrainian bywords in her speech…)
After the New Year holidays, the stack of subscriptions they dropped in the mailbox on our door got thicker by the addition of The Pioneer Pravda. Of course, I still was only an Octoberist, but at school they told us that we already had to subscribe to that newspaper and in any other way prepare ourselves to become pioneers in the future.