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There wasn't much entertainment in our camp, to be precise, only one thing – a labor detachment. Twice a day, we went to the fields of the nearest collective farm and diligently fulfilled the quota of collecting Colorado potato beetles in old tin cans, which had multiplied incredibly that year. We had an incentive: the pioneer who collected the most was allowed to light a fire, in which all the unfortunate arthropods we had collected were mercilessly burned. I don't even want to remember the leisure activities before bedtime, even now.
The only solace in this joyless camp life was our camp leader, Timur. He had two remarkable qualities – a love for literature and regular seizures, slightly resembling epilepsy. I must say that he didn't have them often – only twice in my memory. Both times, our pioneer leader, Angelina, saved him with a spoon with a drilled handle, which Timur always wore around his neck. True, Angelina first asked the camp director to replace her partner. The director flatly refused, arguing in front of everyone: "Be grateful that I even found someone like that for you in this camp." But we, twelve-year-olds, were not at all bothered by this, but rather, it filled our attitude towards the leader with a certain mystery and romance.
Everything was much more complicated with Timur's love for literature. He turned out to be devoted to one book. Out of all the literature, he loved only one book, reread it regularly, and could recite entire chapters by heart. He was probably also pleased by the fact that he was the namesake of the main character of this immortal work about a red commander and, later, the grandfather of the father of Russian economic reforms in the early nineties. This beautiful pioneer tale resonated so deeply with our leader that he decided to finally make it come true with our help. He was particularly drawn to one fragment. If you remember, in the courtyard of an old, lonely grandfather, the Timurovites managed to stack the scattered firewood into a neat pile in such a way that the grandfather didn't even notice. The grandfather was happy, and the Timurovites were happy too. They did a good deed and remained incognito. According to our Timur, we had to repeat this feat.
He formed a reconnaissance group from the most daring (read: hooligans), who, by order of the leader, were relieved of collecting Colorado potato beetles and sent to the nearest villages with the task: to find a suitable grandfather and try to make contact with him. Timur decided not to inform the higher camp authorities about his plan yet – they would definitely forbid it. And then, as they say, the winners are not judged. The group returned only after dinner, tired, proud, and slightly smelling of beer. During the report to the leader, the senior member of the group looked seriously at Timur, paused dramatically, and said: "We have found a grandfather." Timur happily rubbed his hands – it was working – tell me more.
According to the reconnaissance, the grandfather lived forty minutes' walk from the camp and met all our requirements. True, the scouts failed to make direct contact with the grandfather (apparently, the grandfather had already had repeated experience communicating with the pioneers of our camp, and when one of the scouts approached, waving a heavy stick, he delivered a monologue in which only the words "Go," "Mother," and "Pioneer scum" were printed). However, after questioning the local population, it turned out that the grandfather was abandoned by his family, who had moved to the city, lived alone, and was in dire need of help. But the most interesting thing for us was the pile of firewood stacked in the grandfather's yard and the shed where they could be stacked in a neat pile.
The next day, after breakfast, Timur personally went to conduct reconnaissance of the area before the upcoming operation. He returned for lunch in a state of deep thoughtfulness. Raising his serious eyes to us, he said sadly: "It won't work. The grandfather will notice. No matter what, he will notice. In the two hours that we lay in the nettles with binoculars, he came out into the yard eight times. And it won't be possible to distract him – he's too suspicious." It was easier for the Timurovites – they grew up there, knew the area, and knew the people. But we had no chance, unless... at night.
We set out at 00:30, when it was completely dark, and the camp director was asleep. The Timurovites group consisted of our entire detachment and several people from the older detachment (their leader was friends with Timur). In total, there were about forty people. In complete silence, we followed each other in a chain, deeper into the night forest, feeling like at least scouts going behind enemy lines to conduct reconnaissance in force.
We arrived at the site at half-past one. The grandfather's light was not on. We waited ten minutes, and then infiltrated the yard and lined up in two chains. True, we had to break the locks on the gate and the shed, but that was a minor detail. We dealt with the firewood quickly – in about two hours. No one let us down. Everyone worked as one, and everything went smoothly. Even the locks were put back on for show. At five in the morning, we were all tired but happy, lying on our bunk beds. Timur went through all the rooms and thanked everyone.
It was nice to fall asleep for the remaining three hours, feeling like a real hero – a Timurovite who had done a good deed completely selflessly and remained unknown. Before that, we had only read about such things in books. This could have been the end of the story, but in reality, this story had a continuation.
The next day, the whole village was awakened by the grandfather's shrill cry: "They stole it, damn it, I'll kill them!" After that, the grandfather told the whole village in detail about the pioneers, the cold winter, and the firewood, without which he would freeze "to hell." The neighbors managed to calm the grandfather down after about an hour and a half, promising to help with the firewood and in general, after which the grandfather sighed heavily and went to the shed.
Right from the open gate, the grandfather saw a neatly stacked pile of firewood reaching the ceiling. Even the most seasoned villagers had never heard half of the words that the grandfather uttered during the next twenty minutes.
Well, the Timurovites couldn't have known that there might be something else in the depths of the shed that the grandfather might need. They just couldn't, and what's done is done, because by the third day, the grandfather managed to get to the shovels and other tools, and other things necessary for the difficult rural life appeared after five days. True, he managed to free his motorcycle from the wooden prison only two weeks later, moving the remaining firewood from the shed under a canopy.
P.S. This story reached the camp director. Timur was summoned to his office, where he had his third seizure, after which the director sent him home. The grandfather refused the help offered by the pioneers twice, significantly replenishing the already rich pioneer vocabulary with a multitude of interesting words. As for me, I didn't stay in the camp until the end of the shift. A couple of days later, there was an amnesty in the form of parents' day, and my mother took me back to the dacha.
Amko
